 Threshold at Sagamore, by Wes Sherman (USA) 2026. Click image to visit artist site. I first encountered Wes Sherman's artistry in his exhibition at the Mercer County Community College Gallery last winter. I brought in a group of writers to engage ekphrastically with his paintings and we held a Zoom with him. I connected with him on social media and so see his posts of new artwork. The one featured here, Threshold at Sagamore, spoke to me personally. I sent Wes a photo of a house in my grandfather's Polish village that looked exactly like this. We arranged for me to purchase his painting. I encourage you all to take a look at his website and his other work. Barbara Krasner * 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 Threshold at Sagamore, by Wes Sherman. Deadline is October 9, 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 SHERMAN 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 ET, October 9, 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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 Crooked Ditch, by Fred Ingrams (England) 2016 Colorado River Requiem They called me rojo But wanted me clear Might, they cried And promptly clapped me in concrete Grand gorges weren't enough Clothed now in a crooked ditch To make the desert lush One after another Impoundments to store Canals to drain Floods controlled Turbines turn Produce to feed the populus and Manicured lawns that Feed only egos Drying climate and human hubris Will cause the last gasp Of my laughter to echo through Empty canyons Ken Forman A naturalist and an educator, working to help people understand our place in the world. ** ’Scape Though Flow Country, north peatland Scots, it is east England fens connect; low counties drained to nether pitch, that’s straight until a crooked flat. The learning eye sees kink in line of discipline, art school expelled; this pupil’s trick like Con-ington -- Elektroskopic Punk for some. He crossed red line, guess, being ditched, but found new scope in that escape. So tumbled into acrylic, brush dipping into dripping skin; caught weather change, space, atmosphere - scene interplay cedes no defense. Here’s slash and gash in widespread land, horizon brood or glower room; he know this place has sum of need -- expanse displayed, no expense spared. 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 ** Fate Curving winding roads, lost in circuitous ditch, succumbing to fate. 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 the adorable Shih-Tzus Breanna and Maximus. ** Across The Void I could show you the way, that voice said No ferryman to pay, even if you are dead Just ensure you follow the path that’s red Crossing a void of tears from all that cried Until you reach eternity on the other side In return, my demand is to own your soul As there are some who are very easily led Many who believed the lies they were fed And the path is tainted by those who bled As it’s a grim reality that cannot be denied No way back, even though some had tried To step on solid ground remains your goal Once there, the future that you abrogated You may feel your debt is as heavy as lead So now be quite clear about it in your head You will belong to me, I shall be your guide Safe, but not perfect, you’ll see I never lied It will be paying just a different kind of toll 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. ** Showing the Way You came such a long way, dragging yourself across the crooked ditch that bisected two nearly equal reservoirs of black emptiness. At the other end of the ditch you were normal, well-liked, a small sprig of orange behaving exactly like every other small sprig of orange, but you knew that you were different. When the day came, you looked across the emptiness and imagined a world that was more than flat grey houses, a world where every sprig of orange was not supposed to be the same. You said goodbye to unanimity, and exploded across the ditch like sunrise, falling to earth before you reached the other side, but certain your light would show the way for others to follow. Frank Miele In the nearly half century since attending graduate writing programs at the University of Montana and the University of Arizona, Frank Miele has devoted his writing career to journalism while continuing to keep a hand in poetry and fiction. All writing done with love is valuable. He lives in Kalispell, Montana, with his wife and youngest son. He has been published in Kansas Quarterly, Northwest Review, Whitefish Review, Plainsongs and Poet & Critic, among others. ** The Scars of Appalachia Bruised and scraped coal mines bleed out orange and steaming yellow blood into the rivers. The brook trout turn their red bellies to the sun, their blue halos picked clean on banks. The water, a poisoned inheritance of all creek chub, warps the spine, carves the small faces before they are born. The Guyandotte River is no match for human desire. What is a fish to a man? Tiny brilliant-colored paintings slurried to bones. Even mountains are not safe, peaks blasted to reach thin elusive coal seams. They call this “valley fills,” a lovely name for a dying, ancient hill. What we are in Appalachia is our songs and land. Our mountains & rivers run through us. Janette Schafer Janette Schafer is a poet, photographer, playwright, and 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 The Missouri Review, Vox Populi, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, and SWWIM. She is a winner of the Academy of American Poets Prize. ** Journey I am on a road to nowhere The blood beneath my feet has been replaced By crusted over blisters of brown Permeated with the heavy stench of asphalt How long has it been like this? I can only remember a faint beginning The whisper of a starting line Instead of the bang of a gun That once rang in my eardrums I had a dream back then In the distance I saw a city Grandiose and humming with life I was destined to capture its essence And mold it into something brighter with my hands Now, in my slothful state I know better than to trust such mirages Laced with a dash of hope and promises of better things I’ve climbed into the throats of many beasts And found tonsil stones Where memories should be I’ve seen it all There is no clear path forward No right turn to make There are no secrets And there is no way to go but forward So, I will trudge on I will pick up the pace I have fumbled before on this road to nowhere And I will make many more mistakes Sadie Lombardi Sadie Lombardi is a poet, musician, and above all, a lover. They found their love for poetry through lyricism and the desire to connect with others. Their poems feature a special blend of joy, melancholy, and laughter. As a queer, nonbinary person, they are extremely passionate about spreading love and acceptance throughout their community. You can find them outside, playing in the sand. ** Getting Uncrooked What is not crooked upon a perfect line’s solitude? What is not mean by a gentle golden mean? What is not absurd under a hanging tempest-hood? What is not penny plain under a full blood moon? What is not green next to a bright leaking mandarin? It’s the meanings coupling game after wandering alone in a pitch-black mind and before becoming snobs of their own righteousness while still catching up with Camus’ essential prime which seems somehow late by Sartre’s existential inmate… Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas, MA in Philology and Philosophy, writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and her poems have often been honored by The Ekphrastic Review and its challenges. Her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europa Edizioni, 2021. ** The Frightening Hand At the beginning Of the green road There is that hand That frightening hand As crooked as her ditch Her cradle She extirpates my vital force And tows me out of the barn My safe haven She tows me along a long road Over the darkness Where my body leaves A long and sad trace Of my last energy My strengths are too weak to struggle But tenacious enough To be at peace and healed Jean Bourque Jean is from Montreal. ** errant merely a bystander, I watched my own life unfolding from outside myself-- the paths moved, and, interwoven, became collaborations with the landscape-- wandering contexts, detours of unexpected surprise-- abandonments and returns, veering over the edge of nigh Kerfe Roig A resident of New York City, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. Her poetry is often written in conjunction with her own artwork. Follow her explorations on her blog https://kblog.blog/. ** Inverted My true colours shine Through the negative; I am nothing but My vice versa self. What is dark is light; What is up is down; Skies fluoresce below; Shadows swarm above. See my orange blood In the green of flesh; Twist the crook of neck Into crooked spine; Drow them in reverse, Every word of mine; Un-define my name, I am