Barbara Krasner

Barbara Krasner recently saw the Van Gogh immersive experience and marvelled at the movement of pixels from one hue to another. She is the author of two forthcoming ekphrastic poetry collections, Poems of the Winter Palace (Bottlecap Press) and The Night Watch (Kelsay Books). Visit her website at www.barbarakrasner.com. ​

​**

Rainy Day Rainbow
 
On the eve of the Summer Solstice
I see a rainbow turned upside down,
everything backwards--- tilted.
 
The summer caterpillars
are purple as a queen’s robe and I 
become royalty as I tend my garden.
 
The pigs roll in the grass, and
turn green as Mother’s Depression
glass, and yes, I miss her.
 
I am blue watching my sailboat
sail away without me, but looking down,
the sea amazes me with its life.
 
I scream when I read the news--
It throws me perpetually sideways
with rage and droplets of regret.
 
I can only hope the dance moves
that come to me when I hear 
Blowing in the Wind brings answers,
 
will fill in a new rainbow 
of glee, shouts, hugs and waves,
the color wheel of the future.
 
The eve of the Summer Solstice
that turned everything upside down,
empties my pockets of everything

I do not need.

Beth Fox

Beth Fox loves being connected to the arts and the community of poetry in New Hampshire. Her work is found in The Poet’s Touchstone, The Seacoast Anthology, Covid Springs II, Silver Birch Press, New Verse News, and The 2010 Poets Guide to NH.  Her chapbook, Reaching for the Nightingale, was published by Finishing Line Press.  A finalist, Beth helped seniors in Wolfeboro publish their work in an anthology, Other Voices, Other Lives. 

​**

Room of Colours

A room of colours
Red, orange, yellow, green, blue
The colours blind me

​Sophia Smith

**

A Horror Movie Soundtrack 

Life’s music rainbow
Echoes in bright treble clefs - 
Just the silence of 
Disembodied illusions
And schizophrenic nightmares
 
Rose Menyon Heflin and Robert Bergmann 
 
Originally from rural, southern Kentucky, Rose Menyon Heflin is a poet, writer, and visual artist living in Wisconsin. Her award-winning poetry has been published over 250 times in outlets spanning five continents, and she has published memoir and flash fiction pieces. She has had a free verse poem choreographed and danced, an ekphrastic memoir piece featured in a museum art exhibit, and two haiku published in a gumball machine. Among other venues, her poetry has appeared in Deep South Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, and San Antonio Review. An OCD sufferer since childhood, she strongly prefers hugging trees instead of people. 

Robert Bergmann is a retiree from Madison, Wisconsin. Although he thoroughly enjoys reading and writing, this was his first time venturing into poetry, and it is his first foray into the wilds of publication.
 
**
 
I See: a Sijo Sequence

I.
I see red, fury pulsing through my veins, a river of hot rage. 
I see orange, and I grow antsy, craving summer on my tongue.
I see yellow, and I think softly - fondly - of spring sunshine.

II.
I see green, and I grow calm, fight or flight ebbing from my muscles.
I see blue, and I trust in the honesty of sky and water.
I see indigo, and I feel strong, persisting through the pain.

III.
I see violet, and I wonder, wanting only to wander.
I see a refracted miracle in a sky whose tears have stopped.
I see the past and future as one only can in the present.

IV.
I see possibility. I see mystery. I see old pain.
I see new joy. I see justice. I see love, and I see pride.
I see it all through my window in one arching, endless rainbow.
 
Rose Menyon Heflin 
 
Originally from rural, southern Kentucky, Rose Menyon Heflin is a poet, writer, and visual artist living in Wisconsin. Her award-winning poetry has been published over 250 times in outlets spanning five continents, and she has published memoir and flash fiction pieces. She has had a free verse poem choreographed and danced, an ekphrastic memoir piece featured in a museum art exhibit, and two haiku published in a gumball machine. Among other venues, her poetry has appeared in Deep South Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, and San Antonio Review. An OCD sufferer since childhood, she strongly prefers hugging trees instead of people. 

**
​
Discordant Harmony

Dancing musical notes
tossed in a cocktail tin-in-tin,
shaken, rattled and poured
no longer a composed tune.

Now liberated from their staff
dizzy dark scribbles
spill down multicoloured panes
like a jigsaw of misshapen clefs and rests;

this new arrangement
surprising, unstructured
thrives like an ideal alternative--
free and unlabeled.

Elaine Sorrentino

Elaine Sorrentino, author of Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit (Kelsay Books, 2025) has been published in journals such as Minerva Rising, Willawaw Journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Gyroscope Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Quartet Journal, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Etched Onyx Magazine, and Haikuniverse. She lives in Massachusetts, holds a journalism degree from Suffolk University, and is facilitator of the Duxbury Poetry Circle.

**

Intervals

with a nod to Anne Sexton

Your muffled pulse
gallops like a seahorse
through remnants of ruptured waters.
The cardiotocograph squiggles lines
on a paper scroll

and I cradle my pregnant belly and crave
the comforts of outdoors, and childhood
swims back to me--

surprise rainbows
against a slate blue sky, scarlet roses
and lavender, honeysuckle vine, the scent
of wild onion wafting. Picking blueberries.
Grasshoppers startled from the hedge.

