Ann Arbor Review


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Alex Ferde
Kristina Krumova
Richard Gartee
Lyn Lifshin
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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:



(on nature's ant mill phenomena of army ants in a death spiral)
at times i lie blackening as a knurled fig
in the cusp of summer, peeling dizzy waves

of red - an army of fire ants milling in line,
round in loops and round a stamp of thread-

ing feet, antennae restless, un-moving as one;
the circled tide throbs of red. undead. grows

in muddied spiral, sprouting fire in uniform
measure, translating confusion into quiet foray

wedged in their lack of sight; the marchers slide
away, will they falter at the meridian, fall over

the world's edge, careen, scatter over table-top,
while warm winds in lazy spirals sing a bug's

death-song; watch them colloidal float, whirl,
twirl, roll, hold steady, efficient killing machines.



here lies a membrane wing in cushioned shock,
lying forever still; unable to break free; blabs of

fury erupt, excitement roiling the kindled crowd,
of silent march - seething manifest that bloodies,

rages, frets to be free of the death spiral, self
drowning in apathy. my heart screams in agony

to watch as they rise again scampering out of
lidded jars, ant-i-clock marching, their haunting

fire flames to be free, un-marching as one. little
red bodies crisp curl into balls of barbule, dance

in eddies, disassemble in the dust-light between
glass walls, etched in frost. cinder-tossed, shining

singed corpses breathe their last luminescence. they
have their purpose, sheltered in swansong, doggedly

marching to die with the tinted butterfly smaller than
a snail flitting in blue woods; summer is for brooding.

i pull tufts of thoughtful green grass, watch spinning
ants reel. my ghost-moaning fingers drum of blood

sprinkled rhythm, hears small creatures of the earth
trapped in inchoate movement, fitting their yoke to

the plow, endlessly spiraling, falling, rising, they
know no other movement, in ambulatory order

of one.



In the bruised
petal of rosy hue,
I smell buckets
of July yellow,
hot sandy beaches,
strolling dog tags,
ocean-soaked skin,
blistered, bronzed,
the faint stir of wind
on honeyed bowers,
blushing bluebells,
crowned with bees;
the end of summer,
drowsily creeping,
reflecting on, water
sun birds, honking,
glistening, spangled
hovering, and gone.


 Rekha Valliappan, Huntington, New York

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