Present-Day Pastoral
 
1. Through the glass I harness memories I have never known: a gossamer cloak of morning fog drawn from exalted church steeples and farmhouse gables; sun’s first blush brushing silos that tower against a bucolic blue sky; patchwork Holsteins grazing  bluegrass pastures; villagers gathering at market to buy tallow, wandering home across stone-arch bridges to make soap and roast suppers; horse-drawn wagons lugging heavy tin cans of milk which churn into buttermilk over the bumpy dirt road.* 
 
2. Tanker trucks haul milk down I-75 to the processing plant. Bull haulers full of shorthorns wind parallel to the Queen and Crescent Railroad tracks headed for Lima or Butchertown.  The sun gently drops a handful of evening blush primrose petals. Twilight droops forget-me-not over golden arches, electric-red cowboy hat, and other neon signs lining Buttermilk Pike like brilliant glass row crops.
 
3. I sit on faux leather with a Quarter Pounder under oak pendant lamp. The opposite wall is a collage of mock cowhide pieces stitched together. The elderly custodian in his McDonald’s apron watches TV: cattle futures at all-time highs. Keith Urban assures, “you’ll think of me.” Machines chirp and chatter. A mother tries to corral young children who trot away like clumsy calves. Carry-out customers rustle their bags as they exit glass double doors. 
 
4. I wean myself from the herd, drive to my home which sits on a former apple orchard and think of Keith Urban. 
 
5. I reach for ripened moon, cup it in the palm of my hand, and gently twist till it comes loose from its studded bough. O, to take a bite, savour its sweet opal juice. I coil a lasso of windswept stars, twirl and tie a runaway past, bring it to submission, shake it loose. Every fresh moment is the next calf to leap out of the stall.     
 
Rebecca Weigold
 
*As the dairy farmers routinely transported their milk product along the bumpy dirt road on high humidity days, the milk would begin to thicken from all the “churning”.  As a result, buttermilk would form in the horse drawn wagons thus the name Buttermilk Pike. – nkyviews.com

This poem was also inspired by “Neon Lasso,” by Sheleen McElhinney.

Rebecca Weigold studied Theatre and English at Northern Kentucky University. She has held editorial positions at F&W Publications and ITP/Southwestern Educational Publishing in Cincinnati, Ohio. Her poetry has been featured in Floating Acorn Review, Haikuniverse, Rat’s Ass Review, Stink Eye Magazine, and others. Her poem, “Thoughts During Taps,” published in The Ekphrastic Review, has been translated into Arabic. Three of her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Additionally, she is proud to have participated in the renowned Uptown Poetry Slam on multiple occasions, hosted by Marc Smith at the historic Green Mill in Chicago.

A Great Darkness
 
The painting hung on the wall of the farmhouse, then in the small apartment after the sale of the orange grove. After my grandfather’s pack-a-day habit so enraged his heart that its blood betrayed its chambers. What did he make of this canvas, the beam of light falling through an unseen window onto a page of sheet music, a blue envelope, a newspaper clipping and an old violin? The instrument gives the sense of inviting the hand to reach in and tuck it under one’s chin.  It appears to be waiting, impatient. If what Rilke said was true, that we throw a great darkness over everything we see, was the painting nothing more for him than an unmendable wound— recalling the black leather case left behind on the train station bench when he fled Odessa?  Or did it remind him that he could take up playing again, could inhabit a loss that had doors?

Laura Ann Reed

Laura Ann Reed is the author of the chapbook Homage to Kafka (Poetry Box, 2025). Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous journals, as well as in nine anthologies including Poetry of Presence II (Grayson Books, 2023) and The Wonder of Small Things (Storey Publishing 2023).  Reed holds master’s degrees in clinical psychology and performing arts. https://lauraannreed.net/

Luncheon on the Grass, by Edouard Manet (France) 1862
 
Edouard, you want me to pose and look away
like a sweet nymph bathing, but I stare back at you.
 
