 Suitcase, by Nellie Two Bear Gates (USA/Lakota People) 1890-1910.. Photograph by Minneapolis Institute of Art employee., CC0, via Wikimedia Commons. 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 Suitcase, by Nellie Two Bear Gates. Deadline is October 10, 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 GATES 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, OCTOBER 10, 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.
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 Fishermen, by Hector Hyppolite (Haiti) 1946 Going for the Gold The day started out as always. Paulo joined the others as they headed out to sea with their handheld nets. He expected their haul to include parrotfish, small grouper, and snapper. These fish reproduced quickly. They were plentiful. Sometimes the fishermen could hook a sailfish, large grouper, or tuna. More money to turn over to his wife. Paulo quickly scanned the waters, paying particular attention to the known breeding grounds, especially near the reef. He unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt. Sat back in the boat and looked up at the sky. That’s when he saw them. A school of fly fish among the clouds. Gold, red. He could almost hear them squeal with glee as they somersaulted from pillow to pillow. Catching one of these could bring in good money. More money to turn over to his children. He couldn’t vouch for fly fish taste, but their rarity should speak for itself. He grabbed the net and aimed high. He stretched his arms again and again until he felt his muscles tear. And jumped. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner is the author of three poetry chapbooks, including an ekphrastic collection, Poems of the Winter Palace (Bottlecap Press) and a forthcoming ekphrastic poetry collection, The Night Watch (Kelsay Books). Her work has also been featured in more than seventy literary journals. She lives and teaches in New Jersey. Visit her website at www.barbarakrasner.com. ** Fishermen Our nets at the ready We think of our mothers, daughters, sisters, Aunties waiting. How might we outrun the storm To bring them our bounty? So close to the cliff our boat rocks, The fish mock us. We fear the rocks and the rain. These fish have no fear of stormy weather. They leap into our nets as if we were their mothers Calling them to dinner. Will we get home to our own mothers In time for dinner? Their braziers are ready. Our dry clothes, red, yellow, green, are waiting. We must not be late. 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. ** how not to catch a goldfish how to fish but not to disturb the spreading silver so that no small body leaves, or ever has to leave her. When I don’t hold a goldfish, and you don’t catch her, the sea has no orphans, no failing brightness, the gold remaining and the brightness is retained. We stand in the idling boat, threading the white silver with our bare hands. The white never loses her radiance since we decided to leave the goldfish Helen Pletts Helen Pletts: (www.helenpletts.com) Shortlisted five times for Bridport Poetry Prize 2018, 2019, 2022, 2023 and 2024, twice longlisted for The Rialto Nature & Place 2018 and 2022, longlisted for the Ginkgo Prize 2019, longlisted for The National Poetry Competition 2022. Second prize Plaza Prose Poetry 2022-23. Shortlisted Plaza Prose Poetry 2023-24. English co-translator of Ma Yongbo, representative of Chinese Avant-garde poetry. Her poetry is translated into Chinese, Bangla, Vietnamese, Greek, Italian, Arabic, Croatian, Romanian and Korean. ** Fishing When I was a boy, my mother would throw open the back screen door violently and yell my name into the summer Saturday mornings. Usually, I was hidden, beyond the backyard, out of visual range, if not aural. I knew when my father was going fishing, and that she always wanted me to go too. It was not selfish on her part. In the beginning, she wanted him to love me and with time, me him. But I learned to hide. I knew that his wispy patience would evaporate quickly, ending with him grunting loudly, “Maybe next time.” He would drive away, boat in tow, never looking in the mirror, each of us thinking we cared less than the other. We must have repeated a variation of that scene a dozen times. One Saturday, though, she laid in wait and pinned me before I escaped to the outdoors, making me sit and wait for him. When he entered the kitchen, he stared at me blankly realizing I was going along. He asked her about my lunch, to which she smiled and said, “whatever you’re having.” That was inconvenient as he was having beer. He stopped at the corner grocery and bought a cob of white bread, a half pound of pimento loaf, and two warm colas. He handed me the bag wordlessly, and I had nothing to add. My life was simple, but not bologna on white bread simple. We put the boat in on the Scioto River. Two of his friends from Kentucky, or maybe West Virginia, joined us. One of them smacked the back of my head and jokingly called me something vulgar. I don’t remember what. He smiled funny, so I wouldn’t take it poorly. We floated out to some sycamores near the ramp, and they immediately started casting. My father handed me a short pole with a bobber, and a small plastic tub of worms. He set the float about two feet above the hook and said, “when it goes down, you pull up.” I threaded the very end of the worm over the barb, hoping not to hit a vital organ. They laughed, and my father waved one of them off when he started to help me. We caught perhaps a hundred perch or bluegill that day. Each about the size of a grown man’s hand. I caught perhaps four or five myself, one on a hook I forgot to bait. When we got home, my father just said “yes” when my mother asked if I caught any fish. He cleaned them and then cooked them on a charcoal barbecue in the backyard. Smiling, he gave a lot away to neighbors. It was the best day I ever had with him. We did not go fishing again. I joined the Army a few years later, and we saw each other once or twice more before he died. G. L. Walters G. L. Walters lives in Boston, Massachusetts, with his partner and sits in the guestroom writing most days. He holds a J.D. from Cornell, an M.M.A.S. from the School of Advanced Military Studies, and an M.A. in English from SNHU. He is currently writing for an M.F.A. at Lindenwood. ** Deliverance Don’t be guided by me. I am Both more and less than all I seem. My words may glitter, but they are False friends, with mocking smiles and knowing eyes. This gate that I have guarded And for which, even now, I keep the key, Is wide enough for two, provided They walk through it side by side, holding hands. It leads to paradise, they say, And who am I to dispute their wisdom? I’ve watched it, night and day, for many years And yet I’ve never, ever, seen a unicorn. I quite agree. Just what does make paradise? For some it’s sunshine, and lone and level sands, For others, the mere fact of being born. 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 ** Craftmanship I met my wife in Port au Prince, by watchful eyes of Baby Doc; I will forebear to bore withal, not weary with strange circumstance, for fear Tonton Macoute about. Each taxi - Tap-tap - symbols swathed, a syncretistic blend of two, both Voodoo, Roman, catch-all type, dashboard paraphernalia, with Papa’s glower as final power. We learnt photography was out, one’s spirit stolen by the lens; but quite unfair, I took my chance, snapped fisherman atop his mast, before he bore us in his craft. He could not shield his eyes as climbed, for fear the crash would dash on deck; his hands tight wrapped around wood pole, this white man, tourist, flashed his cash, a stash more weighty than man’s food. She dropped sun glasses from boat side while, quick as flash, dugout canoe, a lad had dived, as finding pearl - retrieved and earned his dollar too, with admiration from the crew. We sailed to isle of La Gonâve, saw ceremony on the beach, converted oungan burning books, which incantations stormed his craft, while thunder rolled round heaving seas. I wonder now, some fifty on, that boatman, dare provide the scene - though not pathetic fallacy - the ciné, for tour mission fund, poor sailors of benighted land? Geography was not my strength, so I thought flight Tahiti bound; another art, though less a wife. I’m glad that Haïti entered life - some story for those folk back home. Engaged, for ring, we sponsored child, a Creole speaking girl at school. Her father was of fisherfolk, so she might climb some greasy pole, and wave goodbye to shifting sands. Hyppolyte - his canvas, card, with chicken feathers for a brush, discovered by surreal brand as the Grand Maître of his class - would learn to spread a wider net. 