Antepartum nurses ask if I'm thirsty,
if I need water, but I'm overflowing

with baby, with imagined sips
of Nehi Grape and Cherry Slurpee,
lemonade and berry Kool-Aid.
The shifting hues of gobstoppers.
My offered tongue blue like a skink's.

I wait for the hour
when you'll thunder from the deep,
neck lasso'd with cord and a wail of song
escaping.

This stormy morning we're tethered,
the rhythm of rain beating the windowpane
and all you do is kick.

Heather Brown Barrett

Heather Brown Barrett is an award-winning poet in southeastern Virginia. She mothers her young son and contemplates life, the universe, and everything with her writer husband. She is a member and regular student of The Muse Writers Center, a member of The Poetry Society of Virginia, and a former board member of Hampton Roads Writers. Her work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Literary Mama, Yellow Arrow Journal, formidable Woman sanctuary, and elsewhere. She’s the author of Water in Every Room (Kelsay Books, 2025). Website: https://heatherbrownbarrett.com/.

**

To Kaz Ogino Regarding Rainy Day Rainbow

Where otherwise the sun would preen
by shifting shadow shapes and sheen,
your muse amid the overcast
foresees the moment storm has passed

and  hears still echoed distant rains
symphonic on imagined panes
where sun that peeks through clouds in flight
is piecing spectral shards of light

together as the remnant blur
of forces that became the whir
reminding idled, yearning soul
of all the things it can't control

and yet of beauty still to find
by faith more tempered left behind.

**
​
sunlit spectral blur
silent as symphonic echo
sings to storm and lull

Portly Bard

Portly Bard: Prefers to craft with sole intent...
of verse becoming complement...
...and by such homage being lent...
ideally also compliment.

Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise
for words but from returning gaze
far more aware of fortune art
becomes to eyes that fathom heart.

**

Ink Sink Skin

This art cannot be boxed.  In the splay of two-dimension, time stops.  The brain reconfigures.  You lay one form against another, and filters of light flit like a dance on water.  The colour is layers of solid and juice. Primary, secondary.  A pollen of marks, a song that stole in.  Hues are notes and notes are hues.  Violet swoons into scarlet that smooches crimson.  Cobalt tiptoes into violet, rubs right up against it, indigo is born.  Green strokes the flank of cobalt like a brush on paper.  They hold hands, create harmonies of jade and leaf.  Ink and space wait for the artist.  To dilly dally them about then declare it just so.  Pointillism and other tongues.  Lay to rest in the air-drying afternoon.  Musical notes, gone awol.  ‘Cause Debussy is all over this piece, infused between polyphonies.  The song left echoes in its wake.  When it quivered the ink that married the skin.

Nina Nazir

Nina Nazir (she/her) is a British Pakistani poet, writer and artist based in Birmingham, UK.  She has been widely published online and in print.  She is also a Room 204 writing cohort with Writing West Midlands.  You can usually find her with her nose in a book or on Instagram: @nina.s.nazir.  She blogs regularly atwww.sunrarainz.wordpress.com

**

Rainy Day Rainbow
 
The first shard of nascent light touches 
the intermittent slow pour of grey.
The sky pitter-patters
in the soft whispers of water-colours.
The fine print of dew, the spray paint of rain
pattern the square panes. 
The closed window 
turns into a coloured mosaic of possibilities. 
Scrawled on the glass, with the ink of change 
is the signature of dawn.
Ardent prayers usher in a spectrum 
of calligraphic answers.
 
Preeth Ganapathy

Preeth Ganapathy is from Bengaluru, India. Her works have been published in several magazines, more recently, in Pensive, Braided Way, The Orchard Poetry Journal and elsewhere.  Her microchaps A Single Moment, Purple, and Birds of the Sky, have been published by Origami Poems Project. Her work has been nominated for Best Spiritual Literature.

**

Rainy Day Rainbow
  
Today I’m going to say, I see a rainbow— 
even though the sky at noon has no colours--
because I know puddles can shine with the splendor 
of a clearing sky’s mixed hues,
and the cloudy streams in the gutters by roads
can gleam with reflections violet, indigo, and blue.
I think that I’ve always wanted the horizon
to become a vibrant canvas, wished sunlight 
would bend and slow until the air glows.
As nearby church bells ring in the town
and soft voices of a children’s choir drift 
toward me, the northeaster speaks in a sorrowful
language, reminds me of losses, and is far too loud. 
Hymns blend with the incessant patter 
of the deluge, the rattle of shutters, the noisome 
cascade that smears the window panes.
Lawns and side streets flood. In the forested hills
beyond them, branches of evergreens and poplars
sag, then break, yet I envision them coming back 
to their unspoiled form, picture an iridescent arc 
above them, believe that promises of hopeful 
beginnings will emerge after every storm. 

Gregory E. Lucas

Gregory E. Lucas lives on Hilton Head Island in South Carolina. His fiction and short stories have appeared in magazines such as Blueline, Sparks of Calliope, and The Horror Zine.

**

Palette Doubt - a Broken Sonnet
 
Smeared into a slurry
Of water floated fragments
The dreams from decades of our marriage
Oozed down glass canvas
 
Cascaded from pain to pane
Shifted shapes from memories made
Stirred words we never said
Then puddled into perfect squares 
 
Although we etched what we hated
Into tear salted gutter troughs
At rain's ends, I believe we'll see
Past our own separation thoughts
 
To a clear view of our palette
And the rainbow of us that we should never doubt

Brendan Dawson​

Brendan Dawson is an American born writer based in Italy.  He writes from his observations and experiences while living, working, and traveling abroad. Currently, he is compiling a collection of poetry and short stories from his time in the military and experiences as an expat.

