 Me and My Parrots, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1941 Visiting Frida’s Garden I stand at the entrance to your garden framed by a welcoming doorway-- wishing to know more about you and Diego, love of your life, source of deep despair. Poster images stitched together like a quilted sunburst of bold colors, celebrated artwork, poor health, and burdens of sadness. Your work table enclosed in plexiglass displays a palette of artistic tools that armed you, protected you, expressed your talent. Paints, brushes, pastels, globe to perhaps reveal desires to travel, paperback of Walt Whitman, sketchbook exposing blue pages. Personal items preserved, surrounded by tropical plants and flowers of Mexico— your native land, kindling of inspiration. I study your self-portrait, stern face, ruby lips, signature eyebrows, delicate neck, bronze skin, brown eyes, hot as the cigarette burning between your fingers. Flowers and wool woven in your hair like a birds nest. Two rainbow parrots roost on your shoulders, two more hugged to your heart like babies you were denied. Lois Perch Villemaire Lois Perch Villemaire resides in Annapolis, MD, where she is inspired by the charm of a colonial town and the glorious Chesapeake Bay. After retirement from a career in local government, she concentrated on her love of writing. Researching family history led to memoir and creative nonfiction. Her prose and poetry have appeared in a number of journals and have been included in several anthologies. She enjoys yoga practice, fun photography, watercolour, and raising African violets.
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 In Between Worlds 8, by Anya Janssen (Netherlands) 2013. Click image for artist site. Songs To C. - as we live ... Something about birdsong, a Spring morning, the total freedom at daybreak, and, when you elude last night's thoughts, the evening wine, then, tear the windows open, invite the blackbirds in - Something about blue tunes, the Summer set a total dreamdom on days two-faced, and, when you read the words you saved, the songs he sang, then, feel the vastness afresh, invite the promises in - Something about last flowers, in lasting fields, the dogs out at light hours, and, when, safe grounds seemed tried, clogged by angry clouds, by heaven's songbook, when the heavenly mind might shroud - Then, something about firm lines, in lasting skies will make you not fall of the earth, not set sail for temporary truce, so, when you play snowy weather, you have the towers fuel your terms, then, you will learn, the space between songs. Kate Copeland Kate Copeland started absorbing stories ever since a little lass. Her love for words led her to teaching & translating, her love for art & water to poetry…please find her pieces @ The Ekphrastic Review (plus Podcast & translations), First Lit.Review-East, GrandLittleThings, The Metaworker, The Weekly/Five South, New Feathers, Poetry Barn, Poetry Distillery a.o. Her recent Insta reads: : https://www.instagram.com/kate.copeland.poems/ Over the years Kate has volunteered at literary festivals and is now assisting Lisa Freedman with Breathe-Read-Write workshops. She was born @ Rotterdam some 53 ages ago and adores housesitting @ the world.  Cove, by Ryoko Toyama (USA) 2022 Contemplation on Cove You pull me in with centrifugal grandeur Are you real or my deepest fear swirling up in Ecstasy? Impenetrable Darkness barricaded off by your enticing Golden Belt or is it just a beach in sunshine glory? Your blackhole-shell mirrored in the patient sea Seductive emerald green teasing me downward like dimples in a benevolent face Rock formations only to the right framing your gaping mouth Staggered charcoal with roots in violent red Raven Hole you’re pulling me in Yet, swirling sunlight seeding diamonds into the patient soil of ocean depths Glowing carpet bowl keeps me rooted in the here and now And then – The unexpected horror facing faces down below in golden water cave far out-measuring your impenetrable gazing gate Clever ones Sad ones Suspicious ones Horrifying ones Fragmented ones Kaleidoscope of spirits Skeleton emerging Monstrous wolf-man Regal ancient cat Smiling faces – screaming faces layered fragments blending with each other merging with a mighty deer Sediments of human life and history Darkness you draw me in Black Hole of long-lost Womb Golden Promise – Nectar Bridge Glowing Belt of the Abyss Slicing the Unknown in Half Brazen Bridge or Barrier Are you the New Horizon Path? Inviting us for more behind the Veil? Attraction and Repulsion Do I really want to know what’s on the Other Side? Let me surrender and follow your Dark Call into my innermost Self – Eelka Franziska Lampe Eelka Franziska Lampe, Ph.D., is a bi-coastal writer/poet and teacher of the healing arts. Her essays and poems have been published in various journals and anthologies including MoonstoneArts Center's Remembering The Wasteland - 100th Anniversary, 26th Annual Poetry Ink Anthology, and First Literary Review-East. Eelka has presented at Brooklyn Poets, Artful Dodgers, MBR Salon in Chelsea, Olympic Peninsula Authors and others.  Girl Running on a Balcony, by Giacomo Balla (Italy) 1912 Pointillism Look! There she is, and there she goes, Within the limits of this view. She had much rather run than pose. As she proceeds, an image grows: Brown, yellow, white, gold, black, and blue. Look! There she is, and there she goes. Why begs the question of who knows. What else is there for her to do? She had much rather run than pose. She seems at ease—yet not—in clothes. Her dress and boots could well be new. Look! There she is, and there she goes. Her style? Heels favoured less than toes. How lots of lively dots accrue! She had much rather run than pose. Her preference for movement shows. Perhaps she never will be through. Look! There she is, and there she goes. She had much rather run than pose. Jane Blanchard This villanelle by Jane Blanchard of Augusta, Georgia, was first published in Time of Singing. Jane’s collections include Never Enough Already (2021) and Sooner or Later (2022).  Ramp, by Philip Guston (USA, b. Canada) 1979 Oh Guston Your red six-lane ramp Rising into a blue sky tinged Pink with sunset And the nude descending that ramp What was on your mind in 1979 Metallic shields and Frisbees Some bleary as graveyard shift eyeballs Menstrual pads and cheese graters Orange and red and blue phalli (or dildos) Billy clubs truncheons switchblades all Protruding from atop this entourage This invincible cacophony And at its centre a red ear Listening intently to America David Duer David Duer is currently a docent guide at the University of Iowa's Stanley Museum of Art and the Cedar Rapids Museum of Art, where he’s come to know the works he writes about intimately. His work has been published in Ascent, Exquisite Corpse, Milkweed Chronicle, North American Review, and Poetry, among others.  