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:




The poet’s dark chocolate eyes
stare out her apartment window,
through a hard tropical rain, watching
the canal behind her building overflow.
The canal where sometimes alligators lie
when they find their way from the Everglades
into someone’s backyard;
where they wait for a small tasty dog
or a girl poet on her way to a poetry slam.
Not her of course –she’s a woman, not a girl.
She ain’t afraid of no gator
(even if channel 7 keeps running those stories)
And she’s not going to stand here,
peering through rain streaked glass,
imagining one out there.

In a room of friends and strangers,
she prepares to throw forth words
peeled from her naked heart
one night in the dark.
Pausing to worry, what’s this weather done to her hair?
She slips her tongue
between plush lips,
clears her throat,
and begins to read a poem
she wrote when she was fifteen,
before she ever met a gator.



Anna Marie and Nancy fingering the jam
dancing over the frets between G and D.
Brushing a curl from her eye Anna Marie sings, while
Nancy, bending the strings, sets the stage afire
triple timing every measure
fingers flying so fast notes are dropping on the floor.
The bass player’s driving.
The drummer’s breaking sticks.

Swiveling her volume knob down,
Nancy lets the guitar fall off
so we can hear Anna Marie,
who grabs the microphone
flicks her tongue across her lips,
opens her mouth, and lets rip.
The crowd jumps to its feet.
She grins at Nancy and Nancy grins back.
Two goddesses of rock & roll,
brown-eyed as Van Morrison’s girl
in the stadium lights
with their amplifiers jacked.



I put my key into the lock
and turned the door knob
ever so gently
it swung open soundlessly,
the hinges did not squeak
I took off my shoes and
stepped into the foyer
thorns stuck in my feet
anniversary flowers strewn
everywhere on the floor

The roses were yellow
but her face was red
the vase laid in shatters
crystal shards splayed
down the hall
there I stood
with a thorn in my foot
and a bottle of wine
in my hand
daggers flying from
her eyes

Three dead soldiers
in the trash
and a glass half empty
in her hand

I’ve no idea what
I’ve done, but
I must have done
it again

If I had the brains
of an armadillo
I’d turn right around.
Instead I step into the abuse
because you know fools
come in twos
Celebration must have
started early and without me
but something turned sour
in her mind between
the second and third bottle
while I was still at work
now she’s pissed
in all meanings of the word.
A colander of cold spaghetti
looks like brains in the sink
Sauce in a blue enameled pot
A pan of garlic rolls
sits next to it, half baked
an accusation waiting
to happen.



Richard Gartee, Gainesville, Florida

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