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

International Journal & ezine

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:



and no mentor remains to walk
my hands through the mystery of clay,
and I am hit again by another sorrow,
losing one who has guided my eyes into seeing
a new, irrevocable way,
then the day will expose my passion and test
its worthiness.  Then I will be called to answer
on my own and believe in the truth of my dedication.

To shape, to shadow and the sensual magic
that is sometimes caught in timeless moments
oblivious to thought, like walking within
a beautiful breeze and smelling the life inside
all the tiny animals.  Like being at the place where
water and earth are like fingers massaging mud
into a vision - a weight
unattainable to the cerebral mind.


I found you singing
tight, beneath my skin
like an armful of swallows
or an oak tree conversing with
a squirrel.
I found you pushing your foot
against my ribs when dinner
was late and hope wore thin.
I found you like I found no other,
there, from where no science
can explain, formed with intricate
splendour - a face, a being, a soul
a part of, though unique from my own.
I found you when I was on the sofa-chair
excited to hear your father's voice,
needing us both from behind the curtain,
somersaulting in your liquid sphere.
I found you after my father's death,
not sure of my strength to carry this through.
But now you are in me, and I am rocked again
like a butterfly's wings are rocked
by the summer wind, caressed
by the mystery and miracle of all things
so very beautiful.


Allison Grayhurst, Toronto, Canada

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