Andy Warhol Museum, by jpellgen (@1179_jp), via Flickr. (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0) Pop Interviewer: Do you like interviews? Andy Warhol: Yes Interviewer: Yes? Andy Warhol: No Interviewer: No? Andy Warhol: No Interviewer: Yes and no? Andy Warhol: Yes Found art, death and celebrity, golden screened icons, objects of veneration. Mass produced, manufactured, grid, interchangeable, appropriation, technique, original in their lack of originality, overload. Pop, off-beat, a put-on, the culture of product, a true brand, blank, a copy, surface. What’s exciting, what’s boring, blotted line between life, death, a flatness to everything, pleasure of repetition. Pictures of money, the serial splendor of soup cans, permutations within the same. The complexities of looking, staring into the camera’s eye, unflinching, indeterminate. A witness, fundamentally absent, fey, camp, monosyllabic, stalking fame, living in your own movie, new kind of person. Finding tenderness and endurance, an exorcism of the now. The trick of disappearing. Charlatan, visionary, Dracula, Cinderella, lost time, found time, singular, series. Shot, spectacle, stain, explosion, funeral, Jackie, veil, amazed in our watching. Luminescence, devastation, candy color allure, Marilyn, your journey is over, amazed in our watching. Death and disaster, iconic car crash, revelation, be careful, doom, mortality. Grainy, grim, unbearable, electric chair, hot seat, holy, waiting room, assembly line. Daddy’s little rich girl, message from Edie, phone call from God, colorize, invisible, high contrast. Eternity is silver on silver, eternity is a factory. Tabloid, public memory, movie star president, America, the bright and shiny. Blur, saturate, erase, interlocking icons, intensified, mythologized. Naturally synthetic, the plastic inevitable, dumber, comic. Ingenious, tragic, stark and terrible, print it like money. Who needs people when you have television? People just go by, voyeur of extremes, deeply superficial. Unaffected, clean and plastic, strange and new, open and closed. End point, pointless, disassociation, uninvolved, spectator, routine, entropy. We’re all consumers and stars, a figment, an apparition, a walk into the future, mirror, machine. I accept everything, I accept nothing, transformation, profane, sublime. Lord’s Supper, motorcycle, to find a point of indifference, to not be sure, to be your own product. Monotony, transcendence, department stores and supermarkets are the new museums. Automation gives us something to do, art gives us something to do, bland concealment, non-interview. Beauty, truth, the misbegotten, their fifteen minutes of fame, the camera never lies. Brent Short Brent Short lives in Kansas City, Missouri. His poetry chapbook, The Properties of Light was published in 2015 by Green Rabbit Press. His poetry has appeared in Eads Bridge Literary Review, Sandhill Review, Tar River Poetry, Saint Katherine Review, The Windhover, Amethyst Review, San Pedro River Review, The Thieving Magpie, The Writing Disorder and The Orchards Poetry Journal. The Ekphrastic Review is absolutely delighted to showcase students from Arrowhead Union High School in Wisconsin for the second time. Last year, teachers Elizabeth Jorgensen and Terri Carnell connected with us to share the ekphrastic creative writing of their students. We chose a selection to publish. It was so rewarding for us to feature young voices, many learning what ekphrasis means for the first time. Elizabeth and Terri reported how meaningful the experience of ekphrastic writing was for their students, along with the excitement of publishing their work in an ekphrastic journal. We decided to do a showcase again. This year, TER chose four paintings to inspire the students. We received an amazing wealth of poems and stories, and selected 25 for publication in this showcase. It is always so difficult to choose a few from many submissions, and this was no exception. We want to encourage every student writer to keep creating poetry and stories and to continue to pursue your curiosity about art. The gifts of writing and art are profound. Creative writing is a powerful way to learn, think, communicate, express, share, grow, explore, and imagine. We thank every one of you for your courage trying something new and sharing those words with us. We hope you will continue to look at art and to write. A big congratulations to the writers whose work was selected. We invite our readers to share this page far and wide on your social media to help us promote young ekphrastic voices and support these young writers. Thank you again, Arrowhead Union students and teachers for this amazing experience! Lorette, editor, The Ekphrastic Review The poems and stories are showcased in alphabetical order by author under the corresponding paintings. The complete list of 25 is immediately below in alphabetical order by author. Congratulations! The Sailors’ Harbour, by Samuel B. Brandt Upside Down, by Carter Burg The Performer, by Kendall Danielson Heartless, by Anna Davis World of Change, by Emma Domacinovich A Moon and a Harbour, by Peyton Drexler Same But Different, by Anna Frederickson Rehearsal Dinner, by Eden Harrison Soy yo, by Diego Hernandez Silent Thoughts, by Harry Hostetler Rainbows in the Moonlight, by Calvin Irvine Lion Heart, by Courtney Janssen The Lifeless Waves, by Brittany Kaja The Eerie Harbour, by Jayden Kohler Frida Left or Frida Right, by Lindsey Landowski The Moon’s Glow, by Brooke McLaughlin A Night in Mykonos, by Ally Merlet Red Dress Girl, by Austin Mueller Small Paradise, by Jackson Pierce The Walk of Light, by Arianna Scaffidi Limitless, by Henry Sobczak Staying Afloat, by Caden Steinbauer Diary of a Nobody, by Elizabeth Stern Carmen Amaya: The Greatest Flamenco Dancer Who Ever Lived, by Courtney Weston Tal Para Cual, Atamos Cabos, by Alan Whitmoyer ** Note from Elizabeth Jorgensen and Terri Carnell As high school English teachers, Elizabeth Jorgensen and Terri Carnell aim to provide authentic and enjoyable experiences for their students. They are so grateful to The Ekphrastic Review and Lorette C. Luzajic for providing a place and purpose for their students’ voices. To The Ekphrastic Review, Jorgensen and Carnell submitted more than 180 student pieces. Here are what a few of the students thought: Taylor Manne said, “I learned so much about writing and reading ekphrastic poems over the past few weeks. This was such a fun unit for me, and I am so excited to read the poems that you eventually choose for publication!” Katherine Thompson said, “I have never heard of ekphrastic poetry before last week, but I really do enjoy it. I felt that all of the artwork this year was extremely relatable and everyone perceived each artwork in a different way. I already had a connection prior to the Two Fridas painting because of a Spanish project, but I had never openly said my interpretation. Again, thank you for the opportunity to write and learn a new style!” Adalia Fritsche said, “I learned a new way of writing and a new reason to write because of this experience! I would have never thought to connect two different types of art in this way. So, thank you so much for giving me the opportunity of this experience!” Ella Hardtke-Laughlin said, “Thank you so much for opening up a different and completely new style of writing to me. It really showed me a new way of expressing an emotion in a powerful way that I haven’t really thought to ever try before. The writing process felt as though it was full of creativity and options as the writer could have taken their story any way from just looking at an image.” Courtney Weston said, “I loved having the chance to dig deeper and get to know my painting on a different level. This contest allowed me to explore various creative lenses and backgrounds, and since participating, I have investigated ekphrastic work in other writers’ markets as well. Thank you for introducing me to this beautiful form of art!” Megan Truax said, “I had never heard of ekphrasis before doing the project. I ended up loving the experience of interpreting a painting through my eyes to see what might have been there. To be able to bring a story to an already lively piece of work like the one I chose, El Jaleo by John Singer Sargent. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to not only see a piece of art that I thoroughly enjoyed but the ability to create a story that I would have never been able to create otherwise.”  El Jaleo by John Singer Sargent (USA) 1882 The Performer Everyone dancing, laughing, and drinking. But you're the only one standing. All eyes on you, the music, the clapping. It’s all for you. But how long will it last? The ghost of a guitar hangs on the wall, soon the music will fade with it. The now empty chair longs for the warmth of his musician. A blood soaked handprint writes ole on the walls. The man beside you will soon meet the same fate. His last breath escaping from his agape mouth. How much longer? The music might tire but you can’t. You must keep dancing, or another will take your place. Darkness follows your every step, beginning to swallow you whole. How long until it’s just you? Left alone in nothing but darkness. Who will look at you then? Kendall Danielson ** Rehearsal Dinner One night Before shackles and a ring befall her so says her friends, who are still free to wear their curtains of crimson while she dons a thick cloud of white. One night Sheds light upon the chaos hidden safely in dark rooms and makes faded shadows dance along even more faded walls of grey. One night Is shielded in smoke and masked by ash, similar to the monochromatic and missing face of the man whom her mother has decided she will wed. One night Gives small colours to skin and wine as she decides to stand, spin, and caper about, the ruffles of her stifling cloud starting to raise dust. One night Sets loose a young woman with only a few hours left to call her own; she wills that the only strings that will tug at her tonight are those of the guitars, And reaches for that last kiss of freedom. Eden Harrison ** Lion Heart While the band strums knowing only the ways of the guitar the clustered crowd dances. However, they only play for the well-bred women. Her shadow dancing upon the wall like the king of the jungle on his hind legs. People watch, engaged, engaged in the way she moves with grace engaged in the way she sways effortlessly engaged in the way she strides as a show-stopper. The men watch, in hopes the zipper holding her dress together comes loose, the women watch, praying they looked like her the little girls watch, longing to one day look like the women dancing before them.` Is that what it would be like to be beautiful? To have something that other people desperately desire? Courtney Janssen ** Red Dress Girl The mariachi band plays a lively jig as the people glide all across the dance floor. Everyone gliding and blending together shades of midnight black, snow white, and charcoal grey blended together like stars against the night sky. Except for her. She didn’t try to be the center of attention. Yet she was. My eyes couldn’t leave her. Her bright strawberry red dress glistened in the darkness, It was hard not to be entranced by her grace. Austin Mueller ** Diary of a Nobody 8:03 p.m. I arrived on time and found myself among the staff still prepping the ballroom. Men sporting thin, gray hair and their wrinkled wives bathed with the perfume of old money were the only guests decorating the dim scene. Their eyes lingered on me, hunger festering in their scowls despite the untouched tapas they picked at with platinum cutlery and judicial glares. I placed my gift on a silk-clothed table and stared at my scuffed shoes in an attempt to conceal the ruby flush in my cheeks. I took my place in an empty seat and watched as dozens more tables were furnished by the white-gloved hands of emotionless waiters. 9:17 p.m. The guests were pouring in faster than seconds could tick by on the diamond clock looming over the entrance. As the sun set, the age of couples walking in plummeted along with their sobriety. A band of guitar players sauntered to the side of the dance floor, a parade of cigar smoke trailing behind them like a knife cutting through the stench of alcohol painting the walls. They each stumbled onto the wooden white chairs lining the wall and began strumming their instruments, releasing a shriek of excitement from drunken women who dragged their defeated husbands to dance near the music. I found myself alone at a table of other single men, waving smoking cigars in their hands as they gestured with sneering remarks about rumors concerning a lady’s impoverished past despite her newlywed wealth decorating her neck with diamonds. They offered me a drink and demanded my opinion, but I declined the liquor and denied any knowledge of the couple. Silence plagued scowls on their faces, so I cracked a half-hearted joke about a ball-and-chain that diminished their brief reproval with satisfied laughter. They continued a conversation about their newest asset or their relative’s expensive wedding they funded, but I avoided their derisive sneers by staring in the distance. The woman was a family friend who I admired. I found myself reminiscing about her endless charity with the less fortunate last year. 10:31 p.m. I almost lost this journal in the crowd. Women started clawing at my suit and giggling to me with intoxicated breath, so I introduced them to the other men at my table and slipped away across the dance floor to an empty table. The tablecloth was stained by the air. The band was still competing with the noise of howling laughter or low business deals, but one of the white chairs was now empty with an orange curiously upon it. I pondered its placement before a pair of young women at the table beside mine noticed and began shouting over the music to each other. These musicians are so lazy—look, one couldn’t even play through the night! It looks like they haven’t showered in weeks. I’d suffocate with so much grease in my hair. A strand of my hair is worth more than those guitars, they could fall apart any second! They cackled proudly before swallowing another shot of tequila. One wiped her face with a silk handkerchief she pulled from a gold-laced purse slung over her shoulder, resting on her skin-tight dress that shimmered like a sapphire. I sipped a glass of water and replaced their comments in my mind with the virtuosity of the band’s melody. 