**

Through Looking Glass

Here’s pane-full insights, outside in,
boundary-bursting breaking through,
edge-walking on the lip of words.

A teeter, totter, waver swing, 
the toddle wobble, quiver quake,  
reel weave careen sway as fore-seen.

’Tis scenic mind-map, mindful been,
a quaver maybe, not galumph,
as clomp towards the trompe l’oeil.

Yet delicately waddle on
with glyphs a-plenty, blended inks,
to spin the spangled, treasured sap.

See window onto where folk been
as listen, draw, conclusions sought;
their images must be proclaimed.

Though mizzle, drizzle, falling drain,
precipitating what moods reign,
it’s brainpower whirls us into safe.

Though edgy, striding into strange
where strangers met are walking on
to find the rainbow, golden end.

An alchemy etched on our screen,
as letting spreads our sprinkled dream,
and what deemed secret soon revealed.

Stephen Kingsnorth

Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review.  He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.  His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com

**

Summer Rain
 
It’s June and every storefront
has a rainbow on the door,
 
music bouncing off windows
and sliding down panes;
 
a smattering of quarter notes,
clefs and staffs,
 
splatterin’ and sweatin’
in the steamy colors of jazz;
 
greens, reds and purples
belting out the blues,
 
dancin’ and a’singin’
like rain upon the roof;
 
and every drop that falls –
every small part of the whole –
 
is a shower of joy
in a summer of pride.

Mark Hendrickson

Mark Hendrickson (he/him/his) is a gay poet and writer in the Des Moines area navigating the Sturm und Drang of daily life through wordcraft. His work has appeared Variant Lit, Vestal Review, Modern Haiku, Spellbinder, and others. He has a background in music, psychology, and marriage & family therapy. Mark worked for many years as a Mental Health Technician on a locked psychiatric unit. Follow him @MarkHPoetry, or visit his website:  https://www.markhendricksonpoetry.com

**

​A Window to Escape

Prisoner of my thoughts
My head swims
My thoughts roll
Rock like a boat
On the tumultuous waves
Of the Newfoundland ocean
Overflowing from my head
My thoughts are looking for
A window to escape
 
Jean Bourque

Jean lives in Montreal. He just comes from a two-week trip in Newfoundland where he had the idea for this poem after a boat tour to the Icebergs.

**

iterations

sky changes randomly 
outside my window--
compressed into hushed 
anticipation, then 
spinning out, tangled, 
reconfigured by weather 
patterns beyond any 
control—I wait for the air
to conjure itself into 
chromatic saturation--
but what emerges
is gone almost before 
I notice it was there--
a luminous moment, 
shining in an uncertain 
configuration of light

Kerfe Roig

A resident of New York City, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new.  Follow her explorations on her blogs, https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/  (which she does with her friend Nina), and https://kblog.blog/.

**

Haiku

​music
conversation
—she listens in the rain

K. J. Watson

K. J. Watson’s stories and poems have appeared on the radio; in magazines, comics and anthologies; and online.

**

​Windowpanes
 
Music fills the windowpanes,
notes bulge and curve
 
boisterous chords
 
seep through edges,
squeeze through gaps,
pour through every opening
 
*
 
window tries to keep control
 
unruly colours,
flower bed bursting its borders,
snail circus celebration
 
sheet music, sleet music,
strike up the band
 
*
 
rainmelt drizzles
red, blue, purple, green,
speckled like strawberries               
                                
fat calligraphy 
draws us outside the lines
 
gushes over sash, jamb, and sill
 
*
 
dance tilt, frost widget,
glass dissolves into laughter
 
sketch marks topsy-turvy,                   
syncopated message
we can almost read  
 
signed with a flourish by the rain.

Cindy Bousquet Harris

Cindy Bousquet Harris is a poet, photographer, the editor of Spirit Fire Review, and a licensed marriage and family therapist. Her poems can be found in Clamor, California Quarterly, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Unlost Journal, Black Bough Poetry, and several anthologies. Cindy lives in Southern California with her husband and family.

**

This Year, Winter Didn’t Dawdle
 
Spring taps at my window –
pitter-pat, pitter-pat, pat-a-pat-a-pat,
pat-a-pat. At first, a soft lullabye, 
before full joy bursts forth. A treble
clef blows up like a balloon and sails
right through the pane.
 
Curvaceous notes follow, changing costumes
like dancers at the Folies Bergère. The entire
chorus line rushes onto stage. (You DO know
that young, flirty girls can’t resist trying on
every color of the rainbow?)
 
Sure hope their show has a long run.
Keep singing and prancing, girls! 
I’m giving a long standing ovation.
 
Alarie Tennille
 
Alarie Tennille was a pioneer coed at the University of Virginia, where she earned her degree in English, Phi Beta Kappa key, and black belt in Feminism. She has now lived more than half her life in Kansas City, MO.Alarie received the first Editor’s Choice Fantastic Ekphrastic Award from The Ekphrastic Review, and in 2022, her latest book, Three A.M. at the Museum, was named Director’s Pick for the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art gift shop. In April, Alarie was proud to be named the 2025 Muse of The Writers Place.