Why am I sitting nude at this picnic with your clothed male 
friends? Cold cash. I don’t mind modeling like sweltering 
 
peaches or a casual toss of red cherries for 100 francs 
today and 100 francs tomorrow. At first I didn’t want 
 
to slip out of my dress, but you told me I was beautiful, 
a Venus de Milo. I would breathe in your painting forever. 
 
My bright eyes and pink lips prickle with restless bristles 
of your brush. Your fingers can’t smear my bold face 
 
resting on a pale, weary hand. Strokes of pastel skin
curve into my hips and my bent knee. I know
 
I’m not a mistress or a parasol lady hiding in a corset
and splashes of blue silk. As you paint dark leaves,
 
your Parisian gentlemen sway and laugh under
trees. You don’t know I want to paint my own face.
 
Deborah Chow Strozier 

Deborah Chow Strozier is a Chinese American poet. She is working on an ekphrastic chapbook. She won second place in the Salon 2008 Chapbook Competition for Lotus Leaves, published by Pudding House. Poetry was published in The Bitter Oleander, Hawai’i Pacific Review, Cricket Magazine, Ibbettson Street Press, and others. She served as the Vice-President of the Ohio Poetry Association from 2008 to 2010. She has worked 25 ​years as a Research Scientist at an international nutritional food company. She loves writing, painting, and photography.

Join Brent Terry and Lorette on Zoom to celebrate Radio Free Nebraska!

This ekphrastic collaboration features the poetry of Brent Terry and collage artworks of Lorette C. Luzajic.

Lorette and Brent will both read. We will interview each other about our art and writing practices and take questions from the audience. It will be an informal and fun discussion with this amazing community.

Free to join. Bring your own Champagne, tea, or soda and celebrate this milestone with us!

To sign up: send an email to [email protected] with RADIO FREE NEBRASKA in subject line. We'll send you a zoom link.

​hugs from Lorette and Brent

​Running on Empty
​
Phillies Café is open 24/7, 
even though the hours aren’t posted. 
There are no menus, no cook, no kitchen, 
no lock on the door. Hilarious details oblivious 
to the humans that pass by. 
 
Bubbling, brown, murky sludge, disguised 
as what they all call fresh brew here, 
it’s all they serve. It’s a space traveler’s haven, 
a recharging station between universes, 
fuel dispensed from two large silver retro 
spaceship shaped urns, always full, never empty. 
 
A repurposed robot stands behind the counter, 
wearing a pointy white hat, wrinkled shirt, 
dark lines of sludge, noticeable beneath 
its yellowed nails is Johnny on the spot.
 
Tonight, something feels off. No one else 
seems to notice. We’ve all followed the drill, 
dropping in like this… dark suit, white shirt and tie, 
or if you’re so lucky like me, a stylish dress, 
fashionable heels, silk stockings and Victory 
red lipstick. 
 
You take whichever you can get, depending 
on the gender available when it’s your turn to drop. 
I get a second look from the robot when I first 
sit down. Did he wink at me? 
 
These ancient artifacts they call
clothing are so uncomfortable, 
so confining, thank goodness 
they’re only temporary. Tonight, 
I can’t be bothered with anything earthly, 
I’m running on empty. I’m only thinking 
about recharging and getting 
the hell out of Dodge.
 
My cup trembles more than usual. 
I slug down the first of many cups I’ll need.
It’s not as thick as usual, leaves behind a bitter taste. 
 
The robot pauses, smiles, offers to refill my cup. 
Unusual behaviour. He pours, same thin fuel. 
What’s up with that? Then he has the nerve to act 
like he actually wants to speak. I don’t have time 
for malfunctions on his part. My tank is not 
refilling. Nor is the meter registering any fuel. 
Something is wrong! 
Very wrong. 
 
My cup knows something’s amiss. It rebels,
bucks, loudly exhales. I lasso my finger through 
its handle, hold it steady with both hands. 
But right out of the shoot, it kicks, rears, spins. 
I can’t hold on. The cup plunges over the edge 
of the counter, crashing, to the tiled floor. Breaks 
into a million pieces of death – or was it, suicide? 
 
Everyone stares. I feel the cups pain. 
Recharging shouldn’t be this hard.
I’d slip off my hat if I was wearing one. 
You know, out of a sign of respect 
for what’s happened. It’s then, 
I notice the sign…
 
Phillies Café 
under new management. 
Drink the coffee at your own risk.
 