11:38 p.m. Exhaustion plagued my bones, but attempting escape would risk injury in the chaos of the room. I sat quietly and found myself ignored as long as I kept my eyes on the dancers livening the space in front of the musicians. One in a white dress danced alone as the other two of her group cheered in the white chairs with the musicians. The table on my other side had three older women with disapproving frowns concealing the crow’s feet that would surely form if they smiled. They voiced their opinions like chittering parrots while shaking their heads with feathered hats. These dancers couldn’t bother to afford decent attire. They’re practically wearing rags. That one’s eyes are too far apart. Her cheeks are red as a baboon’s bottom. They chose a sickening shade of red to wear, what lack of taste! I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead and waved my face with the fan that a drunk woman left on my table. She was desperately chasing a man—presumably her husband—in tears as he held a slimmer woman by the hand, slithering through the crowd while his wife pleaded until they were consumed by the sea of suits and diamonds. 12:23 a.m. I managed to crawl to the front of the ballroom to wait for the crowd to clear. I clutched the small gift box to my side that I had left on the silk-clothed table after seeing no others accompany it. Women and men march out in pairs, talking about a new dress and a new vacation home they’ll purchase tomorrow. Some berated staff on the cleanliness of the event before flicking cigars to their feet, while others were too inebriated to keep their suits tucked or makeup from running. They clamber into limos or sports cars, a few of the younger couples speeding away in convertibles despite the chilled evening air. Shivering by the side of the doorsteps, I was discovered by a man with the first face that made my own relax. Thank you for coming, I’m so sorry I couldn’t find you in that crowd! I assured him I completely understood, and extended the gift to him, mumbling out my apologies for not realizing gifts weren’t appropriate. He accepted it with a blank face. It’s the only gift she received. He wrapped me in an embrace, and I felt the slightest trembling but pretended not to notice. He thanked me and we made small talk until the cold air seeped too far into my bones, and I flashed a final smile with gratitude for his invitation. While I walked down the steps and fished this journal from my suit coat pocket, pen in hand, he called out to me and grinned with tears in his eyes as I turned to look. You’d think they’d bring more gifts to a birthday party. Elizabeth Stern ** Carmen Amaya: The Greatest Flamenco Dancer Who Ever Lived Dancing wasn’t for them. Dancing meant joy. Dancing meant self-expression. Dancing meant power. And it wasn’t just for the men. They couldn’t take that away from me, even if they tried. Barcelona, Spain. My home. Oh how I loved her. From her grand cathedrals to every last cobblestone that lined her well-trodden streets. A warm embrace is what she was. Until fascism foiled flamenco. Fransisco Franco is a stain that will never be removed, no matter how hard we scrub. His slimy grasp still clutches my home country today. It was he who started the bans. Nacionalflamenquismo, they called it. “National-flamencoism.” “¡Más machista!” The instructors would exclaim. “More macho.” What a toxic way to live. They give us gorgeous frilly skirts and for what? To hide in the shadows behind our male counterparts? Step and slide, step and slide… to hell with “step and slide!” I yearned to dance. To feel the rhythms—to create earthquakes in the floorboards. “Carmen,” my mother would say, “this is just the way that it is. Franco is going to bring Spain back to greatness—put it back on the map you see? Why make waves? Why question his choices? Being quiet for once is a small price to pay for our country’s freedom; let the men have their moment.” “Mama, the men have always had their moment. Every moment is their moment! How can I be free when I can no longer dance?” During my next lesson, I stormed the dance floor. Stomping, spinning, jumping—I could no longer see. I let out all of my anger, my hatred, for Franco fly. My frustrated screams pierced the air, my face hot with sweat and rage—eyebrows scrunched far into my forehead. When my heels ached and my head was done swirling, I heaved in cold breaths of stagnant air. Slightly slouched, I paused and waited for my instructor to kick me out of his salon for good. Silence. Immediately followed by a roar of applause. Courtney Weston  The Two Fridas by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1939 Heartless Before we met I always looked at you with wonder in my eyes. You were the exact person I wanted to be in my life; someone who’s funny and sweet, someone who understood how hard it was sometimes to wake up, someone who made others feel better whenever they were around. Someone who understood me. That was Freshman year, though. And then our normal was flipped upside down and everyone was forced into lockdown. I suddenly stopped worrying about making friends and started worrying about my immune-compromised family. Staying home through the next school year wasn’t even a question. The lockdown was good for me, you know that. I thrived on my own. I learned a lot about myself, but I never felt more alone. Seeing all of my friends off having fun with one another was rough, to say the least. And then Junior year came and I was filled with anxiety. Scared I wouldn’t make any friends, scared my current ones forgot about me, scared to be out again. I needed someone like you at that time, and without hesitation, you were there. We were inseparable. I fell in love with you so quickly. I had no choice, really. We understood each other on a level nobody else did; we had all the same issues and trauma, the same beliefs and values, and the same hobbies and skills. We were like sisters from the get-go. I thought that our love for each other was one in a million. That I had found my platonic soulmate. For the first few months of our relationship, it was perfect. But then, suddenly, you changed. You were struggling and I know that, but so was I. Your issues soon became a daily discussion. Whenever we talked it was always about how your boyfriend was awful, how your mental health was tiresome, how you were insecure. And I loved you, so I wanted to help you; to fix you. I wanted to make you feel better so I put my issues aside and focused on your own. I loved you, so I gave you all the love I had, all the love that should have been put into myself I put into you. And you ate it up. You told me how awful you felt for making me deal with all of this. You cried to me about how you felt like a burden to me and everyone else. Yet, you let it happen. You let yourself absorb all of my energy while watching me be drained and think nothing of it. And I reassured you that you were in the right. I told you it was normal to confide in your friends and rely on them sometimes. I let you use me, my heart, my energy. I let you. But you didn’t stop me. Months went by unchanged, this vicious cycle of self-deprecation and reassurance continued, and it only got worse. Your issues became more drastic, more concerning. And I became more at a loss of how to help you. Yet, whenever I tried to get you real help, you turned it down. Said it wouldn’t do anything, said nobody cared enough, said it was pointless. And I sat there trying to convince you to fix the issues you claimed tore you up inside. I got closer and closer to the edge. By this time, the final push was evident. It was a ticking time bomb, truthfully. I felt more and more resentment when I looked at you, more and more anger whenever you complained. I saw you fall down this rabbit hole, filling the problems with your vices. And