**

​Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential writers working today, and we also welcome emerging or first time writers and those who simply want to experience art in a deeper way or try something creative. 

The prompt this time is Spirits of Prisoners, by Charles Altamont Doyle. Deadline is July 4, 2025. 

You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please.

The Rules

1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination.

2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF.

3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way.​ Scroll down to donate $5CAD (about $3.75 USD).

4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY.

Send your work to [email protected]. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry.

5.Include DOYLE CHALLENGE in the subject line.

6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. 

7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 

8. Deadline is midnight EST, JULY 4, 2025.

9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is.

10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline.

11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 

12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 

13. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the  challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 
​
​14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges!
​
15. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages!

16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly.

ٹنکا

سارہ برن ہارٹ (فرانس) کی تصویر "طوفان کے بعد" کی طرز پر

گنیش کے نام 


ہلدی رنگ پُتلا 
اُما کی گود میں بے جان--
شیو کی خلاصی: 
ہاتھی کا سر بچاؤ کو؛
دانا گنیش کا جنم!
 
 سعد علی
۳۱ مئی ۵ ۲۰۲ء
​

**
​Tanka
 for Ganesha

turmeric golem
inert in Parvati's lap--
Shiva’s redemption:
elephant’s head to rescue;
birth o’ Ganesha, The Wise!

Saad Ali

Saad Ali (b. 1980 CE) is a poet-philosopher & literary translator from the UK and Pakistan. He holds a BSc and an MSc in Management. His new collection of poems is Owl Of Pines: Sunyata. He has translated Lorette C. Luzajic’s ekphrases into Urdu. His work appears in The Ekphrastic Review, The Mackinaw, Synchronized Chaos, Lothlorien, Lotus-eater, BRAWL Lit., Pandemonium Journal, Immagine e Poesia, and Poetry in English from Pakistan by Ilona Yusuf & Shafiq Naz (eds.). He has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and Best Microfiction. To know more: www.facebook.com/owlofpines

​**

After the Storms, the Surface Uncertain

The boy pretends to stumble, then flops across my lap, tongue lolling. He is poking fun at me for needing to stop and rest. “I’m simply ex-hausted!” he croaks in an old-lady voice, then shuts his eyes, feigning sleep. I’m glad he still thinks this journey is an adventure. He never heard the late-night grumbling. Never suspected that some of the others are no longer content to dine on bats or whatever we can catch in the nets we made after retreating underground. Now the boy is having trouble keeping a straight face—he clasps my cloak to keep from cracking up. I still think of him as the boy, even though I call him something else, this waif I found after we all fled the storms on the surface. He is mine now, and I bend over him, “Blech! What’s that smell? I must have snared something rotten in my net.” He laughs, then says, “Tell me again what my name means,” and I reply, “Well, you are my sunbeam. You look like a Ray.” His smile is luminous as he stands, and we resume our upward climb. Together, we approach a world he cannot recall, and I cannot fathom.
​
Tracy Royce

Tracy Royce is a writer and poet whose words appear in / are forthcoming in Bending Genres, Does It Have Pockets?, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Scrawl Place, Villain Era, and elsewhere. She lives in Southern California where she enjoys hiking, playing board games, and obsessing over Richard Widmark movies. Find her on Bluesky.

​**

Sioulder Bras

ar re-mañ a davas, hag e voe ur sioulder bras
Luke 8:24, Breton version
(and the storm came to an end and there was a great calm)

Look at the catch: my little sea-star, Per,
Just as I’ve dreamed.  He always was too quick.
No flesh on him, but see his hair: so thick,
A man might fish with it.  His mother’s hair.
They caught him in the nets tonight.  She’s gone
Long since, my daughter, in another storm,
Thank God.  His hand’s curled up, but it’s not warm;
He used to glow like fire. The sea goes on.
I dreamed once of Our Lady: she looked young,
Although her boy was grown.  For near a week
I’ve seen it coming and I’ve held my tongue.
We nodded, in my dream.  We did not speak.
We understood each other, and we sat,
Minding our words.  Good night, Perig.  Noz vat.

Julia Griffin

Julia Griffin lives in south-east Georgia.

**

Pieta

Mary, the Blessed Mother, the Theotokos, the God-bearer, holds her son, Jesus, the Paschal Sacrifice, the Word made Flesh, Lamb slain from the beginning of the world. 
 
But it could be any mother and her son 

A mother whose son washed ashore after a storm 

A mother whose son did not come home from war  

A mother whose son was on the plane aboard

A mother whose son did not wake up one morn

A mother whose son, happy and healthy for the first twelve years of life, only to give way to slurred speech and neurological decline. 

Mothers offering up their sons on the altar of life’s painful circumstances.  A sword pierces her heart. 
For he became sin who knew no sin that we might become the righteousness of God.  He left his throne in heaven and humbled himself, taking the form of a servant, esteeming not equality with God a thing to be grasped.  And we do not have a Great High Priest who is incapable of empathizing with us in our weakness.    

We serve a God who suffers with us.  

Lila Feldman

Lila lives in Upstate New York with her husband.   She currently works as a school nurse.  She enjoys creative writing in her spare time, mostly prose and memoir. This is her first submission to The Ekphrastic Review. 

