 Crooked Ditch, by Fred Ingrams (England) 2016 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 Crooked Ditch, by Fred Ingrams. Deadline is September 11, 2026. 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 INGRAMS 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, September 11, 2026. 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.
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 A Hard Reign, by dan smith (USA) 2025 crosshatching in tears seasons of drought and arid earthiness, devouring friend of a maturing land, rain burned to dust, dust soaked with thirst, thirst blanched with unendurable earth. there is a six-mile spit of land just out of Africa, like a boney finger stretched between Morocco and the sea, six miles too often burdened with ten-thousand, faces hungry, angry, etched with pain. these are migrants who would cross the narrow isthmus, find a place to sleep, mountains, forests, springs, harbours, fields and food. yet within the frame is only lust for metal, a patchwork sky crosshatched with gold. let us look beyond the frame at barbed wire fence. and beyond that, heads bobbing in the sea. farther out beyond are we, thieves who cry for power, seed the sky with radioactive dirt. look again: survivors press against the frame, would breach it, smash its false conceptual lath. so let this picture teach us what we may not like to see, rain ugly-dry, a common future, fate's uncertainty. let us learn to welcome other souls, allow their dreams, their rivers, grasses, hopes, life-giving trees. Victoria Korth Victoria’s Pushcart nominated poems have appeared in Nine Mile Magazine, Stone Canoe, Ocean State Review, Tar River Poetry, Spoon River Poetry Review, Leon Literary Review, and widely elsewhere. Among other prizes, she is the first-place recipient of the 2020 Montreal International Poetry Prize and the 2026 Sean Hodge Poetry Prize in Medicine, and the third-place recipient of the 2024 Troubadour International Poetry Prize. The author of two chapbooks, Cord Color, Finishing Line Press (2015), and Tacking Stitch (2022). She edits the humanities section of Families, Systems and Health as well as Le Mot Juste Anthology. ** Accord Muddling chaos, Individuals swarming, hoping for accord. Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher has been writing since 2010 and has had short stories, micro-flash fiction, and haiku poetry published. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and adorable Shih-Tzus Breanna and Maximus. ** Succession At first, a leader, proclaimed as a king But his untimely death left a vacuum Succession became a critical thing A scramble by rivals, one may assume And it left the land exposed and waiting Hoping a successful challenge would loom A new regal line needed creating The victor then seized and secured the throne With offspring most were anticipating Succession by family link alone The line lasted over generations With just one dark challenger, as is known As in all families, tense relations Such is the case in monastic nations Howard Osborne Howard is a UK citizen, retired. Published author of non-fiction reference book, scientific papers and poetry. Interests mainly creative writing (poetry, novel, short stories, songs and scripts), music and travel. ** Canvassing the Search Significance in sacred space, coincidence in wider place, when esoteric makes surprise, wild hazard yields with whimsy’s prize. But boundaries ignored, for way’s walls tumble as the oeuvre plays; perform as teach, read, write on site - let unresolved be bright as light. So is it rain or reign that’s hard - poetic language with regard - when downpours rule from heights above, precipitation reigns with love? Explore what might be set in charge as larger visions disturb, barge in, question quick conclusions reached, uneasy solutions daily breached. 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. ** Hard Reign My cubic kingdom for a cubic horse! And rein him in—I know it can’t be easy, a cubic head the right side and the left-- the profile on the one, the full-face on the other. It can’t be easy in this cubic rain that pours in fringes off the horse’s torso and off the blocks you put the bridles on, and off the sun—a darkly painted square. It can’t be easy reining him in rain, but just imagine ruling this whole kingdom of scraped and squared green and brown folk who want protection from a horseless monarch! Iryna Hall Iryna Hall immigrated from Ukraine in 1997. She is married, has three beautiful children, lives in Utah, and writes while managing multiple sclerosis. ** Hard Reigns Hard rain dripping lies like old blood from old kings, their old plaids hanging ragged as the lies of their old hard reigns, ready now for the dustbin of history. There is new blood now new reigns new suits old lies as the rain falls hard. Lynn White Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for Pushcarts, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Magazine, Firewords, Vagabond Press, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes Journal. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com. ** … castle in the air … The sun is a melting chocolate square melting in its own heat strings in streams like rain pour down adding to the deluge scene it sits where it sets later between the castle battlements in autumn livery lifts aloft strings in streams like rain pour down from where the monarch reigns supreme in the castle made in squares of browns and reds and mottled greens and defend it they can— this castle in the air where it sits floating above the deluge-like chocolate streams pouring down solidified as if hardened to become the airy foundations on which the reign secures the citadel in the air from where still protects the land beneath coloured in matching autumnal streams poured down onto safe ground offering shelter from the rain but not safety from a hard reign-- where will be found a life that’s fair ? in a land overseen by a fantastical castle in the air? Peter R. Longden Peter R. Longden, born in Rotherham, South Yorkshire in 1957, now lives in Coventry, England with Sally and son, Joe. He started writing 'seriously' around 2000. After retiring from a long career in youth work, Peter found more time to write, particularly poetry but also fantasy novels with his son Joe. Peter has had nine poems published, by The Ekphrastic Review (one to be in their forthcoming anthology), two poems by the Wee Sparrow Press, and one in an anthology called Yesterday's Diary, published during lockdown in Coventry. Peter was also was shortlisted for the 9th O’Bheal Five Words International Competition (2022). Eldest son Ben, Estefi and granddaughter Gigi live in Argentina. ** Hard Reign Triolet When rising waters come, will you stay beside me? There is no other. With the power to save you teach us not to follow or obey. When rising waters come, will you stay or will you go your own way lest you follow me to a watery grave? When rising waters come, will you stay? Beside me, there is no other with the power to save. Lara Dolphin A descendant of immigrants, Lara Dolphin lives with her family among the Allegheny Mountains of Central Pennsylvania on the ancestral land of the Susquehannock/Iroquois people. She has written three chapbooks In Search Of The Wondrous Whole, Chronicle Of Lost Moments, and At Last a Valley. She, like countless others, hopes for a world filled with greater peace. ** To dan smith Regarding A Hard Reign You symbolize, I here assume, the devastation slowly doom should industry of man invite by profit's haste and oversight the taint of seas and vapors left as toxic reign of life bereft from primal balance long sustained by leaving things, as they've remained, to suffer from volcanic spew and sulfur of its residue and flame unbound by lightning set with smoke and smolder winds abet and other heinous feats of clime and biospheric paradigm, that we would helpless face and fear if not for hope we engineer by reason judging risk and cost against the sooner gained or lost. 