when I reached my hand to pull you out, all you did was bite me. You told me that I didn’t care about you. That I was the one who didn’t want what was best for you. After over a year of standing by your side through everything, and I mean everything, you pushed me away. I didn’t jump—you pushed me off that cliff. And when I was finally done, finally done with this one-sided relationship, finally done with your bad habits that hurt those who cared for you, you acted like it was my fault. Like I for no reason had abandoned you during your time of need. I did not abandon you. I stood by you through everything; through all the times you and your boyfriend broke up, through every breakdown, through every bad decision. I was there for all of it. And I realized you were never going to get better. Because, truthfully, you didn’t want to. You were so comfortable with your turmoil that you couldn’t picture yourself without it. I couldn’t help you if you didn’t want to be helped yourself. I had no choice but to give you up. I had ripped my own heart out to give to you and my wound was still bleeding. I couldn’t lose myself in order to save you when saving you wasn’t even an option. I loved you, I still love you even through everything you have put me through, and I miss you — but I miss me more. Anna Davis ** Soy yo I am she and she is me Sat said by side propped On stiffend spines Surrounded by louring clouds That hang like a weighted past Hand holding hand Heart bound blood pumping Through shared veins My pulse a fine thread Swen and hemmed in a high necked Grown lashed by torn lace A life line dressed in a bold olive and blue The clamp to my artery Splattered blood sets leaves a fractured stain Diego Hernandez ** Frida Left or Frida Right I was Frida on the right. I lived in Coyoacan, Mexico. It was the middle of summer. I had woken up as if it were any other morning. The sun was shining. As I walked downstairs, I saw my husband Diego making breakfast. I decided I would pick out my outfit for the day while I was waiting. I chose a blue top with a green skirt. That day I was feeling happy and laid back as if nothing could go wrong. I ate breakfast and conversed with Diego about our plans for the day. Diego said he was going to a church to work on a new mural he had been commissioned to do. I decided I would go walking around downtown. I walked happily among the streets of Spain; my heart was full. I decided I would go to the farmer’s market and shop for all of our food for that week. I picked out fresh fruits and vegetables. That day was going so well for me. I said hello to everyone I passed on the street with a smile on my face. As I walked home from the market, I decided to pass by Diego's studio, as it was on the way. As I crossed the street into the church he was working for, I heard music and laughter that filled the room. I walked in, excited to surprise my husband. As I opened the church doors, I saw Diego with another woman. She met my glance and stared deeply into my eyes, with a look as though she had been caught red handed. She grabbed her things and ran off. “Frida, I am so sorry,” Diego said. But it was too late, our relationship had forever changed. Now, I am Frida on the right. I take the bus home from the church and pack a bag as soon as I can. I put in only what I need, my art supplies and one outfit. A white dress. It was a white flowy dress with green print on the top and red flowers around the rim. I feel that the outfit conveyed how I feel, bland, empty, lost. I now stay over at an apartment above my studio. Without Diego I have no one. I feel like my heart has been torn out of my chest. I want so badly to leave him and never think about him again, but there is one problem. I still love him. Lindsey Landowski ** Tal Para Cual, Atamos Cabos “We go through this together?” The starched dress claws at our skin, our spirit. Our homeland comforts us in brilliant gold and deep azure. “Yes, two in the same.” Connected through blood, yet our minds stray apart. If only these vain tethers could be severed. “Yet entirely different?” Painfully separating perceptions from self. “Yes, even so.” Not enough blood could wash the sin from this white. “My heart is not where he expects it to be.” The locket burns against our skin, Betrayal clashes with disillusioned hope. “That may be, but only you must know.” If only one would subsume the other; Soulless decision on our behalf. “And why is that so?” Our hands’ embrace gently reassures. “Because together, we form our whole.” Alan Whitmoyer  Landscape with Yellow Birds by Paul Klee (Switzerland) 1923 Upside Down “Why do you stand upside down?” “What?” “I said, why do you stand upside down like that?” “What do you mean, friend?” “Look around you! Do you not see the rest of us? Do you not see us with our feet planted firmly on the ground, while your talons are in the clouds? Why then do you sit there upside down like a fool?” “Well, from my perspective, all of you are upside down.” “How preposterous! We are the ones upside down?” “Yes, from my perspective, you are. But if that's the way you want to stand, that’s perfectly fine by me.” “How dare you! We have always stood here on the ground because that’s the way it’s supposed to be. My great grandfather, William J. Featherton, and every generation before me has always planted our talons on the ground, and, as long as I have any say in the matter, every generation after me will too! The last thing our flock needs is someone like you. A fiend who corrupts our chicks and tricks them into believing that they can just flap their wings and abandon their flesh and bones here on the ground.” “Why are you so hateful, friend? I choose to stand in my own way, just as you choose to stand in your own way. If you choose to build your nest on the ground, so be it. I’m glad for you! But your children and I shouldn’t be forced to sit in the dirt with you.” “Predator! Now you have shown your true colors! You wish not to ‘live in your own way’, but instead, you wish to convert my chicks into your immorality and indecency. We are not oblivious to your plot; we know how you prey on our children, and how you seek to tempt them into scorning their heritage. Well, we won’t let you! Here on the ground, us real birds have been talking about what to do with your kind.” “And what is that?” “We have decided that a bird, or whatever you are, should have no place corrupting our youth. From now on, any talk of flying, standing, or even thinking upside down is explicitly banned. Dangerous books which spread wicked fairy tales of standing upside down are being removed at this very moment!” “Friend, didn’t you ever dream of standing upside down, even if for only a moment? In your younger days, didn’t you ever imagine the wondrous thrill of blood rushing down to your head; didn’t you ever dream of seeing the whole world from your special perch in the sky?” “We will have no more of your temptations, fiend. We find ourselves stuck with you, and we are unable to get rid of you for good, but it is perfectly within our power to cut you out from polite society. Do not await invitations to parties, or greetings at the dawn of each new day. Do not expect celebrations of your wickedness, and do not expect tolerance of your upside down ways. You are no bird.” “But