**

The Drowned Child

I told him not to go
You’re only a child I told him 
As he left my home for the sea 
With his delicate hands and soft skin  
                 
He said he was ready
For a fisherman’s life
He didn’t know the hell
Salt, winds, and stormy seas

Could wreck upon his face
Upon his body and the heaviness
Of the nets filled with the sea’s
Offerings entangled him instead

Poor child swept overboard
Poor child caught like a fish
Writhing against the currents
Unforgiving sea throwing him
 
Back ashore, I found him face down 
In the sand and carried him home, 
his tiny fists clutching my skirts, 
Hoping his strength remained, 

Then his body lay still, 
Frozen like marble,
Frozen across my lap, 
Is this what Mary felt

When they brought her 
Son down from the cross
His bloody fingers furled
Around her blue robes?

Laura Peña
​
Laura Peña is an award winning poet born and raised in Houston, Tx. She holds a BA in English Literature and an MA in Education. She is a primary bilingual teacher as well as a translator of poetry into Spanish. Laura has been a featured poet at Valley International Poetry Festival, Inprint First Fridays, and Public Poetry. She has been published both in print and on-line journals. She has been a workshop presenter at VIPF in the Rio Grande Valley, Tx. and People's Literary Festival in Corpus Christi, Tx.. One of Laura's annual traditions is to write a poem a day for August Postcard Poetry Festival and has participated in the fest for the last 12 years. ​

**

Apres la Tempete

On the shore a pieta, a drowning:
the wet body returned, wrapped in nets.
It is still a child’s, slender and broken.

The sea’s a liar, it stole his warmth
with cold fingers, but the heart
knows no boundaries and his life

lies beating in this mother’s heart,
never to be taken,  though
green surges batter the beach

and the long shoreline shakes
with the pounding, in this heart
the child lives, lives still.

Martin Rieser

Martin Rieser is both a poet and visual artist. His interactive installations based on his poetry have been shown around the world.  Published: Poetry Review; Write to be Counted; The Unpredicted Spring; Magma 74; Morphrog 22,  Poetry kit; Primers, Artlyst Anthology; Pendemic; Alchemy Spoon; FFF Anthology; Shortlisted: Frosted Fire; Charles Causeley Prize; Runner up Norman Nicholson; Winner of the Hastings Poetry Competition; Shortlisted Wolves Poetry Competition; The Ekphrastic Review; Steel Jackdaw; Acumen; Obsessed by Pipework; Allegro; Cerasus Magazine Anthology; Vole Spring Anthology; Ink Sweat and Tears;Brussels Review; Longlisted Erbecce Prize; Shortlisted Artemesia Arts Poetry Competition and Anthology.

**

After the Storm

A sculpture carved entirely from white marble, the image captures a scene of intense emotive gravity, rendered with precision in mineral permanence. The stone surface, cool and luminescent under studio lighting, exhibits an even matte finish across the bulk of the sculpture, with only isolated zones of gentle polish — the bridge of the elder’s nose, the young man’s shoulder blade, the fingertips grasping fabric — betraying a slight glossiness born from incidental contact or intentional buffing during final toolwork. The overall hue is a uniform alabaster white with subtle gradations caused by the interplay of light and concave recession: folds in drapery fall into shadow with soft gray dimming; interstitial spaces, such as beneath the boy’s outstretched arm or between the netted fabric and the elder’s thigh, exhibit deeper zones of shade, verging toward bluish tones at the farthest recession points, a phenomenon of both sculptural carving and photographic lighting artifact.

The composition consists of two principal human figures: one upright, seated with an inclined forward posture, and the other supine, limp, and draped laterally across the lap of the former. The seated figure — older, clothed, turbaned — gazes downward with head slightly tilted leftward, brows knotted with chiselled concavity, upper eyelids pressed low in a gesture of somber witnessing. The turban is sculpted with parallel ridges of stone that wrap circumferentially about the cranium, each band deeply undercut at its boundary to accentuate fabric layering. The face emerges from this encirclement with a prominent nasal bridge and slightly sunken cheeks; the lips are pressed into a tight horizontal line, not parted, not sealed, with the upper lip incised more deeply than the lower to cast a shadow and define its curve. The figure's shoulders are covered by a thick mantle, carved with deep vertical pleats that fall from a loosely gathered collar region. The folds descend in diagonals across the torso and terminate over the knees, which are bent and level, serving as a platform for the boy’s collapsed body.

The younger figure is positioned with an arching of the back, the left arm dangling toward the base with open fingers, the right arm stretched across the robed knee of the older figure, the wrist angled unnaturally downward. His head is completely slack, neck hyperextended such that the chin nearly touches the clavicle, and the eyes are shut — lids carved with barely perceptible creases. His hair is mid-length, parted roughly at center, each lock rendered as a wavy, narrow ridge, tapering at the ends. These striations, flowing back from the forehead and clustering in flattened waves around the ear and neck, contrast with the smoothness of his forehead and jaw. The mouth is slightly parted, lower lip fuller than the upper, subtly shadowed to suggest the slackness of death or unconsciousness.

Both figures share a common base, irregular in shape and carved with vegetal and rocky motifs. At the lower left, two sheep heads or lambs emerge from the stone, barely raised in relief, their fleece represented with tight spirals and low mounds. These organic inclusions — symbolic perhaps — are not given the same dimensional prominence as the human forms but ground the scene in pastoral or Biblical suggestion. The boy’s garment consists only of shorts or a draped piece about the hips, detailed with an open netted pattern over the right thigh. The individual diamonds of the netting are cleanly bored through the marble, revealing darkness beneath and enhancing the sense of fragility. The net, though stone, appears as if it could flex or tear, its intersections knotted, the threads thickened at junctions. The fabric beneath is smoother, loosely hanging, with scalloped edges and minor vertical creases that collect in depressions as it is pulled by the boy’s falling weight.