Antonym. Iryna Hall Iryna Hall immigrated from Ukraine in 1997. She is married, has three children, lives in Utah, and writes while managing multiple sclerosis. ** Museum Night Galleries are not for gods but us, yet holy temples all the same, testament to our fleeting flame, some Promethean spark that rivals what’s divine: creation from human hearts no mere imitation and though those vain inventions cannot trump nature’s smooth sublimity, they enhance it through admiration, so each canvas becomes a chapel of life within this cathedral, every frame doorways towards either progenitors’ minds, or elsewheres outside whatever walls we’re hemmed by. Like light kissing stained glass floods churches with god, peering into masterworks lifts my soul above. Teo Eve Teo Eve is a formalist & experimental poet, and author of This Isn't Italian Romance, a work of literary fiction. ** … red for dead … It’s a sad conclusion to be drawn as farmyard in the early dawn unsuspecting of its predicament is lit by something glowing red in the culvert open like a yawn extended crooked as a donkey's hind leg a source of blue from which it’s fed insinuating itself into the natural scheme through some unknown contaminant a toxic hazard turning fields black laying its own tragic waste track its danger in the colour matched lined by the remains of something green does it mean it’s radioactive? should we worry for its half-life? beyond the farms city under grey dystopian sky all other colour leeched as it passes by a throwback to some B-list movie experiment no one has time to prevent illegal disposal or money to repair years of neglect and leaks paints a picture of a future that’s bleak sun hidden no stars at night no rosy cheeks how are things ever to be any better? another change must happen and no excuse: find some compassion and stop endless planetary abuse! 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 ten 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 shortlisted for the 9th O’Bheal Five Words International Competition (2022). Eldest son Ben, Estefi and daughter Gigi live in Argentina. Peter has a website: Words In Mind at https://peterlongden.co.uk ** Untitled when you finally realize that you’ve only had acrylic for blood that each of your heartbeats was a glow worm filling your soul with green luminescence that your life was not a ditch in the dark but the brightness that flows through it relax you can flatline now Iryna Hall Iryna Hall immigrated from Ukraine in 1997. She is married, has three children, lives in Utah, and writes while managing multiple sclerosis. ** The Ditch She lies dead. Dead as ditchwater her blood leached out in a perfect ribbon bright to the end her end bright but dead. Dead as ditchwater. 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 and https://www.facebook.com///www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/ ** To Fred Ingrams Regarding Crooked Ditch, Second Drove, Queen Adelaide You rightly paint a somber scene of man's design to intervene where sea exceeds its seeming shore to feed the life within its roar by flooding plains to milk their earth for nurture native to rebirth in biosphere of constant deep dependent on such daily steep receding to enrich resolve in teeming destined to evolve and leave its bogs more fit to farm amid the drains that forfeit charm but gave to you a decade's oeuvre to feature, strangely, veer and curve in sight so bleakly found grotesque that ought to be more picturesque and risks perhaps dependence lost by living forms becoming cost demanding nature compensate unleashing unpredictive state to raise, forever, battles fought to question worth and harm we've wrought by engineering our control of sea and land where rendered whole. 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. ** Dark Night Triolet Wild shifting winds rain dogged showers that flow and run into the crooked ditch where fragrant frangipani flowers wild. Shifting winds rain dogged showers; Time runs down in constant hours flowing through eternity in which wild shifting winds reign. Dogged, showers flow and run into the crooked ditch. 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. ** Skipping Rope Your tongue is a skipping rope You can skip one way and then another darling But never remain fixed to either side Always right, never wrong As slippery as an eel With an electric barb What is the narrative here dear A ditch I don't want to inhabit I jump, jump, jump - dance Your darts find my bullseye, time after time, sweet heart No matter what side of the ditch I stand on, the views of the fields are stretching out into infinity Whether it's the golds of rapeseed Or the greens of corn A dividing force between oil and water, a varicose vein, head to toe, of a Fred Ingrams landscape I am not here for childish games The horizon zigzags, no matter There's no right and wrong Everything is grey fighting for its own colour The restless sky is the limit I can jump. That's why I'm still learning to fly Mark Andrew Heathcote Mark Andrew Heathcote is a support worker for adults with learning difficulties. His poems have been published in various journals, magazines, and anthologies, both 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. ** That Day when we were young and crazy and you drove the old Studebaker into the ditch on that dirt road outside Port Matilda, PA, and the ochre yellow car ground to a halt at the top of a hill of ragged alfalfa fields and rich black furrowed earth, the sky billowed with cumulus clouds banked upon the lapis of a summer’s day, and we threw ourselves into a mound of pink clover, rolled on our backs – heads cradled in our arms – to face the whole wide world of green – oh, so green grass, and a piercing grey backdrop to a building storm of thunder giants above our toes that rolled so quickly from east to west that we were dizzy and lost between up and down in a landscape where sky and earth were one. Do you remember that day? Pat Kabra Pat Kabra is a nascent writer, professor and a former diplomat. She teaches at the George Washington University in DC and has published poetry in The Yellow Arrow Journal and The Beltway Quarterly. ** Childhood Road Trip For the first time in a long time I recalled my childhood six-week cross-country family vacation, from Rochester, NY to Disneyland and back, our longest family vacation ever. Driving our Ford Edsel station wagon, whose three years of production ended in 1959 after disappointing sales during the 1957-1958 recession, “a classic case of the wrong car for the wrong market at the wrong time” per Time Magazine (11/30/59), a medium priced car which debuted just as the compact car market was starting to boom (remember the VW bug?). Our wood trimmed Bermuda station wagon was one of 18 models introduced after 10 years of planning and 250 million dollars in development (equivalent to 2.7 billion 2025 dollars), named after Henry Ford’s son Edsel (a name overdue for a revival), a name selected by the executive committee over the initial objections of Henry Ford II and Edsel’s own three sons, the car famous for it distinctive “horse collar” shaped front grill, described as resembling “an Oldsmobile sucking a lemon”. I rode in the wide back seat. My six year old memories of the trip are few, but I do remember being bored, since I didn’t play a lot (if at all) with my seven year older brother. Sightseeing was not entertaining; my father would point at interesting things to see out the window, and I had trouble locating them; by the time we returned home my parents realized I needed glasses. Looking at books gave me headaches. I remember sleeping a lot, in that seat wide enough to lie down sideways, and assume that’s when I learned the habit of easily falling asleep in the car (dangerous when I’m the driver). I was a picky eater who didn’t like hamburgers and preferred fish sandwiches, hard to find while driving through the Southwest, where we stopped for repairs at a hot, flat, dusty combination repair shop and used car lot, and I was cautioned about rattlesnakes, but I did catch horned toads. The Grand Canyon was splendid, seeing Mickey and riding the Matterhorn was fun, and Crater Lake made an impression. This was back in the day when people went to Yellowstone Park to see the bears, before park personnel realized it was unhealthy for the bears. My Mom and I kept count, which reached 27. Few vivid memories, perhaps not surprising given my young age and poor vision, but I do remember that distinctive Edsel front grill. John Lake John Lake lives in Northeastern Washington State. ** The Decision Sunniside, England 1928 Grandmother, why does sleep elude me? I hear your slippered feet padding in the corner of memory. Found among the stacks of washing, deep, deep thoughts of your inner dispatch, calculating the cost of every fish and bone. Next, I see you standing on the edge of Sunniside in the shadow