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

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rummages around
my room

out of hiding
from a snuffed flame

the windows
overhead jets vibrate

Shinnies up
the sides of shadows
its emptiness occupies

Faces itself
in the photograph
of a mirror's darkness

my bedroom night-lite
to let it in

Let it sleep 
my breathing



Turning back
to its ancestoral pulp

having withstood
wind fire ice
and the lumberjack's
yellow tag

the page
has no memory
its lost leaves
can provide

it occupies
no space to call hime
inside itself

has lost its way
from xylum and phloem
roots and tendrils
flowers and fruits

and settled here
beneath my pen
to suffer the words

that will never mean
as much to it
as the tree
it believes it still is


          for Bodhi

So limited in thinking I have range catches up to me, gravitates helpless seeds through weighted nets of nerve endings plunged into my bloodstream; seeds that clouds, shadowing and brightening the land, plant and move on before becoming unsolveable quotients divisible only by human exhaustion, cow manure, or by bundling up an entire universe in a blue and white checkered sky's knotted tablecloth and slung over my right shoulder on a pole where I'm more than out walking my dog's shadowless ghost along the stone road that leads to the most brilliant place of bones once known to us all as the Milky Way.



We never knew
time could make so much noise

could click one second after another
ahead to the next

advance the repetitivee circular motion
of its minute hand into each unknown moment

climax with each chime or reminder
at any given hour

awake us by tugging at the moral leash
of our irresponsible dreams

segment the length of our days
into work and meals into sleep and waking

crumble years into dry shore grasses
crushed shell, charred wood, grey stone dust

thrust us forward without holding us back
from getting ahead of ourselves

keep us in place
without once stopping to drop us off

unsure whether this is before or after
our life in between



Paul B. Roth, Fayetteville, New York

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