The elder figure’s right hand is clenched against his chest, index finger bent at a downward angle, as though recently moved or about to shift. The hand is not fully relaxed but shows tension in the thumb’s compression against the folded palm. The left hand is buried beneath the draped torso of the youth, not visible except for a glimpse of the wrist emerging near the lower ribs of the younger figure. The elder’s exposed chest is bare, delineated by muscular striation and planar geometry, a stark contrast with the bulk of the robe, whose weight is indicated by deep, plunging folds that shift abruptly at the contour lines of the seated knees.

The base plane upon which the sculpture sits is a rectangular plinth, bevelled at the top edge and unadorned except for surface toolmarks, fine striations running at oblique angles likely left from rasp work or sanding. The composition is triangular, with the apex at the turbaned head and the base defined by the arc of the younger figure’s body. The centre of mass lies low and toward the front, creating a forward-leaning momentum that underscores the gesture of collapse and support. The entire sculpture is positioned against a matte black background, which amplifies the white stone’s radiance and allows the shadows cast by the folds and limbs to take on greater spatial presence. No armature, external prop, or restoration marks are visible; the figures are complete in themselves, unified in gesture, and isolated in silent stasis.

​Albert Abdul-Barr Wang

Albert Abdul-Barr Wang is a Taiwanese-American Los Angeles-based experimental writer, conceptual painter, photographer, sculptor, video, and installation artist. He received a MFA in studio art from the ArtCenter College of Design (2025), a BFA in Photography & Digital Imaging at the University of Utah (2023), and a BA in Creative Writing/English Literature at Vanderbilt University (1997).

**

​This Sculpture is Not Representative
 
My mother called me Sarah Bernhardt.
All those times she believed I was overreacting to a telling-off 
or when I didn’t get my own way.
Stroppy, sulky, I knew no other response.
I was six or seven and Sarah Bernhardt meant nothing to me
but the tone of her voice and the look on her face told me my mother’s comment
was not meant in kindness.
 
Years later I found out she was a famous French actress 
and I viewed my mother’s jibe another way:
as a complement.
Perhaps my drama or melodrama was particularly convincing to have summoned
the name and likeness of someone so accomplished.
Maybe I should have followed her to the stage.
 
But I didn’t
and so I live with my mother’s voice in my ears.
Critical, dismissive – and not in the least maternal.

Berni Rushton

Berni Rushton works in the health sector in Sydney, Australia. She recently came back to writing poetry, as well as flash fiction and is also working hard on her first novel. 

**

​​Pieta
 
Have you noticed how statues round here 
never weep? Okay, they have stone tears
fossilised on marble cheeks, 
a narrative of misery. 
 
People who pass by nod in approval 
at grieving acted out in stone, but show them
grief in the raw, wet and red as meat slapped on a slab, 
they turn away. 
 
The widow has nowhere to turn. The sunshine 
and the spring leaves are mocking her tears. 
How can she find sympathy in stone? 
Statues may not weep, but neither do they heal.
 
She is her story and the passers-by 
pass by, as cold as marble tears.

Edward Alport 

Edward Alport is a retired teacher and international business executive living in the UK. He occupies his time as a poet, gardener and writer. He has had poetry, articles and stories published in various webzines and magazines and performed on BBC Radio and Edinburgh Fringe. His Bluesky handle is @crossmouse.bsky.social. His website is crossmouse.wordpress.com

**

What Sarah Saw

There’s joy in catch for fisherfolk,
as witness lore of fishing smacks,
the fleet’s return with crew on board,
shoal haul continued, sacrosanct,
trawl, school, buoys, pots, gull hover nets.

So beach scene greeting Sarah’s view -
an overlap of fish, flesh cost,
in slumped despair, family loss,
forlorn with cradled cruciform,  
but draped, pietà, hanging free.

A limb entangled in the web -
that network on which trade relies -
patella hinge of dangled limbs,
no reflex, angle, shin to thigh,
like ankle dangle unattached.

Sea urchins, starfish, pebble dash,
here’s trigonometry of grief,
grandmother’s boy still, garment gripped
like crab caught in entanglement,
as she might grasp imagined gasps.

Both stranded, bare, a beach bereft,
with lanky strands, sleek silky hair,
a selkie now of nether world.
Bedraggled, rag doll, flap fish flop,
beyond once nestle of that lap.

A marble marvel of distraught,
that dead can grow from slab to life,
a living vein to bloodless corpse;
awaiting, too much, hope for soul,
in anguish for one laid before.

