Ann Arbor Review


Deji Adesoye
Changming Yuan
Violeta Allmuca
Beppe Costa
Engjell I. Berisha
Narendra Kumar Arya
Akwu Sunday Victor
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Laszlo Slomovits
Stefania Battistella
Agron Shele
Lana Bella
Fahredin Shehu
Alan Britt
Silvia Scheibli
Shutta Crum
Running Cub
Alex Ferde

Irsa Ruci
Jennifer Burd
Paul B. Roth
Richard Gartee
Elisavietta Ritchie
Peycho Kanev
Helen Gyigya
Amit Parmessur
Sneha Subramanian Kanta
Robert Nisbet

Jeton Kelmendi
Duane Locke

Lyn Lifshin

Richard Lynch
Jean McNerney
Fred Wolven

Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2017 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:



The Time Over The Sweetness Path:


She will never come
With another face
She will never turn
A cradle and a tomb in a place
Although its roots are soft
As it seems to be
An artery of water

When I return from travel
One time one another one myself
And a few shrinking signs

She is as pretty as
She will never turn rotten
In her white
Or yellow petals

Who mentioned like him
That time is immeasurable with the
Mechanical machine

How much was needed to an age
And await the raising of a memorial

What a repetition is this
Tied the same as the pain that has never ended



If in the roads of sweetness
From the straws of Kumtris
Turning back after a thousand years
With the flying car

You are young and we above the soil
In our skulls to bring out with roots altogether
The flowers of memories
That can be read
Just as Mozartís notes
In the partiture lost times ago

What is the value of return when is awaiting
What you have never perceived
In your travels of Oddiseus

Towards the dark horizon in the sky
That overpasses the unkown worlds
Takes your flying machine
With the light of mind
That is not born



Those who say
For the regions of imaginations
With their eyes have not seen anything else
More than my mind here below

I cannot come down with my feet
Up to the intersection of the square
The path of the sweet
Here I am writing
Just as Galileo once wrote



Alive is temporary
With a last name illusion just as value
Crumbles eat like a dust
And who knows
A sea Star
Is it a lively decorative item
Donít know what the true depth means
Neither balance

Brother, its reason
Canít leave my house alone
Will steal my gold my soul will get lost
Where he dies without me
From solitude


Engjell I. Berisha, Prishtina, Kosovo

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



Ann Arbor Review   |   Home    |   next  |  previous  Back to Top