Ann Arbor Review


Richard Gartee
Fahredin Shehu
Steve Barfield
Silvia Scheibli
Laszlo Slomovitz
Shutta Crum
Running Cub
Sodiq O. Alabi
Stephen Sleboda
Alan Britt
Aneek Chatterjee
John Grey
Michael Lee Johnson
Robert Nisbet
Jennifer Burd
Alica Mathias
Roo Bardookie
Gale Acuff
Alex Ferde
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:




The alligator

was two eyes, two nostrils,

above the surface,

the rest idling below.

His prey came

some distance to be with him –

an egret

snaffling tidbits

from the shallows.

One didn’t move.

The other stepped slow.

Then the gator pounced,

cut the poor bird’s panic

off at the knee,

swung its catch

from side to the side

in perfect jaw clench,

before slipping

back to its den.

From high on the bank,

I beheld a red trickle

like snake slither

through the brown.

What tragedy, I thought.

What a masterstroke,

was my other thought.



In November, I come in out of the woods,

report back to words, swamp peace for

geared-up tension: what did I see out there?

what do I remember? Now nature’s stocks

are bare, can I recreate summer on the page,

type my way into pastel October,

find new ways to praise the passerines,

exult the eagles, hail the hawks,

turn deer and possum anthropomorphic?

The room is cluttered, the tools familiar,

and everything is in the past. From

my window, I can see a solitary

oak, stripped of leaves, its boughs swaying

in a brisk nor’wester. I do this for that

tree as much as for myself.



Another season.

Yesterday’s puddles are today's ice beds.

Leaves bobble like red and orange bonbons

on the trees.

Birds are fewer but the songs more urgent.

Wind picks up, a sorrow to its wail,

like it longs to be just breeze again.

Hannah is stuffing the crawl space.

Anna blow-dries plastic sheets to windows.

The woodpile's high but is it high enough?

The children are up in their rooms,

not reading, not studying, not anything.

and then they're up in their heads,

like the body itself is rooms.

A deer nibbles grasses at the far end of the field.

It trembles enough for all our fears.

What we wouldn't give for a carnival.

A carousel. But aren't we on one?


John Grey, Australian;Johnsten, RI



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