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 ** Big Bro Angles I bet you spotted the vintage net Grandpa bequeathed when fishing first hooked me – now my lucky charm lands me so many trophies. My eye’s snagged on at least ten desirables, plus Junior selling my fresh red snapper before we even reach shore. He handles sales. Says he’d rather do business. Says he didn’t inherit Papa’s sea legs. Peterson’s usual faraway look and slack line show me he’s meditating on lunch or Mirlande. He’s silent like a stealthfin. Doesn’t jig or troll. Doesn’t even read the teeming water or shifting sky. But I notice everything. Think I don’t see you? Helen Freeman Helen writes poems and flash fiction in Edinburgh and particularly loves responding to art. What a cool site this is! Her instagram is @chemchemi.hf ** Ellen’s Story Ellen was too late. The men had already cast off. She watched from the shore as the tide lured the boat away. Quint was at the bow, scowling and swearing, while Hooper fiddled with his equipment. And at the stern was Martin. She had missed her chance to persuade him to stay, to just let the experts hunt without him. Martin, who had narrowly escaped drowning as a child and now feared the water. He was nonetheless determined to help catch the shark that had terrorized their little island community: three people dead in seven days. In her dream the shark took Martin too, Ellen helpless as her husband was severed, consumed. She’d awakened to a tangle of sweat-drenched sheets, the man who’d lain beside her all these years gone. Then she’d run, sock feet slapping the ground all the way to the dock, but too slow, too late. Ellen watched the boat as it carried her husband out to sea, where a dorsal fin pierced the surface, and below... But then Martin looked up at her, raising his hand, and she saw that somehow a flying fish had clamped onto his sleeve. With a flick of his wrist he shook it off, then gave her a wave before turning back to help Hooper. Ellen took a deep breath, inhaling the ocean air, and for a moment it smelled of hope. Tracy Royce * “Ellen’s Story” celebrates the 50th anniversary of Steven Spielberg’s blockbuster, Jaws. Tracy Royce is a writer and poet whose words appear in Bending Genres, Does It Have Pockets?, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Villain Era, and elsewhere. Jaws is her favourite film of all time. You can find her on Bluesky. ** Inheritance What lies ancient, dark, over the ocean the sea-- deep, unending, without form? Our ancestors call us to return, echoing across the ebb and flow of time. Who arrives ready, open and fully awake, shining within what endures? Light glimmers, netted, caught as if in a held breath-- to be released, singing the stars. 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/. ** Brightly Coloured Fishermen You’d think they would be hidden, these brightly coloured fishermen, from the fish beneath them, to be camouflaged from bass and cod, these men donned as polychromed avians seeking to capture herring: like rosy female phalaropes or gannets crowned in golden. Their nets like beaks of red-pouched pelicans and clamps as sleek as a cormorant’s tongs, such is their equipment. The pod of boat that rocks them in the wavering ocean hides them when only seen from the bottom of the salted water sea. Flashy jacketed fishermen, like lures dangling, taunting, hoping for a catch, to load carnelian- patched salmon under the indigo hatch along with iridescent bluefish. When in the mix a luring sound. A low-pitched siren squirming, singing in the rocking hold-- a Mermaid, half woman, holding on, emerging from unknown origin. Silver-scaled, her lower half reveals the mystery of abandoned paramours lost at sea, cast overboard to ever swim in the eddying coves collecting knobby domes of sea urchins in their secret pockets. Brightly coloured fishermen want notice from this damsel through their dress to woo the creature morphing into human when lifted from the hatch, with seaweed dangling from her palms of upraised hands clutching gems of sea glass, their milky hues reflecting vividly jacketed fishermen. Cynthia Dorfman Cynthia Dorfman writes in Maryland and Wisconsin, depending on the season. Her work has appeared in Bramble (literary magazine of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets), Moss Piglet Journal, and A Catalog of Small Machines (online publication of the Driftless Writing Center). ** Agwé’s Believer It was an ordinary day for fishing. The cotton coastal waters were calm though a distant storm brewed in the open ocean. Ten cichlids flopped in their twig-thin nets. The three young fishermen rowed their way back to the beach. Their friend in the crimson shirt was waiting for them. “I see today’s catch was good.” He anchored the boat for them. “Got enough cichlids to sell to the merchants,” the fisherman in the dandelion shirt said. “I’ll make enough money for my family,” the fisherman in the crimson vest said. “The catch was so good because I gave a good tribute to Agwé,” the fisherman in the emerald vest said. His warm-coloured friends stared at him coldly. “Not so loud! You want some nonmblan to hear you?” His friend in the dandelion shirt shushed him. “They’ll burn our boat if they catch on!” “I only spoke the truth…” “We know.” His friend in the crimson vest said. “But if they ask you, just say it was Jesus.” “But…” A red snapper splashed out of the blue and bit the fisherman in the crimson vest. The irritated man flung his arms like worms wriggling on hooks until his micro assailant let go, swimming away with leisure. This ordinary day for fishing went on differently for the four fishermen. As he wanted, the fisherman in the dandelion shirt sold his cichlids to merchants and made money. However, the red snapper that assaulted him got the final laugh: merchants and their customers got salmonella, and because most of them were nonmblan*, the fisherman lost to their ruthless request for retribution. As he wanted, the fisherman in the crimson vest sold his cichlids and earned money for his family: food on the table, clothes for the children, and a nicer house on the hills. Unfortunately, a week after the move, a landslide buried their home. With nothing left, the fisherman and his wife sent their children to a relative overseas. As he jinxed nothing, the fishermen’s friend in the crimson shirt lived an uneventful life. The fisherman in the emerald vest sold his cichlids and went back home. He thanked Agwé with a tribute of dirikwit** and a bottle of siwokann***, his only luxury. Unlike his first friend, salmonella did not attack his customers. Unlike his second friend, his sturdy shack stood firmly against the landslide. Unlike his last friend, his life continued fulfilled and eventful. Bigger cichlids flopped in his net. His shack was rebuilt into a fish shop. When he retired, his son turned the fish shop into a fish-themed restaurant. Decades after the fisherman had died, his descendants were running a chain of fish-themed restaurants in four different countries… After watching over them, his soul met with Agwé, who had set