Ann Arbor Review


Robert Nisbet
Alan Britt
Jennifer Burd
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Running Cub
Elisavietta Ritchie
Odimegwu Onwumere
Laszlo Slomovits
Lyn Lifshin
Ramesh Dohan
Silvia Scheibli
Alex Ferde
Richard Kostelanetz
Richard Gartee
Irsa Ruci
Duane Locke
Janet Buck
Nahshon Cook

Jim Daniels
Fred Wolven
Peycho Kanev
Ali Znaidi
Sunday Eyitayo Michael
Karyn M. Bruce
Arsim Halili
Engjell I. Berisha
Muharrem Kurti

Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2015 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:


FINAL HOURS OF MARCH                                          


      Among the gray branches of the towering maple,
dark buds emerge overnight. A male cardinal perfects
his song by beginning each song with a series of high-
pitched whistles. Initially, each song ends with four
slower whistles, then five & for a while six is the magic
number until, finally, he settles on seven. Twice he
shifts to a higher branch in the bare tree, I presume,
for better vantage. Still, answers from prospective
mates are not forthcoming.


      Across shadowy pews a contralto heaves hymns that
resemble the white teeth of crocodiles. Each hymn is
a tooth slicing shadows as thick as blue fruit falling
through the stained glass windows.


      A mask appears, claw marks in red, yellow, white
& green. Eyes painted black. Behind those eyes are
more eyes. Enter them as though youíve fallen from
a cliff to enter yet another set of eyes, another season,
another consciousness. Deep inside enter an orbit until
eyes from beneath the glistening ribs of wild mushrooms
reveal themselves. Suddenly these eyes carpet the thick
floor of the Amazon, & now every dream in the universe
leaps from the humid eyes of the jungle.


      I stare into the copper eyes of a black hooded
boa. His eyes transfixed on mine, he tastes heat that
teases my skin. Near the bottom of a bruised jade
shadow, I warm him as a sun might heat its solitary


     In San Diego the homeless like large caterpillars
line the sidewalk. Inside cotton cocoons, they dream
of their bodies transforming into dark liquid. Like
a ragged army, they warm the chilly concrete. Neon
flashing their paralyzed bodies ignites tiny flickering



Oksana glances at roses
tossed at her feet.

Three? Two yellow roses,
one white?

Black top hat,
sequined with diamond scales.

Jade mist leaps from her eyes!

Tonight her hieroglyphs
consisted of white-throated sparrows
& halved pomegranatesó
beautiful capillaries engraved
over the jaguar soul of ice.

Eyes ablaze!



I was picked from a tree,
& now I feel like this pearó
scuffed oyster,
little rough on the outside
that snaps between your teeth.

Rain paints the windshield
as willows outside a Toyota
become a Monet,
while the heart of this afternoon
becomes a Rembrandt shadow
beating like a fist.

Reality, when considering things
as they could be compared to what
weíve made them,
spirals from the palette of DalŪ.

So, rain falls
like mice feet
tapping the roof
of my tiny capsule.

Iím encapsulated.

A DC blues stations leaks guitars
that resemble canines,
growling guitars
slashing caribou that migrate
a shopping center parking lot.

Then the guitars turn their attention to me.

But for some reason,
as is peculiar to feral guitars
on certain days,
they glance at each other
with kerosene eyes
before turning away
to disappear
across the rain-soaked tundra
of this suburban wilderness.



The man next to me
says he has nothing to write about,
(& he might know whatís best),
no assassinations
he knows of
no declarations
of war,
(we donít actually declare them anymore),
no asteroids about to vaporize
& no exotic fruits
blazing the infinite.

a vermilion pear
absorbing switchblades of afternoon sunlight
through our lace curtain,
the same light
that eased
Vermeer brushstrokes
across each pearl from a strand
stretched across a writing desk,
would be nice.
But no pear.

So, Iíll relax.

I wonít
compose a smoking reality poem,
one that leaves
my burned-out day
in ruins,
reminding me
of the steel husk
that cradles my soul.

Iíll relax
to the tick
of the Halloween clock
with a witch
stabbing her broom
into the ether.

As my dog breathes
Iíll absorb
long shadows
of magazines
piled like pancakes
on a slate coffee table
& unravel the symmetry
of solitude
punctuated by the heavy wheels
of a delivery truck
or clicks
of a Whirlpool icemaker.

Because any minute
a northern mockingbird
will sing
from the bird clock
in my den,
& chimes
from the kitchen wall clock
will announce
the brass eyelashes
of a new hour.

Not practical eyelashes,
ones recruited for chores
& utilitarian minutiae,
heavens no,
but the mascara eyes
of dusk
that hover
above the vermilion
of an invisible pear.

I might even wonder
if the man next to me
was right all alongó
nothing worth
writing about today.

Ah, but then heíll never lift
my invisible pear
by its glowing waist
to taste
its resinous light!



Alan Britt, Reisterstown, Maryland


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