Ann Arbor Review


Amit Parmessur
Elisavietta Ritchie
Donal Mahoney
Fahredin Shehu
Richard Kostelanetz
Alex Ferde
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Duane Locke
Chris Lord
Nahshon Cook
Al Ortelani
Shutta Crum
Ajibola Tolase
Silvia Scheibli
Laszlo Slomovits
Emmanuel Samson
Lyn Lifshin
Running Cub
Nikita Parik

Alan Britt
John Grey
Bhisma Upreti
Paul B. Roth
Jennifer Burd
Sunday Michael
Michael H. Brownstein
Ali Znaidi

Richard Gartee
Kanev Peycho

Engjell I. Berisha

Fred Wolven
Petraq Risto
Carolyn Elias
Alabi Oyedeji



Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2015 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 47 years all together....



Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven

Submissions via e-mail:






Can’t ride the funicular
to the mountaintop,
a poem coming on
like a cold.

Incline too steep,
cable car creaks,
lines fray. If I sneezed
they’d split.

If the lead car
slipped from its tracks,
soared on its own
across those snowed peaks
would the rest follow?
This crowd at the base
is rooted on solid ground.
Safer to stay with them.

Safer to write the poem.
If my head starts to twirl,
my stomach to clench,
I can jump out.

Yet in this land
a poem can be
more dangerous,
land you in jail—


            On finding an old Swiss postcard

When you take the boat across Lac Leman
and reach the chateau, look around: do swans
swim toward you, stretch their long necks, hiss
for hand-outs of bread? Retrieve your fingers...

Has ivy conquered the rough stone walls?
Do hives in courtyards yield honey, bees sting?
In the dungeons, do ghosts clank armor still?
Swallows nest under e conical roofs?

See if, under the ramparts, on the brief beach,
the handsome med student from St. Louis, MO
is waiting to wed me when he graduates,
and stayed faithful since June nineteen-fifty...


Your dog knows.
She’s different anyway
when the moon is full:

her black-and-tawny fur stands up,
she crouches, claws, breaks through
the screen, zigzags up the hill—

moon madness allowed dogs.
Tonight coyotes howl
so you’re alerted something’s up…

I guide you to our usual meadow,
we talk of weather, dog food, opera, birds.
The night turns black.

The full moon crowns—
Earth begins to throw
a bloody shadow—

I will describe it only later
to spare you my excitement.
You sense it anyway.

All the time I know you are
greedy for sights you cannot see,
feelings you ought not have.

When the sky goes dark again
we could communicate by Braille,
fingertips on skin—



I need a cat. My
Spouse categorically
Does not: no more strays

                                                14 May 2014


            The black cat who stole
Into my dreams last night, wants
Feeding this morning.

6 September 2014

A cat has us. Black.
Rain: Spouse grabs towels, kibbles…
The red chair is hers.

                                                 15 October 2014


Elisavietta Ritchie, Broomes Island, Maryland


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