Ann Arbor Review


Paul B Roth
Duane Locke
Alan Britt
Silvia Scheibli
Steve Barfield
Duane Locke
Alex Ferde
Kristina Krumova
Richard Gartee
Lyn Lifshin
Gale Acuff
Alicia Mathias
Sunday Eyitayo Michael
Running Cub
Laszlo Slomovits
Shutta Crum
Solomon Musa Haruna

Elisavietta Ritchie
Yuan Hongri
Helen Grigya
Fahredin Shehu
Karyn M. Bruce

Robert Nisbet
Deji W. Adesoye

Michael Lee Johnson
Keith Moul
Jennifer Burd

John Grey
Rekha Valliaypan
Fred Wolven

Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2019 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 51 years all together....

Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven

Submissions via e-mail:




Despite the proclamations
on Game of Thrones
Winter is not coming,
it has flown
on the wings of robins
flying north
hitchhiking on the flutter
of monarch butterflies
leaving Mexico.

The patter of gentle April rains
sprinkles the assurance
of silken milkweed parachutes
presently only just sprouted
but promised to summer solstice
all the same.

And when that sunny season
delivers on spring’s pact
I shall walk the lawns
of my childhood,
pluck the hoary dandelions,
and blow their seeds into the wind
to land where they will
and sleep until another spring.


There’s too much stuff in my office,
especially on my desk.
A jar of pens collected at conferences
years ago
three-quarters of which probably
dried up, are useless.
But how to tell? Try each one?
That could take all day.

I start with the burgundy plastic
in/out basket of papers
which continue to come in
and fail to go out
becoming an archeological site,
layered geological strata
like rock formations in Utah.
“Tell me when you sent that
and I’ll know how deep
in the pile to look.”

I move on to the file cabinet
its overstuffed drawers
protruding papers
that keep them from closing fully
Edging the bottom drawer open
wide enough for my hand to fit
I mash the mess down and
slam the drawer shut before the files
leap out in rebellion.

I refill my coffee cup,
return to my office,
and ponder my situation.
Plainly, I have too many papers.
The needed solution:
How to make nothing
out of too much something?
Fahrenheit 451 comes to mind.
But then my eye fall on a page
containing a few lines of verse
I think, This bit of nothing could become something.
So, I add it to a future pile and postpone cleaning
my office for another day.



Richard Gartee, Gainesville, Florida


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