side, slipping a blade of grass between forefinger and thumb. You wonder if the move so far from familiar will mean survival of the next generation. You allowed a swallow of your first ale in the pub. Bitter ending to a time of turbulence for the mining men of the black hole of coal. And for their women, trying to make ends meet from the strife of the strike, with empty pockets in their aprons. The ribbon of road lies before you. Now you look for the green and gold possibilities overseas in a new country, threaded with the red string of uncertainty. Sister Nora, who married the boyo Barrow, with her son Will, [who would later call your son “greenhorn” upon arrival]; she with the daughter of a saint’s name given to the Nuns, she sent the invitation for you to follow with other sister Nell, husband Jim and the children. Job waiting for him. Your decision. Your conviction to convince Jim, embodiment of consistent, and daughter Mary, now sixteen with lads eyeing the swing of her hips. Time to change direction. You will leave, tethered to commitment. Opportunities await as you emigrate. Cynthia Dorfman Cynthia Dorfman is a member of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets and will have a poem printed in their 2027 calendar. Her work has appeared in Bramble, Red Ogre Review, and The Journal of Expressive Writing. ** Letter from Home, 1916 My Dearest Albert, please do not judge me. This past week I have been plagued by dark thoughts; it feels as if a crow has feathered my palm with tar. The omen has grown into winged foreboding, so I sought a seer. I sense your disapproval as you read in muddied trenches of the Somme. You will think it unwise to meddle, that God’s plan is a furrowed path we have to follow, but Albert, I am not able to trudge that track. The palmist was kind, crystal-eyed. Her fingers trembled my hand, flattened the flesh as if ironing maps of Picardy’s sullied turf. She traced my fate line, followed the narrow groove where blood runs thin, kinks, pauses at the point of possibility. At the scorch of her touch my fingers flew to the warmth of a sweetheart brooch, gifted, pinned to my breast, your crest edged in deepest red enamel. I saw it then, a crimson ravine running your skin, your smile, your colours bleeding the page. If you are able to read this I beg you, please write, tell me my fears are unfounded. I will wait, my Dearest Albert. Kate Young Kate Young lives in England and enjoys writing poetry, painting and playing the guitar. Her poems have appeared in webzines and magazines including Stand, Fly on the Wall, Alchemy Spoon and Poetry Scotland. Her work has also featured in the anthologies Places of Poetry and Write Out Loud. Her pamphlets A Spark in the Darkness and Beyond the School Gate have been published by Hedgehog Press. Find her on Twitter @Kateyoung12poet or on her website kateyoungpoet.co.uk ** Underblaze The town was much the shade of pitch, Tight silhouettes against the fog, But underneath, a crooked ditch Kicked out like an exotic frog. The town believed the ditch was hell, A shameful penitential fire, And every little frightened cell Dreamed of escaping somewhere higher. Meanwhile it crouched there, dim and neat, And paid its dues and did its part, While hidden in its sewers beat A raging, joyful jungle heart. Ruth S Baker Ruth S Baker has published in some online poetry journals. She has a special love for animals and visual art. ** Three Tanka Response to Crooked Ditch 1 Waiting for something Wanting to scuttle away The sun unclenches Mouths of tightly held beliefs Beneath yards of silken thread 2 If you choose to love Something green, raw, and snapped shut Start with your belief Forested mountains arise Beyond the orange ribbon 3 Gems in your bright eyes On horseback or two sad feet You will arrive soon Compose your face, fragile heart- Be the way you’ve been seeking. Debbie Walker-Lass Debbie Walker-Lass, (she/her) is a poet, artist, and writer 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 andThe Niagara Poetry Journal, among others. Debbie was nominated by TER for the “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.” ** Untitled I’m mad. I’m mad. Benevolence be damned, The mortals don’t deserve what they were given; They never will atone and be forgiven, And never understand why I have slammed The lightning bolt of fury on their heads, The crooked tear fluorescing through the air And ripping skies apart—they do not dare Admit that they have caused me to be mad; They may rebel against me if they like, The swarming worms, but I won’t take that lightly, And without warning I will send them nightly A crazy green and orange lightning strike. Iryna Hall Iryna Hall immigrated from Ukraine in 1997. She is married, has three children, lives in Utah, and writes while managing multiple sclerosis. ** You Could Be Lying in a Ditch Somewhere You could be lying in a ditch somewhere. Toss me your tethering train, I’ll grip it, pull you back to safe ground through midnight air. Your leaving has shredded me, left me bare. I run out, see your footsteps, heel, toe, bit. You could be lying in a ditch somewhere. When did you slip silently out there? Was it after you pushed me, gripped, and hit? Why should you have safe ground through midnight air? You never said, Sorry, expression rare You never said you loved me, I’ll admit. Could you be lying in a ditch somewhere? Up till now I’ve let you control, ensnare. You’ve punched the walls and me in angry fit. No, no safe ground for you through midnight air. And you, my ex, moods I’ll no longer bear. I’ll erase your footsteps, unmark your split. Maybe you should lie in a ditch somewhere. I’ll pull myself to safe ground in morning air! Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner's most recent books include The Color of Time and Other Stories (Blaze/VOX, 2025), The Night Watch: Poems (Kelsay Books, 2025), and The Wanderers: Poems (Shanti Arts, 2026). She is co-editor of Kelsey Review, the literary journal of Mercer County (NJ) Community College. She lives and teaches in New Jersey. www.barbarakrasner.com ** Crooked and Crooked There once was a crooked woman who smiled a crooked smile who stalked a crooked mile There once was a crooked woman who swiped a crooked knife who lived a crooked life There once was a crooked woman who crooked a crooked arm who snarled a crooked charm Donna-Lee Smith A wee ditty re the English language and her oddities. ** Lost in a Language of Images When evening brushstrokes the Vermont countryside in dark tones of grey, I follow twisting country roads through bloodshot eyes as It's Now or Never, an old familiar tune plays on the 74 Caprice's radio while charcoal structures from a distant town south of Rochester appear blurred in a fog bank. A neon NO VACANCY sign outside a nearby motel sways in stiff northeast winds while untold stories drift in fine mist as dense fog creates this dream state. Jim Brosnan A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Long Distance Driving (2024) and Nameless Roads (2019); copies are available at [email protected]. His poems have appeared in the Aurorean (US), Crossways Literary Magazine (Ireland), Eunoia Review (Singapore), Nine Muses (Wales), Scarlet Leaf Review (Canada), Strand (India), The Madrigal (Ireland), The Wild Word (Germany), and Voices of the Poppies (United Kingdom). He holds the rank of full professor at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, RI. ** What We Become based on the scenes captured in Gyirong (August 26, 2026) At zero-eight-thirty-seven, over the river that let flow grief- surrounded by beauty and peace, morphed a black cloud. A wall of stone walked across the borders of Tibet and Nepal churning shapes, gulping existence and hurling it all under waters. Unfolding a crooked ditch- deep and invisible until. Over the valley floor at night when the moon rose to the sky, the Gods assembled. Collecting the fragments of life, a littered reality- how could it be? How could they let it? Round the mountains lay the pride- the inheritance of tribe. 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. ** Border/Breaking Belief ingrained deep Protection from world at large The box is the keep. Fear of choice in charge Tradition dictated the path. Veering off to barge Through the wall. No wrath In freedom, true self expands And all that hath Pushed and now commands: Tradition supports the strands. 