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 Cut
Fred Wolven

Submissions via e-mail:




The old man in an Indian dhoti
dodders the dusty Madurai street
leaning on a walking stick
nearly as tall as he is.

As we approach
he lurches toward me
pointing to his mouth
saying “buh, buh.”
I shake my head no
and keep walking.

Another day I almost trip
as he stabs his gnarled staff
into the tan sand at my feet
to hold himself erect.
Where it strikes the earth
clouds of dust spring up
and hover around my ankles.
Again, he begs, “buh, buh.”

One morning, I think of him
and bring a banana from breakfast.
I walk up behind him
and say, “Baba,”
(respected elder).
He turns.
I offer the banana.
He seizes it.

Next day I take him another banana
but can’t find him.
I think, Well, I’ve missed him.
Then, at the last minute he is
before me.
“ Baba,” I call to him,
hand him the banana,
and decide,
in the future I shall
always bring a banana.

A day comes that he isn’t there.
Has something happened?
Did the old man collapse somewhere
never to cross my path again?
Should I give his banana
to some other worthy soul
who hungers in the morning light?

What could I do?
I save his banana.

Three days I carry that banana.
Its skin too dark
for me to take home
and put back in the fruit bowl.

I recall a Zen story
called Eating The Blame,
and wonder if I’m going to have to
eat the banana myself.

Then, I spy Baba
standing in the road.
His eyes lock mine.
I shout and run to him,
black banana in hand.
It is soft and warm,
almost banana pudding inside its peel.

A large bus hurls toward us
honking furiously,
missing us by millimeters,
miring us in clouds of dust.

I lay the black wonder in his palm
and hurry off without
looking back to see
what he thought of it.


When you jump out of an airplane,
falling feels almost like flying,
until the chute doesn’t open.

Flap your arms and cry out, knowing
you won’t end the plummet intact.

Slammed in sand like a hurled shot-put,
the dirt doesn’t taste like it did,
that time you ate it as a kid.


Richard Gartee, Gainesville, Florida


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