Ann Arbor Review


Michelle Bailat-Jones
Amit Parmessur
Steve Barfield
Fahredin Shehu
Karyn M. Bruce
Richard Gartee
Running Cub
Dejoy Robillard
Yuan Hongri
Lasz.o Slomovits
Silvia Scheibli
Stephen Sleboda
Alan Britt
Gale Acuff
Elisavietta Ritchie
Shutta Crum
Patty Dickson Pieczka

Duane Locke
Jennifer Burd
Aneek Chatterjee
Robert Nisbet
Robert Penick

Alex Ferde
Solomon Musa Haruna

Violeta Allmuca
Fred Wolven

Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2020 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 54 years all together....


Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cut
Fred Wolven

Submissions via e-mail:




A bean vine curls up my ankle
like the illegible scrawl
of a dream that spilled
during the darkest ink of night.

Behind clusters of emerald broccoli
and rhubarb fans, acerbic,
tomato-red faces seem to know
secrets buried in my mind,

the indigo smoldering
just beyond reach.
Brussels sprouts whisper,
peeking from their layered leaves.

I yank at lush greens,
pull up a beet, muddy truth
clinging to its root.
Its musky-sweet, earth-blackened
magenta drips my regret.



Slow rolling grays,
the colors remaining
when inner storms stay silent.

A cloud swallows fifteen geese,
their voices haunting the sorghum field.
Sun drapes itself in a dark cloak.

The lawn is edged in burnt umber,
the color discouragement turns
when its skin molts.

Bluegrass longs for water's sweet taste,
for the scent of green,
for yellow's soft scrim.

Lacebark elm carries its wealth
of gold, learns to bend
in the wind and let go.



She drops shreds of sunlight
like breadcrumbs, and I follow,
picking them up. Each one sparks

colors in my hand—like jeweled fruit:
papaya, loquat, lemon—the scent
of the islands, the sea, call of drums.

She teaches me to grow wings,
to let the wind lift me, to look down
and see my life growing smaller
and know this is how it will be—

this expansion I haven't known before,
this understanding that the breeze
knows the shape of every leaf
and stone, the contours of my face.

She shows me how to read minds,
to spin sorrow into magic,
scars into love, to send blessings

to serpents and to wounded hearts,
to become a mango tree
and feed the multitudes.



Her hair is fire, wild and red.
She sways with the flame's music,
sparks fireflies into my dreams,

whispers not to worry
that my life is in smoke,
since fear ignites
like dried kindling in the soul.

She shows me the first burnings:
mountains pour
their flaming blood to create

islands hissing crimson
into the sea; birds squawk
exotic colors to the sky;

words grow new and sweet
and ripe, each syllable
fresh fruit on my tongue.

My problems drop into a pile,
clatter like sticks,
burn into ruby embers.

Like a Brahman priest,
she teaches me
to walk over them.


Patty Dickson Pieczka, Carbondale, Illinois


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