Ann Arbor Review


Patty Dickson Pieczka
Deji Adesoye
Michelle Bailet-Jones
Steve Barfield
Gale Acuff

Elisavietta Ritchie
Solomon Haruna
Aneek Chatterjee
Karyn M. Bruce
Robert Nisbet
Laszlo Slomvits
Y. Przhebelskaya

Running Cub
Alan Britt

Alica Mathias

Michael Lee Johnson

Vyarka Kozareva

Silvia Scheibli

Richard Gartee
Fahredn Shehu
Amit Parmressar

John Grey
Shutta Crum

Jennifer Burd
Kushal Perusal

Fred Wolven

Stephen Sleboda

Denis Robillard

Alex Ferde

Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2021-22 Francis FerdeAll 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, editor
Silver Grey Fox, editing
Running Cub, reader
Fred Wolven, publisher

Submissions via e-mail:



“Coastal Flood Advisory” Warns Weather

The last hurricane flung seven trees
our dirt lane, blocked our exit, our rescue…

Although the country store is running low
we lay in stale bread, leftover army rations, batteries,

hurry home through heavy traffic—then none—
Some side roads already jammed, or closed.

Our rutted dirt lane through the swamp
is already a stream, a river dammed–

Waves splash over our bulwark, hide the dock,
creep inland, cover the scruffy lawn—

Too late to try to evacuate the place:
Puddles become ponds, ponds lakes—

We haul canoes, kayaks, skiffs, the floating dock,
above the zigzag tide line, tighten hawsers,

bag sails, haul loose gear ashore, padlock
the boathouse, avoid growing puddles--

We waver toward the century-old house
up four chipped brick steps,

check windows, tighten splintered frames,
rinse saved wine jugs, refill with fresh water—

Lights flicker die. We’ve lost our electricity—
The water pump no longer works--

Candles on the mantelpiece, but where are
the matches? Not in their usual drawer—

Shuffling in the attic—Critters abandon dens,
don’t trust the trees to stand--move indoors—

We now captain a Noah’s Ark of refugees
but will we all make it through the storm?


The new moon sashays

into my slice of sky
I grasp one uncharted peak
ride the tides of night
beach on some far shore
of this night’s universe
most recent edits: August 15, 202


A Phalanx of Toadstools

Sprang up overnight
outside the front door

Perhaps afraid of their magic
or venom, someone toppled them

But next morning
as if to mock their toppler

like persistent debtors
twice as many appear by the door

These immortal fungi
demand you welcome them still

no longer afraid to taste


I Hate to Miss a Trick

So I want to live forever
to learn how it all turns out

I study history to find examples
examples to find history

If a soldier kills enough
of this week’s foes

or saves a life
he wins a medal

but he knows
the other side

is prepped
to murder him

May we save
those we can

compose/create/ celebrate
while we can

So let us drink
life to whatever lees

until whatever
slap dash infinity

shuffles in and waits
to swallow us


Black Cat and I

The sky is black, the cat is black.
We wake in the white house
with red roof at swamp edge

But no food anywhere.

We slip outside where
a fairy ring of toadstools
sprang up overnight.
Hungry, risk-takers, cat and I
nibble them and the sky
is aswirl with pastels.

Cat and I sprout wings
and under the sudden sun
we fly over the swamp
land on an island not
on any map…

But look!
Woods are bursting with berries
and alive with mice—


Elisavietta Ritchie, Solomon’s Island, Maryland


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