I am no different than you! I just wish to live upside down as you live on the ground. Friend, please listen! Are you there?” Carter Burg ** world of change in my world, the moon rests on the leaves without a tree. the birds don’t need anything to rest on. the plants find themselves wherever they find themselves most comfortable. everything is so wrong, i find it right. as i wander through something so abnormal, it becomes my normal soon, everything that was odd, becomes odder when normal. familiar with the randomness of the environment i feel no urge to fit in this world allows me to do as i please. my favorite is the cactus’ that touch the clouds, for it’s my normal. i emerge myself within a world of change, change no longer scares me, i am change. Emma Domacinovich ** Same But Different As I watch the golden bird on the right peak out, I notice the a golden bird on the left, perching up on the scarlet algae as they would with trees, looking at the tall milky and leafy plants that compare to cactus. Two alike golden birds on the bottom doing the same, but instead they are using the hazel rock and ivory coral that came with the sea. I soon then notice a bird that is a similar golden bird, perching upside down on a bleached white cloud in the navy blue night sky, looking at the chalky-white bulb in the flower that imitates the luminous moon. Just one last golden bird that’s the comparable, settled between two bleached white clouds, using flight to keep him afloat in the sky from touching the colourful ocean floor. Two worlds that are so comparably the same, but so comparably different. Anna Frederickson ** Rainbows in the Moonlight Amber fish flying high above the other creatures. Stalks of hunter green oaks growing up, reaching for the pale, doughy white, moon light. The burning lemon yellow birds stand out swimming amongst the rough coral. Shades of scarlet and cobalt clashes with the bird's fluorescent scales catching the attention of all the animals around. A mustard bird hides behind a leather brown rock, its feathers shimmer in the moonlight, attracting charcoal and ivory predators thirsting and deprived of this beautiful pigment. A golden bird to the ocean is a fish to the air. Both swimming through the icy blue. Only when we stop looking between brunswick green trees and vermillion coral, jealous of the hues of another, can we find the true colour in ourselves. Our rainbow tint reflects, shimmers, and shines off all of our vibrant and fluorescent scales. Calvin Irvine ** Silent Thoughts Loud Artistic Never Distorted Shapeful Colourful Artistic Precise Extravagant Woeful Insightful Trusting Heated Yellow Envy Large Lovely Outgoing Wonderful Bold Intricate Rounded Drastic Smooth Harry Hostetler ** Limitless The sky is the limit, or maybe it is the floor. The floor of the ocean. Many colours galore. The look of the jungle Plants askew. There is some gold perched around flying, swimming, floating. There is a moon, Perched up Giving light to the unknown Honey-suckle-coated birds With obsidian-tinted eyes The trees, no coral; Coloured smiles and shapes Littered through the ocean scape. No, skyscape. The peaceful serenity of the environment. Mysterious, but purposeful. The gold is the only one that knows If the environment is air If the sky really is the limit. Henry Sobczak  Moon Over a Harbour by Edward Mitchell Bannister (USA, b. Canada) 1868 The Sailors’ Harbour “Oh the wind leads us to the land of plenty” “Charting full of grand prizes” “Mighty battles on the waves” “While the sea is home to many others, our home is the Harbor” “This harbour brings us always home” “When were lost the moon shines bright” “She will always lead us to our home” “The Moon over the Harbour” “We are sailors and fishermen by heart” “Nothing can keep us from home” “Not the mighty storm or shallow waters” “The Moon over the Harbour “ “Our wives and children wait right there now” “On that dock, we live at” “Bringing back a mighty score of fish” “The Moon over the Harbour” “Now We all don’t come back home” “Some stay in the sea with us” “But we all will be buried at sea” “Moon over our home” “We all sit down and thank the man who gave us our home” “Eward Mitchile built this land with only a paintbrush.” “All the ships and docks that call this home” “The Moon over the Harbour” “That Moon over the Harbour” Samuel B. Brandt Editor’s note: Samuel was also inspired by the video game, Assassin’s Creed: Black Flag, where a crew is singing a shanty. His poem was inspired by the idea of the fisherman’s sea shanty. ** A Moon and a Harbour a harbour overloaded with boats in and out they go all day long 5:00 and the last of the boats leave businesses turn their signs to closed keys jingle, locking doors letting nobody in anchors reach the sand and dig in, boats sit still sails come down next to ensure there is no movement the harbor becomes still as the sailors go home to their families clouds roll in just as the sun sets covering the sky in hues of salmon the sun reaches the horizon and the birds stop tweeting and new sounds appear the stillness of the world allows for crickets to be heard and glowing eyes to be seen black fills the sky and the moon produces a glow to let the clouds and boats show themselves the darkness is the best time of the day where the animals play in the calm, dark water there are no fisherman to disturb the creatures of the sea so they swim carefree a house on the corner houses a fisherman’s wife with no husband to be found he went out to sea to never return, she sits in the dark looking out, waiting she hopes to see him combing home in the shadows of the night as the moon lowers into the sky a new day comes to life people unlock their doors before the sun has risen the fisherman’s wife goes into her house sunny salmon hues fill the sky the boats start rushing in a new day had come in the harbour Peyton Drexler ** The Lifeless Waves I stood there watching Watching the moon over the harbour The harbour that used to belong to us I miss us The trailer that we bought Bought with our savings Saving you would have been better I miss you I get chills when I get hit with the breeze The breeze you send me from heaven Heaven is when we would be laughing together I miss laughing The waves seem so lifeless Lifeless is what you are now Now my heart aches everyday I miss you everyday The moon. The stars. The waves. All leave scars. You loved watching the stars, as the moon shined bright. You loved dancing under the moonlight. You loved when the waves would splash up and hit your face. You loved it so much, you said you could live like this forever. I love you always. Brittany Kaja ** The Eerie Harbour Peering out the dirty windows of my shack, I stare out into the abyss of the harbour, as the moon creeps across the night sky. As I look, I notice some movement among the tall grass and weeds across the water. It is too dark to be able to see what was causing all the noise, but I assume it is only a small animal, a rabbit, or maybe a fox looking for its next meal. I try to fall back asleep on my small and old mattress and lay in the chilled temperature of 48 degrees. When I set my head down I shut my eyes and start to fall into a deep sleep, when I am suddenly awakened by a loud thud. I darted upwards and am now fully awake, and