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 — in the absence of context ** Barrier to Consent Red. Green. Haze. No. Yes. Confusion. No means no. Silence is not no. I don’t know is not no. Pausing is not no. Unconsciousness is not no. Yes means yes. Silence is not yes. I don’t know is not yes. Pausing is not yes. Unconsciousness is not yes. Confusion overpowers good judgement, consent, agreement. Confusion is fed by hormones, by fear, by control, by alcohol. Confusion fills a space but never fully, allowing for gaps and openings. Confusion, all too often, communicates no as yes. Brydon Caldwell Brydon Caldwell is a long time teacher and emerging writer from the western edge of the Canadian Shield. He was recently named the winner of the 2026 Icelandic Festival of Manitoba Short Story Contest. His writing can be found in Boudin, The Ekphrastic Review, New Verse News, and the upcoming Fear Dealer, Opolis 2026, and Still From Somewhere anthologies. ** Extending the Edge I turned around and I was gone. Who was in my place then? Time was filled with bodies, none of them mine. I had become a window that disintegrated when it was opened. Dimensionless, substance fell away. memories become confused with wishes, with stories, with half-remembered dreams with the impossibility of finding reason or rhyme Kerfe Roig Kerfe Roig makes and juxtaposes art and words in NYC. ** Universal Jail A Hard Reign indeed Harsh blocks used as a prison To confine our sins Jean Bourque Jean is from Montreal, province of Quebec, Canada. In the 50s, religion had a Hard Reign and an enormous influence over French Canadians in Quebec. Sometimes, that influence resurfaces, as in his haiku. ** No Good Deed D. Dunker lived alone at the end of Plank Road in a weathered house, worn as Grandma’s Sunday hat. Rusted junk scattered across his overgrown lawn like menacing land mines. Broken concrete steps led to a rickety screen door that flew into Uncle Jed’s yard when the derecho wiped out the neighborhood’s ash trees. No more amber golds or rosy tinted leaves would brighten our bleak existence come fall. In the humid August heat, we gathered to tackle the conglomeration of debris. Chainsaws hummed, grinding off dead branches that we dragged to the burn pile. The fire smoldered for hours. Afterwards, Jed asked me to help him return D. Dunker’s door. I grabbed the back end and trudged towards Dunker’s dilapidated two-story home. We angled the door through a collapsed picket fence. Feral, flea-bitten cats yowled as we high-stepped through Dunker’s front yard. We hefted it up the corroded steps, leaned it next to a sagging porch swing. Jed knocked and hollered. No one answered. We circled the premises, peeked through filthy windows, and decided to venture inside. An acrid smell burned my nostrils. Cat piss, rotten food, and some indescribable stench permeated the air. I pulled a kerchief from my back pocket and covered my nose; tried to breathe. Jed rolled his eyes at me like I better man up or suffer his ridicule. Empty booze bottles lined the stained linoleum counters. Piles of trash leaned against the back door and empty cupboard shelves openly glared at us. Uncle Jed sighed, shifted a bit and then opened a grimy metal door. I looked over his shoulder; followed him down dank cement stairs. At the bottom, Jed pulled on a string connected to a single bulb. The windows were covered with tar paper, but we could see a room in the southeast corner. We hesitantly moved towards it. Black bile, old blood and feces covered the floors and walls. I began to gag, choking back vomit rising into my throat. Then we saw the bones. Jed gingerly picked one up and handed it to me. I felt its gritty length shiver in my hands. A frightful scream as fierce as the raging winds that turned our world upside down pierced the fetid air. I looked at Jed’s blanched face and realized the scream was coming from me. Barbara Edler Barbara Edler lives in southeast Iowa. She loves to write flash fiction and poetry. "No Good Deed" explores the dark side often exposed after a storm. Her work has been published in a variety of journals and anthologies including NFSPS Encore 2025 Prize Poems, The Cities of the Plains, and issues of the Grant Wood Country Chronicle, Lyrical Iowa and Moss Piglet. ** Queen of the Weavers’ Last Message I saw these pieces laying on the top of a sarcophagus the summer I helped in the textile department in Turin’s Archeological Museum. They had been found on the top of the mummy inside—removed for closer study. But these weavings, the large one and the small, and a scroll, placed with them. The scroll was assigned to me to be deciphered—the first independent work of my internship. I am proud to present my translation to you here: From the Queen of the Weavers to the Ruler of the Afterlife Here you see my sample weaving and the first efforts from the tiny looms of the youngest ones in my last weaving class—their samples. I let them go a while and then cut off the weaving to let them know what can be improved and praise their successes so that the second one, a rug for their dolls, can be a work of pride. These three- and four-year-olds princesses laughed and played as they wove --before the fever came up from the Nile last summer when the air lay hot and heavy all around us. As Queen of the Weavers, it is my duty to instruct these little ones, and the olde girls, to watch over all the weaving done in the Royal household to ensure it is pleasing to the Pharoh and to the gods. I am Queen, yes, but my reign is not an easy one, especially when the little ones succumb to fevers as these did and as I will soon do. Their little bodies could hardly withstand the foul miasma that brought disease, not matter how many herbs I put to the fire, not matter how many sacrifices I made, one by one they fell, to an embalmer, Pharoh’s children, and even the tiniest one, my own daughter, all sent to be made ready for the afterlife by the Pharoh’s own embalmer and buried with his tiny daughters so they could all enjoy playing and weaving together in the afterlife. He wanted his new cloak completed for his upcoming autumn ceremony and told me no one except the Queen of Weavers (me) could make it for him. He had mandated decoration in gold thread outlining one of his hunting expeditions. What could I say? Though I felt the heat of fever in my own body, I persisted. Today, it is done and I also am finished or soon will be. Pharoh’s wife came for the cloak and saw my fevered state. She sent her own physician, but he said it was too late. He said I shod have rested immediately and not worked. He said I should have taken time to grieve the loss of those little ones, one of whom was my own. Pharoh’s wife came and stayed with me as I was writing and when she left, I heard her murmur—"a Queen’s Reign is never easy, so many expectations on us, so many rivalries, so few considerations given any of us.” So, I leave this world for the next, hoping to show my sample to small ones who abound in the next world and that there many of them will put their fingers to tiny-child-sized looms and together we will make a cloth big enough to cover us all with love, respect, and appreciation. By the time I had finished, there were tears on my paper. I and my twin sister had been given a tiny loom at a slightly older age. We both made little rugs but not so fine as these since we had no one to instruct us, only a paper that came with our looms. We laughed and talked while we wove but once the tiny rugs were finished, she argued her weaving was the best. At last, the looms went the way of other toys, forgotten and donated, but the rivalry continued until it separated us in many ways. I wonder what she will think of this find and my translation? Will the recalled laughter of our first attempt at the looms be enough to re-weave the threads of our broken relationship? Joan Leotta Joan Leotta on an internship in Torino! Such a magnificent imagined job for Joan who loved their collection of Egyptian textiles, the most she has ever seen. Alas, she is only a writer and story performer in Fairfax VA who dreams of such things and such people as the Queen of the Weavers. But then again, who is to say the Queen was not real and that perhaps she came to Joan in a dream with her story? ** On the Barnside Usually he met me where the furrows ran deep and wide This time he asked me to meet him on the barnside The furrows in my father’s face ran very deep and wide When I told him “Dad, I’m going to meet him on the barnside” The space between our properties were bordered deep and wide The first was near the planting ground, the other tucked behind Silently he took my hand from on the other side and then he pulled me closer till we were walking side by side He’d been thinking, I’d been thinking, yet we both tried to hide As silently he took me through the barn door to the inside I looked around and wondered, not for the first time, If I were the girl, the only one he wanted on the inside What was done was done, and now here I was, with a baby tucked inside. That’s what happened the last time that I met him on the barnside. The barn was planked and white, with needless streaks of red and brown I wondered who had painted it and who would take it down I was thinking about before and after, and what it was we could be, he said he was thinking we were too young, how, now, he could see. The life we had belonged to us yet he didn’t want to be saddled with the burden of someone else, while also learning me I thought about the times I knew we were meant to be and, instantly, I knew his inside was for someone else, not me. My insides bloomed, I knew this one would choose whatever I would be. So I told him I would do it on my own, my dad and me. The sheets were deadly white with needless streaks of red and brown I wondered who would take them up and who would lay her down My dad’s brow was furrowed deeper now, as he listened to me cry And yet I knew in time, dad would forgive me, by and by, for forging life unsustainable, with one who casted me aside. And I hated I could see him walking, from my window, towards the barnside. Debbie Walker-Lass Debbie Walker-Lass, (she/her) is a poet, literary non-fiction writer, and collage artist living in Decatur, Georgia. Recent work has appeared (or is forthcoming) in The Ekphrastic Review, Lit Shark, The Avon Review, Collaborature, The Rockvale Review, Green Ink Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, The Light Ekphrastic, and The Niagara Poetry Journal, among others. Debbie was nominated by TER for Best Small Fictions, 2024. Her poem "Whispers in the Grass" was poem