up a feast with every tribute the fisherman had offered throughout his life. Celine Krempp *white man ** cooked rice *** cane syrup Celine Krempp Celine is a French-American with her paternal family from the Northeast side of France. Working part-time as an art museum security guard inspires Celine in her ekphrastic writing. She is new to the The Ekphrastic Review, having written Her Final Performance. When she’s not brainstorming her next creative project, she walks her dog VanGogh, reads books, indulges in sweet cravings, and binge-watches adult animation and Tanked on streaming services. Celine is constantly jotting down ideas for short form writing inspired by her emotions, personal and professional experiences. Many people, including her therapist and colleagues, have described her work as "a relatable commentary." ** The Catch “Aha I caught fish!” The woman said with a gleam. “That’s not a catch in my philosophy” Said the man in yellow with a resemblance to her likeness, Gene “Ugh I haven’t caught any all day, I’m gonna scream.” Said the man in the vest of turtle shaded green. “If you do that you’ll scare the fish all the way to that man fishing downstream.” Said the man in the vest with the red sheen. “Not a catch? Why don’t you support me, are you so heartless?” She said with her eyes starting to drip like a faucet. “That’s not true, for you I go fishing everyday to raise money for your market. You found that fish on dry land, after a bird dropped it.” The man in green said “There is another reason I’m upset, If I don’t catch enough fish I won’t be able to feed my wounded Egret.” His friend in red said “Take a deep breath and don’t fret, There are plenty of fish in our orbit.” Ryan Steremberg Ryan Steremberg is a recent graduate of Muhlenberg College, having spent half of the past two years studying in Copenhagen, Denmark. Writing since 2018, his work comprises of poetry, short plays, and short fiction. His work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review. ** Oh, How They’d Row Oh, how they’d row for their lives. For a catch to fill many a deep, empty basket Before the waves would grow And swell in the throes of an arctic day Oh, how they’d row for their lives. And sing old sea shanty songs of the day. When their sails blew and sailed them away And they all came back with lots more to say. A tale of a killer whale and a headless mermaid And a gull that wasn’t too nimble or strong And fell from the sky their way And their fishing was gold that day. Oh, how they’d row for their lives. And laughed when the winds blew wild Dreaming of a fresh hot lobster bisque A blue crayfish dish, back at home – what bliss. Oh, how they’d row for their lives. And sing to the hissing of the waves. Remembering not so long ago… Another boat’s grave, not so lucky as they Still heard moaning in the gulleys and the caves. A tale of a ghostly crew capsized in the harbour Oh, how they’d row and cast off their fears, their chains. And count all the blessings of their days. And every good catch in fair weather or foul. Sending them home to a waiting lover, wearied in the night Gazing up at the moon. Mark Andrew Heathcote Mark Andrew Heathcote is an adult learning difficulties support worker. His poems have been published in journals, magazines, and anthologies online and in print. He is from Manchester and resides in the UK. Mark is the author of In Perpetuity and Back on Earth, two books of poems published by Creative Talents Unleashed. ** The Fishing Party The clouds are tinged with the scent of ochre and vermilion. The afternoon is just born. The ocean is a snow-white foam of abundance. Three fishermen set out in a coracle shaped like a giant fish - no gills or silver scales, not breathing, but a magnet for the ones alive. The flying fish seek shelter in the salt of the breeze. Salmon and catfish frolic in the shadow of deception. Tadpoles gush to touch the face of the bubbling water. The minnows tangle in the underwater net of swirl and splash. A fourth fisherman perches on the precipice, waiting to be invited by the cobalt blue safety of distance. At the bottom of the ocean bed, below the clear waters, coloured pebbles glisten like jewelled rocks. 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. ** The Boat We are the tiny wooden boat, born of will and hope that carries dreams across the restless waters of life. Each stroke of the oar is a silent prayer Each drift is a testament to resilience The sea, a canvas of chaos and calm, mirrors our internal storms and struggles. And we then feel the urge the urge to move, to seek, to find refuge, even when the currents almost pull us under. We discover that survival is an act of faith. A delicate balance between the act of letting go and holding on to what helps keep us afloat. Nivedita Karthik Nivedita Karthik is a graduate in Immunology from the University of Oxford and a professional Bharatanatyam dancer. Her poems have appeared in many national and international online and print magazines and anthologies. She has two poetry books to her credit (She: The Reality of Womanhood and Pa(i)red Poetry). Her profile showcasing her use of poetry was recently featured in Lifestyle Magazine. ** To Hector Hyppolite Regarding Fishermen You nurtured souls as cleric first retiring to become immersed in art you made from meager means, your feathers brushing local scenes in oil on cardboard to sustain the call to greater reach and reign as patriarch of Haitian lore unleashed to bear forevermore its testament to faith profound that resonates while storms resound with stern resolve to fate endured as destiny to which inured on land that breaks the sea alone and wakes to harvest never sown. 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. ** A Sacred Act The echo of church bells dispersed from a hill, the sky vespered in birds, the blue circling of swallows -- and I know I'm in flight, lifting from the scene of one page to the next, delving into the song of those who carry the fishermen's saint. Her torso draped in a white net, adorned with prayer beads and red flowers. Their Stella Maris who blesses the village; the men who sail at dawn and return at dusk, smelling of bass with paint --peeling boats, (the ruin of brine) while some saint of reading blesses me, often igniting my senses in a procession from book to book. And like votive candles, they burn through an endless night or the rain -- washed hours of an afternoon. Somehow she always sends me to the most significant work. Her presence cast over the chapters, illuminating the script as if it were a mullioned window letting in what's ever meant to be seen or inferred. A sense of divine intervention, a silence that floats inside our mind and knows the miracle of sharing thoughts and feeding the hungry with words. Their fish and loaves of bread. Wendy A. Howe Author's note: Stella Maris refers to The Virgin Mary and is translated from the Latin as "Star of the sea". In many fishing villages and ports, She is regarded as the guiding star that helps fishermen navigate the sea while keeping them safe and blessed with the possibility of a good day's catch. Wendy Howe is an English teacher who lives in Southern California. Her work is deeply influenced by diverse cultures, history, myth and women's issues. She often refers to her poetic self as a shape-shifter who assumes various roles that explore the circumstances of different situations or landscapes. Over the years, she has appeared in a number of journals including: Liminality, Silver Blade, Eye To The Telescope, Strange Horizons, Mirror Dance, Carmina Magazine, The Winged Moon, Crows and Cross Keys and many others. ** The Smiling Man A smiling man held out his hand. He called to fishers three: “Take me aboard and let us row across the foaming sea.” Said they, “We fish for pwason woz, for working men are we: We cast our nets to feed our kin who live beside the