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:




Black jagged glass
Covers the window
Closing the gap
Between then and now

Slipping between worlds
Like a sentence of silence
In-between dim light
Lost in blood red fog

Glittering in camouflaged stares
Refracting recurring themes
Guilt coined in time
Double locked on doors

Taking memories
By the hand
With down turned fists
Hammering in your thoughts

Leaving you thinking
It could have easily been you
Spasming there
Behind closed doors.



Moving in-between doors
I kiss both sunrise and sunset
Embracing both
In knotted smiles

Placing wisdom
Into borrowed ladders
Schooling myself in patience
Investing my life in wisdom

Rehearsing nothing
But dissolved feelings
Seeking new adventures
String bleeding answers



Right up until the end
You used to come home
Hiding your pistols and gunshot
Under the floorboards

Blurring stories
Into rambling narratives
Where you and the master
Had been for the past few days

Before drowning yourself
Silently in cheap ale
Until you passed out
Into a concerned fear

Cut up from guilt
Synchronized in drunkenness
With a tempter
Cutting through your conscience

Lurking in the shadows
Whenever we crossed the forest
Hiding under the moonlight
Next to the river

Galloping away with your eyes
Loosening your thoughts
Over the flush of the forest
And the moors

Listening out constantly
For wheels crushing in the shadows
Bathed in subconscious
Like a jackal in the night

And a spring
Of obscene language
Every time mother shouted out
The master was here.


Andy N, Stetford, Manchester, UK


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