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. ** Early Fig Sable, with a tapered tip or time, consuming… We only were an ache Boggy folk music snuck in like a bullet come home Eden even-veined with summer coming or maybe someone else stroking Crept in a flyback and metal-main zipper made an outside man Dull medium green: early fig Wheat grazing yellowish waste along the wooded rocks Day-layered with lightness of shared experience At night, dirt and diesel barely breathing Toothy rag-rolled industrial orange And in the distance, delight-- gigantopithecus roaring Loyal Poem Loyal Poem is a harpist and a remote viewer. She lives in Los Angeles, California. ** What the Headlights Don't Show I hate this road. No moon, no farmhouse window, just my two beams boring a green tunnel through the Fen's black hide. The radio talks so the silence can't get at me. I grip the wheel and watch the white line stitch itself toward me, orange in my low beams, climbing like a fuse lit behind me, unseen, and still burning. I am not thinking about a fox. I am thinking about a fox so hard it grows a whole coat, russet, stunned and scrawled across my vision, a flower torn open by light it never asked for. It is not there. It has never been there. My foot already knows the brake before my mind agrees to it. The dark past the wedge doesn't care what I imagine. It keeps every field, every dyke, every animal that isn't crossing tonight. I drive through what I can see and haul the rest behind me, headlights first, fear a half mile ahead of my own tires. Lynne Kemen Lynne Kemen is the author of Shoes for Lucy (SCE Press, 2023) and More Than a Handful (Woodland Arts Editions, 2020). Her work has appeared in One Art, The Ekphrastic Review, MacQueen's Quinterly, and elsewhere. She received a 2024 Pushcart Prize nomination and serves as Editor/Interviewer for The Blue Mountain Review. She lives and writes in an 1830s farmhouse in rural Delaware County, New York, where she shares her property with a murder of crows, one of whom she has named Edgar Allen Crow. https://lynnekemen.com/ ** Galactic Black Light Mini Golf: ZERO STARS!!! We drive all the way out here because Dirk heard there’d be themed obstacles like a spaceship and crop circles. Then Dirk pulls up the discount ticket on his phone and a guy in a creepy costume nods his big head and points at this one-hole wiggly ditch. That’s what you get for ten bucks a person, prepaid. WTF? When Dirk asks about the spaceship, Mr. Creepy points at a sign: DELUXE COURSE $25. No way are we forking over more money for this bait and switch, so we try the ditch, and Dirk goes first and his ball gets stuck in this red yuck sludge. So of course, Dirk makes it into this joke like, wooooooo! It’s alien ectoplasm, and I’m like, Yeah, can we blast off now, spaceman? He says, No, let’s finish, just let me wipe off my ball first. But it’s sticky and gross and there’s nothing to wipe it on. So he carries it into this thicket saying he can use some leaves or something and that was ten minutes ago. I’m going to post this now and update later because I don’t want anyone else to waste their money on this rip-off. Dirk’s coming back any minute, and when he does, we’re totally demanding a refund from that quiet guy with the big head. Any minute now. Tracy Royce Tracy Royce is a writer and poet with work appearing in 100 Word Story, Bending Genres, Flash Frontier, and Best Microfiction (2026). Tracy’s poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions. She lives in Southern California, where she enjoys hiking by day and film noir by night. You can find her on Bluesky. ** Haiku Follow the neon Follow it, not directions Follow it to me 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. ** Derailed My son’s mind veers off track. One idea appears, then another. It’s a pinball machine ratcheting beyond the stars so far he gets lost along the way, turns to drugs to ease his erratic mind and dies unexpectedly. Once he wrote poems, sang songs and dramatized everything. If only he could have found a straight path brilliant as orange neon to follow until he could plant his dreams maybe even raise a family, but life never offers easy cures, only dark, dangerous curves along offbeat roads riddled with crooked ditches. Barbara Edler Barbara Edler lives in southeast Iowa in a little berg called Sandusky where she admires birds, light reflecting off the river, and spending time with her husband when she’s not writing poetry or flash fiction. She writes to heal and appreciates the company of other poets and artists trying to make the world a more beautiful place to live. ** The Crossing At forty seven, two legs appeared where the water meadow opened. He watched them go the long green reach of them the wet grass closing behind. He could not see the body above them. Only legs. Impossible legs. They walked through his sleep already carrying him away. By spring, he had left the house. His wife stood in the doorway one hand clutching the frame. He did not turn. The black earth opened between them. He crossed. On the far side a cup cooled beside his hand. A bed held the exact hollow of a body. Morning entered through the same window. Even the grass had not changed. Τhe purple tree remained He had crossed the field. It had not moved. Angela Segredaki Angela Segredaki holds a Creating Writing degree from Oxford University. Her poems have appeared in Blue Unicorn, Amsterdam Quarterly, New Lyre, Mouthful of Salt, Lighten Up Online, The Ekphrastic Review, The Dawntreader, Snakeskin, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, various anthologies and elsewhere. ** In The Field Behind the House I Grew Up In My father was not completely bad, but boy could he yell. His yelling shook the cobwebs, his yelling shook himself out of himself and wobbled us all off balance. My father’s yelling reached across the black field and lodged itself in a ditch that only my mother and I could see. His yelling was all colors colliding but mostly red. Some people love a chocolate covered cherry but even now, I can’t handle that kind of surprise. From the front of our house the ditch wasn’t visible, neither was it invisible but no one went looking for something like that: a screeching jumble of pain tangled like a necklace or some other chain you might let weigh you down well into adulthood though you know you should unclasp it and leave it lying in the grass. In the end it was the green that saved me, that shade reserved for moss and saints. Call it aura, life-force, whisper of nature, those grasses I recalled from summers away. I wove them into something neutral and made my escape through the dirt. Crystal Condakes Karlberg Crystal Condakes Karlberg is a poet and visual artist living in Massachusetts. ** A Sijo Sequence on the Legend and the Impact of the New Deal’s Works Progress Administration’s Paving of Todd County, Kentucky’s Backroads I. Legend has it that, during the Great Depression, the WPA paid its young men by miles of road completed, not by the hour, and with starving families to feed, they were desperate. II. So, they took advantage of the local geography, going around all the hills, and going around all the streams, going around all the forests and going around all the fields, III. Inflicting wounds as greedily, yet as gently, as possible on a land that had been loved, loved, and loved almost to death – loved by a people so native, loved by a people still so new. IV. My mother used to speed round all those curves in her blue Oldsmobile, momentarily flying free, that Rocket engine humming, and it seemed like we might actually be able to escape – V. To escape the alcoholism, the screaming, the hunger – the hunger for food and the hunger for something, something, something, something more – some greater purpose, some intellectual challenge. VI. Yes, those roads made me long for, made me chase, a freedom unique, made me rebel against the oppression choking that Southern air, made me someone who fights and someone who flies. Yes, they made me me. VII. I refused to get my license and never drove those curves myself. But those curves gave me ambition, and those curves gave me courage. Those curves gave me something to look forward to. Those curves gave me hope. VIII. The greedy desperation of those young men so long ago paved two-lane curves that would become backroads my mother could rule. Paved the way for my own hunger. Paved the way for my success. 