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:



These days the vineyards boast

only the dullest brown stalks of their

usual intoxication.


Let’s consider it a hope, a re-gathering of essence,

not a withholding.


Still, the view stops me—

opens and promises with one vast sky.


The way a thought might seem intact,

indefensible and perfect where it sits

atop the knobby spine and gnarl of such potential bloom.


Still, I wait for the unpress of sky and light

to hand over what I am rustling for.


That desire might be an answer.

That what was considered a given

won’t have to be understood as a gift.


Which is to say we will have to rewrite

every single question.


Yes, I am asking you vines.

You latent drunkards.

You promisers of delight and revel.


Will you blossom, will you throw off your

winter death? Cast your spell?


I dare you.






This time, I want you to choose the verb.


It has to be willed, not afraid. Whatever

my looking—that cross into, so sought,

so hush—you return. This alive is spelled

like fire.


So here I joy but later there will be ashes.

And I will have to rowboat myself across.


You said this, pointing out my shipwreck.


This morning I am a word that repeats itself.

I am a thing that pours. But I am keeping. Here

is the book of me, my ripped page.


Unhearing does work but it takes some kindling.

Your cavalier is my matchbook. Do not pretend

you haven’t wanted to test my phosphorous, my

strike and blaze.


Oh, yes, this quiet.

Watchmaking my hush, my furious.






Michelle Bailat-Jones, St. Legier, Switzerland  

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