Ann Arbor Review


Lana Bella
Hongri Yuan
Lyn Lifshin
Duane Locke
Elisavietta Ritchie
Michelle Bailat-Jones

Fahredin Shehu
Laszlo Slomovits
Andy N
Alex Ferde
Lekan Alesh
Michael Lee Johnson
Running Cub
Ali Znaidi
Silvia Scheibli
Robert Nisbet
Richard Gartee
Amit Parmessur

Jennifer Burd
Paul B. Roth
Sanjeev Sethi
Keith Moul
Arjun Dahal
Alan Britt
Richard Lynch
Fred Wolven
Eddie Awusi

Joanie Freeman
Hongri Yuan
Amit Shankar Saha


Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2017 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:




You will miss our eagles, river, tides, cove,
gulls, great blue herons, visiting cormorant,
our aviary-worth of inland birds—
robins, cardinals, doves, jays,
the red-headed woodpecker pair who for years
paused en route north or south, ate and left,
yet this summer hang around for the chow;

plus numerous sparrows God’s too busy
to look after so gives me the job.

You will miss complaining about the flocks
which scatter our crumbs and seeds
and their droppings, over our balcony,
and the gray and black squirrels
who clean up whatever birds miss…

You will miss complaining about:
my piled manuscripts, (forget your own),
my cluttered 1998 Subaru; my swiping your
clothes you’ve worn day and night,

your orange peels I snatch to mulch
my garden which fed us ten years though now
you won’t let me plant as you want more
lawn to mow: grass is short enough, but
you must see if the mower starts;

You will miss eternally complaining about
invisible crumbs, visible dust, ants, apricots
you can’t see because they are right here
before your eyes, and all else you see or don’t
but, like everything else you choose
to keep you awake half the night, bug you.

You will, in short, miss living…So
will I, along with all else I cannot
live without, including you…



The painting of the barn remains
long after wooden walls cave in,
the roof dissolves in vines and mud,

until the canvas is reused
or burned or trashed.

To discuss ephemerality is sheer cliché
as is mention of moonlight on snow,
this midnight’s brief reality.

Those who create in night’s insomnia
are blessed with silence, solitude
which will envelop us all in anonymity
as life melts into nothingness like snow



A brown moth beats against the screen.
The same or similar each night.

I too want to get in, understand
what’s happening inside. I can’t

enlighten anyone, but like the moth
beat wings against the light.

If condemned to remain outside,
I still will wave furry antennae,

beat my tatters, shreds, as if,
once inside, I could figure it all out…



We push through darkened halls
unsure if we will find a moon
lit room
or crash into the lintel’s edge
and scrape our elbows raw again,

try to staunch this blood,
replenish bandages and salves
keep on weaving, stumbling,
falling through the night—



misshapen wolves
snatch the lambs of day
don’t sleep   and won’t let me 

they lack corporeal substance      
but still malevolent   
infiltrate my insomnia

mugs malleable as plasticine
these humanoids flash by
their grins obscene

ballooning lips seem
to offer invitations
fat fingers beckon

I won’t investigate  
won’t follow
hope to wake in time



Elisavietta Ritchie, Broomes Island, Maryland


Ann Arbor Review   |   Home    |   next  |  previous  Back to Top