sea.” Then spoke again that smiling man, and full of joy was he: “The catch that’s waiting for you here is all humanity. Come cast, come cast, and fill your nets with souls that would be free, And you’ll be fed on sweeter fish than swim in any sea.” “Mèt mwen, mèt mwen,” the fishers sighed, “We’re far from Galilee: Ayisyen men like us may fish in never a white man’s sea.” “Frè m yo, frè m yo” he answered them, “believe in me, tan prie, And all you catch will pray for you to my papa and me.” Ruth S. Baker Author's note: Haitian Creole words: pwason woz - fish popular with Haitian fishermen; "mèt mwen" - "my lord"; "frè m yo" - "my brothers"]. Ruth S Baker has published in some online magazines, including The Ekphrastic Review. ** From Land I stand at a distance, never boarding the boat, nor testing the waters. Even when the sea-bound beckon, something holds me rooted where I leave nothing changed. Spray freckles my face as I feel wind tug my clothes like a compass toward the relentless waves; everything seems to whisper follow, follow—but I refrain. The boat drifts as a fish flashing the colour of power arcs through the air; an intrusive offering. And yet I reach, toes brushing the shores’ edge as my fingers brush the gills; so slight so heavy I release. The water reclaims it, and the current carries on. Emily Anne Rose Emily Anne Rose (she/her) lives and writes in Los Angeles. ** Caught by the Sea Caught by the sea, Haitian we sing Bought from a shared history Trapped among mountain shakes and storms Locked between boats and sanded shores Bound to hull shapes of misery Survived through conquest’s injury Found revolution’s victory Saw the sore souls escaping war Caught by the sea As pale fish freed from fisheries We swam to unthought mysteries Swore not to forget anymore Never ignored but life restored As Haiti is eternally Caught by the sea 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.  An Urban Tree, by Suzy King (Australia) contemporary. Click on image for artist site. Dear Ekphrastic Writers,
Suzy King’s Urban Tree (2024) is the writing challenge you are facing the coming fortnight [pleasantly, naturally!]. I find her an amazing artist, with an observant eye, no matter whether it concerns buildings or waves or wires stretching out into the sky. Stretching out to you here is such a wooden power pole, and to quote Suzy: "I like looking up at those wooden poles and their squiggly wires. They are constant reminders of our growing appetite for energy and connectivity. Like trees, but with no leaves or shade, giving the birds somewhere to sit and look down at us. And looking at this one...you can see bees (at a stretch!).” Do check out Suzy’s website and Instagram, to admire art and to find more of her beautiful words: https://suzyking.com/ https://www.instagram.com/suzykingartist Looking forward to reading your writings, enjoy, Kate Copeland ** 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 An Urban Tree, by Suzy King. Deadline is September 26, 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 KING 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 26, 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.  Eschatological, by Kitty North (United Kingdom) 2005-2023 Adjudication At the brink of dawn, Souls meet in contemplation Judgement awaits eight, battered with responsibility- infinite relief awaits the chosen No man is an island Orange dots the decorated soul Bleeding into the red of wealth and honour Eight is Orange and yellow Is there honour in this life? 18 years but is my soul complete? The blood of 18 years, embellished with wealth. Now I stand for the final ritual, marked for tragedy. Tragedy as beautiful as the sand my feet settle in, as beautiful as the 7 that surround me. The 7th day marked completion. What is the 8th if not the first day of enjoyment? May a soul rest in the garden of Eden as the others have been used to build it. This is karmic balance. What awaits me on the other side breath and air or nothingness? All is foreign to me the now the later orange, blooming In forever, against the cold collage of blue, a rhapsody of mourning. How divine is this? The moist air plays a cold instrumental song in my ears. I’m not sure if I can cleanse myself with the water that surrounds me, either way this wont save me. I am complete. Scatological degrees of sadness bloom like oranges in the desert of mourning. The 1965 The 1965 is a collaboration between your poetry Jahzara Zamora Woods and Debbie Walker Lass. We met at an open mic poetry group in Avondale Estates, Georgia and decided to begin collaborating together. Jahzara is 19 years old and Debbie is not! We hope to continue producing poetry together, this is our first submission. ** Home, Everlasting But one, all paintings great and small, the creatures of a Yorkshire lass, inspired by people, with their place, land scape etched deeply on her soul. Imposing, but inviting too, both powerful yet intimate, translating elements to paint; here’s death and judgement, afterlife - ’twixt Bolton Abbey Priory and Arncliffe Barn, web gallery. Where else for her, such Kitty wake, distinctive call where all complete? In her beginning is her end, an eschatology well framed. Yes, weaker sun and icy hue, few people skating past their last, on tarn maybe, their common plot, accented shades in dialect - whatever temperature of hell, whatever furniture of heaven. One born, so wedded to her land, a pilgrim painter grounded so, her only quest, remaining home, forever where she’s called to be. 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 ** What Comes Next Will we find ourselves in an alien place No Styx, no ferryman, no gates of Hell Or Heaven for that matter, no welcome Just here, upon some insubstantial raft In a maelstrom, awaiting uncertain fate Feeling the deep swell, sensing that pull A group, just this moment’s contingent With others’ blank stares and confusion Confirming that none really understand And that this is beyond comprehension Yet slowly, all probably come to realise That nobody ever did have any answer Despite many having asked the question And heard that same deafening silence 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. ** Kaleidoscope Day The sky is turquoise disbelief -- a snow day sky, when the world pauses just long enough to feel new again. I’m eight years old again, no school, just cold cheeks and the glitter of maybe. Light doesn’t just arrive-- it dances, fractures, shatters my heart into kaleidoscopic prisms. I don’t mind the breakage. I need the colour. This painting holds me like breath before laughter, like the silence before someone says yes. There’s innocence here-- not the naive kind, but the kind that survives. The turquoise sky is a songbird mid-flight, a hope I can eye-gaze into until I become it. And oh—those curves and swirls-- they pull me forward and backward, like time’s secret fingerprint. I don’t walk through the scene, I’m swept into it-- a soft spiral, a tilt of gravity, where everything is real and nothing needs explaining. There—eight shadow-figures walking the light-streaked shore. They could be anyone. My grandparents. My children’s children. Souls between the tides. Timeless, still moving. Gabrielle Munslow Gabrielle Munslow is a poet, NHS mental health nurse, and lyrical Firestarter from West Sussex. Her work blends grief, grit, and glitter, often in the same breath. She’s been published in Neon Origami and finds beauty in both breakdown and breakthrough. ** Smudges of Coal for This Eschaton We are but smudges of coal for this eschaton Formed in the mines of time Heaped and heat soaked Over a million years of patience refined Our essence is compressed and crushed Under tons of pasts deposited onto our sum Emanated energy from eternal trust Our being begged beyond the crust Once dug and arrived as creation We burned our backs in the sun For a few quick decades exchanged In a