Ann Arbor Review


Robert Nisbet
Alan Britt
Jennifer Burd
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Running Cub
Elisavietta Ritchie
Odimegwu Onwumere
Laszlo Slomovits
Lyn Lifshin
Ramesh Dohan
Silvia Scheibli
Alex Ferde
Richard Kostelanetz
Richard Gartee
Irsa Ruci
Duane Locke
Janet Buck
Nahshon Cook

Jim Daniels
Fred Wolven
Peycho Kanev
Ali Znaidi
Sunday Eyitayo Michael
Karyn M. Bruce
Arsim Halili
Engjell I. Berisha
Muharrem Kurti

Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2015 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:



TODAY, APRIL 15, 2015 AT 10:15 AM


I was driving East 

on Smith Road 

toward Airport Boulevard, 

thinking about

what love is 

and where found

when I saw a white 

Pontiac Grand Am 

crashed into a light pole

on the side of the road, 

and a young man 

laying on the grass 

in the snow. 

I pulled over 

and got out of my car 

to see how I could help. 

There was already a person

covering the young man 

with an olive green blanket.

Another person 

in an orange 

Home Depot apron 

said, Heís going into shock.

An ambulance is on the way. 

When I knelt down 

and said, Hello,

the young man 

reached his left hand out 

trying to give me 

his cell phone.

When I asked his name 

he opened his eyes 

and said, Daniel.






Iíve worked in India

and have seen the joy 

that fills peopleís life


when you build them a house 

that has no electricity

no running water 


has a tin roof on it 

and four walls

but these people 


were raised on the street

their great-grandparents 

lived on the street 


they were born on the street

they were delivered in birth 

on the street corner


washed their face 

in some dirty water 

out of a sewer gutter 


and the mother 

continued prostituting herself

just after having given birth 


to buy milk for the baby to drink

the joy thatís on their face 

to see a glass of decent water


thatís not muddy 

with urine and dirt

and theyíre happy






Those two young men

You could call them boys 

Strung him up 

To a wooden fence 

On the side of the road 

And beat him to a bloody abstraction 

Nine days later

October 16 1998  

Softly falling snowflowers fell

On a small congregation 

Of crucifying Christians

Who stood across the street

From the red-brick Episcopal church 

On the corner 

Of South Wolcott and East 7th 

And protested his memorial service 

With little black leather-bound Bibles

And lewd signs 

And filthy mouths shouting 

Godís supposed hate for gays 

One of the most beautiful things 

Iíve ever seen is the sun 

Shinning its light into a world 

Where wars are fought 

To tryín keep people 

From being who they are

And even though sometimes 

It feels like everything Iíve done 

Up till now has been wrong

I still think fighting over religion is stupid 

Itís like calling someone Jean 

Whose name is George 

And expecting them to answer 

And the more I pray and the more I live

The more I see that truly being 

A human being means love

And love means helping someone else

Find their own way

Whether this is true or not

I donít know 

But sometimes 

We have to deceive ourselves 

To stay alive and keep going 


Nahshon Cook, Bankok, Thailand

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