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:






For all your supposed madness,
there's still a window like any other,
and stars glistening through the glass,
and curtains, and floor,
and a bed with a comfortable mattress.

Sure, everything's a little off kilter,
at an odd angle to the mean,
but we all get our information that way,
slightly dishonest, a tiny bit awkward and ill-fitting,
and still the heavens shine for us,
the hard-wood holds us up,
the good sleep gets us back
to life's true uniform.

Really, you're as sane as the next man,
the accountant who finds the world is numbers,
the taxi driver who believes it's roads and fares,
even the poet for whom a woman's face is a flower,
a mob of people is a herd of buffalo.

Accountant comes up short.
Taxi driver gets lost or gets stiffed.
The poet can't tell his metaphor from his allusion.
It's not madness
just the daily aggravation.

And there you are,
trying to slap down on canvas,
the fight-back against
the raging hell of it all.
Then you gladly cut off your ear.
Good. Now we don't have to.



Museum opens
so it's time to be iconic.
Forget the parodies.
The real thing awaits
its first disbelieving guests.

So farmer, pat down those
few strands of hair,
grab that pitchfork,
slip into your stern expression
and hold it.

And spinster daughter,
keep your body still,
turn your head a little
so your eyes never leave
those ubiquitous prongs.

People traipse in
then stop as if awe-struck.
You're doing your job.
It doesn't matter whether or not
you're a masterpiece.
You're familiar -
an Iowan "Mona Lisa,"
"Madonna and Child"
with a sex change
and dourer dress sense.

Some even reckon you
for the real America -
a dentist and an artist's sister
faking their authenticity.
I would not disagree.


 John Grey, Australian; Johnston, Rhode Island

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