shoveling of intermittent experiences Our fuel spent on escaping ourselves While life deteriorated our bodies Ground and sanded against clay-stained pain Then strewn onto earth's salted plains Leaving us smeared In a slurry of oils and dry dust disappeared Our remains evaporated from the outside in And our efforts dissipated for distribution In buckets of ash flake residue Changed never to return as before But transformed into the complexity And recycled to fossils for storage Long formed in the depths of earth for a while And short scorched by eternal fire We are but smudges of coal for this eschaton Waiting for the next, last one 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. ** Eschatology at Gaping Gill “He drew me up from the pit of destruction, out of the miry bog.” (Psalms 40:2-3, ESV) Water tumbles from a seam of blue light 100 metres above the chamber floor You winch me up through falling streams Into a misty cerulean landscape How I wish to ease my pangs inside limestone walls To sip a proper brew beneath a stone slate roof But buildings I love have faded from view Leaving an orange glow to warm the terrain My ancestors have gathered in the Dales Beneath a cadmium yellow sun They call to me with ancient songs Beckoning me to life beyond the living And so I go To Pen-y-ghent To Ingleborough To Whernside Wandering higher and higher Into the bright and beautiful sky 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. ** Returning River valley revival A heavenly backdrop of rolling hills And cloudless sunlit skies Awash in a captivating frosty windswept wintry blue With faith that the ice is thick enough The invocational assembly of warmly dressed folks on the frozen waterway Ice skates tightly laced and tied Skillfully balanced on metal runners Pushing off on one foot, then the other, again and again Gliding effortlessly, piercing the wind Returning everyday to the frozen valley Skaters fellowship on the ice Until Mother Nature’s freezer succumbs to its melting point Not a death But a molecular conversion by the increasingly warming sun A transition to its liquid state, then to vapor clouds then to rain And in the coldest season, returning the landscape and the waterway to a captivating frosty windswept wintry blue Queen Hodge Henrietta Hodge is a Boston native who has resided in the Jamaica Plain area for over 30 years. After earning a Bachelor of Science in Biotechnology from Northeastern University, Henrietta embarked on what is now a 49-year career as a Medical Technologist in a major Boston hospital. Henrietta, affectionately known as "Queen," found her passion when introduced to poetry in grammar school. Previously one of her poems was published by the National Library of Poetry. Recently, Henrietta’s poem “God Bless America” was featured at the Roslindale Branch of the Boston Public Library. She continues to write, and she reads her poetry in high schools, colleges and other venues. ** The Sage, the Book, and the Elements of Light We have been troubled by our inner selves, Tormented by the night, Trailed by the tendrils of darkness, Wrestled with the unseen. A sage advised us to journey to a distant place. The book tells us we will travel across seven rivers. The forest whispers mysteries into our ears, The elements of light guide us. We encourage one another, Sing songs of redemption, Speak to our weary minds, And strengthen our dwindling hope. The sky appears different as we cross the seventh sea. The sun emerges from its hiding, And we see a hill in the distance, Encircled by the colours of the rainbow. Thompson Emate Thompson Emate spends his leisure time on creative writing, particularly poetry and prose. He has a deep love for nature and the arts. His work can be seen in Poetry Potion, Poetry Soup, Writer Space African magazine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Borderless Journal, Written Tales magazine, Spillwords and elsewhere. He lives in Lagos, Nigeria. ** Eschatological Eschatological—relating to Solemnities of death and judgement—can Communicate no feel for what is true Hereafter: it's devoid of context, an Abstraction, just a soulless word. But art Transmits the feel. If, after shipwreck and On foreign soil, you're ready to restart Life, after almost losing hope you'd land On solid ground, you have no purpose for Grand words on final destiny—you are In your hereafter now. You don't fear more Catastrophe: you faced down death. Your star Ascends. Your sky is blue. Your morning sun Lights up your dawn. Hereafter has begun. Mike Mesterton-Gibbons Mike Mesterton-Gibbons is a Professor Emeritus of Mathematics at Florida State University who has returned to live in his native England. His acrostic sonnets and other poems have appeared in Current Conservation, The Ekphrastic Review, Light, Lighten Up Online, the New Verse News, Oddball Magazine, WestWard Quarterly and several other journals. ** Shadows Walking heavily towards the ocean waves The shadows of these elderly men and women Are weakly enlightened by their old body Like a tired guide Their shadow traces their path to the ocean Tracing before them The road of their resilience Shadows shaped by countless obstacles Encountered in their life A faint light that had shone In their youth Proud and bold Once these old people Fearlessly braved Challenges and Ocean waves That shaped their minds And opened their heart Now it is time to rest Their shadow fades dramatically Their body couldn't keep up with it Too weak But proud and grateful For all it gave them These old people no longer see Their shadow in front of them Turning around to look If it were behind They couldn’t be able to see it either Because it was already within them Bearing their old body And the weight of their efforts They return to the ocean Cradle of their shadows Jean Bourque Jean lives in Montreal. His first language is French. He is learning English. ** Senryu humankind pollutes the land deteriorates and oceans conquer K. J. Watson K. J. Watson’s poems and stories have appeared on the radio; in magazines, comics and anthologies; and online. ** The Tide We waited on the foreshore to see the tide come in. Not in any sense of supplication, but in expectation that supplicants would not leave dissatisfied. Some of us knew exactly what we wanted. We knew how to ask the right questions. Others were more open and simply wanted the slate to be swept clean There was a party atmosphere as the waves receded and the dry sand beckoned us to dance. Fish, suddenly out of place, flopped and died around us. And still the tide went out. Acres long lost to sight, were bared mud and drying seaweed. We chased the water to the edge, paused when the water paused and leaped at us, pounced at us, swept us up in an ecstasy of rush. Those standing in the favoured spots went first. The dancers furthest up the shore stood and stared, or began to run. The tide came in and still came in, beyond any expectation. We had waited for the tide to turn, and not in vain. It turned and swept the world away from end to end. 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 ** To Kitty North Regarding Eschatological So many are the destinies -- of those who are no more -- beginnings having endings that would never come they swore, yet now are told by vestiges awakening surprise as troves of curiosities that mystify demise. You render seeming classic theme so bluntly being blurred as inundation imminent of dream to be obscured, and yet decide to pause it just before the truth prevails where consequence so long uncertain clarifies details. The way we see this image therefore measures who we are and whether we'll have risen to our legacy as bar, and whether we'll have raised it by the remnants of a soul that others find or recollect to harbor and extol as proof that virtue fashioned from the fear in our embrace was faith that did not falter as our living, saving grace. 