Ann Arbor Review


Lana Bella
Deji W. Adesoye
Chris Lord
Ali Znaidi
Francis Annagu
Olajide Vincent Ajise
Lyn Lifshin
Akor Emmanuel
Duane Locke
Running Cub
Paul B. Roth
Fahredin Shehu
Laszlo Slomovits
Silvia Scheibli
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Amit Parmessur
Irsa Ruci
Elisavietta Ritchie
Alex Ferde

Richard Gartee
Robert Nisbet
Alan Britt
Changming Yuan
Nahshon Cook
Peycho Kanev
Jennifer Burd
Fred Wolven

Karyn M. Bruce





Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2016 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 47 years all together....



Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven

Submissions via e-mail:






Poverty keeps the heart from speaking its mind
Poverty keeps the heart from speaking its mind
But the poor heart is of the richest mind
The poor heart is of the richest mind
He has got bad time to review the world
Since unencumbered with the razzmatazz of estate men
Nor the cares of ships and caravan on the sea
Nor of trains and consignment on hasty rails
Nor of the vain ululations that becloud the crowned
Like Niccolo, the son of Machiavelli
After his proven strategic savvy failed to help
And Florentineís strength surrendered at Prato
Withdrew to a farm, to keep grass and grove
And therefrom engaged the thought that bred The Prince
Scripture of all leaders, Christian and Muslim,
Buddhist and Hindus, and atheists alike
By power of its efficacy, like the sum of magics
Encroaching every ear a post-humous feat
The mind that is poor does not speak alive
The poor heart oozes wisdom, and is heard from the grave
Poverty keeps the poor from speaking his mind
Money is the wind that carries sounds without
Money is the blood-test for the fit-to-speak
Money and papyrus, upon which the mind prints.                                   

The poor man is not heard in his plea
The poor man is due for the death pea
The poor hates the poor, for poverty is dread
Poverty is dread, and penury phobia is in all blood, protein and starch
Poverty stinks, and the poor feel their own stench
Abhorrence hangs on their necks, like dogís chain
Hate encamps the poor, as they breathe rage
Poverty must die, but poverty, unlike celery, has no life
Poverty does not exist; what abounds is people in purple rags
To fumigate the stench, let us annihilate the wretched
Poor sights poor, helping stomach from an unguarded pot
Poor creates a fire, that consumes a comrade
To the pleasure of the mega thief, watching
From the glittering windows of his jet, indifferent
After the rage is done, and the soup thief ashes
Poor men exult at their present achievement, having dispensed a justice
(If I cannot be judge in the court, wearing wig and wan
I can be street judge and executioner, a portfolio superb)
Poverty was raised with insanityó the poor wrenches his hair
Long as he hates poverty, the poor rebels himself
Let him resent injustice, he soon liberates his friends.                                         

What makes them poor?
What makes them poor?
Is it poverty, or their empty minds?
Is it Satan, witches and wizards, or their slacking hands?
Poverty intrudes the mind always, in a dark land
Where barons of vantage subvert the spirit
Spirits are no nationalists; they have no self-government
Men are spirits and the spirits are men
Power discharges urine, when menís kidney burn
The men and women of noble birth, and courage
Who span the world, arresting its worth
Imprisoning them in their bunkers, even beneath their beds
Poverty does not exist, people are only poor
People are not poor; they were impoverished
The witches and wizards themselves are helped
To prevent menís lot by the bleakness of the world
The bleakness of the slums, the glimmer of GRAs
Men are the spirits that dole wealth about
Men are the spirits that house wealth in vaults
Men in wealth do not hate the poor, far from it
Men in wealth love poor people like their money
By seeing the poor they know their worth
They compare their luck and exult in their gods
They feel their power and assert their strength
They have the handicapped to thread upon
They eat their junks, and through the windows of their jeeps,
Heap their waste on the occupants of gutters
Without the poor, who would mud be splashed on when
Their cars graze the street like bullocks?
Men in wealth love the poor, for robots are not like them.
Who would cook their food round the clock?
Who would watch the gate, like dogs?
Who cleans their mess, and bear their shame?
Men of wealth love poor people like their money
Without the poor, chaff is better than their wealth
Long as the world is, the rich dock men in squalor
But to make poverty lame, Looters must be gone. 

The poor must stop this killing
The poor must stop killing the poor
He must flip his sword, and turn to the man in looted robes
He must swivel his dagger, and go for the woman in stolen marbles
The poor must stop killing the poor
And face the island, where mega-thieves hide
And surround themselves with liquid walls
Betraying the sea still, with barbed wires.
Build your rafters, Poor, and swallow hellís pills
Suspend the canoes that take time to build
Your daggers let madness overtake
Your clubs and stones, convince to rage
Control your tears, and let mouth fume fury
Flushed, let pink roses become blood
In those gardens of greedy garners of lots
Shout island, island. Island of thieves!
For long as the islands stand, penury breathes. 


Deji W. Adesoye, Ibadan, Nigeria


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