Ann Arbor Review


Lana Bella
Hongri Yuan
Lyn Lifshin
Duane Locke
Elisavietta Ritchie
Michelle Bailat-Jones

Fahredin Shehu
Laszlo Slomovits
Andy N
Alex Ferde
Lekan Alesh
Michael Lee Johnson
Running Cub
Ali Znaidi
Silvia Scheibli
Robert Nisbet
Richard Gartee
Amit Parmessur

Jennifer Burd
Paul B. Roth
Sanjeev Sethi
Keith Moul
Arjun Dahal
Alan Britt
Richard Lynch
Fred Wolven
Eddie Awusi

Joanie Freeman
Hongri Yuan
Amit Shankar Saha

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:




When you gaze up toward the forms of the white clouds
you find my face ablaze by the sun rays 
mother or I am not...!?, wearing the brocade accoutrements 
as in the bridal night, 
with the hair anointed with lavender oil
with the face as a full Moon 
in front of Venetian mirror
as in times when guns where shooting 
while intermarry killing each other
as for who shall first pass the crossroad 
between two cemeteries
one of the Plague and the other of children dead 
                                                           by Measles

today when I bow down my sight and see my stomach 
                                              while earth is dragging by
somehow as I want to sing the song of the Midday 
when the Sun vanishes your shadow 
and the Bachelors faint 
while looking bare feet escape of the Fairy with the inflamed 
curly crest 
the fragrance of Myrrh and Violet spreading all around
as in times when the Moon was adored as God    
while Pagans prayed for the rain to fall 
with bells and kelp, 
elder leafs and bowing boughs  
of the weeping willow folded

tomorrow we shall look straight in the eyes 
seeing the lie of each other, 
how it leaks as mercury in aged veins
with antimony poisoned while juvenile 
and our faces will not blush out of shame 
because we folded the darkness in rule 
we bind it in a sack woven  
             in the Loom of the Sun
there where you drink the vine that never makes your drunk  
where Love is done as breathtaking 
and isn’t nominated as we do
there where the Word is done not uttered instead…



Fahredin Shehu, Pristina, Kosova



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