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. ** When the Apocalypse Arrives It is Brought by the Waves, Not the City Skyscrapers' Falling Masonry A howling wind - strange in a cloudless sky - buffets us with sea spume. Some of my companions are almost being lifted. Everyone's lost their briefcases, purses or manbags. One minute we were all walking towards the train station, the next we were by the sea. There were no warnings of earthquakes this morning, no tsunami alerts. When the big wave came it was worthy of Hokusai, a silent killer rolling inexorably through the city. I half-remembered Maggie, my meteorologist friend from college, telling stories about how the earth could open up, everyone thrown in the air. Like flying up to heaven, she'd said. At this latitude on a known fault line it could happen anytime. I never considered it would be leaving work one Thursday, a boring meh kind of day achieving little, bashing out documents I knew no-one would ever read. Maggie had made tectonic plate movements sound dramatic and exciting, with volcanoes making seas look like blood. Here, with the other suits, and a child in school uniform, everything seemed spectral, dreamy, unreal. It could have been a summer's day seaside scene, but this ghostly coastline was eerie. Are we the only ones left? Everyone else looks just as bemused as me. Alongside the not unpleasant strong warm wind's sound there's a continuous whine like a high-pitched keening. Ah, now I see it. The blue rock I'd assumed was a small island. That's where the sound is coming from. It's rising. So this is part of it. I gulp and yet I feel relaxed. I lean back, jacket arms flapping loosely like wings. I wait for the strengthening gale to pick me up. So be it. Emily Tee Emily Tee is a writer living in the UK Midlands. She's had pieces published in response to The Ekphrastic Review challenges previously, and elsewhere online and in print, including most recently in The Poetry Lighthouse and Gypsophila Zine. ** Final Exams Fighting cold sweats on my daybed at the hostel, I’m afraid one morning I might wake up dead. Pointing my 9 millimeter generally in the direction of my head, I think I’ll be hard to miss. Sneaking up to the door to see if the coast is clear, I glance outside: a failing sun; a swirling blue sky; faded brown farms; and little people making last ditch efforts. Tiptoeing back inside to hide, I nearly about specifically ended me for good. Just before I killed me, I found a little of that thing I call a self. It probably ain’t much, and I might lose it still if I go back to cooking up one last gasp at fame. No, I may not be living the truth, but now I’m betting that it’s more than a little junior varsity game. I guess it’s not going to be perfect, but imperfect is about all I got. Bob Olive Bob Olive is a retired pastor, college instructor, youth agency administrator and writer, having been published in The Louisville Review. He practices TaiChi and fly fishing occasionally and also pretends to lift weights once a week. He is happily retired and hides out in the sweet sunny south in Louisville, KY. He is pleased that no one has yet discovered that way down deep inside, he is very shallow. Occasionally his interest in synthesizing ideas results in disjointed haikus that highlight misaligned discrepancies emanating from the fingerprints of light. ** The Apocalypse The solitary sun obscures the narrow strip of existence, its unfamiliar boundaries. The mineral gleam of the cerulean sky fades. The blue waves, the lost sparkle of ebb and flow - a deluge of thoughts without the moisture of breath, outside the region of presence. Men and women - wandering bones without shadows, memory without names, runaway thoughts, walk to the shore. The fittest definitely survive, but like everywhere else, there are exceptions. The outlying seconds advance - silent sharks seeking a slice of time. The ocean of life imposes its impalpable tide of death. Aqua whirlwinds rumble into a formless dizziness. 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. ** The Day the Sky Swirled The men declared the End of Days. They told the women to stay indoors, stay safe. While they, the men, ventured outside, assessed the sky, conducted a meeting. Devised a plan of action. The women acquiesced and remained inside as instructed, shuttering windows and bolting doors. For safety’s sake. Thousands of frogs, unsure why the women had summoned them but nonetheless feeling ravenous, looked down from the heavens and saw the specks below. Bugs? Yum. As the amphibians rained down, tumbling toward the ground through swirling skies, the specks below grew larger, taking the shapes of men. But it’s amazing what collective action can achieve. Tracy Royce Tracy Royce is a writer and poet whose words appear in Bending Genres, Does It Have Pockets?, MacQueen’s Quinterly, 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. ** Eschatalogical The few of us who are left go blindly into the unknown - into the blue of parting waters or tsunami we do not know. The world kaleidoscopes as the sun blares down leaving us feeling small the few of us who are left. Juliet Wilson Juliet Wilson is an adult education tutor, wildlife surveyor and conservation volunteer based in Edinburgh, Scotland. Her poetry and short stories have been widely published. She can be found in various online places as Crafty Green Poet. Her Substack is https://craftygreenpoet.substack.com/ ** The Last Things As I lay dying after such a little death together I wrote these sparing words less strong than gossamer. When one at last arrives in paradise, will we find that there is nothing there? No one there at all? What will my body be burned and covered in dirt for that last long night like every night now? Hold me, I'm cold, hold me, I'm vanishing before my eyes. I chase the calendar pages none of us can catch. Loneliness is never born and never dies. It just is. I am the last of my house outliving friends and lovers. The sorrows we carried together never really happened, perhaps, and if they did, whatever they meant was left unknown. We live for this brief day in the calculated clicks of time, while the stars, eternal stars blink out forever. Hold me. I am holding no one. The air overhead is vacant and lifeless. And my writing is a toy against judgment. The galaxies smile, and the stars smile with what I can never know. It will come to me but I will not be here. Royal Rhodes Royal Rhodes is a poet who lives in a small village in the heart of Ohio. His poems have appeared in Ekphrastic Review and Challenges, Spirit Fire, 7th Circle Pyrite, and The Montreal Review. ** eddying Into the back of the mind and out again—a whisper of something—a dream, perhaps, or did it have more substance? -- too quickly the wave passes by, moving toward the farther shore -- the one beyond the horizon, the one we can only imagine but never reach, the one that eludes us when we try to remember where we intended to go, who we intended to be 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/. ** Eros at the End: a Meditation on Last Things “Love is the final end of the universe, the Amen of creation.” Pierre Teilhard de Chardin I. Stars Sing a psalm to the stars: billions upon billions, freckles on the galaxy’s milky body. Lovers with come-hither eyes, laughing, gossiping, beckoning us into a dance. Sing to the stars. Sing to the freckles. Dance with me. II. Planets These stars have planets too, fruit in their orchards, children circling fires. Some grow tyrants, cockroaches, dinosaurs with teeth like gods. Some are silent as cathedrals. Still sing of them. Still, we sing. III. Galaxies Two trillion galaxies: my little brain reels on the zeros. Whirlpools of spilled milk, cities of light. They flirt, they collide, they devour, they embrace. New stars are born in the wounding of their touch. Sing of galaxies. Dance with me. IV. Creator Sing of