of the month in Collaborature last fall. She also collaborates with J.Z. Wood, writing poetry as “The 1965.” ** What Remains (A Haibun) It’s not hard to see my family’s colours in the wool-like paint strokes of the artist’s brush and the sporan holding court mid-canvas, as if to remind the viewer that once, men ruled and wrought their bloody violence on green fields and in villages where people hoped for a simple life, if not a long one. The clans wore their tartan to the grave, the fabric imperishable as flesh dissolved to corpse wax in the cold of the cairns and muirs long after the blàr. their song grown cold below a bloodied hill Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman Linda is a published, award-winning poet living and writing in Lake Tabourie, NSW, Australia. ** no caps mud flaps instructions said i could “research the artwork or artist” and use discoveries to fuel my writing dan smith? a common name i thought the lower case affectation would make identification easier hoping to fulfill an old school dictum: credit your sources claude helped my inquiry initiating 14 web searches accessing 100+ pages for snippets of info precious power spent pursuing an answer not daniel smith montana wildlife painter not dan smith card game illustrator possibly dan smith small press writer (but no online evidence that he paints) kate contacted dan who courteously replied (thanks, dan) he is a writer painting for about nine months an endeavor I applaud! hope fulfilled… red and green christmas decomposing gift boxes returning to the muddy slurry from which cardboard forms no hope for glossy wrapping paper which recycling won’t accept jerseys of red and green morocco’s 2026 world cup deep red with green side panels evoking their flag red/green/gold embroidery-style trim at collar and cuffs thunder and lightning delaying games running and leaping in the rain paint pigments mixed sometimes turn muddy brown choices to be made John Lake John Lake recently became interested in haiku, and wondered about haiku written in response to art. On August 9, 2026 he was introduced to the term “ekphrasis”. John lives in a small town in northeastern Washington State, USA. ** Old Trails Spokane, Washington Red dogs walk through red streets, red mouths full of red bones, under a red sun in a red sky pinned with black trees. They live in the hearths of red brick chimneys and dream red memories of roofs, blankets, beds and water bowls. They breathe red air and howl red howls at a red moon with a new crater. They pray red dog-prayers to dog-gods Firetruck and Siren, Airtanker, Helicopter, and Phos-Chek. To keep the dogs safe, their gods from time to time drop over the chimney homes red rubber balls which burst in a hard rain of thick wet heft. A slurry of salts and clays – ammonium phosphate, potassium silicate, bentonite, lignosulfonate, and guar gum, dressed in red fugitive pigment – dampen the red dirt of the dogs’ good red home and turn away the hot hungry tongues of other red, with its smoke, ravage, and growl. The dogs whine red whines and wag red tails and look up with colourblind dog eyes, remembering a cool time of browns and greens and, maybe, blues. Bryn Cavin Bryn Cavin is a current MFA student at Pacific University. She holds a BA (Hons.) in Literature & Writing from Whitworth University and has held writing positions with such organizations as Capital Area Immigrants' Rights Coalition, Tahirih Justice Center, Museum of Glass, and the Smithsonian. Bryn is a former Assistant Managing Editor of Rock & Sling Literary Journal. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her boxer-pittie mix, Dalloway. ** Highland Fling The only reason I wanted to be a Colour Guard was to wear the kilt. Stewart Clan tartan. And the knee socks. The spats over penny loafers. The tam. No other high school football show squads played the Highland Fling on bagpipes. Only us. Kearny High. Home of American soccer. Where Paisley, Scotland workers immigrated to work in the thread and linoleum factories. I wasn’t Scottish. I didn’t fling my arms in the air in Scottish dance school. My father didn't toss back a few at the Scots-American Club, revering the signed photo of Sean Connery. I threw my hat in the ring. Attended tryouts. The Colour Guard captain, with whom I worked in the school library, tried to mentor me about the discipline, the rigor needed. But in the first tryout, as the music director inspected the line and looked me in the eye, I couldn't keep a straight face. His seriousness just made me laugh. It’s not like we were training to be surgeons. Just a bunch of lower class girls wanting to wear kilts. Wave flags around on a football field. Stroke our fingers along the nap of our black velvet jackets. I had the audacity to laugh. Mr. Risden pointed his finger at me. “Out!” he said. And that was the end of my Colour Guard career. I dashed out of the room, darted to my locker, where I heaved my hurtled ego. Time to launch into something else. I stopped by my German teacher’s classroom and said, “I can work for you afternoons now.” The next time my family went to Montreal on vacation, I bought a kilt. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner is a poet and historian from Kearny, New Jersey. She is the author of four books about her hometown. Visit her website at www.barbarakrasner.com. ** The Forest Weeps Once aglow with clusters of leaves, furred moss and lichens, stately trunks bearing russet and brown, the forest weeps, for its story is ending. Stacks of sticks for breeding birds lie untouched: limbs for warming nests to nourish eggs are gone. Feathers, falling, wither, decay. These regal woods knew wind and rain, storm and sun, the songs of birds, bare winters, verdant springs. The forest weeps, for its story is ending. Donna Reiss Writer, editor, teacher, bookmaker, and mixed media/paper artist, Donna lives in Greenville, South Carolina, where she is a member of the Greenville Center for Creative Arts, the Guild of American Papercutters, and the Poetry Society of South Carolina. Follow her on Instagram @dreissart ** (from above) weaves taking off skyward papered stains finger dragged soil crinkle under absorbant cleanly lifted streaks ground returning arising at that place - I love MWPiercy Michael W. Piercy : At the intersection of Art, Poetry and Contradiction, you will find my work, you will find me. Observing memories and the present moment, thinking with an eye that shadows the natural world. Philosophy, Theology, and Science are at the core of my writing - I have found that I am a synthesizer. Managing ideas which do not always cohere. A manipulator of ideas. ** The Matriarch The matriarch lives though she is wounded. Oh, but she has her ways. And she will prevail. Hers is an endless grapple with the rapers of land. Until the moment the universe blinks and the new world begins. Drums beat through her body of earth. Her great, boundless heart. She endures. She always has. She is the great birther. The rolling mass. Particles of magic. She bears fruit urgent second by delicate minute, solar day by lunar year. All this precious life. Her yearning and her wont. For life longs for itself and she bears the seed. Clothes the spirit with clay, makes dreams of dust. The matriarch is also the Great Warrior. She rises up in fire and subdues. She will take you whole. You cannot face her in her might. She will spit lava until you fall into her embrace as bones and ash once again. Become food as she remakes the world. Maybe you are part of Her Great Plan. Maybe you are her sacrificial lamb. Reborn if she wills you to. Do not defy the Great Mother. Whilst you roam her body, you are tied to her will and her bidding. Do good. Be good. That’s all you need do. The matriarch holds you in her arms at the end. Just as she did in the beginning. You swim in her tears, and her milk. Lifted beyond yourself. She is all you need. She was always so. You screamed to exist and she heard you. Now she soothes you with lullabies as your blood fertiles the earth. Her milk is drying up now. Is it too late? Maybe there’s still a chance for redemption. Or maybe we’ll fall into the cracks of her earth as she calls us to return. Always and again. Maybe you’ll be lucky and move within her great belly as a humpback whale in the song of time. Maybe you’ll whirlwind through her jurassic breath into a jungle of green as always was in the native times before everything began to fall. Just as the tower of Babel crumbled to become pure again. For when the temple is overtaken by thieves, it must undo itself to ask for a blessing. It is one cycle of fish after another. Can you hear that? The gentle thunder? And so, the gathering begins. Her great drum roll throughout the universe. Go make your wish. Maybe she will hear you. Nina Nazir Nina Nazir (she/her) is a British Pakistani poet, writer and fine artist based in Birmingham, UK. She has been widely published online and in print. You can usually find her surrounded by books, making art or putting one word in front of the other. You can also find her at her blog Sunra Rainz where she regularly shares poetry, art and book reviews. ** Wool, Weaving, Warp and Weft Bulging skirts, sturdy shoes, hats of the old-fashioned lampshade kind. Swollen fingers, balls of wool, the colours of the Andean earth-- the colours the