Ann Arbor Review


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Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2020 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 55 years all together....

Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven


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Peaceful Child  9/13/2020


When the train derails: inspectors, first responders, authority-fueled officials, tactical research and restoration team leaders, security-garbed credential-laden buttoned down micro-managed affiliate board associates and coordinators descend upon the wreck where: wallets, packets with unfamiliar markings, chairs, staples, paper clips, cardboard boxes, folders & tacks, laptops, cellphones, coffee cups & other familiar furniture fragments, clothing too and shoes, watches, rings, roses & wine bottles have been strewn about. 


There are other items hidden where evidence could easily be mistaken for Trip Tix to Disney World in the spring. 

And objects under broken pieces of twisted and dismantled iron recognizable only by the light of day, that remains absent now, and on its own crash course with reality thousands of miles to the west. 


Then the bodies begin to reveal themselves: wild eyes, broken noses, collapsed lungs, infrared & underfoot, yet one has this look never seen before, a peaceful, child-like gaze enveloped in the spirit-world, already on the way, leaving troubles & worries in its wake, on muddy and rubble-filled footpaths alongside the murky runoff from the hill above & the storm that moved east overnight.






And itís shoot the mothers

Detain any troublers/face-masked                      

brothers brawl with Molotov cocktails

Long guns loaded and hang on shoulders


Images quick to raise the tempers

Lost are the fathers in their suburban druthers

Where keepers of peace reflect all those random murders


Graffiti culture above all other

A time for war if there ever was one

Push down gas-masked soldiers with unauthorized marauders


Take to the streets of Amerikakaka burning

The changing times, the mumble-filled anthems

Take to the knees like fashion-wave hypesters


Insurgents of disturbance, reckless & twenty-four hour

Rule of law global pandemic soothsayer republic

Pardon me mister where is the sisterhood black lives matter


Swallowed hole in media belly bloated from reactionary focus

Bloodied night swashbucklers, steam-fed federales

Stomped down on tar and shot down with maimed-like precision


The decision is yours on the couch at the country-club disgust fest

Full & sore & annoyed and deployed like scapegoat syndrome

Rhythm and release tension from central rant free rattle storm


Troopers and tricksters mismatched & plague-smashed like

Cold hearted orbs & metal detector grinder mashers

Home, home on the silent lip range rule reincarnations 


No more Godís glory, no more heavens sentries, does this say anything at all

When the moon & itís hotter, the cold & itís wetter

Along ammunition highway lie skeletons of here afters


And over and over goes under & turn away cryptic gilded plunder

Stop at the red light & let the one-if-by-land, two-if-by-sea

Go three two one blast off to the sun.



IN THE DARK  8/5/2020 10:26AM for Alamo


The two-wick candle full

of past voices

whispers between itís flickering light.


Do not despair, the language

you thought was yours

turns out to have itís beginnings

buried amongst pine cones

under the footpath that stopped

at one sacred burial site.


Water, wind-sun, breathe-earth

is all youíll need.


Blindness has returned.

It wants to hold your hand,

the one with the scar,

from night

full like a plate

glass window.


The nightmare three score

years behind the memory of

the body in the attic

only sleep would welcome.


The attic 

in a house on

a street named 

after a tree 

with roots in

cold ground where

to be a pebble

only brought 



dark, and

like thunder

sways with hesitation,

into a hidden place,


past voices

that whisper to




Stephen Sleboda, Holyoke, Massachusetts


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