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:



He sits still,
perfectly at rest,
while everything else
is in motion

Bosons and leptons
and quarks move,
but He does not
move in mysterious ways,
or in any way

Eternally conscious stillness
watching the big bang unfold.





I order coffee

and the boy brings a silver pot.

“May I pour?” he says.

Something weak and pale

streams from the spout.


I add milk

& the color wanes to moonlight.

I sip.

It’s tea.

He returns and I tell him,

“I ordered coffee.”

“You want powder?” he replies.

“No. Thanks. I’ll drink the tea.”


I return to my room and change for the pool.

When I come out a cyclone of bees

swirls out from the base of a tree and upward.

I sidestep them and go looking for the lobby

but find the library instead.

I peruse their books and choose a likely candidate.

When I return the bees are gone.


At the pool

a cat the color of yellow Portuguese houses

saunters by

perambulating his domain.

He apparently is the proprietor.


The pool is languid.

I rest my head on the edge

& let my feet float weightless.

My mainspring unwinds

and time stops.


A man with a British accent

sits at a table in the shade.

It’s just the two of us until

a pretty French mother brings her young son.

She has refined cheeks and a petite nose.

The boy is naked, but the French don’t mind.

She smiles at me with azure eyes

 and even white teeth.


Lounging on a deck chair

I read,

glancing at her occasionally.

The afternoon light

reflecting off ripples

in the pool water produces

an aurora borealis effect

on the trees overhead.


Two women come, then two more.

Four men follow.

Suddenly the pool is no longer our own.

No more aurora borealis.

No more French fantasy.


A jumble of foreign syllables

spin around me

but I can’t sort out the country of origin.

One of the women says “Hello,”

but that is the extent of her English.

She looks Israeli.


One of the men has a soccer ball.

The eight newcomers form a circle in the water

men on one half, women on the other.

Tossing the ball,

chasing each other,

finding excuses to duck the guys,

or nudge the girls,

like an adult version of spin-the-bottle.


Soon the separation between opposite sexes

dissolves like suntan lotion in chlorine water.

In no time they are paired off

and repair from the pool, like

they’d known each other a lifetime.

Ahh the magic of Goa.


The waiter brings drinks to the men

and a silver pot with cup and saucer to the Israeli woman.

It makes me think of coffee,

yet I feel certain it is tea,

though we lack the lingua franca to discuss it,

her and I.


A crow lands on her table and

begins sipping her milk.

I point this out to her,

but she doesn’t understand me.

Finally her girlfriend notices

and they laugh.


The tabby returns

sips water from the pool edge

eyeing the strangers.

He doesn’t mind.

He’s seen all this before

and neither approves nor disapproves,

but simply wanders on his intended way.


Strolling to my room,

the gods have strewn

flowers at my feet.

Delicate white blossoms

with pale yellow centers

have fallen over the pathway.

Their mild, milky color

reminds me of morning tea in Goa.



Richard Gartee, Gainesville, Florida

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