Inka knew and those who came before. Not quite brown. Not quite green. Not quite red. The loom between their legs, they sit on the stressed grass of an early Peru summer at 3,500 m above sea level. The warp, The weft. The warp, The weft. The warp, The weft. Taking wool from the not quite brown, the not quite green, the not quite red: The colours of Pachamama, who gives and takes life, the mother who receives blood sacrifices, the woven cloths that warm the dead. Rose Mary Boehm Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels, short stories, eight poetry collections and one chapbook, her poetry has been published widely, mostly in US poetry reviews (online and print). She is a several times Pushcart and a Best of Net nominee. All her books are available on Amazon. A new full-length collection, My Father’s Sky has been published in July of this year. Her earlier collection, Life Stuff, has just received a five-star rating from Reader’s Choice Book Awards and is a bronze winner. See more on her website: https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/ ** The Hard-Earned Harvest Our 12-by-24-foot plot sits in the northeast corner of the community garden. It’s a rental with an affordable seasonal rate. The kale basil and romaine lettuce flourish in the middle. Mingling in red rust and sage the pepper and tomato plants enrich the border. Like anything worthwhile it takes care time and effort. When it rains we’ve a sense of relief. The United States of America could be viewed as one big garden plot a place where its inhabitants have the ability to flourish no matter what sort of patch parcel or lot. When The People’s House is tangled in weeds what a sense of relief it will be to elect a new Gardener-in-Chief– someone who cares will take the time and effort to nurture growth wash away the streaks of disregard– someone who will serve the hard-earned harvest of its citizens. Jeannie E. Roberts Jeannie E. Roberts writes poetry and prose influenced by memory, the human experience, and the natural world. A visual artist and the author of nine books, her latest full-length poetry collection is titled On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing (Kelsay Books, 2025). Her work can be found in journals, magazines, and anthologies, both print and digital formats. From 2018 to 2026, she served as a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs. ** You Know Cradling the battered package, you toss your sweaty gloves on the mudroom floor, wipe your brow, then head into the kitchen where she greets you with a kiss on the nose and a frosty glass of lemonade. “Hey garden-guy,” she says, “you look parched.” You smile back as her eyes land on the banged-up box you just brought in. “What did they do, drop-kick it?” “The delivery driver placed it right in my hands, said it looked like that when he loaded it onto the truck this morning.” You’re apprehensive as you hand it to her, watch her scrutinize the black Sharpie-scribble where a return address once was. And just above the scribble, in spiky script, three initials: Y.K.W. “You Know Who,” she says aloud, and then, “It’s from Mark, a couple weeks late, but he remembered my birthday after all.” You can tell she’s pleased, but you know whatever’s in the box won’t be a thoughtful gift, because your brother-in-law is not that type. She’s got the boxcutter and she’s smiling as she slices the tape and eases open the half-crushed container. You watch as she lifts the lid of the interior box and her face clouds. Your chest tightens. She turns wordlessly and shows you what the brother she helped raise sent her, in the middle of an August heatwave, two weeks late for a birthday even an orangutan could remember: 8/8. The molded bonbons have melted into amorphous blobs, but it’s the streaks of coloured cocoa butter and luster dust, festive in holiday colours, that bring it all home. Her lower lip is trembling, because damned if these aren’t the same artisanal chocolates she sent him for Christmas, not last winter, but twenty months ago. He must have shoved the box in a cupboard. Until now. “You know what I’d like to say to You Know Who?” and before she can respond, you scoop up some of the warm chocolate and fling it at the white kitchen wall. It slides down, leaving brown and green and red streaks before flobbing onto the floor. “You’re slime.” “SLIME!” she shouts and hurls a fistful of goo. And now the two of you are flinging and laughing and wiping sticky fingers on your gardening pants. Soon the box is empty and the wall is a canvas and your pants are a canvas and your hands are gooey monster fingers you wiggle at her as she screams and runs with you close behind, and you know that later, when she is resting, you will sneak downstairs and clean all this up, the part of the mess you can touch, the part you can fix. Tracy Royce Tracy Royce is a writer with fiction in 100 Word Story, Bending Genres, Flash the Court, and MacQueen’s Quinterly. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions, and her story "Sibling Rivalry" was selected for Best Microfiction (2026). Find her on Bluesky. ** Reign Its meaning is paragon of its sound - glorious grand gold, but to be all of that at once it must be what it doesn’t voice – hard, as in the case of its homophonic twin – rain – which pours when snatching the power from heaven reigning in line only with its own perspective as in dan’s deliberate design where the strenuous vertical signs are aiming to raise their dominance: some with thick body augment some with clear colour accent some with tricky central advent, yet adjoined in the effort to tame the subversive vanishing point reigning over the perspective with such an operose swipe that its birthright leap is nowhere to be reaped. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas, MA in Philology and Philosophy, writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and her poems have often been honoured by The Ekphrastic Review and its challenges. Her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europa Edizioni 2021. ** Weaver took tufted moss & silvered lichen marsh marigold bog myrtle arctic willow from the north & petal-stain of lupins from Icelandic lava-fields purple as Scottish heather first dried them all then soaked them making pots of dye took wool & steeped it in dark pools for days & sombre days spun it in twisted strands hung for a blowing window frame then knotted all for warp shoved shuttle back & forth, forth & back for weft-- to make his family tartan of poor wetland plants-- rich moorland cloth Lizzie Ballagher Ballagher's focus is on landscapes, both interior and exterior; also on the beauty of nature. Having studied in England, Ireland, and the USA, she worked in education and publishing. Her poems have appeared in print and online in all corners of the English-speaking world. Find her blog at https://lizzieballagherpoetry.wordpress.com/ ** space heater space heater glow warms worn linoleum Robin White * A Quiet Menace Cloudy day, a quiet menace Reflective thoughts, a tapestry Ideas fleeing, a travesty In muted savageness Reflective thoughts, a tapestry Cloudy day, a quiet menace Robin White Robin is a lifelong poet, writer, painter, collagist, and mixed media artist. She was born and raised in a small gown in Georgia, USA and can drive on a wet red clay road without going in the ditch. She loves music from gospel to hair metal. Going thrifting and antiquing followed by good food and good company is a perfect day. Her dream is to live on the beach at her favorite place in the world, Jekyll Island, GA. ** Owed to Dan Smith Dear Dan Dear Dan My dear older brother It’s a hard hard reign that’s gonna fall You and your memories dwell no more in possibilities no more dribbling paint upon your canvases No more stories of planting birdseeds no more waiting for baby birds to emerge from the earth It’s a hard hard rain that’s gotta fall My words too slide sideways They’ve got nada más to say after averring all what’s true as profs are wont to do And now and now I scrumble my phrases whilst the storm she rages And my spelling’s been struck from the pages Donna-Lee Smith As you may imagine, there are many dan smiths out there and one of them happens to be my older brother, who also happens to be a painter —but alas he is not the dan smith of this current challenge. Sadly, like many of us, my brother struggles with dementia and dribbles paint no more upon his canvases.... ** Bad Architects The gods built badly. That's what we learned after the seventh temple fell: no foundation, no drainage, no provision for winter. They knew how to make thunder. They did not know where to put the rain. Once, they said, the red tower belonged to the god of war, the green one to harvest, the black one— that's always been up for debate. We have become very good at forgetting which god destroyed us. We live beneath them now. We patch the roofs, scrape their names from the stone. The gods haven't been seen in years. Still, whenever it rains, something ancient comes down with it. Isabella Nesheiwat * A Hard Reign I keep calling them buildings because I need them to be buildings. Three above, one below, all carrying the same weather in their bones. Once, briefly, I thought they were people standing shoulder to shoulder with their heads cut off. But the longer I