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:


Insomnia strewed like Novocain 
across the teeth, slick with
libation flanks, reaching down 
my pelican throat. I lay smoked
taste, bronchi-wet so the absence
nursed me, out and in incursion
of incandescent light dept with 
nocturne's flight. This was where 
I touched the fever, fingertips 
fluttered a wish pearling from lips
brittle of bourbon spry. Missing
my balance through air a hundred 
perfect times, dark fed smooth
at each turn of the wrist. And how
each stroke was stillness rise 
as smoke, wreathing itself to every-
thing it burned, while I grew dim
raggedy patterned, crossways pale,
the conscious of an inked note run. 



The whole world lit with dawn
of black night, keeping shadows
still and smooth by your gait's
memory. Soaring through mist
like a thunder, you culled from
curves nerved to bones, agilely 
sliding the gold eyes bare across
the hollow sun. Cold as a winter
tree, your glimpse met the sea
collimating sweep of grass, until
you peeled enough to breathe
season's slow, playing at thirst.
Forward around season, you wore
of torsos and scars tracing all
that you ached, circling back into
yourself, returned to the earth.



In the ocean, I fall and fall apart
into a mellifluous speed, like
thimble of water, less than rain.
Twin eyes peculiate through jet of
hurricanes and tides, flinching
tsunamis thirsting for hidden nest
of sun. Then a school of fish
follow the myth of my life from
the sunset, for all the ectoplasms 
appear as though I am kissed
silver droplets and copper penny.
Fingers winnow, whispers oar
across the water leaving me black,
swallowed in the thin sleeves of
jetsam, spinning cold on their skirt.



Take this human burn into 
your throat, taste the accent 
of salt giving over. There, 
beyond the far, you become 
something lost, a hundred 
less of the clever girl blinded
to be drunk through with 
light. Scattered along indigo 
road, the hours pipe long 
with lungfuls of winter tart, 
dust your eyes red from 
hungered coat of sun. Ohms
swing from your flask to
the vat of gasps flit around
your tongue suffering thirst, 
as if you are the ending thing 
coaxing a song from a relic 
chirp, cheek by jowl retelling
the ruby waste of your charm.



Night woke to cloudburst
ricocheting off the woodbine,
trundled cold onto this last day
of winter. Dark as inkstrokes,
long fingers traced the post
of birds over yarrows,
husking flesh from sugar sliders
and red-eyed tree frogs,
just enough to glimpse left
of the walling snow.
Beneath the skin of current sails,
hillside stones heather-pressed
the milky water as allegories 
wheezing through cave,
together held pale to slate
down the sleeve of disarray,
pouring out release that refuted
like no other but the night.


Lana Bella, Nhe Trang, Vietnam and Hollywood Hills

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