Ann Arbor Review


Richard Kostelanetz
Karyn M. Bruce
Duane Locke
Lyn Lifshin
Rich Ives
Chris Lord
Anton Gojcaj
Donal Mahoney
Laszlo Slomovits
Alan Britt
A. J. Huffman
Bhisma Upreti
Ali Znaidi
Paul B. Roth
Joan Colby
Rexhep Shahu
Catherine McGuire
Michelle Bailat-Jones
April Salzano

Kufre Udeme
Jane Butler
Jennifer Burd
Peycho Kanev
Joanie Freeman
Jennifer Burd &
Laszlo Slomovits
Frederick Pollack
Fahredin Shehu
Holly Day
Serena Wilcox
Ndue Ukaj
Running Cub

Fred Wolven
Allison Grayhurst
Rose Mary Boehm
Michael D. Long
Jim Davis
Christopher Dungey
Bobbi Sinha-Morey

Jason Ryberg
Douglas Polk
Janine Canan



Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

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Copyright (c) 2013 Silver Grey Fox
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida


Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven

Submissions via e-mail:



A new poem is often just beyond,
yet within reach of that unknown place
wherein I never quite realize

until I open a new book,
such as by Pound or Locke
or even Dali,
and in looking in my discovery
while sifting through ideas and images,
connected and disconcerting,
there is a momentary association
as yet barely more
than a vague notion leading to recognition.

Yes, then a slowly developing awareness
sketching itself
by a nearly invisible hand
guided by little more than
the finger-ending limb of a Florida pine,
or the calling note of the male cardinal,
even the loud harsh sound of a lonely coqui,
merges eventually
into some kind of converging whole.

Ah, where is my flute?
The pied piper is moving ahead
leaving me standing alone here by the stream.



Driving home from shopping
eagle more alertly atop yet
another pole alongside
the near stagnant drainage canal
formerly a live creek leading
eastward toward the bay’s
ocean edge inlet waters. 
I remember my last sighting
of this same eagle was in
his diving for a fish prey just
out from canal side rushes on
the far bank of this waterway.
I wasn’t able then to slow down
quick enough to see exactly
what his meal was going to be
that day but for my guessing.

A little further along this
canal road drive between the
Outlet Mall and the Ramada Inn,
I see some nursery workers finish
planting small banana trees
and various other fruit bearing
small bushes in what
was previously a farmed field.
Supposedly this acreage is in
signs which signaled edges of
the property have vanished
I suspect due to some political
maturations.  It is weird these
days the ways of small town
wind-blown money favors and
other such self-serving activities. 

Ah, I continue to wonder
whatever became of the harmony
between man and nature, man and
beast, and why now that seems
so very long ago, so very long….
I suspect since we have disrupted
that natural connection, that it is
no wonder there is so very often
such disconnection between
so many humans with too frequent
violent outcomes.  Oh, if only
I might go back a few decades
and become the politician I admired,
one able to speak for others, able
to influence others in ways pointing
to real solutions, handling real practical
needs with logical results and success.
Dang it, just where is that person today

Fred Wolven, Southeast Florida

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