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. ** The Open Vault Off the highway, a long ditch laments time from the road to the edge of cliffs fortressing the coastline. On one side, gravestones are marked with names of women who were hanged for witchcraft in 1590. On the other, a choir of mourning doves feed on grass and blue cornflowers. The air humid, heavy with breath as we still inhale the earth Gossip and records say we gathered on the beach drinking and conjuring storms to shipwreck James the sixth and his new bride returning home from Denmark. Our confessions claim we skinned cats, consumed the innards and flung their carcasses into the sea A bonfire blazed with sparks spinning around us like bees, But in truth, we never testified to such deeds. We were healers, tending to women, weather and matters of the hearth and field. Shins pressed, we still shunned their lies, The council changed our statements, burned the originals and buried then underground. A flock of ashes. And though many thought we'd become powdery dust, our bodies swung from a rope. Not enough wood to spare, so hemp sufficed. Months later, there was a sudden crack in the terrain, made by lightning that split the earth's womb apart. A c-section giving birth to birds that flew from the vault and the script of our words etched in clay. How we invoked rain for ailing crops, scavenged the beach for Mary's kidneys and kelp -- but no cats, no fire, no malice toward our king. For centuries, the trench has remained. On nights when fog smothers the view, someone watches and warns oncoming cars. Anyone of us appears cloistered in a cloak -- with hair wandering past our hips, glittering like torchlight. Our hands clutching seed pods, ready to ease the labour of death. Wendy Howe Notes: - In 16th century Scotland, women accused of witchcraft were submitted to torture. -"Shin pressing” was a process where an iron device locked around their shins, crushing the bone until they confessed. - Mary’s kidneys were seed pods found along the beach, shaped like kidneys and named after St. Mary. They were used to ease the pain of women in labour, while kelp was used to cleanse their bodies after delivery. Wendy Howe is an English teacher living in California. Her poetry explores themes of myth, history and women in conflict, relying on rich imagery, personal reflection and rhythmic language. Her work has appeared in numerous anthologies and journals, including The Poetry Salzburg Review, Flowers of the Field, The Interpreter's House, Forgetting Home: Poems about Alzheimer's and Climbing Lightly Through Forests: A Poetry Anthology Honoring Ursula K. Le Guin. ** The Collective Electrocardiogram Driving in blackout headlights amplify the ditch visible tension * Stress levels waver motorists’ heartbeats unite send watchful signals * A spike of relief an electrical measure the city’s in sight * Crooked ditch of flames the all-knowing sage explains displays our oneness Jeannie E. Roberts Jeannie E. Roberts writes poetry and prose influenced by memory, the human experience, and the natural world. 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 to 2026, she served as a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs. An award-winning artist and poet, she holds a Bachelor of Science and a Master of Arts degree and finds joy spending time outdoors and with loved ones.  Easy Way Out, by Madelyn Roldan (USA) 2025 Dear Ekphrastic Writers, Madelyn Roldan's Easy Way Out is your writing challenge for the next two weeks, a painting that comes with a wee story. Before anything, at TER we know that you beautiful writers like to dive into an artist's background, into one's skills and thoughts, et cetera. I would like to send you some information beforehand, whilst stating there is no obligation to use it...of course not! Roldan’s Easy Way Out was part of Hiding in Plain Sight, a group exhibition at the Riverside Arts Center (Illinois, USA). It is a very personal painting, it tells us about the health issues the artist has to deal with and it can be seen as a connection to other people with the same reproductive health problems. Roldan's goal is also to open up a conversation around mentioned problems, without any shame or concealment. It is about bodies and wishes and experiences around (reproductive) health. Do explore a bit more, either at Madelyn Roldan’s socials, or through the Riverside Arts Center or anywhere you find suitable…if you like. Thank you for submitting your piece(s), looking forward as ever, happy writing, 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 Easy Way Out, by Madelyn Roldan. Deadline is September 25, 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 ROLDAN 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 25, 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.  Mediterranean, by Nicolas de Stael (France, b. Russia) 1952 Postcard from Antibes  StevieB. StevieB. (Stephen McDonnell) writes lyric poems shaped by mystical and erotic experience, where queer eros opens onto the divine. A late-blooming poet, he began writing in his sixties, apprenticing himself to Rumi, Whitman, O’Hara, Ginsberg, and Anne Carson. He lives among the farmlands of eastern Long Island as an erotic mystic, anchorite, and healer, watching what reveals itself. ** An Uncertain Sea Ghazal on Nicolas de Staël’s Mediterranean, 1952 The artist, de Staël, wrote "I know that my life will be a continual voyage on an uncertain sea." Then at 41 jumped to his death off a high building, ending his continual voyage on an uncertain sea. The vertical and horizontal lines, the grid-geometry in Mediterranean-- military formations his blood tree: generals to the Tsar of St. Petersburg, a war in the Baltic, a political voyage on an uncertain sea. Orphaned after the Revolution, his parents dying in Poland, one can't now not see his medius terra, a holiday landscape empty of people, only a small boat on a calm hopeful voyage on an uncertain sea . Pink seafront villas and blue water, jazz later taught him sound has a colour -- but hear the sound of loneliness now, two separate colours, never touching, each on their own individual voyage on an uncertain sea. His painting, uncertain, caught between abstraction and figuration -- asks the viewer to fill in, to focus, and find meaning, but mostly to feel, to feel, stepping fully into the artful voyage on an uncertain sea. De Staël's impasto, layered, thick striations. sediment marking the past, his palette knife piling it on, post-war, like covering up history to discover beauty, our beautiful voyage on this uncertain sea. With paint his landscape gives the luminous light of the Mediterranean, a sur le motif, our eyes catch the light de Staël's eyes caught and his hands take us on the mystical voyage of his uncertain sea. Poet, you too, love that blurry line between - the thing in the landscape giving ambiguity, maybe de Staëll's boat ran ashore a dark certainty, and he chose leaving -- a final voyage, forever an uncertain sea. Lisa Powell Lisa Powell, retired, living in Portugal, 90s MFA, 30-year-slave to American higher education. Recently published in Rattle Poetry (Poets Respond/Ekphrastic). A long time ago, before children and working for survival, she had poetry published in The Birmingham Poetry Review, The Alaska Quarterly Review, Red Rock Review. ** Bleaching the Dark The sun is hot enough to melt the sky Into the softness of the azure sea; The tired listless form of former me Is now a mist of vaporizing I. The sun is hot enough to melt the air Into the molten semblance of a street; And you, like me, are melting in this heat-- A noontime dream about a solar flare. The sun is hot enough to melt the dark Into the lovely yellow and the pink; We don’t exist, and, therefore, cannot think-- A bleached-out mystery, impasto spark. Iryna Hall Iryna Hall immigrated from Ukraine in 1997. She is married, has three children, lives in Utah, and writes while managing multiple sclerosis. ** I Woke in a Different Bedroom I woke in a different bedroom 5:55 AM I whisper hello, hello, hello Float out the window The balcony beckons Light is here Light in my veins Fresh new glow sharp I’ll bring last night with me And that tan face, and that tan shoulder Asleep inside the windows I’m pleased with out here The bougainvillea Light in the sky The turned wood of the bannister All I see is sea, sea, sea Foreign rooves, plaster walls This blue sweet air So bright it’s a sketch burning my eyes Soon I’ll go into the brilliance Get coffee Bring back one Say it was nice and move on Try a museum Throw on big white sunglasses Stroll the lucent swash Or that face will wake and smile And I’ll laugh Bllu Bllu’s favourite T-shirt says "I'm Your Man." She studies Creative Writing at Middlesex Community College and helps run the Community Garden. Her short story "Panic is Coming on Strong" was published in the Dead River Review 2025, and her poem "9 Sentinels Sonnet" published and performed at Art on the Trails the past summer. She writes by night and gardens by day. In between, she hikes with her family, listens to music, and studies history. ** Long Summer's Day