when I look around to see what had happened, I see nothing. Nothing had fallen, broken, or been moved. So I once again peer out the dirty window of my shack. This time when I look outside, I see the same things; however, as I turn and look across the water, I see a figure, right where the grass was moving earlier. The moonlight was the only light shining, so I cannot decipher what I am seeing, but it seemed like a person covered in baggy clothing, and a hood covering their head, almost like a cloak. I am so startled that I cannot look away for even a second, but after a minute, my eyes feel like they are about to dry out, and I try to just lie back down while also keeping an eye on the figure. But as I look back towards it, it is nowhere to be seen. Looking around and out every window, it is nowhere. I know I saw something. Am I going crazy? I begin thinking to myself. For minutes I stand around pacing inside wondering what just happened. But I check my rusty clock, and it is already 2:00 a.m. and I haven’t gotten much sleep. So I lay back down, and just try to fall asleep as best I can. Moments later as I try to relax, I hear gusting winds and harsh conditions outside which are making it harder to fall asleep. For minutes and minutes I lie in my own thoughts staring up at the ceiling. As more time passes, I feel my eyes getting heavier and heavier, until they cannot stay open any longer. As they are closed I feel something, not physically, but mentally. An eerie feeling in my mind. I feel a presence. All of these feelings happening within seconds as my eyelids lift off my eyes, I am met by the figure. I instantly go into a panic, and I am wide awake, but while I try to get up from the bed, I cannot get up. Stuck to the bed as if I was a fly in a trap. My head glued to the hard and flat pillow. The dark cloaked figure approaches me from the bottom of my bed, slowly getting closer and I cannot move to defend myself. Absolutely shocked with fear, I finally jolt upwards to a sitting position, and the figure is gone. I am in a pool of sweat, my body trembling, but I see nothing out of the ordinary. It is still dark outside, and the clock reads 2:42 a.m. What just happened? I begin to think to myself. There is no way that was a dream. I was wide awake. I keep thinking and I realize what had just happened. Sleep Paralysis. I go back to look outside, and I see the rustling in the grass once again. But this time out comes a big bird, perhaps an owl, and it flies out. It goes off into the night sky, and it seems that everything I had seen previously was all inside my mind. Jayden Kohler ** The Moon's Glow The moon over the harbour symbolizes hope, a beacon of light in the darkness of the night. It reminds us that even in the darkest of times, a glimmer of hope, shines bright. The harbour remains a place of refuge and rest, a sanctuary from the storms of life. The storms of life can leave us feeling lost, alone on a sea of doubt and fear and when the moon's light guides us to this safe place, the light inspires us in the battles we've won; the light reminds us of strength we hold. The light flares a path that helps us find our way. But sometimes we face the storm alone with no one to hold our hand. Yet even in the darkness of night, there is a light that shines at our core. The moon's reflection on the water below, is a reminder of the power of reflection. For in the stillness of the harbour, we reflect on our lives and make a connection. The moon over the harbour provides a call to stillness-- a reminder to slow down and take a breath. For in the quiet of the night, we find the strength in to glow. Brooke McLaughlin ** A Night in Mykonos This past summer my sister, McKenna, my mom, and I went to Greece. This was McKenna and my first time in Europe. We were there for ten days and went to Santorini, Mykonos, and Athens. One night in particular has really stuck with me. It was just a fun night with my mom and sister that I will always remember. Our first night in Mykonos was the most beautiful city I have ever been in. There were no cars and the streets were filled with people. All of the walls and building are white with brightly colored flowers hanging off the slides. There were restaurants, cafe’s, and boutiques on every turn. That night was super windy. I was wearing a short blue floral dress and every time we walked near the water I had to hold my dress down to keep it from blowing up. The three of us went to an Italian place right on the water. This was the best pasta I have ever had. I also had Baklava for the first time. Baklava is a popular dessert in Greece that is a pastry with chopped nuts and cinnamon. On the trip, it was really cool to try all of these new foods that I had never heard of. Dinner was so fun and I love going on these trips with just the three of us and making new memories together. My mom, McKenna, and I are all very close and I love having a sister so close in age because she feels like my friend. We do argue over very pointless things sometimes but she still is my favorite person to spend time with. After dinner we walked around by the water and went into some of the shops. Something in Greece that is really popular are evil eyes. My mom and I both got bracelets with an evil eye gem on them. The bracelet was a thin black string with a small evil eye gem. The gem is circular and has a dark blue ring followed by a white ring and then a light blue ring and a black pupil in the centre. I still have the bracelet sitting on my dresser to remind me of the trip. After that we walked around the beach and the piers and there were beautiful sailboats and the water was so blue. It felt like something I have only seen in pictures. The scenery of the boats, the water and the moon reminded me of the painting Moon Over a Harbour by Edward Mitchell Bannister. The scene of the painting is much darker than how I remember Greece. It was still light outside and the sun was just starting to set. The painting looks similar to that night in Mykonos, and I love seeing things that remind me of that day. Ally Merlet ** Small Paradise Hidden away in this rotten harbour, between the cat tails and murky water. Although it's just a hazard to many and is slated to be removed – the ships sunken to shallow bottom, the boardwalk falling away. They don't see its new purpose; A kingdom, a small pallet of bricks rearranged by children into a vast kingdom. A family getaway, a tackle box and fishing rod sit at the end of the boardwalk. A meetup spot, a small pile of cigarette butts and ash have developed on a side of the boardwalk. A hiding place, canned food sits in a small pile in a corner of the small house. A date spot, beanbag chairs sit–haphazardly thrown into a corner. Although everyone uses it, it’s so dejected the outside slowly falling away. It now sits here, alone, solely watching over the lake Its glory days are now nothing but half-hearted dribble in history books. It is a small paradise, a slice of heaven on earth Offering what little warmth it has in its old worn-down shell can. Hidden away in this rotten harbor, the harbour sits maybe in a less cruel universe it would be loved and this would be more than – Its last night. Jackson Pierce ** The Walk of Light I sit alone: watching the slight wave of the water reflect