Ann Matzke

Ann Matzke is an emerging poet who has a deep passion for art and art history. She has published poems, essays in the Rappahannock Review, HEAL, The Ekphrastic Review, Intima: Journal of Narrative Medicine, Plain Song Review. She has also published nonfiction books for young readers. She earned an MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults from Hamline University in St. Paul, Minnesota. More information about Ann can be found on her website: www.annmatzke.com
 
 

​Before the Bloodshed

Lovers sequestered in a spiral stair 
     Below a turret they will never reach
Hellelil resigned, eyes downcast,
     Leans her brow on the ashlar wall
Fingers brace the frigid stone
     Auburn braids spill on lapis lazuli

Hildebrand clings to Hellelil
     Chainmail chafes her slender wrist 
     Binding her to his vermilion tunic
     Woven with griffins in golden thread
He burrows deep into her sleeve
     Eyes closed to breathe lavender one last time

A rumble of footsteps echoing near
     A white rose shattered at their feet
Hildebrand’s sword is sheathed
     Keen to taste approaching blood

James Morehead

James Morehead is Poet Laureate Emeritus of Dublin, California, host of the Viewless Wings Poetry Podcast, and has published several poetry collections including The Plague Doctor. "tethered" was transformed into an award-winning animated short film, Twilight in the Sculpture Forest won Best Documentary at the Los Angeles Poetry Film Festival,  and “gallery” was set to music for baritone and piano. He has been published in the Ignatian, Citron Review, The Ekphrastic Review, LHavik, and others. James has performed in Patagonia's Poet Laureate Celebration, NPR’s Poetically Yours, and as Guest Poet at the 20th Annual Haiku Festival.

​Class Clown
 
Back when life was butt-dull, class clown was the only label to name his antics. 
As thwarter-in-chief dispensing hokey-jokey verbal volleys from the back seat, 
he’d have us peeing in our pants. As he penciled the same cartoon figure, 
hand forever in motion; fodder for colorful comments was not limited to burps, 
belches, farts. Even stoic-faced Hardiman might smirk the odd backhand: 
“Fitz, if you learn to bottle that, you’ll be a rich man!” 
 
Once, a tad competitive for laughs, our principal, nick-named Joe Moon, 
dusty chalk imprinted all over his soutane, foot-in-mouth lobbed, 
“Pythagoras had a lovely theorem. Lads, you’ll like this one. With me, Fitz?” 
“Yes, Brother!” 
“The squaw (square) on the hippopotamus (hypotenuse) is equal to the sum 
of the squaws (squares) on the other two sides!”
 
And before all of us, Fitz sprouted sideburns. His baritone voice powered 
beyond comedic one-liners. Last I heard, he’d learned Japanese and was working 
for a car manufacturer, overseas.

Philip Byrne

​Philip Byrne, a Dubliner, is a retired teacher living in Westchester, New York. He was a poetry editor for Inkwell Magazine during the aughts. He enjoys identifying birdsong on Merlin, marvels at spiders catching spotted lanternflies, and watches too much soccer. In poems about love, loss, and the quotidian, he often finds sustenance, humour and perspective.   

​On the Cusp of Tomorrow

Bright, colourful leaves
dry and rigid with age
cling tightly to
what they know.

Change is coming as
cold sets in, prying
ideals away from
beliefs formerly held firm.

Denial is defiance,
fighting against the
turning of the season,
with similar results.

Water swirls and flows
Between rocks and 
Crevices, gushing along
unbowed.

Branches of faith
will be laid bare,
stripped of ornament
and artifice.

A final moment of peace,
sun warming the air
and sparkling back from
the ebullient waters.

One leaf falls, then another,
floating down to the
rushing river of change, 
transformed.

Brydon Caldwell

Brydon is a long time teacher and emerging writer from the western edge of the Canadian Shield. He has always had a fascination with both the Group of Seven and the power of the written word. His poetry can be found in the Ekphrastic Review Challenge and The Fib Review.