Just lapped up
By a wolf of evening shadow
Hurries our steps
Down from summits too long savoured -
But while stars open
Above wastes of stone
The highest snowfield
As Owens Valley sands at noon.
Our path shines clear
In Climbers' Light.
Robert Walton is an experienced writer with several dozen poems published. His novel Dawn Drums was awarded first place in the 2014 Arizona Authors Association’s literary contest and also won the 2014 Tony Hillerman Best Fiction Award. He is a retired teacher and a life-long rock climber.
Matisse: the Terrace St. Tropez
Here in Saint Tropez,
in the Mediterranean sun.
and I am left with an impression,
as vague and wondrous
as the the touch of an ancient memory,
of sea and sand
and indiscriminate joy.
Here on my terrace,
the shadings shift so swiftly
with the slant of light,
it is as if time itself
has had a hand in mixing
my poor palette.
I spend my days in gifted sight
and paint the blur of hue and time,
as freely as the gulls will
skate upon the vast horizon
of endless sea and endless sky.
Steve Deutsch, a semi-retired practitioner of the fluid mechanics of mechanical hearts and heart valves, lives with his wife Karen--a visual artist, in State College, PA. Steve writes poetry, short fiction and the blog: email@example.com. His most recent publications have been in Eclectica Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, New Verse News, Silver Birch Press, Misfit Magazine and One-sentence poems. As an adult, Steve had the good fortune to sit in on two poetry classes taught by first class poets and teachers. He has been writing poetry ever since.
Dawn in Pennsylvania, 1948
The earth’s first viscera
dismembers into sky,
as clouds shred into blue-purple shrouds,
and buildings yawn
from the night, borne by revulsion
of light from their orifices.
Grey bridges, grey walls, grey factories:
the streets are senseless,
Vernaculars of stone, the store windows
gape, the mute chant of churches
spire the horizon.
What weather comes, mortar
will answer with brick.
As light spills
shadows from hydrants, poles,
pigeons clock squares and parks,
sparrows break from balled fists
Wings of night air
evaporate. Listen: a few
shouts, warble of distant
horns. Even here, time opens
like a flower.
Originally from New York City, Robert Bharda has resided in the Northwest U.S. where for the last 35 years he has specialized in vintage photographica as a profession, everything from salt prints to polaroids. His illustrations/artwork have appeared in numerous publications, both in the U.S. and abroad. Also a writer, his poetry, fiction and critical reviews have been published in The North American Review, Northwest Review, Shenandoah, Quarterly West, Willow Springs, ACM, Cutbank, Fine Madness, Kansas Quarterly, Yellow Silk, Poets On, Conclave and many others, including anthologies.
Each Awaits Its Rising
Peeling paint lifts into landscape,
reeds like a legion of spearheads
splitting still water. Shore fronds lean
to catch a glimpse of themselves
as they expire. Clouds bring together
jagged edges, a clapping before
thunderclaps, a closing of hasps. Bark labia
round into dark lips, trunk
opening a birth canal to light. Close by,
a lone figure considers, perhaps
stepping, perhaps readying for a leap,
each form awaiting
its continued rising, offering itself
to wind and to weather.
Devon Balwit is a poet and educator from Portland, Oregon. She has a chapbook, Forms Most Marvelous, forthcoming from dancing girl press (summer 2017). Her recent poems have appeared in numerous print/on-line journals, among them: Oyez, Red Paint Hill, The Ekphrastic Review, Serving House Journal, The Journal of Applied Poetics, Emerge Literary Journal, Timberline Review, Trailhead Magazine VCFA, The Prick of the Spindle, and Permafrost.
(dedicated to my grandmother's family and and all the others who were slaughtered in the Nazi concentration camps)
I’ve walked these halls before,
seen the dimmed faces of those
born to die because they were “Juden.”
Time-tattered images of people
frozen in time, matted on walls
like cheap paper.
Eyes of the innocent open.
Eyes of the world shut.
Now I’m left wondering,
in a world once again
parasites of hate,
if this could ever happen
We cannot forget
those who now live
only on walls.
Shelly and her husband are empty-nesters who live in Columbia, Maryland with their 4 cat rescues. They have two sons: Richard, 32, of New York, and Joshua, 30, of San Antonio. Her first love has always been poetry, although her career has generally followed the path of public relations/journalism. Shelly's poetry has been published by Silver Birch Press, Whispers, Praxis, Verse-Virtual, Ekphrastic: writing and art on art and writing and Visual Verse.