look the less certain I am there are walls at all. The white around them Refuses to explain anything. It is not sky, nor snow, nor emptiness. It is simply what remains when the artist decides not to tell us. I have spent an hour trying to make a kingdom out of four rectangles. The painting does not forgive me for wanting it to mean something. It just keeps raining. Isabella Nesheiwat Isabella Nesheiwat is a fiction and poetry writer based in Southern California. Much of her work explores mythology, identity, and the tension between inheritance and self-invention. Her debut collection, Turning & Turning, was self-published in 2025. She is currently at work on a contemporary horror retelling series set in the Pacific Northwest. ** Shale Civilizations lay their seeds. Heritages prosper. Peace reigns. By the river, love blossoms. By the river, little paths wind, Wild flowers grow Aging in the shadows. In distant music and laughter. Souls are lost-and found By the river. Until a shadow cuts the sky. The boathouses. The playgrounds. The domes. Ploughing the earth, Dividing the air. Aborting togetherness. The quiet that ensues -- Clawing at the earth. Cries and despair. Killed landscapes Stacked upon one another. By the river Streaked in blood. We etch the lines by the rivers -- Rivers that once healed. Abha Das Sarma Abha Das Sarma lives in Bengaluru, India. An engineer and management consultant by profession, writing is what makes her happy and fulfilled. Her poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, Silver Birch Press, Blue Heron Review, Poetry X Hunger, here and elsewhere. She has also contributed to several anthologies, Pixie Dust & All Things Magical and Soul Spaces: Poems on Cities, Towns & Villages, among others. ** Pastoral The streets are quiet. Daylight rests on a mattress of sandbags. A girl looks through her apartment window at the gray truce. The weather insinuates no change in the coming hours. Rain stripples her red hair on the glass as she waves to a woman coming home with a bag of groceries. The mother nods, smiling at her daughter, a sapling within the splintered frame, and remembers there are Kalyna bushes rooted in the park. Their berries will ripen and drip torrents of colour in the Autumn smoke. Wendy Howe Author's note: Kalyna berries with their bright red colour (in Ukraine) symbolize life, family roots, and the unbreakable resilience/resistance of the nation. Wendy Howe is an English teacher who lives in California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, women in conflict and history. Application of imagery, personal reflection and rhythmic language are basic elements of her writing style and expression. Over the years, she has been published in a variety of journals. Among them: The Poetry Salzburg Review, The Interpreter's House, Indelible Magazine, The orchards Journal, Songs Of Eretz, Sun Dial Magazine, The Linnet's Wings and many others. ** A Hard Reign We could use a hard rain. The crab grass in the backyard, mowed too close back in July, has turned a brittle yellow, spikes to my tender soles. The dirt’s packed hard underneath my toes, not even thistles thrive this summer of drought. Drought, again. And fires everywhere. This is our new normal, not just fire but brimstone. Hell on earth. And yet. There are glimmers of green. Down by the creek bed, a trickle coaxes wild bergamot, swamp milkweed from red clay, draws monarchs, ruby-throated hummingbirds, buzzing bumblebees. Some days I can believe that all we need is one massive storm front to move through, towering black cumulonimbus clouds blown in on chill winds to crash and clash with the suffocating humid heat that hovers above, to reign down hail and heavy raindrops, to cleanse the streets, wash away our sins, fill our cisterns to overflowing, make all things new. We could use a fresh start. Jennifer Hernandez Jennifer Hernandez teaches immigrant youth and writes poetry, flash, and creative non-fiction. Her words can be found in public installations, literary journals, and spoken into the air. Recent homes for her work include Silver Birch Press, Talking Stick, Agates, and the Detroit Lakes Flowerpot Poetry Walk. Pushcart-nominated, Jennifer has newly transitioned into the role of president of the League of Minnesota Poets and believes that through the power of language we can change the world. ** The Day the House Fell 7pm: His admission of his many affairs. Each sordid detail an axe to the walls of our Gottman house. Chest tight, vomit in my throat, hands numb. Pausing my breath didn’t pause reality. “Please hold me.” “I will hold you.” “Please stay home with me.” “I will keep you safe in our home.” Unable to sleep, I watched the walls split open. My recent coat of paint was still pristine, but now I smelled the rot beneath it. 7am: His abscondment from my pain. His sunrise promises to stay became the creak of the garage door and the revving engine. I ran outside with one slipper on, just in time to watch his bumper turn the corner. I collapsed in the middle of the road. My screams shattered our windows and cracked our drywall. I rubbed paint on the walls with my bare hands until my fingertips streaked them with blood. 7pm: His homecoming to a broken wife. He sauntered aside to send comforting texts to his collection of women. The weight-bearing walls of trust and commitment had been held up by me alone. I had mistaken my devotion for ours. The house crumbled above me as he grinned in the glow of his phone. I had nowhere to put the love I felt for him. Our future fell with the roof and cracked my skull wide open. 7am: His recent date left me a voicemail. I crawled out of the rubble, sat in the dust, and listened to her pain. Everything I had painted beautifully was now wreckage. The remains of our foundation washed out from under me. I sat alone in our burned-down home. I mixed my blood and tears with the dust, and I tried to build our walls again. I had enough love to rebuild the house, but no one to come home to. Alexandra Fritz Alexandra Fritz is based in Los Angeles and roams whenever possible. Inspired by social justice and the complications of being human, her work searches for dignity in difficult circumstances and the moments that reveal our shared humanity. Note: Gottman’s Sound Relationship House is a model of a healthy relationship that uses the metaphor of a house to describe key aspects of strong relationships, including trust, commitment, effective communication, and shared meaning. **  Mediterranean, by Nicolas de Stael (France, b. Russia) 1952 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 Mediterannean, by Nicolas De Stael. Deadline is August 28, 2026. 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 DE STAEL 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, August 28, 2026. 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.  Landscape, by John Wesley Hardrick (USA) c. 1930-1940 Gaea, Goddess of the Earth “When the well is dry, we will know the worth of water.” ~Benjamin Franklin Below the pastel parade the Chantilly cream of clouds the sheen of green softens beneath the yellow rustle of leaves. Near the dense blend of forest arboreal elders stand atop the rocks of ages shade the shoreline reflect buoyancy. Amidst the cascade of gifts Gaea sustains life itself– she offers us a glass of water day in and day out– goddess willing. Jeannie E. Roberts Jeannie E. Roberts is a poet, visual artist, and the author of nine books. Her latest full-length poetry collection is titled On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing (Kelsay Books, 2025). From 2018 - 2026, she served as a poetry editor for Halfway Down the Stairs. She finds joy spending time outdoors and with loved ones. ** The Bridge A long ago At the dawn of Creation There was a bridge That unified the banks of the river That unified birth and death The Inhabitants who lived nearby Called this bridge Life Time The Time of life Over the unknown Over the emptiness Where all was possible Dreams have become reality Today the bridge is gone Only the will to live remains Only the Present Only a peaceful Landscape Jean Bourque Jean Bourque is from Montreal. ** Creative Vision In the half-open space between water and sky mist rises above old growth firs, the smell of green comes from everything, grassy banks, pinecones, conifer needles, nurse logs with unearthed bark, and with all these forest floor smells, I still want more. Spider webs spread low, dew catches sun’s light, fresh holds the morning. This could be a woodland dream, perhaps I slept too deep, but no, as sun hits water, fish feed, ripples appear. Round the bend ducks fly in, wings beat hard, sounds flutter, slap the air. Above the tree canopies elbowed wings carry a feathered belly with sooty stripes, keen eyes scan for silver and fins. Whether a vision, or a real scene, skin, bones, muscles and grace all rejoice in this wild place. Ursula McCabe Ursula McCabe sold wine in Portland, Oregon for many years. Her work can be seen in Piker Press, Oregon Poetry Association, The North Coast Squid, Bluebird Word, and The Ekphrastic Review. She likes the ocean, forests, lots of birds and shopping at thrift stores. ** Moving Like A River …comings and goings from miles away that hold the stillness exactly before us. William Stafford, "Ask Me" Light reassembles