Ann Arbor Review


Paul B. Roth
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Amit Parmessur
Lana Bella
Elisavietta Ritchie
Peycho Kanev
Helen Gyigya
Alan Britt
Shutta Crum
Ali Znaidi
Lyn Lifshin
Ann Christine Tabaka
Silvia Scheibli
Fahredin Shehu
Robert Nisbet
Laszlo Slomovitz
Rajnish Mishra
Keith Moul

Eddie Awusi
Andy N
Running Cub
Sanjeev Sethi

Alex Ferde
Deji W. Adesoye
W. M. Rivera
Shantanu Siuli
Duane Locke

Jennifer Burd
Violeta Allmuca

Fred Wolven
Michael Lee Johnson

Anik Chatterjee

Richard Gartee
John Grey


Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2018 Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida

AAR history note:  in print 1967 - 1980.  Irregular publications 1980 - 2004.  As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 48 years all together....


Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven


Submissions via e-mail:




The understanding of time
fleeting moments
never recaptured
sitting on windowsills
of the mind

In little jars and vases
fragments of the past
collide and are reborn
the cost is too dear
to step outside of
the window’s light

Daily prayers
collected and sent
for the  purpose of
extending days
like the long fingered
shadows of trees
reaching out at evening time

Faded memories
are reborn as
pirate ships in the mist
sailing into a fiery sunset
never to be seen again

Meanwhile time
the eternal predator
takes a bite out of
your morning toast
now dry and cold
from all that has transpired
in the blink of the eye



Her words were like a dark cloud,
blocking out the sun,
low hanging and ominous,
overpowering the day.

The grayness followed her
waiting for the storm to arrive.
The stillness was so thick
it was oppressive,
The silence was deafening.

Birds blackened the sky
with their escape route,
plucked feathers falling like rain.
Flowers withering under the weight.

Anguished faces turning upward,
as stale bread crumbs spill from their mouths.
Self-doubt creeping in,
as more clouds gather.

The sky is now black.
There is no place to run,
the storm is at hand.



Maybe poems are just vain attempts
of lost souls trying to find their way
through the mire of life. Grasping
at fleeting beauty, and delving into

dark psyches. Finding release in
their personal expression. A way for
the writer to purge their torments,
and empty themselves of their sins.

Using rhyme and metaphor to heal
the wounds of time, while trying to
sooth bruised egos. Maybe poems
are just vain attempts at immortality.

The diagnosis is still incomplete.


Ann Christine Tabaka, Hockessin, Delaware


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