“My painting, behind its appearances, its violence, its perpetual plays of force, is something fragile in the good, sublime sense.” Nicolas de Staël's December 1954 writing to his dealer, Jacques Dubourg When the sunshine doesn't feel like an obligation and the phone doesn't ring or ping or ding, the sublime boredom that sublimates between "to do" and "done" (but is neither!) is a simple, fragile side-step of the violent force of the perpetual "should." Cameron Rockelein Cameron Rockelein is a lifelong New Yorker and current elementary school teacher who misses being the one to receive creative writing assignments. He aspires to write more about nature, social justice and the state of our society, the queer community, mental health, and love. ** Blue Do you recall those two white walls side-by-side to a brilliant cerulean eye? I have not forgotten the scent of jasmine that rose in that evening of a setting sky, the terrace where wine-glasses reflected the calls of birds from groves of lemons arrayed as if the Mediterranean sun had scattered rays of light like a diamonds. Silence descended upon us as moon, stars bathed a horizon of rooftops, windows, in a sapphire light - flooded the terrace that edged more closely to the silent sea. * Blue Again Blue the sand, the waters, the walls. Now - blue the memory. Perhaps, the only true blue is formed from white space, which does not bend truth. Or, it is a blue of sea foam, of a chicory lined field, a mourned worn shirt. Remembered dreams are blues of moments that follow me down, that keep me on this path where an artist’s whim may turn blue to white. Or, do I deceive myself in this refracted light? Pat Kabra Pat Kabra is a nascent writer, professor and a former diplomat. She teaches at the George Washington University in DC and has published poetry in the Yellow Arrow Journal and the Beltway Quarterly. ** Cyprus Blue I remember our visits to Limassol, its muted buildings, its stone and sand beaches, its gentle waves. Against the Mediterranean-- a blue so blue it makes me wonder if I ever knew what it was. Have I really ever seen it? The island always seems to contrast itself-- pubs and shops next to stretches of beach, large ships in the distance. I remember, then forget, the feel of the air, and then I’m reminded when I return as we’re apt to do. I’m married to Cyprus as much as to a Greek Cypriot, the modern and the classic melding together in a temple of all of my memories. Anne Graue Anne Graue is the author of Full and Plum-Colored Velvet (Woodley Press, 2020) and Fig Tree in Winter (Dancing Girl Press, 2017). Her work can be found in Sundress Publications Best Dressed Blog, Verse Daily, Poet Lore, Spoon River Poetry Review, Rogue Agent, Gargoyle, Unbroken Journal, River Heron Review, Crab Orchard Review, and elsewhere. She lives in Putnam County, New York and is a poetry editor for The Westchester Review. ** The Mediterranean Sea “I'm glad I am a woman who once danced naked in the Mediterranean Sea at midnight.” Mercedes McCambridge I sit on my chaise lounge, recalling my past. The Mediterranean’s still a soft blue as I do remember it; lovely and vast. But the dark sapphire sea of midnight comes through in only my dreams now, and I feel recast as that agéd woman who stares at the view and wonders if this trip might well be her last. To dance nude again there? Oh, how I’d love to. RJ Clarken RJ Clarken has been published in Writer’s Digest, Möbius, Asinine Poetry, USA Today Online, and Measure, among other publications. She was Editor-in-Chief of Goldfinch, the literary journal for New Jersey’s Women Who Write, and she is the author of the books Mugging for the Camera (humorous poetry) and Penny Wishes (young adult novel.). For several years, she served as the judge for the Writer's Digest Annual Writing Competitions Rhyming Poetry contest. She is currently a member of the James River Writers, the Chesterfield Poetry Collective, and the Poetry Society of Virginia. ** Tender as a Blunt Lattice of a frequentative verb. Long ago they used lacquer remover, upbraiding in opposition. In discontinuity there is weakness-- they drip continuously as we forever square them down across an older album. Tender as a blunt stick and can expand with an inch apart, accord faster than desired. Came an endless expanse beyond its full seemingness since. * Translucence as a Retort Maximize light reflection from the urgent business of beauty itself. Morning raising of eye was the glimmer gliding of beautiful metaphysical conceit, factored pink with indignation. Its allies standing square along the seaside— reappoint your height. Flattering swingy skirt giving translucence as a retort, sat there nude next to that sight to make double sill soft. Natural illumination… Loyal Poem Loyal Poem is a harpist and a remote viewer. She lives in Los Angeles, California. ** I Saw a Man. In the blue, I saw a man and he raised his fist at me. The colours of the bruise, so cheerful, they blend with vibrancy. It led me to believe, perhaps, he raised his hand to greet— to welcome, in his robes so white, like a Sunday morning meet. Jessie Leasure Working in a loose-realistic style, Jessie Leasure uses acrylic and drawing materials to convey emotional content drawn from personal experience and her resulting creative writing, most often poetry. To this end, she employs the human figure’s incredible capacity for expression in her visual art, especially through body language. She balances specificity against ambiguity because nuance conveys more than absolutes. She is represented by NoMa Gallery in Ocala, is featured in many private collections, and has exhibited in shows and galleries throughout the state of Florida (USA). Currently, she maintains a Florida-based studio, teaches art full-time, and is serving as the Director for the Lecanto School of the Arts. ** Tesserae The Lotus Eaters Linger here a time, lotus sweet as honey. Languish a lifetime, Sweeter than honey. Languish … Polyphemus Blinded by No Man, derided by every man, I petition the gods for justice! Aeolus Idiots! What idiots! I fed you, gave you safe passage. “Fare thee well,” I bade you. But you've loosed the Gale of the World! Now begone and perish in the depths! Circe We tarried happily while his men rooted in the mast. But for one year only … Witch that I am, I sensed that he was already bewitched by the sea. Tiresias in the Underworld Brave sailor, You’ve crossed a sea of blood. Now, attend my words carefully! The Sirens Fool! Chained to your ship, you merely traded one fate for another. But our bright song will chase you down all the years. Calypso The wind has told me a story and now I’m hot for this fellow who spilled blood at Troy and made himself a name. Speed him here, you, I have a gift he won't refuse. The Phaeacians Friends, I owe you my life. I would tarry, dear friends, gladly tarry. Yet I long for my home, for dear Penelope and my own hearth. Argos Master! Master! My master! Telemachus I expected that my father would be someone nobler-- not this scarecrow. Penelope My darling, when I heard your voice for the first time in decades, I looked up to see the face of a stranger. Odysseus Here’s the truth: I became an occasion for lies—theirs and yours and even my own. I forgot who I was. Now I wander grim Hades, shade of a shade. Grove Koger NB: Tesserae are the small pieces of stone or tile that make up a mosaic. Grove Koger is the author of a readers’ guide to travel narratives, When the Going Was Good; a collection of poetry, Not; four collections of fiction, including Ancient Afternoons and Sun Dogs; and a collection of poetry and fiction, Out of Idaho. He lives in Boise, Idaho, with his wife, poet Margaret Koger. ** walking over blue tiles of water with waves i knew walking over blue tiles of water with waves i knew i got off in antibes my cap d’antibes the small train car mixed wet blue outside sky and waves i tripped in the sand and dust that blew across the tracks almost a streetcar size train and i think the chairs were plastic nobody cared about the straps hanging as if stars dragged against foreheads and hair but i remember the sand and walking barefoot in the last of the very last of summer drawn into shore and curling around the point you can’t see all the way around or too far except up and out to sea and the only thing left the light of the end of summer and star colored wind in waves let’s dance i said because i finally had come a few dollars in francs for the slow train with pensioners and family from le havre too cold to ever warm again but coming to kiss the sun weeping the smiles in eyes blessed for a few days for forever for now and for later like one seed of the coast from de stael mike sluchinski mike sluchinski drives on roads paved by el shaddai and hopes you'll all get ekphrastic as you want to be. thank you to the ekphrastic review for the fresh poetry and i'll take mine with double cream and sugar if i can. ** Messenger My lips are frosted peach and my face is raised to the sun, hands resting on soft wood. Silk feathers against my calves, and I inhale warm scents of sea breeze and new croissants. A glorious surge of aqua enters my heart and lifts me from my feet, and like a lover swinging me in a dance, I am airborne. Plates clink and rugs flap beneath me; I swoop over and dart into spaces of privacy and busy work, selecting a line of aprons and dish cloths to alight upon. I shake my head under a speckle of sunlight, and notice a round sad woman peering at me, a bowl of beans half-picked resting on her soft patterned belly. I give her a dance and create her own special song, “Drink from this beauty! Bask in this earth