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:


I wish I could remember all the fleeting moments of beauty &
experienced in my life,
                                               I cannot.

So, I write poems.

You write to preserve memories?

Heavens, no. I write to create them.


The pitch black squirrel
plays a bass violin. Only

known sonata for bass
violin. Only squirrel

capable. You should see
him lean into that bass

violin. One day a crow
arrives, freshly heckled

by a mockingbird, and
sinks beneath solitude

before reclining upon
the autumn shadows

of that bass violin. The
pitch black squirrel amazes

everyonehis reputation
grows by the hour.


All day long I’ve been wearing Cole Porter’s salmon tie
nestled against a sky blue oral silk button-down.

Lazily loitering and poking my head through every neon
smoke ring billowing inside every darkened piano bar.

How strange that once inside each ickering darkness
I grow gills and breathe the subterranean light.



When alive, we do the best we can.
When dead, I doubt we’ll strive for perfection.

Perfection is a Beethoven violin string,
or a box of sad woodworking tools:
hammer, chisel & sawblades rattling despair.

But dead, dead, dead we’ll pound our =sts
against reason?


Perfection is not a concept but a sensation.

Jesus lays down his hammer, chisel, hacksaw
& drives his Volkswagen to a laundromat.

Waiting for him are angels in a rage,
their gowns twisted like grenades.

So, Jesus changes gender & wisely hides
behind a weeping willow’s satin eyelashes
sweeping the parking lot.

The world grows cold until a =ngertip
warms the center of Jesus’ forehead.

We awaken!

How curious.

Eventually a sphinx moth powders our dreams
with its futile lust for heaven.

Heaven that resembles a bare lightbulb
dangling this very evening from a Maryland
whitewashed plywood carport ceiling.



           It’s February, so I cruise Dulaney Valley
Road, north of Baltimore, across the Loch Raven
bridge . . . past the country club on my right.

           But if I drive far enough, I imagine, I’ll
find the poetry club, the one where poets fold
themselves beneath black walnuts & frozen elms
confessing the hibernation of cicadas.

           Suddenly—as the world is truly too
much with me—I’m assaulted by a pager, a
man-made, radio-wave cicada, & so the fantasy
of poets, black walnuts, frozen elm trees, &
dreaming cicadas dissolves in my brain like a
deep exhale on this white & blue February

           The world awaits like a butler holding
my fur felt fedora (that I don’t wear) & herring-
bone blazer (that I do wear) at the circular door
of existence. With a nod I acknowledge the butler’s
smiling face & push my way through the heavy
glass door that revolves like a hypnotic pinwheel
around, around & around everything I’ve ever
loved or ever will love


Alan Britt, Reisterstown, Maryland

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