the daffodil Moon creating the perfect halo, I sit alone: as the blur of trees in the distance makes me wonder, what's beyond this lake? I sit alone. I sit alone. I sit alone: waiting for a boat to drift towards the rocky sand, the dark ink blue closes in on me. why is the only source of light so far away? how is it that these graphite clouds, (lighter than me) are illuminated by the Moon. not a single house light on. nobody home. small critters chirping, and the faint whisper of my breath rustling the blades of grass beneath my legs. lonely. the Moon creates a walk way of light from one end of the lake to another and I wish I could walk on this gleaming bridge but only these boats that don't drift toward my sand walk this glistening path. Arianna Scaffidi ** Staying Afloat The collection of masts, each cast a different shadow upon the dimly lit waters. The jagged rocks stick out of the waters surrounding the harbour, threatening any sailors. The moon provides the only light, essential for all these shadows to occur. Each mast having a base and each base having a different story. Every boat in this harbour has a collection of tales associated with it. From surviving a terrible storm to being sailed across the world each boat has had its own challenges to conquer. The boats all sit together but secretly they judge one another based on their exteriors. How many sails? What kind of motor? How smart is the captain? All these determine which boats are deemed valuable and which are not. Those who are deemed the highest quality are given a spot in the docks. Each boat fights for its spot in the harbour, for those who do not get space must stay overnight in the surrounding waters filled with razor sharp rocks. And more often than not, the ones who don’t get a spot struggle in these waters near to the harbour and sink to the bottom. One boat sits alone at the end of the harbor. This boat does like the rest, and attaches itself to the pier each night so that it may be secure. Unlike the rest, it does not truly want a spot in the harbour. For it, a spot in the harbour is a necessity instead of a desire. Instead, this vessel would rather sail the sea never having to secure itself to another pier for as long as it stays afloat. It is until one day that this boat gets sick of hanging onto the pier and being judged by the fellow boats. This day the boat decides to leave the docks and sail out to the open sea. It was troubling, but it was able to make it past the jagged rocks. It was seen as an outcast by the other boats.“ A boat that didn’t belong.” Yet this boat was happier than any other boat at the pier for it had made it past the challenging waters and could live its life on its own, without the judgment of others. For what most boats don’t understand is, there lies a peaceful life without judgment or insecurity. They just must first break away from the pier that is so comforting and venture into the unknown and dangerous water to make it there. Caden Steinbauer  Abstraktes Bild Catalogue Raisonné 889-4, by Gerhard Richter (Germany) 2004 The Cast of Light Through glass we see: red-tinted tenderness of light, the spread of red on lake and land, the far sky coming forth to join. The window, though, is smeared with violence. This red is blood. Or has a child been here, small ghost in the night, and made for us a finger-painting, innocent?  Abstraktes Bild Catalogue Raisonné 715-1, by Gerhard Richter (Germany) 1990 There Will Be Doors Disguised, and No Key Needed When words drip over the day like paint, a modest partial flow, and their colours are wrong but compelling and the water, the blue water, remains a steady presence, the puzzled soul can only breathe and wait. Perhaps there is a bed to make, a floor to clean, a swath of sunlight to step into while breathing. A little later the outline of an opening appears, and another, and another, and another.  Abstraktes Bild Catalogue Raisonné 869-8, by Gerhard Richter (Germany) 2000 In the Falling Happenstance of Depth and Light The curtain tears itself to let the radiance, the braid of chance and form, the accidental glow, come forth. Droplets of light gleam through streaks descending, through living lines of deep-sea blue-green, nut-brown, near-gold. We urge it toward words: this thing that happens. We are compelled. It’s like sex, physical. Like sex it insists, pulling and flinging and melting and otherwise shifting the shy soul to a whirl of cells, cells of self and cells of the other, and to the deep whirl inside cells, and flung too yes outward along the singing spiraling path of the crazed and the sacred unthinkable essence of all. We make the attempt: to lure it to pure thought, through language-- this thing that happens when in one moment we receive-- and intensify-- and again and again between birth and death-- one moment-- in beauty receiving, astonished, unable. Unable. But if it were possible-- once even, or repeatedly-- if we were able-- How near to death might we then be— or near to (dare I say it?) the known/unknown, the overflowing: God…? Shirley Glubka Shirley Glubka is a retired psychotherapist as well as, at the age of 80, a mostly-retired poet, essayist, and novelist. But every once in a while: new work! Shirley’s proudest online publishing has been, for years, at The Ekphrastic Review. Her latest book is A Single Drop Was Full: erasure poetry (2022). Shirley lives in Prospect, Maine with her spouse, Virginia Holmes. Website: https://shirleyglubka.weebly.com/  Lorette is excited to announce another duet workshop on ekphrastic microfiction with the amazing Meg Pokrass, cofounder of the Best Microfiction annual anthology series!
Tiny Windows will look at famous and infamous windows in art and the idea of windows to inspire tiny stories. This special workshop is asynchronous and self-directed so that you work according to your own schedule and from your own time zone each day. We use a private Facebook group to connect, share our stories, chat with participants, and comment. Our workshops are positive spaces to explore and experiment. Each story receives peer comments and a critique from both Meg and Lorette to help you shape your ideas. You have no doubt already read multiple stories from these workshops in amazing journals everywhere! Sign up or learn more about Meg and Lorette and our workshops here.  Vasantika, by Raja Ravi Varma (India) c. 1910 Whispers of Spring So delicately wrapped is the blush pink silk, Gracefully flowing to the ends of her ankles. Enchanted golden jewels adorn her radiant face, Shining like the brilliant sun itself. Carefully threaded jasmine flowers Sit still on her ink-black hair. She rests beneath the flowering tree On the edge of the tranquil blue pond. Her blissful smile of lighthearted joy Whispers stories to the blossoming rose. The chime of her golden anklets Stills the rippling waves. At the sound of her melodic song, The lilies raise their sleepy heads And welcome the queen of spring. Saghana Parasuraman Saghana Parasuraman is a high schooler living in Michigan. Between assignments, she enjoys reading and writing poetry about the simple parts of nature. She takes inspiration from her family and culture. |
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May 2023
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