bath!” A tear appears on her cheek. “I love you I love you I love you,” I sing and scatter her bean ends lying at her feet. She gasps and smiles; the bells ring and I am lifted again. Suddenly, a hand on my shoulder, and I hear him say, “Let’s go check out this town, why don’t we?” I frost his cheek with my kiss. Alice Bridger Alice Bridger is a creative nonfiction writer whose topics stem from a significant range of life experiences related to Generation X, addiction, grief, and parenting, yet with a twist of humour and humility. She is a newly retired college administrator who is finally able to pen the stories that chased her during her commutes to and from work in Los Angeles. She now lives in Orange County with her partner James and a cat that acts more like a dog. ** Village of de Stael Rising from the sea, I remove my goggles, look at the shore with my astigmatic vision, at the hill, at the paper squares taped there in sun bleached colors, at outlines of black squiggles, at the sea-blue sky above filled with birds I only hear. I wade to the beach, dry off, set my glasses on my nose, paper squares morph into the homes and buildings of my Mediterranean village. Lenora Rain-Lee Good Lenora Rain-Lee Good lives in the desert of Washington State. Her latest chapbook is Saying Goodbye to Thomas, published by Finishing Line Press. Her poetry has appeared in online and print anthologies, including Quill and Parchment, Shrub-Steppe Poetry Journal, and The Ekphrastic Review. Her favourite poetry quote: “A poet who reads his verse in public may have other nasty habits.” —Robert Heinlein ** A Dying Sea, in Three Panels I Iceberg buildings square black-water-gouged shores. Naive blues play peek-a-boo. II Those turquoise pockets belay the artist's fears of time. That closing arm. III Around this shrinking sea, mauve smears, clay flecks--someday all bodies will shut. Brennan Thomas Brennan Thomas is a Professor of English at Saint Francis University in Loretto, Pennsylvania, where she teaches creative writing and media studies. She has published short fiction and poetry in various online magazines, including engine(idling, Rue Scribe, and Right Hand Pointing. ** Is Knowledge a Virus? The longer I gazed at this image the more my enjoyment increased. Looked again after this learning this artist took his own life at age 41, after unrequited love, by jumping from his apartment’s terrace on March 16 of 1955. This painting is dated 1952. How does that knowledge make a difference? John Lake John Lake lives in a small town in northeastern Washington State. ** Reflected Light At noon, Mediterranean sunshine Burns your shadow until it shrinks To fit the soles of your feet. If you let the warm sea lap your toes, It could draw out the darkness beyond the abyss Into the hadal depths that birthed it. Yet you stand apart. You don’t notice your shadow grow, Beginning where you end. Like you, it spurns the sun and the sea. It mimics your every brushstroke, While you replicate life without living it And immortalize distorted sunlight on restless water. Grace Braeburn Grace Braeburn is an Australian writer of historical fiction, short stories and poetry. To find out more, please visit her website (gracebraeburn.com). ** Surviving Aphrodite Reader if you see Aphrodite near the Acropolis a shock of red hair rosy lips breasts inviting a hand to cover her pudenda she’s Aphrodite Pandemos waiting on the south slope to see if the honey you came for will sweeten your day. Pandemos and her crew—Pan to flute pipe dreams Eros Cupid’s bow and arrow Peitho’s wine cups all ready to single out anyone who may fall prey. If you sit in a cafe and wait for your perfect love near Dionysiou Areopagitou 15 Acropolis Museum you’ll remember this street where Venus Aphrodite intends to seduce him before he even sees you. Margaret Koger Margaret Koger was raised on an acreage near the Snake River after electricity came to rural Idaho but before her parents could afford to buy her a pony. She survived and moved to Boise, where she attended Boise State University and went on to pursue a lifelong career in education. Her first collection, What These Hands Remember, celebrates family life as well as the likes of frogs and four-leaf clover. Her second, the award-winning If Seasons Were Kingdoms, shares the richness of the “braille of clean air” in Idaho and beyond. In her latest collection, Until Fall, Koger claims ”Only poetry / never lies,” as she invites readers to appreciate how nature, our beautiful but temporary home, belongs to everyone. ** At Sea a Haibun for Nicolas de Stael Sequestered in a studio, staring out a window, a painter reflecting on a life of loss seizes crimson, slathers on stone a single square. Stretching another up, another across, like the rooftops of places where people make breakfast, make love, make mistakes, make their mark on the world, drips drizzles like rain. Adding boxes of ochre, beyond them the sky, the sea, through windows of worry, a painter remembers children, parents, partners, splashes corners of darkness. The sky is singing, the sea is remembering, the painting is done. 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 ** To Nicolas de Stael Regarding Mediterranean You seek from mind the fine detail in forms suggesting peaceful place where sea and river's end prevail at shoreline time has carved by grace of constant motion you omit from surface of your brightened blue in vista you have softly lit by sun from vantage out of view that still extends the warm embrace so sensed as gift of greater source that gave to empires holy face as proof beheld of tethered course that humbled fledgling intellect contrived in cosmic genuflect. 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. ** Mare Nostrum Putting the sea into words feels impossible without music, the melodious break of waves on rocks older than time itself Time itself is a man-made construct, invented to track phases of the moon. I use it to track the days since I lost what I knew. I dreamed of the Mediterranean, knowing she was one of many sisters, yet she alone could saturate the world with salty tears steeped in song- I heard her crying at the siege of war, choosing sides through her tides, tortured that the bodies and blood would serve as sustenance for her children, right or wrong. I lost what I knew and she sensed it, suddenly she went rigid, then covered me head to toe with one great wave, saturating me where I sat, bent knees and clutched feet on her packed-sand shore- My child was on the other side of the world, she needed me. I gasped when the sea subsided, her musical breath now breathing only peace. The Mediterranean seizes the hearts of people floating in her water, seeking something greater for their lives The salty sea that lifts them, floating them along, perhaps also deliberates their fate, deciding with wisdom as wide as her shores lie, who would live and who would die. I wonder how she chooses over all the noise. A Tsunami of hope rushes through my body, the azure and grey foamed liquid releasing my fears. When she unleashed her power all one can do is submit to her godliness. Until all I really thought of now was love, a universal acceptance of time limiting my journey but never the Mediterranean's plaintive, tearful song. The 1965 The 1965: Debbie Walker-Lass, (she/her) is a poet, collage artist, and writer living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared, (or is forthcoming) in Lit Shark, The Avon Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Collaborature, The Rockvale Review, and Green Ink Poetry, among others. Debbie was proud to be nominated by TER for the Best Small Fictions, 2024 anthology. Jahzara Zamora Woods is a young poet that has recently published her first book, My Lamp Is On The Floor, available on Amazon. She has had several published poems, and she performs in Open Mic poetry readings in and around Atlanta. Jahzara and Debbie write together as “The 1965.” They have several publications or upcoming publications in both The Ekphrastic Review and Collaborature. ** Thirteen Thoughts about de Stael’s Mediterranean 1 I am always looking for blackbirds-- I see them everywhere. 2 The ones I see most are crows. 3 I rarely write about mountains or beauty but I know water skies and edges well. 4 My mind is a cave of mysterious passageways. 5 Sometimes everything appears to be supernatural-- iridescent and reflective as a crow’s wing. 6 I am always looking for a sea and a boat on which to sail to the place of the ladder to the moon. 7 A waystation where I can wait for starwings to carry me into the Otherworld. 8 But why am I so restless and dissatisfied? My problems are trivial, really, invisible inside the mirror of the universe. 9 I wonder where it is located and what version of the riddle of life resides within. 10 Is it heaven or abyss? Can you measure it with time? 11 One direction is much like all the others. There is no number for between. 