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:




At Sun Dusk the Sun emerges in my window
The wind shakes the curtains with rarity
The day’s bird fell in my verses
Softly as rain falls over the flowers
The Sick air of night with sadness
Dropped over the flower’s leaves in the balcony
Was the time awakenings
It was tired and flayed with us
I went and walked over the street
The island surrounded with roofs full of kids



The emerald Spider
Places a net in my eyebrow
The painting of mulling looks at my eye
And forget the body far away

Again with feet
at times on the right or left in the garden
the long road
towards an abyss

Even the Sun, and day and light
Are nothing but color
That pours into the mantel
Of the letter where this poetry
Will be written

While emerging from night with the bed
With wings of sleep
With the dream
We are enlivened through the silver rays
Just as a ring
And I am awakened



One day blossomed the
flower in the vase
It greened my view
From the room where you can see the road
Through which is coming my child

That I don’t have another job
Including you at every morning
Of the water with sweet water
With a sacred water

And when the flower blossomed in the window
I said what is the value of it when you don’t have feet
To come after me beauty
At the roads where roofs emerge

and at night awakened with may blossoming flowers
through the paths of which
the water turns into green



The remnants exploded charcoal emerged
The front of chimney an old icon
shrunk in darkness – sadness
the candle of this room
a clear river

the ancient cradle lying
in a room wall where there will never
emerge a seed of sound

It does not take my hand
the face it never feels
exhausted marks a life relaxes


Engjell I. Berisha, Prishtina, Kosovo

Translator (from Albanian): Peter M. Tase, Milwaukee, Wisconsin

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