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:




In old age, my door stays open,

Waiting for a gallop from the ocean, a seahorse,

But am inland and urban,

And seahorses are afraid to travel without protection through our cities.


So I leave the present noise that gasoline makes when its fumes turns wheels.

As a child I stand on a 1925 street corner by a wooden telephone pole,

With red-headed woodpecker holes and look upwards.

As I look upwards,

I wait for the sky to open

And drop down a ladder.

It is a long way to climb,

But faith could suspend the law of gravity.

Quickly I could move arms and hands upward,

Arrive, visit, and slide down

In time for dinner,

If in this depression era there was any dinner.

When I arrive where there is a dark blue door in this lighter blue,

I would knock gently with fingertips,

For in this location sound is amplified.

Suddenly, a square space in dark blue door

Would open and I would see a scrutinizing face

As one sees in the ‘twenties movies when seeking entrance to a


My lack and my need would be sensed

By something with the superior and hypersensitity of an insect,

And I would let in, to stay, according to rules and regulations,

A half-hour in heaven.

For my visit, I could given a recording, a 78, in that age,

Of angels harp playing,

And aslo, on my return I would be renewed.

My habitually sad face would be covered with a mask that smiled,

And more important,

I would be guaranteed there would be food at dinner for the whole family.






In middle hollow

Of a dead tree among palmettos,


Not too long ago,

Had stuck a sky glass,

The antique type

Seen in the series

Of “Mutiny on the Bounty” movies.


The eye piece was upright

As if some was trying to look

Through what was rotting

To see the earth.


The lens cleaned,

The brass around polished.

Human behavior is puzzling.

He left his sailor cap, wodged-up,

On the crumbled wood.

It was an old-fashioned

English sailor’s cap,

But inside it said

“Made in China.”






We had just tied

A rope around an oak limb,

Attached a rubber tire

To make a swing.


A visitor from New York City

Cited the laws of hospitality,

Said since he was a guest

He demanded he be the first to swing.


We, did not want to break any laws,

So we allowed him to swing,

The oak limb broke,

He broke a leg.  




She found an apple snail shell

By a purple wild flower in my front yard,

Its pale brown had faded and it was empty.

She asked if a Limpkin had found my address.

“No,” I replied, “The shell must have dropped

From the crowded with apple snail shells

Pocket of my cargo pants.  I picked

The shell up from the borders around

A three mile lake.   That was a long time ago.

I have not seen a Limpkin in years.

I used to listen the moving music when

A couple of limpkins talked to each other

When apart. I lived in Lakeland then.”

She said, “I once lived in Lakeland,

Married to a vodka-drinking fool.”

We went inside and left the door open.

Soon, two Limpkins walked in,

Talking to each other. 






A mathematician watched top

Of a flower pot in which


A flower died years ago, its

Replacement was overlooked,


A row of ants in a line that zigzagged.

He imposed on their lives by thinking


The ants should have stayed in a straight line,

A straight lines is the shortest distance between two points.


He thought ants are dumb,

Keeping in a straight line would have saved energy


As the ants carried the rainbowed colored wings

Of termites into their hole and home.


He then converted the unreality of the ants

Into a series of numbers to give them reality.


He was more content as now seeing numbers

Rather than the ants arational, illogical scurrying,


He was consoled by his absence of knowledge

Of ant’s intelligence, superior to his, and their mysticism


His wife to enhance his happiness, brought his customary

Afternoon whiskey sour.


He singing, perfect pitch, improved his
Whiskey sour by dropping in sugar cubes.



Duane Locke, Tampa



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