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:


So what of this wet bench, sheltering dry grass,
the sign of a dead society?

I rather recall the old man sitting down,
wedging his gunny bags against his legs
so that they wouldn’t fall over.
A black pigeon fluttering down
and waddling purposefully towards him.

Then a grey one.
Then a white one.
Then a crippled one.

And in a sudden rush, the air
would be full of pigeons;
down they came from the trees,
from the houses and from the power lines
where they had been waiting
for their pigeon fancier.

The latter carefully broke fresh bread
into small pieces, just the right weight
for the pigeons to grab and swallow.
They pressed around him,
fluttering onto the bench beside him,
even onto his knees and shoulders.

Then, they flew away.

I would ultimately sit
on the bench with the old man,
like two madmen, at a time when
no-one should be out in the streets.
And like two lonely pine trees,
with big cones scattered all around,
Pipio and I would speak of society living.



Your embalmed body looks so fresh
on the bier, like a photo painted
by my talented hand
whenever you used to smile.
I never thought this day would come.

So many fake tears for you, grandmother.
Why are the beautiful crows cawing so much?
In my mind only the whistling leaves
in our garden can pray for you.
Not this impeccably dressed priest.

Who’ll mourn for the dead me?
Who’ll mourn for the dead us?
The funny words we shared perhaps,
or the childless waves
near our little house
that will keep asking me where you are.

For me, you’ll stay the gregarious fish
bitten by the black cat of human greed.
What wise candle may guide
my soul without your polite presence?
I’ll never curse the one who invented death.
I trust afterlife.

There’s the eternal glow in your eyes
perhaps for me, but while you rest, here,
fresh, smiling, the creeping dusk
has sent everyone to their home,
away from you,
while I prepare to shed an adorable tear.



Amit Parmessur, Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius


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