Stephen Kingsnorth

Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review.  He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.  His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com

**

​​A Fist's Grip on Hope – a Ballade
 
The peasant family's home was worn
Against Breton's wind and water jets
A night like this was often the norm
Even though the stage was already set
When the grandmother saw a boy's silhouette
Mangled and tangled in knotted rope
Her scream shook the pale moonset
He still has a fist's grip on hope
 
In the scattered scene after the storm
Wrapped in an old fishing net
Laid the boy slumped upon the shore
Covered in sand; all cold and wet
Blue and limp; as never to forget
His grandmother lifted him to her robe
But the story doesn't end just yet
He still has a fist's grip on hope
 
The child must have not been warned
Or perhaps he had a stubborn mindset
To dive from the docks even if informed
Where loosened lines were a sure bet
And fishing gear had shifted and offset
Then reappeared where the sea crashes the stones
But with one arm stretched across his grandmother's garment
He still has a fist's grip on hope
 
So, fishermen, don't be rigid with regret
The storm is at fault for what broke
And the boy's fate remains unmet

He still has a fist's grip on hope

Brendan Dawson​

Brendan Dawson is an American born writer based in Italy.  He writes from his observations and experiences while living, working, and traveling abroad. Currently, he is compiling a collection of poetry and short stories from his time in the military and experiences as an expat.

**

​Bernhardt Portrays Love Scene

What the sea gives: salt and seal pups, 
crashboom of spangled water,
pearl-white oyster shells, 
and floating remains of wreckage: 
bottles, seaglass, driftwood.

And a boy fisher along the Breton shore,
tender-muscled, just past safety
of women’s skirts and helping 
to bake their sweet butter cakes.

Storm swells so deep broke waves so high,
gales no fishermen would try. Alone, 
he cast a wild net, tore him out, 
washed him in. 

Portrayed in marble, luminous death,
theater piece, as his mamm-gozh breaks 
toward him.

Lynn Axelrod

Lynn Axelrod’s poetry has appeared in journals and outlets such as The Ekphrastic Review, California Quarterly, Orchards Poetry Journal; was featured in the San Francisco Chronicle; and is in the James Joyce Library Special Collections, University College, Dublin. Her chapbook Night Arrangements was described by Kirkus Reviews as “evocative and lushly detailed.” Lotus Earth on Fire, (2024, Finishing Line Press) was praised by a poet-reviewer as “an unflinching witness to the hungry and the homeless, to floods, fires, and the untold injustices of man to man.” She's been a disaster-readiness community organizer; weekly newspaper reporter; environmental NGO staffer; and a happily- and early-retired attorney.

**

​During the Creative Storm

my mind kept spinning thoughts and moved
in all directions. Even upside down
to navigate  through complex dreams
and theories The subject matter 
flowered around me. Half in light, half in shadow.
I flared with thirst, 
a ruby sunrise, an emerald spring 
but my brilliance shattered 
into stillness. My mother held me in her arms
and wept. Not a goddess  but a fragile pieta.
 
I stared at her  
with the seed dark eyes of a bird --
knowing I needed rest
and time to return
becoming merely human.

Wendy Howe 

Wendy Howe is an English teacher  who lives in  California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth,, women in conflict and  history. Landscapes that influence  her writing  include  the seacoast and high desert where she has formed a poetic kinship with the  Joshua trees, hills and wild life spanning ravens, lizards and coyotes. She has been published in the following  journals: The Poetry Salzburg Review, The Interpreter's House, Corvid Queen, Strange Horizons, The Acropolis Journal and many others.

**

​My
Grand
Child

I heard the
   harpies singing 
after the storm

After
   you washed
 ashore

You lay
   across
 my marbleness

In shrouded
   god's
lament

I gave you
     my lungs
I gave
     you
         my 
              pulse

I lashed
    my
sorrow
    to the
               mast

I heard 
         the harpies
   singing
                  after the storm

Never
            more

Donna-Lee Smith 

DLS writes from l'île de Montreal where storms from the mighty St. Lawrence may wreak havoc. 
She dedicates this poem to her sister.

**

An Idol, an Icon. Sarah Bernhardt My Idol.
 
I have been impressed by Sarah Bernhardt for years.
Perhaps that is why a trilogy about her came to my mind, my heart and my soul:
The actress, the sculptor and the feminist.
 
In my mind, the actress
As a former speaker on academic success in schools and at conferences for many years,
I was influenced by Sarah Bernhardt’s modesty as an actress.
Every time I gave a lecture or a workshop, I had stage fright.
Once a colleague told me this charming anecdote about Sarah Bernhardt:
One day a young actress asked her if she had stage fright before performing.
She answered that she always had stage fright before going on stage.
The young actress, boastful and naïve, said that she never had stage fright.
Sarah Bernhardt told her this wonderful reply: “Those who are talented have stage fright, others don’t”.
I kept preciously this tasty reply, hoping, before each of my lectures, that I had some talent.
 
In my heart, the sculptor
I didn’t know that Sarah Bernardt was a sculptor.
Her splendid sculpture, After the Storm, reminds me of mothers and fathers in countries at war who are “In the storm”.
They are desperate and overwhelmed by a dreadful pain that ravages them
While they are seeing their children dying from lack of food and trapped in the (fishing) nets of horrible wars. 
 
In my soul, the Feminist
Sarah Bernardt, with her multiple talents, disturbed male artistic circle or her time.
Isn’t the same situation today when women have to fight for their rights and their place in a patriarchal world?
She particularly disturbed famous male sculptor Rodin who was not kind to her.
He would have said that her sculptures were “filth”.
Despite the criticism, she never gave up.
She «continued anyway”.
It was her motto:  to continue anyway.
From now on, I will make this motto mine.
It’s not too late…even at seventy-five years old.

Jean Bourque
 
Jean lives in Montréal. French speaking. Even if it's difficult, he continues to learn English anyway.