the spherical, a potter at his wheel, sweat shining, clay flying. Bowls fired, bowls shattered, a creator giddy with wine hurls the stars against the wall. Even the broken pieces glitter. Sing the shards. Dance with me. V. Oort Cloud Our womb is a frozen halo, mountains of ice, teeth of stone. Love letters in bottles, unopened, circling the dark. Do they guard us, or forget us? No matter. Still, we sing. VI. Death of the Sun When the Sun runs out of breath, Venus and Mercury consumed, Earth’s oceans boiling like cauldrons abandoned at a feast: let this psalm not terrify, but reform us. Love more. Surrender the petty. Rise up, take hands, and dance with me. VII. The Faithful Will our children’s children’s children sail into another galaxy, icons lashed to their ships, visions etched into their skin like tattoos? May they take my tenderness, my laughter, my ache. May they carry me like a flame in their hearts. VIII. Heaven and Hell Eventually, the music stops. Silence upon silence. No Last Judgment. No Hell. Only ballrooms of ice. Perhaps a Heaven of consciousness. Perhaps love. Sing the silence. Dance with me. IX. Particular Judgment I will be gone, my aches, my fears, my tenderness, my wounds, my mercies rising, curling like smoke. Perhaps the Big Freeze is the universe’s last orgasm, too long to endure. Who can say? Mystery itself is praise. X. Hope Until then, can we hang together? Be the band still playing as the universe drifts into silence? Chosen family. Lovers. Beloveds. The tribe of kindness. Until then, sing. XI. Sacraments Spray paint collapsing walls with our names. Write poems on grocery receipts, crayon mandalas on children’s homework. Cradle babies in blankets of joy. Birth art and laughter. Share ripe peaches, clean water. Stop wars. Lay down the bombs. Baptize the world with laughter. Absolve lovers with kisses more sacred than holy oil. XII. Last Judgment When hydrogen is gone, when silence folds the world, let our song echo, beyond words, beyond Judgment itself. Only this remains: maybe love. Maybe love. Maybe love. Stevie B. Stevie B. (Stephen McDonnell) has spent all his life in mystical--and later, erotic—adventures, wandering the wilds of the soul and serving as a wounded healer: part priest, part activist, part therapist, part trickster. In his sixties, he began shaping the prose of his journey into lyric poetry. He has been learning the craft from Rumi, Whitman, O’Hara, Ginsberg and Anne Carson—and the great, mysterious in-between. He lives in an anchor-hold with windows in every room, where he watches the wide-open sky above the farmlands of eastern Long Island, New York. ** The New Messiah The portal would only remain open for a few moments. The Skaters slid into the valley and harvested the precious ice for safekeeping with their fork, calking, and breaking bars. The strongest among them used walking plows. Ice cutters followed. But Saskia, of the House of David, remained transfixed by the aura of tangerine, lemon, and watermelon. The fruits themselves were no longer available, because of the lack of refrigerated storage. The sun dripped lower in the sky. The moment would soon disappear. The Skaters would never be able to scrape enough ice for the larders or the people. There was only one solution. Saskia poised her collection stick for her one last shot. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. She is the author of three poetry chapbooks, including the recent ekphrastic poetry chapbook Poems of the Winter Palace (Bottlecap Press), and the forthcoming ekphrastic collection The Night Watch (Kelsay Books). Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in more than seventy literary journals, including Tupelo Quarterly, Cimarron Review, Nimrod, and The Ekphrastic Review. A multiple Pushcart Prize nominee, she lives and teaches in New Jersey. Visit her website at www.barbarakrasner.com. ** Sacrosanct Haiku Free souls reach sea nine Waves swing them to apeiros* Why’s there sound of splash? Ekaterina Dukas *Apeiros (Gr.) - infinity Ekaterina Dukas writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and is a frequent guest in TER challenges. ** 3 am she is surfing again skimming waves for likes to post on her insta fishing for soothing emojis and hearts she clutches her phone her lifeboat buoyant in choppy times the screen a sun strobing her eyes and the waters rise an ocean of doubt flooding her mind a balance board poised on the crest and she breaks she is white froth lost in seas of cobalt below trolls swirl burst shallows to surface Kate Young Kate Young lives in England and enjoys writing poetry, painting and playing the guitar, ukulele and mandolin. Her poems have appeared in various webzines, magazines, and chapbooks. Her work has also featured in the anthologies Places of Poetry and Write Out Loud. Her pamphlets A Spark in the Darkness and Beyond theSchool Gate have been published by Hedgehog Press. Find her on Twitter @Kateyoung12poet or on her website kateyoungpoet.co.uk ** … moot at the end of the world … More energy than they have felt in centuries of their loss it sweeps in wind-driven currents pushing the ocean into banks of indigo royal and purple creating the crater to which their order is drawn in a parting of the blue sea that they are dead is immutable their forms already transmuted voices mute until their presence requested to the moot on golden coloured sand of a seabed cleared to allow their passage— these ghosts of ocean tragedy: some draped in warfare tatters others scarred skins like yellow seals all affected by titanic forces that left them for dead— these ghosts of end of their world events come early: their second coming precipitated by this conjunction of swirling current that parts the sea storming wind that raises waves to high blue peaks below which, becalmed for a moment in their history a time of mystery, these spirits of the sea confer not of regret or cost but of their loss of being a consequence of their life with the sea before closure again sets them apart beneath once more making the golden orb a watery sun of a distant age Peter Longden Peter Longden: “My passion for writing poetry began over 25 years ago when I found it as my way to record how I see the world and what makes it the way it is. I am married to Sally with two grown-up boys (and a granddaughter). Recently, an ekphrastic poem was published in The Wee Sparrow Poetry Press Newsletter. Another of my poems was shortlisted for the International O'Bheal Five Words Poetry Competition; others have been published in local anthologies. I have taken part in NaPoWriMo over the past six years, recently based on my travels in Buenos Aires, Aruba and the Eiger, Switzerland.” ** Mother Earth's Demise My time is nigh I can feel it in my oceans they are so hot and salty and in my mountain ridges so full of aches and fissures Don't get me started on hot flashes the melting of my polar regions Or how the sapiens have fructified beyond imagining How they have destroyed my Amazon lungs in the name of beefy big mac WHERE DID I GO WRONG AS A MOTHER? Were the forest fires and torrential rains not enough tough love TO STOP THE DRILLING? Donna-Lee Smith DLS writes from an off-grid cabin in the Laurentians mountains, north of Montreal, where she witnesses shrinking forests and diminishing wildlife. ** Hokusai, Van Gogh, Chagall, Heisenberg, Einstein, Sartre and Pelagius Go Surfing With St. Augustine having waved goodby to tradition and their arguments -- Oaths give way to exclamations as they ask where's Nietzsche today? Each caught up in rapture that goes on forever. dan smith dan smith is the author of Crooked River and The Liquid of Her Skin, the Suns of Her Eyes. He has had poems in The Rhysling Anthology, Dwarf Stars, Scifaikuest, Deep Cleveland Junk Mail Oracle, Gas Station Famous, Jerry Jazz Musician and Sein und Werden. Nominated for the 2025 Pushcart Prize, his most recent poems