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:




That tinkling sensation that comes with much sunlight
Those beads of sweat that break on the forehead,
When the sun lashes the earth and all in it...

I harken to the spirit, that inward referee
And like the wild bird and Ralia or Simbi in the grove
I follow the footfalls of the spirit into the palm grove

The birds singing in the woods, sang unknown songs
I tilted my ears, like the dial on a radio, filtering the breeze's
Endless chattering, to pick the rhythm of the songs in the wood

At the mouth of the stream, a jagged stone stood
Upon it I took my place and down the heart of the flowing fluid
Fishes swim against the flowing fluid flipping tiny filaments

Then like the flash of light, like the dazzling of broken glass
In the sand, it came, the thought of them, the thought came
And my heart began to sing, accompanied by the drums of the stream

The trees that filled the earth with seeds, I recalled to mind
Nights of pains and agony as the pod of blood formed
Taking shape, like a painting on a painter's canvass evolving

Motion slowed as another being takes away the primordial
Freedom of the limbs, lips like the wings of a trapped butterfly
Tremble as the clod of blood nibble at the pot of life

And their portraiture fill my imagination, nameless pain
Gnaw the flesh of my heart, like soldiers charging into the arena
Of death unperturbed, they marched into the theatre of new life

Faces contorted, form distorted by the burden borne
And between the earth and the heavens, their breath lingers
And to some it returns and to others gone with the wind forever.

This is the journey taken to bring forth beings into being
But then, a moment is often not taken, in life's orangery
To reflect upon this sacrifice of blood, of life and death

And now in the palm grove, with the birds in the trees,
And the trees, like drunken men, or possessed priests
Of a forgotten deity, dance shaking their massive heads

And now in the palm grove, with the stream tingling my ears,
Caressing the sole of my soul, I see like on a screen
The essence of sacrifice, the meaning of love

And the spirit whispered in my ears, this tender song
And I began to sing right from the grove of palm trees
And the wind came, like a dove and took my voice to the orb's end.


Akwu Sunday Victor, Etutekpe, Olamaboro LGA, Kogi State,   Nigeria


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