Ann Arbor Review


Lana Bella
Deji W. Adesoye
Chris Lord
Ali Znaidi
Francis Annagu
Olajide Vincent Ajise
Lyn Lifshin
Akor Emmanuel
Duane Locke
Running Cub
Paul B. Roth
Fahredin Shehu
Laszlo Slomovits
Silvia Scheibli
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Amit Parmessur
Irsa Ruci
Elisavietta Ritchie
Alex Ferde

Richard Gartee
Robert Nisbet
Alan Britt
Changming Yuan
Nahshon Cook
Peycho Kanev
Jennifer Burd
Fred Wolven

Karyn M. Bruce

Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2016 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 47 years all together....

Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub

Fred Wolven

Submissions via e-mail:

ECO ECHOES 2016-21


Looking through empty spaces

Between bare branches that resemble

Japanese Zen paintings

At part of a vacant lot with tall green weeds

Spotted with large chrome yellow flowers

That bees with rainbows on wings

And gold circles around  brown bodies enter,

They look directly, but they do not see,

For they are mentally occupied

With their confabulation about outer space  travel.

They talk about setting up a new colony

And establishing an anarchy.

One present at this tea ceremony

With its precise rules and regulations

Is bored by their discussion of fantasies

Starts staring intently at the color of the tea,

And how its hue is changed by being

In cup whose rim is gold-scalloped

And whose inside is a Cadmium yellow.

He does not any longer hear

What is being said about outer space,

But starts daydreaming he is a character

In Herman Melville’s  Typee

Running away from natives who

Want to tattoo him.






An everglades airboat afloat—it was as noisy

If nose is said to resemble, a type of cacophony,

An aleatoric  musical composition when tin cans

Are roped together as if lassoing each other to fall

Down an iron fire escape.  But this noise we heard were

Hearing had a rattle as if Hispanic, like shook castenets.

Although one remarked it sounded like an out of order

Machine machine.  We concluded our aural analysis

By generalizing it as “Everglades Music.”  But it imposed

Or apparent or faked unity  was by interfenced with

By the squaw of a disturbed sea bird.  This is how

Dawn came in to erase a darkness that in the morning

Resembled a twilight.  This was another beginning

Of our apartness, for we all knew, that although it

Was designed by false speech as the same, in a world

Where there is no samness, we all heard a different

Musical compositon.  The converstion about what each

Heard was unknowable, but we pretended we understood.




On this day of news about a child’s arson,

And an artist whose work amended Malevitch,

What a human’s brain constituted to be still

As it quivered in the invisible wind with its

Movement up and his movemet down in space

Was the end leaf on a long, thin, oak twig.

The observer directly looking at its green,

His thoughts added an embellishment,

A movie star’s green eyes, a girl never actually  seen.

But what his fantasy, his conception converted

Perception would  soon, very quickly,

Be erased into oblivion ‘s oblique obfuscation,

The leaf’s consciously unobserved mobility

Would osmose through hair, skin, bone

And join synapses’ explosion and neural fireworks.

What was unknown to him saved him
From living totally a life of observations turned into lies.


Duane Locke, Tampa, Florida


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