I used to hold her poised
as a tadpole
edge of the porcelain
holding bottom suspended
holding (fingers tracing rib spaces)
Tiny cold splash
and she touches toes
for the safe necessity of doctors and mothers
Squeaky vanilla peach &
bouncing blond curls.
Lindsey Thäden is the most recent winner of New York's 2016 #PoetweetNYC contest. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in New York Metro, Passages North, eleven40seven and Apeiron Review.
the hard way to heaven
cold night camp
river bridge stolen tent
man, i'm alone
for every wise man but me
ice fog dawn
coffee at the reluctant shelter
am i humble enough
we have words for each others' ears
in languages too frozen to translate
the thousand mile stare
my walk to heaven
no easy path
but i'm not the first lazarus
i'm not even the only lazarus
William Schmidtkunz is the author of Home, and Other Poems, about life as a carpenter in Alaska.
This poem was inspired by the chapbook of art and poetry The Luzajic Variations, a collection of poems by Ekphrastic contributor Bill Waters, after the paintings of Lorette C. Luzajic. There are still a few copies of this limited edition gem- click here to view on Etsy.
Paradise Lost Book II, 947–950
Among the jagged cliffs of an unknown place,
Beneath the dark sobering skies,
In the light of eternal stars,
Our heroic lightbearer succumbs to his tragic condemnation.
A millennia has had him labeled,
Liar, cheat, trickster,
Yet behold a man who defied a God’s,
Tyrannical rule over the minds of individuals.
His grand set of batwings comfort,
The freethinker’s spirit.
A set of quality armor,
Offers a defense to artists threatened.
There are times when I find myself,
Wandering those same cliffs,
Within a melancholy mood,
Wondering what is to happen to my world,
Before looking up and seeing my guide,
The one who offers comfort in dark places,
The one who stood by my side when loved ones passed,
Our tragic lightbearer.
Keith Fallows received his B.A. in English from Neumann University in Aston, PA in December 2016. He now attends the M.F.A. program at Rosemont College in Bryn Mawr, PA. Being an avid reader and writer, Keith has recently taken an interest in Ekphrastic work and often writes at night while listening to a wide range of music.
In Magritte I Can Find No Strawberries
In Magritte I can find no strawberries,
though in Belgium, in June, he must have had
them, luscious, feeding them to Georgette in the afternoon.
Perhaps they sat upon the step
or watched the summer out the window.
Perhaps he saw her face unveiled as no other,
perhaps he told her you are mine
as they fingered the strawberries on plates in their laps,
as they sat by the sea water glistening.
He did not yet see fractures in the sunlight.
He did not yet see blood in the sugar.
He did not yet see the veiled face of the other,
or eggs in a cage at the feast,
or the hat, the feet, the nightmare on the wall.
Anne Higgins teaches English at Mount Saint Mary’s University in Emmitsburg Maryland, USA. She has had about 100 poems published in a variety of small magazines. Five full-length books and three chapbooks of her poetry have been published: At the Year’s Elbow, Mellen Poetry Press 2000; Scattered Showers in a Clear Sky, Plain View Press 2007; chapbooks: Pick It Up and Read, Finishing Line Press 2008, How the Hand Behaves, Finishing Line Press 2009, Digging for God, Wipf and Stock 2010, Vexed Questions, Aldrich Press 2013,Reconnaissance, Texture Press 2014, and Life List, Finishing Line Press 2016.
Monet's Water Lilies, Musée de l'Orangerie
The room is hushed.
People sit or stand as they stare,
awed into silence.
What do they see?
Is it water or sky, clouds floating,
a wonder of blue and lilac,
the surreal float of water lilies,
shimmering splashes of green, pink and yellow,
slender green-leafed pendant branches
of exquisite gracefulness,
moments cloudy, hazy, sun-sparkled in a way beyond beauty
or rippled by momentary touch of passing breeze?
Or do they see the master at his work,
sublime, magical, mystical,
representing the beauty of the world,
without beginning and without end,
ever-changing but forever there,
taking this sense of timeless beauty
and transferring it through his mastery
so that all we lesser humans
can glimpse in the small things-
the shimmering play of colour from light,
the dance of water and wind,
the float of colour upon the blueness-
what is eternally there,
if only we had the eyes to see.
Neil Creighton is an Australian poet with a passion for social justice and a love of the natural world. Recent publications include "Poetry Quarterly", "Silver Birch Press", "Praxis Online", "South Florida Poetry Journal" and "Verse-Virtual", where he is a contributing editor. His poetry blog is windofflowers.blogspot.com.au
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