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Morning Sun
On blue bed linens she sits, hair pulled tight to her skull in the cave of illusion, where a tilted square of light washes the gray wall, angles honed sharp enough to slice pale flesh. Outside a window so large her body could tumble through, she sees blue sky above a smear of cloud. A factory looms like a sun-baked prison, where inmates seethe and sweat in a yard without shade. Her mind has become a space devoid of trees, only small rocks and scrub grass, and a few tiny buds of clover, white and naked to the glare of day. by Steve Klepetar Steve Klepetar’s work has appeared widely, and several of his poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Recent collections include My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press) and Return of the Bride of Frankenstein (Kind of a Hurricane Press). Email him at sfklepetar@stcloudstate.edu. Called to the Front (after John Paulo Filo’s “Tragedy at Kent State,”1970)
It’s not necessarily a good sign if you can call to mind the moment adolescence slipped away. How must it feel to have that moment frozen on display, called up each anniversary when you became a part of history. Mark Danowsky Mark Danowsky’s poetry has appeared in Alba, Cordite, Grey Sparrow, Mobius, Shot Glass Journal, Third Wednesday and other journals. Mark is originally from the Philadelphia area, but currently resides in North-Central West Virginia. He works for a private detective agency and is Managing Editor for the Schuylkill Valley Journal. Boys in a Pasture Here on the wall the bit of white in the green afternoon stops the summer from falling. The bit of white keeps the nail still interested in heights and invested in keeping gravity at bay. Such a small thing, a bit of white paint surprised on a painted boy’s shin. But even the sun slows a revolution to look, and the grasses stop in their consideration of the wind, the heat, the wind, though the two boys go on feeling the earth rolling them gently out of the frame. Annie Lighthart From Iron String, Airlie Press 2013. Used with permission of the author. Annie Lighthart started writing poetry after her first visit to an Oregon old-growth forest. Since those first strange days, she published her poetry collection Iron String with Airlie Press, has had her poetry chosen by Naomi Shihab Nye to be placed in Ireland’s Galway University Hospitals, and read by Garrison Keillor on The Writer’s Almanac. She has taught at Boston College, as a poet in the schools, and currently teaches workshops for Portland’s Mountain Writers. She can be reached through her website www.annielighthart.com The Water Colour (remembering a painting by Paul W. Brown, bought in Georgia by the poet's mother) Daisies spilling over out of a tin pale. Helens, Georgia. A water color in the mind and above the secretary. A gallery of flowers that could be clutched for the girl seen eye to eye. A memory now in a frame. Sentimental value. Becoming a river of restaurants and log cabins. And gift shops. And family now gone. As if a signature makes the painting authentic. Daniel Barbare Danny P. Barbare resides in the Carolinas. His poetry has recently been published in Doxa, Blood and Thunder, and Rhubarb. He has been nominated for Best of Net and has won The Jim Gitting's Award. He works as a janitor at a local Y. barbaredaniel@yahoo.com The Frieze Art Fair (Regent’s Park, London)
Here leans a surreal door: no hinges, lock or knob, of cobalt plastic poured, aligned far out of true with gallery walls and floor. In Fiscal Land Macabre, Art lands a visual coup against the moneyed mob’s overly-egged décor! Sense the artistic sob! Sense function set askew. How’s this a corridor passed money’s moral slough? Plumb again. Your day job does what Art’s supposed to. William Conelly Amateurs with cameras are tolerated at the Frieze Arts Fair in autumnal London, so I have dozens of arty - or tarty - photos waiting to be strained into verse. To date, however, only the snap of the function-free door has devolved to print. At UC Santa Barbara I took a Master's Degree under the renowned American poet Edgar Bowers so, perhaps, some long symbology of passage is involved. Don't know. I've retired from teaching in turn and am certainly pleased The Able Muse Press has published a collection of mine, some of the poems passed forward from those old, rare days. It may be reviewed or ordered here: http://www.ablemusepress.com/william-conelly-uncontested-grounds-poems. Akseli Gallen-Kallela painted this scene from Kalevala, the Finnish national epic that was compiled by Elias Lönnrot in the 19th century. The painting shows a poem about Lemminkainen's mother dragging him from the river and sewing up the pieces of his body. She awaits the gods to bring her honey, to revive him to life again.
Spider
What the spider sees through eight-fold eyes is eight of everything-- eight moons crossing the sky at night discontented with their place in time; eight suns rising from the sea at dawn to race the day to dusk as if they were certain to rise again’ eight shadows from a line of trees with eight birds calling songs of eight in perfect harmony; eight of everything but itself alone upon the grass. Neil Ellman Neil Ellman, a poet from New Jersey, has published numerous poems, more than 850 of which are ekphrastic, in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world. He has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize and twice for Best of the Net. |
The Ekphrastic Review
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