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:




Whatever happened to Anne from Cleveland?
Who you met on holiday with your parents
Just after your brother was born
And held your hand throughout that night
When all three of them nearly drowned?

Barbara who was the younger daughter
Of your old history teacher from High School
Who everybody disowned in the playground
After her brother got sent off for fighting
And cost the school the cup final.

Jude who you worked with at Woolworth’s
Who wouldn’t speak to you for two weeks
After you went to your Christmas do there
When her husband made a move on you
After 5 pints of lager and 3 whiskies

Mags who moved to Australia
When she hit 45 for a new start after her divorce
Or Rose who you went to IT Classes
Just after you both retired only to fuse her pc
Within ten minutes of your first lesson

Memories I still have of you
Closed like shut warehouses
Shaking your head furiously
With a animated anger
And sometimes with a muted tear

Sat there with a fountain pen
Looking every inch the thoughtful poet
Instead of a crossword scribbler
Lost in the floodlights of decades
Of a eventful life

As your pen crossed out people
You knew once upon a time
Like moments pulled out of sequence

Which you smile at quietly
And whisper thank you

Recalling their friendship

Carrying their dreams

Lost in sleeplessness memories
Tied in relationships

Stuffed with man-made threads
Dangling off jumpers
Carried off memories
Underlining your background
Whether at the end of summer

Or in the heart
Of a frantic Christmas.



Kissing the skies with a freshness
Each morning stroll to work
Across the end of summer
Carries a brisk walk across
Meadows half buried in mist
Agitated with the rising sunshine

Past swings covered in tears
From the freshness of the night air
And sunlight hovering
Over the top of the bowls club
Stretching slowly before
Eventually pulling itself upwards,

Disenchanted birds flying west
Then south with a weary cry
Admonished across the sky
Breathed from beyond the seasons
Wandered deep into a change
Around corners in murmured sunsets

Separating emotions around
The brushing of a few leafless trees
Standing at the edge of existence
Awakening different feelings
Eddied across my feet
Buried in yesterdays feelings.


      (A homage to Hugo Williams)

Why don’t you ring up your job, Sarah
And tell them your stomach is off
Then we run off to the shops
On the coastline near your mums
Just before it turns into
A constant, brisk, chilly breeze.

Play bingo in the old bingo hall
And watch that old comic at the Palace
Whose name I always forget
And listen to the Walker Brothers
And Roy and Elvis and the Everleys
Serrating each other next to the station.

We could go to the arcade on the South Pier
That stays open until 4 in the morning
And eat again in that Italian Restaurant
That barred your Uncle Bobby after
Serving us the most amazing Pasta
For being violently sick in their toilets.

Push each other down Fold Street again
That leads past the Old Market
Which we haven’t been to since we were young
And then seeing somebody else
Until we got to Greengate Woods
Where we first made love.

Lift up our emotions
Right back up the very start
Love again what drew us together
Your parent’s house, your bedroom
Even if I couldn’t wait to run home
Fingering through my pockets for coins

Our memories for dreams
Scaled in fractal brilliance. 


Andy N, Stetford, Manchester, UK


Ann Arbor Review   |   Home    |  next   previous  |  Back to Top