Ann Arbor Review


Deji Adesoye
Changming Yuan
Violeta Allmuca
Beppe Costa
Engjell I. Berisha
Narendra Kumar Arya
Akwu Sunday Victor
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Laszlo Slomovits
Stefania Battistella
Agron Shele
Lana Bella
Fahredin Shehu
Alan Britt
Silvia Scheibli
Shutta Crum
Running Cub
Alex Ferde

Irsa Ruci
Jennifer Burd
Paul B. Roth
Richard Gartee
Elisavietta Ritchie
Peycho Kanev
Helen Gyigya
Amit Parmessur
Sneha Subramanian Kanta
Robert Nisbet

Jeton Kelmendi
Duane Locke

Lyn Lifshin

Richard Lynch
Jean McNerney
Fred Wolven


Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2017 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:




my old nostalgia splinters
through the corridors, 
rumpled as the last snow 
flutters down the pines
in ribbons and light
and pale cold petals—
dearest world, I am 
wronged and waiting, 
the blue in my eyes
pulls salt from the earth
as salve for the eaves,
blinking fast into rooms
and walls, up the landing
then out the latticed rose,
needing to be pinched and
vexed then worked into 
the root-prints of reed mats
and fledglings' shadows—
have I spent a lifetime in
this orphaned state poised 
on my arches? a blur
against Death's traveling
coat, a timbre similar to
breathing, a silence after
the credits are cut to black?—



there was a world of malleable,
element-decree, tide-wreck lingered,
storm-fed ribs culled from wind-
wept refuse, dust congealed inward
the fleshless curves and lengths,
where sugar pines sapped and sea-
salt brine your bones—

hands probed for stocks of slatted
door, fingers slid around the soufflé of 
dark—there was nothing so laid-
out or consumed as a body rippled
in a lonely trade of smarting feet over 
cobble stones, capped in roots of 
crushed violet shadows, where
your mind's eye traveled at last to 
the sight of home—



I am the escapist hovers above
the puttied pane, earthy and gnarled
like helix twisting in space.
Kerosene lamp yawns slim with 
shafts of honeyed light, nestling into
the dissonant icy braids of tulip
wood casket. A grandfather clock sits
voltaic by the foyer, perhaps I will
survive me in behemoth courage,
through silent trees, with dervish 
crowned the taut pall-bearers' gloves.
But with the embryonic dark I breathe
beneath the scent of dirt after rain,
of water, of weight, of miles of memory
whispering overhead then out into
the dew-ribboned surges of the plains
toward the plank-ends of the dock,
kissing the stiff folds my skin sieves.


Lana Bella, Nha Trang, Vietnam, and Hollywood Hills



Ann Arbor Review   |   Home    |   next  |  previous | Back to Top