Ann Arbor Review


Paul B. Roth
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Amit Parmessur
Lana Bella
Elisavietta Ritchie
Peycho Kanev
Helen Gyigya
Alan Britt
Shutta Crum
Ali Znaidi
Lyn Lifshin
Ann Christine Tabaka
Silvia Scheibli
Fahredin Shehu
Robert Nisbet
Laszlo Slomovitz
Rajnish Mishra
Keith Moul
Eddie Awusi
Andy N
Running Cub
Sanjeev Sethi

Alex Ferde
Deji W. Adesoye
W. M. Rivera
Shantanu Siuli
Duane Locke

Jennifer Burd
Violeta Allmuca

Fred Wolven
Michael Lee Johnson

Aneek Chatterjee

Richard Gartee
John Grey


Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2018 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 Cub
Fred Wolven

Submissions via e-mail:


There were sparrows
in the tree at the window,
doing sparrow things
ordinary flitters, dull brown leaps.
So busy with their living.
But who looks at sparrows,
who can measure the fierce
in their tiny teardrop bodies?
What I wonder then
is how contained I might be,
the shape of myself, the leaps
and wing brushes of my own busy living.
It took them one hour to build
a complete idea of themselves.
Twigs and leaves and grass,
a length of lilac string and
one dull copper-colored button.
So I could say thenyes, why not,
Isn’t this what a nest should be?
Ordinary flitters. Fierce. Soft-lined
at the center by furious little feet.



The woods beyond the village are quite small
just a hiccup of round green after the last farmhouse
with its lonely cow and stationary donkeys.

At first light, though, the copse of trees haunt
with cold shadow and sky branch. We were talking
of our fragile, both just unwinding a thread from a frayed cuff.

Foot to leaf and tuck of chin down into our warm wool scarves
and then up, cloudward. We were caught as the starlings
exploded off the oaks and danced. Painfully alive with that cold

morning air in the little bullets of their soft gray bodies.
Over the cliff they all went. We, too, startled at the drop of thirty
meters from its hidden edge of mounded leaves.

You followed the birds with an eye, and I stood at the cliff edge
and thought, no, not yet, maybe when it’s warmer, because
for now we know nothing of wing, we know nothing yet of flight.



Michelle Bailat-Jones, St. Legier, Switzerland

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