daily on branches overhung with river’s moods and birds like airy stones that skip across. Sky’s breath collects in clouds. Painter at home in his nest, brushes dipped in sungold. No place else to be, no race to be superior. No gatekeepers but his eye, his talent, skill. Nothing but esteem, exhibit awards for best of his people. Every day, watch the river propel itself, its own design and power moving past borders, flooding over banks even though confined. Lynn Axelrod Lynn Axelrod's work has appeared in various journals and outlets such as The Ekphrastic Review, Sheila-Na-Gig, Orchards Poetry Journal, California Quarterly; has been anthologized, most recently in Freedom Of New Beginnings: Poems of Witness And Vision; and was featured in the San Francisco Chronicle. Her work is in the James Joyce Library Special Collections, University College, Dublin. She is working on her third chapbook. ** Boreal Villanelle Sun pours molten into the lake. Loon bares its white heart. Its red eye. White pines lie down on the water and love themselves. Heron flies the shoreline in a blue cape. Chipping sparrow strikes its flint. Sun pours molten into the lake. Ruby-throat hummingbird: glowing embers. Yellow Swallowtail butterfly flits Star flower to Dandelion. White pines lie down on the water and love themselves. I dip my paddle, a spoon to my lips. Ventriloquist loon throws his voice. Sun pours molten into the lake. Cedars exhale. Moist breath on my face. The lake liquifies my heart. White pines lie down on the water and love themselves. Campfire smoulders. Its red eye. Osprey coasts on a hot thermal. Sun pours molten into the lake. White pines lie down on the water and love themselves. Kate Rogers Kate Rogers’ new poetry collection, Baba Yaga and the Girl Who Ate the Rope, is out now with Frontenac House. She won first prize in subTerrain Magazine’s Lush Triumphant Award for her five-poem suite, “My Mother’s House.” Kate’s work has appeared in Pinhole Poetry, The Windsor Review and World Literature Today, among other journals. ** The Truth About Lakes Don’t listen to what they say. A lake can be a blessing or a curse. Its waters reflect and absorb at the same time, produce and consume in like manner. Gaze upon it at your own risk, for what you see looks back. One of you is distorted. Look closely: The forest in the lake and the forest above it. The clouds. The sky. What is reflected is beyond reflection. A lake carries you into recesses of feeling, writes Wordsworth, otherwise impenetrable. Plath looked into it, hopeful at first, then dolefully. In me, says the lake, she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish. There is a haunting beauty here, and a beautiful haunting. I admire it from a distance, this bucolic scene. But I will not look into it. Don’t listen to what they say. Ron Wetherington Ron Wetherington is a retired professor of anthropology. He has published a novel, Kiva (Sunstone Press), and numerous short fiction, prose poems and literary essays. Read some of his work at https://www.rwetheri.com/ ** Billowing Billowing life is the essence-- Secrets concealed in its fold, Wild, unrestrained, and untold, Hide in its green opalescence. Billowing whiteness of heaven-- Breath from a passionate lung, Ever renewed, ever young-- Rises like luminous leaven. Under the surface, a riot, Raging in torrents unseen, Mirrors the white and the green-- Billowing, hidden and quiet. Iryna Hall Iryna Hall immigrated to the US from Ukraine in 1997. She is married, with three children, and lives in Utah. Iryna writes while managing multiple sclerosis. ** The Manifold Matrix The manifold matrix multiplies its magic, This way I hear the radius say each line of number is a prayer I pray. I follow the outline and trace the plot, gracing each spot as parallel zigzag motion rises. I zoom out to find no commotion, only magnification and movement in time and space. Gravity is a rhyme so sublime, nestled within time and paced, Within a mathematical place where pi winks its eye at me. Light curves along the horizon and I am free, a shadow humming through a black hole wonder while the universe tears itself asunder. The stars smile as my earth family tries to predict and frame a destiny. Me and you, three, one, and two, are triangular explanations of symmetry. I ask the universe to sing its hymn to me, expending every virtue toward every dividend. Time is a fractal, a spectacular tactical enactment, With all the atoms breathing between me and you. It is true, and they say there is nothing, I say look deep down, just look, find the intuitive mathematical muck, bathe in it, then save with it. All while the multiverse continues its dance Within every solar stance, numbers hum and the big bang fires its gun. Architecture bends and strings climb through the vortex, and I wonder what we will call ourselves when we reach this intergalactic interval. Will we feel the future’s clause and its power, stars disguised as principles all too smart for planetary darts. Sunlight dawns in every universal day as I gather the knowledge needed for the journey to come We rise above inner hells with fire inside, learning through experience, with wings to fly. Magic becomes mathematics as vectors chase light, fractions of traction pulse grace and presence with little or no regard for the energetic expense. Ciara Byrne Gaffney Ciara is a poet based in Dublin Ireland who writes at the intersection of art, science, and imagination. Her work engages deeply with visual prompts, using mathematical metaphor, cosmic movement, and introspective inquiry to create layered responses to the world around her. ** Heaven I’ve dreamed of heaven before. Verdant forests with calm river flow where peace was felt in my core Knowing what the gods have in store this life’s chances I will not blow. I’ve dreamed of heaven before. The lights shine on that distant shore: the promise is there, I know, and I will feel peace in my core. It’s the same for all, rich or poor: we all can bask in this serene glow. I’ve dreamed of heaven before. Though the dream ended, I swore: I believe, there’s no need to show; this eternal peace is felt in my core. It’s hard to believe in times of war when pain is all life seems to bestow, but I’ve dreamed of heaven before and felt its peace in my core. Michelle Garren-Flye ** the waterfall while the lush green trees sit peacefully amid the wind, the roaring waterfall rushes down into the stream below. yet, unbeknownst to the human eye, a sad truth awaits the cascade. with every drop of water, nothing even attempts to grasp and save it; they simply let it fade out of existence, another drop among countless others. however, when it comes to the animals living on the land, everyone will do everything within their ability to save, to preserve, to support. but the waterfall keeps on living. rushing, roaring, plummeting. just like any other day. Arynne Chang Arynne Chang is a 16-year-old high school student with a passion for poetry and songwriting. Her work often explores themes of memory, time, and the human experience through layered metaphors and reflective storytelling. Outside of writing, she enjoys composing music and discovering new ways to tell meaningful stories through both poetry and song. ** Another River Again, I find I am writing of rivers. Their water is always with me. A daughter of Venezuela, I swam the Orinoco River—a tadpole ghost frog, green body swishing. Later, my body was a rainbow trout in the Au Sable, the Holy Waters flanked by state forests, canopied in chilly Michigan wind, lapping water and the soft flicks of fly fishing. Now, I am just a human woman, middle-aged, who hikes among the trees of Pennsylvania, the place that finally felt like home. I knew because it smelled like green and rivers ran through it. The forests were never far away. I could visit my frog and fish relatives, remind them of me. Janette Schafer Janette Schafer is a poet, photographer, playwright, a realtor living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She holds an MFA in poetry from Chatham University. She is the author of three collections of poetry and the chief editor of two poetry anthologies. Her writing and photographs have appeared in numerous journals, newspapers, and websites, including Vox Populi, The Missouri Review, The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, and Eunoia Review. She is a winner of the Academy of American Poets Prize. ** This City When my brushes and I wander away for a day, we float with the clouds, their glow of rose reflecting in the river, and, fading from sight, all the leaves on the trees curling toward the river we cross on a fallen limb, like a road to carry us home to our city that beckons us always. My art is at home there. Donna Reiss Writer, editor, teacher, bookmaker, and mixed media/paper artist, Donna lives in Greenville, South Carolina, where she is a member of the Greenville Center for Creative Arts, the Guild of American Papercutters, and the Poetry Society of South Carolina. Follow her on Instagram @dreissart ** A Land Untouched Lush. Ripe. Verdant. Full foliage in bright sun. Lands untouched by humanity, human pollution, or waste. Imagined dinosaurs graze on the top leaves of trees, unconcerned with tiny beings on the river. Rocs and pterodactyls soar overhead, riding updrafts and screeching