12 Everything is on the edge, but of what? 13 Has Crow been there? Did he ask the questions? or did he provide the answers? Kerfe Roig Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. Her poetry and art have been featured online by Feral, Pure Haiku, Collaborature, The Chaos Section Poetry Project, and The Ekphrastic Review, and published in The Anthropocene Hymnal, and The Polaris Trilogy. Follow her explorations at https://kblog.blog/. ** Mediterranean after Nicolas de Staël I There are paintings I admire for their simplicity and directness -- geometric squares and oblongs, abstract cityscapes, in primary colours, skylines without contrails. Urban blocks like cereal boxes, the hands that held the spoon now contort an empty bowl. II But here's another take, still standing here, wrestling with my lack of attention -- Mediterranean blue, from the same era. Hotel blocks, or are they seaside houses and swimming pools -- or is it the coastline? III The palette knife puts down slabs of paint, light, space, heat shimmering into abstraction, my attention slipping into memory -- my 60th birthday, Portugal, the world melting like an iced cake, candles still lit, still smoking, where I drift in thoughts of holidays, past and present, and yet to come. IV Only the held breath of standing still, eyes fixed while the room moves past me, arrives on the canvas that never looks dry but always fresh -- your face cracking like a lead mirror beneath a frozen tear, for a single outline of a smile, rubbed out years before, the people and faces you cared for, who you'll never set eyes on again. Bio Mark Andrew Heathcote is a support worker for adults with learning difficulties. His poems have been published in various journals, magazines, and anthologies, both 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. ** What the Grid Remembers The sea did not come to me in waves. It came in rectangles -- this blue, cut and set beside that blue, as if colour alone could hold a coast together. Between them, black threading like a suture, like something torn was told to heal in a straight line. At the centre, one rectangle refuses color, pale as a page no one has written on, or one that has been written on and erased so many times the paper gave up keeping score. I keep circling back to it. Not because it is empty but because it is the only shape that admits it doesn't remember. Everything around it insists -- the blue insists on ocean, the ochre insists on cliff and afternoon, even the pink insists on something softer that happened once, on a wall or a body, though the paint won't say which. Only at the edges does the grid loosen its grip. Color goes gray there, unsure of its own borders, bleeding past the black seams into a white that isn't blank so much as tired of being told what it used to hold. Out here the black lines give up their discipline, go thin, go gray, go missing altogether -- and the memory doesn't end so much as stop insisting it was ever whole. Maybe this is what the sea does to everything it keeps: holds the shape of a coast until the holding is the only shape left, and even that goes soft at the edge of the frame. Lynne Kemen Lynne Kemen is the author of Shoes for Lucy (SCE Press, 2023) and More Than a Handful (Woodland Arts Editions, 2020). Her work has appeared in One Art, The Ekphrastic Review, MacQueen's Quinterly, and elsewhere. She received a 2024 Pushcart Prize nomination and serves as Editor/Interviewer for The Blue Mountain Review. She lives and writes in an 1830s farmhouse in rural Delaware County, New York, where she shares her property with a murder of crows, one of whom she has named Edgar Allen Crow. https://lynnekemen.com/ ** Driven to Abstraction I wanted to go to Greece and see the Parthenon, meander through the winding streets of white stucco and blue-roofed buildings. But my steroid-swollen limbs didn’t allow it, and I buried my immunoisolation in abstraction. I wanted to go to Spain and practice goat yoga in Málaga, climb narrow rock staircases. But my COVID-clotted lungs left me breathless in abstraction. I wanted to go to France, because it’s France. Lounge around Nice like Matisse, open French doors to the salt of the sea, bobbing boats, cawing gulls. But I’d never seen Paris, and I picked my priorities in Champs-Elysees and Musee d’Orsay abstraction. One day I will travel to these places, dip my fingers in the Mediterranean, marvel at colour-blocked pastel buildings, imagine myself inside a de Stael painting. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner's recent ekphrastic collections include Poems of the Winter Palace (Bottlecap Press, 2025), The Night Watch: Poems (Kelsay Books, 2025), Insomnia: Poems after Lee Krasner (dancing girl press, 2026), The Wanderers: Poems (Shanti Arts, 2026), and the forthcoming The Appropriation of Brueghel (Shanti Arts, 2027). She lives in New Jersey. Visit her website at www.barbarakrasner.com. ** Last Call we sit, you and I, in the mottled heat of now, reminding each other to stay, present, and not let the shadows of yesterday, challenge our fragile infrastructure, the peace-treaty, the open negotiation, to navigate our way through the next few days, the week, until we satisfy our curiosity, and depart in the arrivals lounge we sit, you and I, savouring the bride of the wind, wondering how an azure beacon can bring on the blues, how dare we, mortals, crack open the wounds in the eye of Olympus, and our tears form the rain the land so desperately needs, and our cries bound around each stark white witness, and the paint blisters like our hearts we sit, you and I, in silence, fires still rage, and our reservoirs are now dry, our blurred vision mocks up watercolour stories, colours melt into one another: our wedding, our child, our passion in our dance; and our hands are close, yet continents divide, and our skin can taste, but we dare not touch, for salt tortures wounds Zachary Thraves Zachary Thraves is a writer and performer. His poems have been published by Broken Sleep Books, Juste Millieu, Nitrogen House, Asylum Magazine and at Poetry Worth Hearing, as well as contributing to The Ekphrastic Review. His plays have been performed in competitions and festivals across the country; in 2023 he created a one-man fringe show exploring his experience with bi-polar, and in the same year won best actor for portraying Charles Dickens. Zac also co-hosts a podcast. He lives with his partner in East Sussex. Find him on Bluesky @28hary. ** All the World’s a Stage Along the French Riveria, where azure sky slips into cerulean sea, a couple lounges on beach chairs, umbrella drinks ready to be sipped at an emotion’s notice, the drama of unconventional thespians in the last act of a tragedy. This play had it all: death, war, starving artist, a fall from grace, a savior rushing in to support him, meager and elaborate mise-en-scènes from Russia and France. The climax came months before this tableau as our tragic hero painted nudes of his nubile lover. His infatuation complete. Hers not so much. Success and recognition didn’t balance his performance. Divorce and rejection overpowered our protagonist. Here we witness a last attempt to stir the passion that became as diluted as his paints. His soft-voiced entreaties mingled with the surf’s susurrus, something his indifferent lover heard as white noise, ignorable. All through the night he endeavored to evoke the elusive nature of sand and sea, of love and loss. On his canvases, with gauze and cotton, as if bandaging an open wound, he sought to cache the concoction of freedom and salt air that filled their lungs when once they walked the shoreline. His was a life of contradictions: abstraction, figuration, refusal to be defined, self-loathing, fame, husband, father, lover. Simple props, pastel boxes charred with ashes of depression and insomnia, stacked like steps, like the stairs he climbed from studio to terrace, his lines committed to memory, his blocking perfect as he made his final bow, stage fading to black. Karen Moulton After a teaching career spanning 39 years and two continents, Karen Moulton finds herself retired in the Ozarks where her heart belongs to a man, a dog, and the natural beauty surrounding her. Since moving to Flippin, Arkansas, seven years ago, she has taken up birding, photography, native plant gardening, painting, making jewelry, and other creative endeavors. She is the author of three chapbooks: One Year Ago Today and Other Poems of Revelation, NOW, and The Unpartnered Wife. Her work has been in Rattle, SLANT: A Journal of Poetry, The Ekphrastic Review and is upcoming in The Marbled Sigh, Rat’s Ass Review, and The Resprise. ** Haiku de Stael in exile Mediterranean blues Sounds evoking the hues Donna-Lee Smith Blessed with chromesthesia, de Stael connected sounds with colours. |
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