**

The Courage and the Beauty
 
I hold you draped  in my arms.
White is your skin of divine mystical grace.
Visions of the world at peace with itself.
You swoon with  the beauty of alabaster .
Untouched and unspoiled.
Blessing me with your body of purity.
We become one as forces of spiritual beauty remake our lives.
You have come to teach, to bless and to keep holy.
Behold the vision man has made.
Grant me the courage to see your wisdom.
To not be afraid.
To inhabit our shared souls.
You were created by the master of creation.
We live together in this one life now and forever.
 
Sandy Rochelle

Sandy Rochelle is an award winning poet, actress, and filmmaker. She is a recipient of the Autism Society of America's Literary Achievement Award. Sandy produced and narrated the documentary Film, ARTWATCH, about famed art historian James Beck. Her poetry has appeared in: Wild Word, One Art, Amethyst Review, Impspired, Verse Virtual, Dissident Voice, Connecticut River Review, Haiku Universe, Indelible, and others. Her chapbook, Soul Poems, was published by Finishing Line Press.

**

Cradled Before Standing

Even in black-and-white, 
shades of gray in relief,

the last gasps of consciousness, 
satin marble for smoothness,

grip the soul. A mother’s love 
piercing, crying out to her gods, 

unheard above the crashing 
waves upon the shore. Like a stone

net, chiseled salvation, an alabaster 
eternity cleaves their souls under- 

neath a just-
clearing sky.

Todd Sukany

Todd Sukany <[email protected]>, a two-time Pushcart nominee, lives in Pleasant Hope, Missouri, with his wife of over forty years. His work has appeared in Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal, Cave Region Review, The Christian Century, Intégrité: A Faith and Learning Journal, eMerge Magazine, and The Ekphrastic Review. Sukany authored Frisco Trail and Tales as well as co-authored four books of poetry under the title, Book of Mirrors, with Raymond Kirk. A native of Michigan, Sukany stays busy running, playing music, loving three children, their spouses, seven grandchildren, caring for a rescued dog, and four rescued cats.

**

​

​Join us for the epic event of the year.
You won't be sorry. It is wild, exhilarating, exhausting and wonderful.
A day of pure creation. Play. Brainstorming. 
​Join us on Sunday, or do it on your own time over the following weeks.
This year, to celebrate ten years of The Ekphrastic Review, an optional Champagne Party follows the marathon on zoom.
Details are below.

Perfect Ten: an Ekphrastic Marathon
 
Try something intense and unusual- an ekphrastic marathon, celebrating ten years of The Ekphrastic Review. 
 
Join us on Sunday, July 13 2025 for our  annual ekphrastic marathon. This year we are celebrating ten years!!!!!

This is an all -day creative writing event that we do independently, together.

Take the plunge and see what happens!
 
Write to fourteen different prompts, poetry or flash fiction, in thirty minute drafts. There will be a wide variety of visual art prompts posted at the start of the marathon. You will choose a new one every 30 minutes and try writing a draft, just to see what you can create when pushed outside of your comfort zone.
 
We will gather in a specially created Facebook page for prompts, to chat with each other, and support each other. 
 
Time zone or date conflicts? No problem. Page will stay open afterwards. Participate when you can, before the deadline for submission. The honour system is in effect- thirty minute drafts per prompt, fourteen prompts. Participants can do the eight hour marathon in one or two sessions at another time and date within the deadline for submissions (July 31, 2025). 
 
Polish and edit your best pieces later, then submit five for possible publication on the Ekphrastic site.
 
One poem and one flash fiction will win $100 CAD each.
 
Last year this event was a smashing success with hundreds of poems and stories written. Let's smash last year out of the park and do it even better this year!
 
Marathon: Sunday July 13, from 10 am to 6 pm EST (including breaks)
(For those who can’t make it during those times, any hours that work for you are fine. For those who can’t join us on July 13, catch up at a better time for you in one or two sessions only, as outlined above.)

Champagne Party: at 6.05 pm until 7. 30 on Sunday, July 13, join participants on Zoom to celebrate an exhilarating day. Bring Champagne, wine, or a pot of tea. We'll have words from The Ekphrastic Review, conversation as a chance to connect with community, and some optional readings from your work in the marathon.   
 
Story and poetry deadline: July 31, 2025
Up to five works of poetry or flash fiction or a mix, works started during marathon and polished later. 500 words max, per piece. Please include a brief bio, 75 words or less
 
Participation is $20 CAD (approx. 15 USD). Thank you very much for your support of the operations, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review, and the prizes to winning authors.

If you are in hardship and cannot afford the entry, but you want to participate, please drop us a line at [email protected] and we'll sign you up. 
​
Selections for showcase and winning entries announced sometime in September.

​Sign up below!

Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential writers working today, and we also welcome emerging or first time writers and those who simply want to experience art in a deeper way or try something creative. 

The prompt this time is Rainy Day Rainbow, by Kaz Ogino. 

Deadline is June 20, 2025. 

You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please.

The Rules

1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination.

2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF.

3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way.​ Scroll down to donate $5CAD (about $3.75 USD).

4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY.

Send your work to [email protected]. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry.

5.Include OGINO CHALLENGE in the subject line.

6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. 

7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 

8. Deadline is midnight EST, June 20, 2025.

9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is.

10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline.

11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 

12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 

13. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the  challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 
​
​14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges!
​
15. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages!

16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly.
​