Ann Arbor Review


Silvia Scheibli
'Deji W. Adesoye
Chris Lord
Ali Znaidi
Paul B. Roth
Umm-e-Aiman Vejlani
Lyn Lifshin
Laszlo Slomovits
Naim Kelmendi
Richard Kostelanetz
Anton Gojcaj
Duane Locke
Jennifer Burd
David Ishaya Osu
Steve Barfield
Miguel A Bernao Burrieza
Richard Gartee
Violeta Allmuca
Alan Britt

Fred Wolven
Ilire Zajmi
Running Cub
Donal Mahoney
Fahredin Shehu
Peter Tase
Nahshon Cook
Al Ortolani
Alex Ferde
Anton Frost

Michelle Bailat-Jones
Lazlo Slomovits & Jennifer Burd

Karyn M. Bruce
A. J. Huffman
Michael D. Long



Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2014 Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida

Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven


Submissions via e-mail:





Here in northwestern Italy,

The fallen glitter coos dovelike.


This water drops in fragments, silver segments,

From unseen ice, melting.


Although I know its source when solid was seen

By a chamois.


As it curls downward to be called a “stream,”

And become a puddle,


A crystal puddle with black tadpoles,

I am happy for there will be a future with frog croaks.





Yesterday, I entered the public park
Where there is no official entrance,
But a path crisscrossed by pine needle and human debris,
To commune with what I call “the sacred:”
Gallinules, cypress knees, ibis, herons, flies and insects.

My path was blocked by a group
Leaning on each other and singing.
I think a sociologist would classify
As bums or the homeless---or the lower socio-economic.
All were drunk or drugged
All were singing  religious hymns.

Being a skeptic, I hesitated,
I did not want to disturb
Their holy, pious ritual.
I learned later they called their drug taking,
“Getting high for Jesus.”

I thought about turning around,|
Finding another way to enter,
But the smiling leader staggered over to me
He had a crucifix tattooed on his nose.
He bestowed a blessing, and said he would
Clear a way for me to walk through. 
He pushed some who had passed out aside.
As I left he blessed me again.

I thought as I walked away that this was
The happiest crowd I had ever seen—
Such joy, such good will.
There was one exception—another crowd
Even more happy.
I remembered mass happiness
And joyous dancing of a crowd at a football stadium
When the home team
That had lost a dozen games, won one.



The autumn tints of winter life
Govern or misgovern what was
Borrowed from Italian olive trees.

Still impatient to revise the
Organizations of split wood revelations
Prsented painted by retinas and insatiable reason.

Often, have we objectively constituted
The neigbor’s green-eyed house with our proofs
Established as truth by unexperted hearsay and muscular egotism.

It was a perfect house with a white-gold haired
Perfect owner. Window panes, see though crystal  But when the gate
Was walked through without opening, only empty space and unseen wind.

The hourglass, an antique, has the reality
Of falling pearly sand, but what our corporeality
Constituted is a weird dance of legless, headless  costumed hours.

There always the unseen, the wind, that
Is only known by the spinning of the small brown leaf
Hanging to the bare, isolated oak tree twig.



Snakes see the seeds atop water as spectaculars.
Snakes see bubbles as silver silos,
Roots of hyacinth as blue boudoirs .
Snakes’ perception and the snake brain
See the ordinary as ordinary,
Not as human perception and human brain,
Erase the ordinary to perceive
The non-existent and fantastic.
Snakes see naturally metaphorically, and not
Like human beings the falsified literal.
Snakes laugh at the lie, the Adam-Eve legend,
Think how gullible people are.
When the wind wrinkles the water,
The snakes see an abstract art gallery.
Snakes avoid what they consider
Their inferiors, people, who are slave mentalities,
Once a snake on bottom mud wrote a satire about Grand Central



I watch with a Little Green Heron the silver wrinkles,
Twisted in spirals, spread by the unseen wind, over
The pond’s dark blue surface water.

It is the song that the wind sings when wind touches water
Watched by a Little Green Heron.

The wind is singing about its dynasties that had no rulers.

The wind is happy touching the curves of silver wrinkled pond water,
And the wind’s happiness is my happiness.
And I as disciple of the wind am suffused with the wind’s happiness
That osmosed my skin
And entered within.

And then,
Out of the silver wrinkled water, came
More contours,
The neck of an anhinga.
The wonder of the neck that cannot be described
With the human wrongly directed vocabulary of  human words
Is something like a brown fuzz
Spread over with sparkles,
Drops of water from the mystic water beneath the surface.
The water drops
Glitter, glisten, glow.



Duane Locke, Tampa, Florida



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