have been at Five Fleas Itchy Poetry, dadakuku, Under the Basho, Sonic Boom, Lothlorien Poetry Journal andEkphrastic Review Challenge. ** Dawn after the Storm: 26th September, 1588 In place of its usual scatter of cockle and oyster shells; mermaid’s purses; and bladderwrack fronds, Streedagh strand heaved with bodies off the scuppered Armada vessels: La Livia, Santa Maria De Vision, and La Juliana. Rasps and groans from living lungs drowned out the cries of herring gulls. Irish tenant farmers stirred awake in their cottages on the hill, shivering with the wind blowing in through holes in the thatch. While in the dunes, amongst the bedraggled grasses, the Redcoats cocked their muskets, taking aim at any men still struggling on the sand. Bayveen O’Connell Bayveen O'Connell is an Irish writer who loves the medium of Flash Fiction. Her stories have been nominated for Best Microfiction and the Pushcart Prize. She's inspired by myth, folklore, art, travel, and history. ** Infinity "He passed the stages of his youth Entering the whirlpool,,," The Wasteland, T.S. Eliot Hier, my dear, I loved you in Infinity our bodies twinned as two strong strands of handmade rope coiled and uncoiled, the way 2 moon-drenched serpents seem to copulate -- the way they mate -- to propagate, real and alchemical their shape a magic symbol topped by silver wings -- Hermes's wand, called by doctors the Caduceus. Would I heal if you called my dog Apollo and raced to find me where the grains of sand were fine- tuned by the sun, the beach when we were running to our future? & would we miss the boat where Tarot figures waved to warn us we were running out of time on a card that meant we'd been stopped-lines in a painting where we, eight in number, raced together to an un- certain center? There, waves of color washed up, thin ties to capture clouds when it was dawn or sunset, light changing on the Cote D'Azur the spirit of the Impressionists gentling color to pastels -- but O! those shards of wind, circling, circling until we, drawn into the inevitable, struggled in the tentacles of all lost souls caught up, as we were, in dreams of spinning fashion -- those errant days Infinity was first in fashion. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp recovers as she writes in Houston. Honored many times by the Ekphrastic Review's Challenges, her poetry has appeared in Gulf Coast, Isotope and Analecta IX; her poem Forgive Us, honoring the victims of 911, was a runner-up for the Nimrod Neruda Prize. Apollo was the brother of the Greek god, Hermes (the Winged Mercury, messenger of the gods in the Roman pantheon.) Her poem Infinity begins with Yesterday, "Hier" in French. ** After Eschatological, by Kitty North Is it a tsunami striking down? our last vestige in shades of blues deep sea chroma waves curve to drown dark human dabs on pastel dunes-- the way it ends has led not to be in orange or red. Daniel W. Brown Daniel W. Brown is a retired special education teacher who began writing poetry as a senior. At age 72 he published his first collection Family Portraits In Verse and Other Illustrated Poems through Epigraph Books, Rhinebeck, NY. Daniel has been published in various journals and anthologies, including CAPS Calling All Poets 25th anniversary anthology and Kinds Of Cool, an anthology of jazz poetry. He has hosted a youtube channel Poetry From Shooks Pond and 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. ** Parousia one, two ready or not though I’ve counted to ten a hundred million times sun rusts to soot three, four run to the shore up hill, down dale, over the moon if required clouds bleed cobalt strive, spits all fiddlesticks but the north wind doth blow and big bad wolf smiles licking his lips seven, eight don’t be late, waves split and The Way lights up shadows slope off sidewards marks, get set, go Helen Freeman Helen Freeman lives in Edinburgh and loves Ekphrastic poetry. You can find some of her published poems on Instagram @chemchemi.hf. She’s interested in eschatology and wants to be ready! ** Why Should I Do That? Darkened spectres skate Memory’s thin horizon Blithe forgetfulness And reluctant forgiveness Crack loudly under our weight 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. ** In Painterly Verse: 1 Peter 3:20-21 Amidst the tempest the wind churned surged in gusts of aqua scuds of seafoam and Prussian blue. After the flood above the biblical eight the sun cast its overhead projector whispered the hope of salvation in washes of yellow welcomed the fruit of the spirit in strokes of persimmon. As symbolism numerology and God would have it believers proclaimed New beginnings for Noah and his family redemption by way of water! Jeannie E. Roberts Jeannie E. Roberts is a poet, visual artist, and the author of nine books. Her latest poetry collection is On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing (Kelsay Books, 2025). Her work appears in Amethyst Review, Blue Heron Review, The New Verse News, ONE ART, Panoply, Sky Island Journal, Verse-Virtual, and elsewhere. An award-winning artist and poet, she is a member of the League of Minnesota Poets and the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets. She serves as a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs and is an Eric Hoffer and a two-time Best of the Net award nominee. ** Souls We stare at the horizon near dawn and before crossing; linger in the low tide discarding our shadows and listening to the songstress -- her shoulders cloaked in dove feathers, her hair vaporous as fog backlit by the moon. She chants a prayer for the dead, a petition to be received all in a pitch that shatters sin and glass. We don't know the words yet the song seems familiar, a fountain coin's throw from Hebrew, Latin or Aramaic. It doesn't matter. It's about the rhythm, the resonance of breath; water rushing over rock, the sky clearing after a storm, a leaf quivering in the wind and the sun absolving its green of blight; and the sun gilding our shoulders (our un-grown wings) with trembling light as we hear her voice heighten dissolving into other voices, our voices and we sing -- the thaw of ice in a cavern, the trickle of grace on our tongues. Wendy A. Howe Wendy Howe is an English teacher and free lance writer who lives in Southern California. Her work is deeply influenced by diverse cultures, history, myth and women's issues. Over the years, she has appeared in a number of journals including: Liminality, Silver Blade, Eye to the Telescope, Strange Horizons, Songs Of Eretz, Carmina Magazine and Eternal Haunted Summer. Her most recent work will appear in The Otherworld Literary Journal later this autumn. ** Flight, Interrupted We watched oil fires burn the bright blue morning. Gray smoke funneled to the end, from the body in the bay, and the bodies, and the bay. We tasted poisons push through our nostrils and down our throats. Still, from land's end we had to look. What cross between Icarus and northern winds of Boreas brought them down, shards on scattered pyres? Turbulence sheared and dropped them, fragile as ash, to a small circumference of water. It seemed the sky itself could plummet, like the ancient tale's falling berry the jack rabbit heard, to cry catastrophe, or how we'd compress as if drowning, weighted the way we sometimes name the sky, like lead, until nightfall, when light lowers to the sun's noiseless tune, rehearsing our lie-down as weightless molecules. Lynn Axelrod Lynn Axelrod’s poetry has appeared in journals and outlets such as The Ekphrastic Review, California Quarterly, Orchards Poetry Journal, Sheila-Na-Gig; was featured in the San Francisco Chronicle; and is in the James Joyce Library Special Collections, University College, Dublin. She enjoys giving readings, especially those to which she is invited! 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.” |
Challenges
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