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:



What a heartbeat.
It doesn't tick like a clock
but writhes in pained circles.
It's constantly being sucked
into the vortex
and huffing and puffing
its way out.
Its job is to pump blood
not tear the body apart.
But it's more tectonic plate
than compassionate pulsing.
It shudders the ribs.
It shakes the feelings.
Sometimes it even
runs backwards.
Here thumps
my excuse for a life-force,
a deranged drumming
that can't keep up
or pounds too far ahead.
The doc says,
"Don't worry,
this pill will pull
it into line."
Yeah right.
If my heart is the villain
in all this
then that tiny blue capsule
is now its sidekick.
And yet we must make do
with these faulty constructions.
It's an imperfect world.
And it had to get that from somewhere.



It's not a Rorschach test though I can hear
the counselor's voice when I turn to its naked glories.
Without thinking, what do you see?
Your mother, your sister, a hippopotamus?
No, it's who it says it is, a doctor's receptionist
from some small town in Nebraska, who
models on the side, who longs to be a
movie star or, if not that, get married and have kids.
It's definitely not a bad traffic accident,
a house fire, a ghost from my past,
guilt, anger, misery, or an overflowing toilet.
It's a woman showing off her large breasts, slim waist,
tempting thighs, for stunted adolescents like myself.
How can it say more about me than it does about her?
It's not a blood test either. The staple jabbed my thumb, that's all.



John Grey, Johnston, Rhode Island, formerly Australia



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