Ann Arbor Review


Lana Bella
Laszlo Slomovits
Amit Parmessur
Elisavietta Ritchie
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Yuan Hongri
Yevgeniya Przhebelskaya
Alex Ferde
Karyn M. Bruce
Rajuish Mishra
Alan Britt
Patrick Ashinze
Shutta Crum
Fahredin Shehu
Paul B. Roth
Helen Gyigya
Aneek Chatterjee
Joanie Freeman

Gale Acuff
Robert Nisbet
Fred Wolven
Sreekanth Kopuri

Michael Lee Johnson
Silvia Scheibli
Richard Gartee
Ali Znaidi
Jennifer Burd

John Grey
Running Cub
Peycho Kanev

Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2019 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 51 years all together....

Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven

Submissions via e-mail:



  There has to be better than what I am inside of me. After scraping clean all the clogged
openings in my body with the lowered fork buckets of backhoes, the splintering bristles of city street cleaners, the whipsaw spin of a plumber's snake, I've come to see how time crushes the heart of a lover the same way a soda cracker's cellophane wrapper’s outside remains intact while its inside becomes a sealed shamble of crumbs. Looking down at my footsteps as they take on water and sink deeper up to my knees, I wonder how much longer it'll be before the planet completely covers me over. How long to collect around me the shadows of maple leaves as they drop the perpetual mosaic of their reflections underwater toward whose bottom my own shadow never stops sinking.


Maybe it's okay
how little I learned
from my grade school teachers

who kept
all those forced conversions
wartime internments
and off-the-record massacres
out of our textbooks

what was never taught
would keep me at bay

until there was nothing
I could do or say
about how disappointed
I felt knowing

I'd made the mistake
of allowing them
to out-number my emotions

and grade me
as though I was nothing more
than unteachable



Come back
to this world more
than when you left it

Come back
to the names
of the missing ones
newspaper obituaries

Come back
to those invisible lives
the glowing edges
dragged by hot tail-pipes
well after midnight
spark across macadam

Come back
to those who survive
their own absence
without ever knowing
they’re gone

Come back
to the emptiness
that the scattered feathers
a red-tailed hawk
leaves of its prey
cover as though sacred

Come back
without ever having left
without ever having
been here before



Develop the urge
to carve
a hole in the sky

Not one
you can crawl into
and reach

the darkness of space
or some other
planet's moons

but rather one
within a thick gray
cloud hovering

its green rain shower
above Van Gogh yellow
fields of Earth’s
blue rebirth below


Paul B. Roth, Fayetteville, New York

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