with the joy of freedom. Heavy, full air pushes deep into your lungs, far beyond the thin gasps from the city. A pulp magazine paradise that may never exist again. Brydon Caldwell Brydon Caldwell is a long time teacher and emerging writer from the western edge of the Canadian Shield. He was recently named the winner of the 2026 Icelandic Festival of Manitoba Short Story Contest. His writing can be found in The Ekphrastic Review, The Fib Review, and the upcoming Fear Dealer, Opolis 2026, and Still From Somewhere anthologies. ** Reflections As if it's always been this way; once ochre sunlight sweeps the river of mist, a glass reflection reveals elms hovering over elms, maples rising above maples, and pine boughs curving over their bristled duplicate-- a miraculous duality that is after all significant beyond numbers an illusion of light creating one vision out of two a river inverted as a mirror time swept over a waterfall as if it's always been this way as it will be today. Daniel Warren Brown Daniel Warren Brown is a retired special education teacher who began writing poetry as a senior. At age 72 he published his first collection, an exploration of family titled Family Portraits in Verse, and Other Illustrated Poems. Daniel has been published in various journals and anthologies, most recently Jerry Jazz Musician, Chronogram Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review and Kinds of Cool, an anthology of jazz poetry. He was included in Arts Mid-Hudson's Poets Respond To Art in 2022-23. Daniel writes each day about music, art and whatever else captures his imagination. ** Keeping it Real with John Westley Hardrick Your partial namesake painted Double, Pairs, and Diptychs,—not you John Wesley Hardrick, a Hoosier Group impressionist master artist, whose delicate touch applied oil on canvas with masterful brushstrokes invoked indelible spirits and reenergized a mundane, forgettable landscape painting of any Indiana River that renewed vigor and life through eyes of commoners who recognized the shape of a distant organic bridge linking mighty banks where water catapulted past rocks, raced over nearby falls, and rushed their way down to local lakes and tributaries to give Hardrick’s pastoral paintings depth and perspective in a world too often appreciated and defined by its multidimensional nature rather than a forest green heartbeat denoting new beginnings along a waterway that reinvented its precise course through reeds, driftwood, and moss on a daily basis, making each new salmon run a challenge, best fishing holes a crapshoot, secret get-a-way knowledge partly guesswork. Oh, but you never planned, cultivated, or cared about a single vision perceived identically—person to person—through time in memorium; the essence of your Indianapolis landscapes and portraits captured nature’s naked beauty, now and into perpetuity, overwhelming static interpretation. Sterling Warner An award-winning author, poet, and English Professor, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared many literary magazines and anthologies including The Raven’s Perch, LothlórienPoetry Journal, and Ekphrastic Review. Warner’s collections of poetry include Rags and Feathers, Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Edges, Memento Mori: A Chapbook Redux, Serpent’s Tooth, Flytraps, Cracks of Light: Pandemic Poetry & Fiction, Halcyon Days: Collected Fibonacci, Abraxas, Gunills’s, Garden: Poetry, Seaboard Magic (2026)—as well as Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories. Currently, Warner writes, hosts/participates in “virtual” poetry readings, and enjoys retirement in Washington. ** John Wesley Hardrick’s Dreams In his basement studio, he recaptures reflections growing underwater forests churning waters clumped like clouds river banks a slather of oil slick colors. And travels with Lady X after her abandonment at the train station moving hand-to-hand town-to-town home-to-home incognito steady gaze bringing change. Jennifer Hobart After a career in healthcare data and analytics, Jennifer Hobart is picking up writing again. She recently attended the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop. ** Making Contact Divided by a river, the banks observe each other Trees on each side, struggle to look more proud Yet whether accident or design, one reaches out A bridge between perspectives, and yet in a way With more in common than in reality, separates Water flows slowly beneath, as history ever does Glancing up and briefly holding it in its reflection Clouds look down, almost nodding at the scene Nature senses an important connection is made Yet just took only one perhaps fortuitous event Maybe chance played a part, but meaning stays Across the divide Leaning, bending and touching Began something new Howard Osborne Howard is a UK citizen, retired. Published author of non-fiction reference book, scientific papers and poetry. Interests mainly creative writing (poetry, novel, short stories, songs and scripts), music and travel. ** Adversity in Diversity Our privilege, John’s painting skill, imagined dreams beyond his lot - Kentucky Night Riders, failed kill, their hooded incites, escapades; his insights of more glowing scapes, the land more kindly than its folk. Did "Methodist" sustain at all beyond first chapel display site, as works were lost, unclaimed through cost - redemption from Railway Express - that patrons bloomed beyond his real of carpet cleaning, meeting ends? The writing on the wall proclaimed rejected murals came with price - as "aspirations lowered" claimed - but bared the truth, unrecognized, that molten metal was the charge - a milieu framed by labour’s sweat. From trucking to the taxi trunk - a sales pitch point in later years - for prizes, medals, lowly paid; that foundry where he earned his keep. Discarded, re-imagined work found home at last in public park. This peaceful calm remarkable, though surface tension floats through scene, a mirrored theme through outcast works, the schemes of those throughout his class. Unbalanced treatment, Parky sign, exhibited for those who see. 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 ** No Home Beyond the Easel Pearled into one that hasn't already been painted. The river quickens into whirlpools -- the dance of light you see on a polecat's back shortly before it disappears into a terrain of dark canopy that never stops climbing. The river has no home beyond the artist's easel, waiting for the paint to dry. The sky is a chalky cobalt blue. Trees lean in like maulsticks. Over a prism of reflection -- blue blends into black and back to blue, pearled into one. Mark Heathcote Mark’s poems are published in journals, magazines, and anthologies in both online and printed forms. Residing in the UK from Manchester, he is the author of In Perpetuity and Back on Earth, two books of poems published by Creative Talents Unleashed. ** Bucolic Scene belies what has shuddered through my life. And oh, how the placid lake and me, we let the ripples run Let them rush on, collecting into tumultuous churning -- below, steel blue and grey-white, underneath our charmed facade. On the canvas, I stroked verdant foliage to life, tossed brilliant petals in my own divine arrangement, my own freedom to choose. My grandfather was a free man, a Kentucky landowner, but just like the river and me, he had to run on. Night Riders were closing in, and he didn’t hesitate, he chose escape, and with my grandma and their weeping children, they ran further North-free again, yet burdened by multiple losses: Our home, surrounded by acreage, nearby family, animals, friends. Beyond his lifetime, and mine, this will be known as “Generational trauma” but back then, his example to us all was “Move ever forward.” His foresight saved my father, his siblings, grandma, our entire family legacy. And I was taught to push trauma down, to the bottom of the frame- where my artist eye could observe it without wincing, the fury contained forever in the work, below. My artist hands, turned browner in the sun, were not besmirched by their colour, this quality unseen in the work. Yet some can sense a special glow- It’s my soul, It’s my soul. Debbie Walker-Lass Debbie Walker-Lass, (she/her) is a poet, collage artist, and writer living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Collaborature, The Rockvale Review, Green Ink Poetry, Punk Monk, Poetry Quarterly, The Light Ekphrastic and The Niagara Poetry Journal, among others. Debbie was proud to be nominated by TER for the Best Small Fictions, 2024 anthology. Debbie is an avid Tybee Island beachcomber and lover of all things nature. ** Beneath For weeks Mara researched deep sea creatures, devoured ichthyological texts, scoured the Internet for visual reference. And with painstaking attention to detail, she’d created a creature with tentacles tethered to biology, but which had nonetheless emerged from the depths of her imagination. After her presentation, it took mere minutes to paint it away. The presentation had flopped; Dr. Hardy had lived up to his name once again. “You’ve painted a competent landscape in the style of John Wesley Hardrick, then defaced it by plonking this cartoon cryptid in the foreground.” She’d tried to defend the work, but he’d cut her off. “If you want to throw in with the pop surrealists, you’re in the wrong MFA program. Your thesis exhibition is coming up, Mara. Think about it.” She had thought about it, and what pained her more than the rebuke was the thought of her student loans, and what it would mean to shoulder all that debt with no degree to show for it. So, she applied the white, burying her creature beneath a placid reflection of clouds. Or, she mused, perhaps the white mass was a plume of water, splashing upward as something substantial submerged itself. Not gone forever, but biding its time just below the surface. Something strange and unique and powerful, something patient and certain to reemerge. Tracy Royce Tracy Royce is a writer with fiction in 100 Word Story, Bending Genres, Flash Frontier, and MacQueen’s Quinterly. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions, and her story, “Sibling Rivalry,” was selected for Best Microfiction (2026). Find her on Bluesky. ** The Inquest Last night I wrote you a letter, its words breeding a poem. This morning I walk into the mountains, their waterfall rushing with emotion, my handwriting on a page of white vellum... Helga Gundersen I My father died and always said his soul would become his passport back to a land where lindens whispered old secrets and their deepest fragrance at dusk. II My father died and left us his other life, a journal of stories sitting under dust and lamplight. Inside, a sheet of paper was folded, slipped into the heart of his hand-written pages. We were surprised and read the poem learning that a young woman grieved the man who had forsaken her. The air damp and her cold fingers catching the sudden fall of tears. III My breath gone, cobwebs spun from its dust and a red moon bleeding through the mist as pathos fills the woods, the pastures like a herding song, .a calling back of what's been lost, emptied into the glacial. thaw pouring its cascade over a broken bridge of bark, a breach of trust,,, These images and more spilled from that woman's tongue long before our birth. Yet, we now become the donees of her song inhaling the scent of wine and candles. Their flames peaked along with our curiosity as we surmise -- she could have been the daughter of a farmer or school master, someone my father loved months before he left Sweden, someone who wrote letters that were never answered. A girl who had a miscarriage and afterwards walked the pier; her blonde hair measuring the wind's intensity her eyes watching ice drown in the rush of melting water. The river wide and waiting. the fir trees mantled with blue sunlight, the lindens just beginning to leaf. Wendy Howe Wendy Howe is an English teacher who lives in California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, women in conflict and history. Application of imagery, personal reflection and rhythmic language are basic elements of her writing style and expression. Over the years, she has been published in a variety of journals. Among them: The Poetry Salzburg Review, The Interpreter's House, Indelible Magazine., The orchards Journal, Songs Of Eretz, Sun Dial Magazine, The Linnet's Wings and many others. ** Down the Green Valley Down the Green Valley the runnel flows gathering leaves, twigs, bubbles: fish blows following wake to caress the shore. Old man casts line; young man thinks it a bore. Meaning of life in a pool, old man knows. Bait, throw, reel, bait, throw, reel. Old man slows. Walk along muddy banks . Sun glows - perfect spot, resting on the lore down the green valley Frogs splash, bugs fly. Fate only throws A moment. The old man sighs, bestows life, if only young man walks through the door. But, he moves to cars, girls, days of teen core. Old man nods, youth will learn he supposes down the green valley. Robin White Robin is a lifelong creative: poet, writer, painter, collagist, and mixed media artist. She was born and raised and lives in a small gown in Georgia, USA. She loves music from gospel to hair metal. Going thrifting and antiquing followed by good food and good company is a perfect day. Her dream is to live on the beach at her favorite place in the world, Jekyll Island, GA. ** A Moment in Time How does one capture a moment, a feeling, an expression and encompass it all in one single work of art? I’ll tell you how I do it. My family and I work together to create one cohesive masterpiece.
In a general overview, this is how I preserve a special moment in time. What do you do? Kindest Regards and Well Wishes, Maple Brush Katie L. Davey Katie L. Davey is an aspiring author from the rural parts of St. Louis, Missouri. She acquired her BFA in Creative Writing, with minors in Equestrian Studies and Psychology, at Stephens College in May 2024. There she worked on Harbinger Magazine as a staff intern and is a member of Stephens College's chapter of Sigma Tau Delta. She has published six pieces through six separate challenges for The Ekphrastic Review, the most recent being "A Humble Request" as part of the Skyllas Challenge. ** In Xandiana An African-American Evoked this scene, not by decree But his own hand: a seeing man, He raised blue hills where water ran Here for the world to see. To buy this now would be a sound Investment, but the artist found Too few who bought, in spite of all his skills, And though he dreamed in Xanadu for free, He drove a taxicab to pay the bills, And sold his visions incidentally. This makes one think how many were Stripped of chances by the law: But think of all that Hardwick made: The faces and the views portrayed, Scenes of living grace galore. Remembering the human price, Be grateful for whatever led This Indiana artist's head To Kubla's kind of paradise. Ruth S. Baker Ruth S. Baker has published in some online poetry journals. She has a special love for animals and visual art. ** The Holy Water Let me live and die in the kindness of this holy water. The welcoming beauty of life unknown. To submerge in the mystery of life. With the sacredness of a Baptism. Let me sink -drown and be born again. Where did this blue world come from. A mysterious land of water and silk. Of endings and beginnings. Of life untouched. Of purity so bright it hurts my eyes, And makes me love all that is. To swim - to paint . No judgement . No pain. Just of sea of beauty To fall back to the animals and live. To be holy again. Sandy Rochelle Sandy is an internationally published poet, actress, filmmaker, and voice over artist. A Voting Member of the Recording Academy in the Spoken Word Category. Grammy and Emmy nominated. Publications include Impspired, Dissident Voice, Verse Virtual, Amethyst Review, Wild Word, Haiku Universe, One Art, and others. ** To John Wesley Hardrick Regarding Landscape You overwhelm the eye with rich detail -- some softened by the mist becomng veil -- in what I see as portraiture of lands that adds another sense to eye and hand's iconic feel for yield of time's terrain so nurtured by the flowing through its vein of many rains as manna heaven sent, though random, reassuring as intent to be for faith enduring promise kept by torrents and by tears that softly wept would destine such abundance to evolve adapting as it must with firm resolve to rise above the stolid earth and stone as future's kernel yet again regrown. 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. ** During the Walk The clouds are anonymous cumulo-nimbus lines that perch atop the green hued dreams. Cupping the long arch of a path divergent in the forest, the trees cluster amidst the continuous ringing cries of cicadas and crickets. There is no respite from the high decibel songs now monsoon’s here. The land came first and then the sprinkle of trees and then the white barks that stand clothed in the shadows. The water here is a mirror, affording an honest straight forward reflection of all the thoughts that are ferried by the cool morning scented breeze. Why are they ferried everywhere we go? Like the hidden cost of a burden one doesn’t really need. Beyond the curtains of mist, rise the hills. Beyond the trees the terrain extends an invitation for the walk towards the great within. The footsteps are mere intimations of yearning outlined in the wet mud. The shapes you leave behind on the soil are not yours to carry. Step lightly. The feathery air will still know you were here. The lake does not whisper any clues but the spot in the middle which is a soft stroke in silence. The bank curves. The still waters navigate deep into this land of wisdom, this sky that holds the blue, the reminiscence of a knowing sun that lights up the façade of memories. The hidden frogs, the beetles, the ants, camouflage purposefully in time although everything is moving towards night. The gift of a rustle, the benediction of a bird call. Nothing pristine enough for the waters and the leaves to leave untouched. Look into the waters and you will see a face carved with lines. The clouds in the eyes. The heart is a map of choosing wherever you want go. The reflection is a compass on the long way back home. Look up into the distance. The ripples don’t lie. They’ll let you know the breeze here was light, ready to move along with the mind. Preeth Ganapathy Preeth Ganapathy is from Bengaluru, India. Her works have been published in several magazines, more recently, in Pena Literary Magazine, 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. ** |
Challenges
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