​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 In the Studio, by Marie Bashkirtseff. Deadline is November 8, 2024. 

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 BASHKIRTSEFF 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, November 8, 2024.

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. 
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​14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges!
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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.

**

​Naptime with Mama
 
Stretched out next to Mama
one eye open, her hand soft
against me, I listen for her voice,
her heartbeat while dozing
 
Running in the lane rocks,
even Mama gets all happy
throwing the ball for me, but
I sense her loneliness
 
I am here, Mama, I want to say
but I can only lie against her side.
She knows I am here, and Buddy
too, but it’s Papa she’s thinking of
 
I miss him too, our family walks
are now Mama’s walks with us,
and then we cozy up on the bed,
Buddy sprawled out, but not me,
 
I am listening, silently telling her
I am here, I’ll keep you warm
and even though the bed is soft,
his absence is felt all the same
 
Julie A. Dickson
 
Julie A. Dickson is a long time poet, whose work appears in over 75 journals. Dickson holds a BPS in Behavioral Science, has served on two poetry boards and as a guest editor for several publications. Her work can be found in Blue Heron Review, Lothlorien and Ekphrastic Review, among others. She shares her home with two rescued cats, Cam and Jojo, and advocates for captive elephants.
 
**

Judy’s Bohemian Rhapsody
 
Hindus say soul is the size of a thumb
or the point of an awl
or a spiritual atom
or one ten-thousandth the tip of a hair
 
and lives in a lotus in your chest
or your forehead
or pervades your body
or rides in a chariot driven by intellect
 
Mischievous Judy, in the corner of our eye,
guards a carton
of tongue depressors
each the size of the back of a King George chair
 
she plans to implant in her family of ghosts
and claim
they are
the speechless cardboard souls in everyone’s chest.
 
Her own words vividly paint Van Gogh's
that suck
you in
but should
she ever
lift the brush from the canvas, she might go mad.
 
Mike Wilson
 
Mike Wilson’s work has appeared in many magazines and in Mike’s book, Arranging Deck Chairs on the Titanic. His awards include the League of Minnesota Poets Award, the Maine Poets Society Award, and the Chaffin/Kash Prize of the Kentucky State Poetry Society. He lives in Lexington, Kentucky.
 
**
 
Languorous?

Languorous, as vowel stretch,
each glyph laid out in sounding shift,
aligned with sleek unbothered reach,
with dreams of scents, encounters, rest,
now prone, exhausted, inked arms linked.

On crumpled pastel, crease and fold,
all pillows, hills of dimpled sheets,
in crevice, blues, pink, yellows, green,
seen stream and sky, buds, blossom, sward,
addressed on fabric, ruffled, flesh.

Carved capital above slab slump;
a classic wage for time-paid age.
brawn muscles through to knuckle skin,
arch, zygomatic, prominent;
what causes stare in emptied air?

Poole pottery of former age,
a cluttered, indecisive space,
past glories, present to be faced,
what questions posed above the bed
to float around, pets unaware?

This is no more the languid tired,
nor lackadaisical in mind,
dynamic contrast laid to wrest -
so what ensues from contemplate?
What afterthought has walk aroused?
 
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
 
**
 
Goodbyes Are Too Hard
 
Sandra knew these were her final moments with her golden retriever, Daisy. Daisy had been there for Sandra’s toughest moments in life. She had been there for her mother’s death, her divorce, and most recently, her cancer diagnosis. Sandra found out that she and Daisy had cancer on the same day, and had been on edge ever since. They had just returned from the vet when she found out Daisy had less than a week left. Sandra always thought that Daisy would outlive her, Daisy was always stronger than she ever was. The first few hours after the vet visit the two had been on the bed soaking up their final moments together. Sandra’s other dog, Mack, would be the only one left, so she too lay on the bed soaking up the final moments. Sandra just pondered on how in the world would she say goodbye to her caring, obedient, comforting dog that she loved more than herself. Sandra came to the conclusion that this goodbye was just too hard.
 
Tessa Lawrence
 
Tessa Lawrence is 15 and goes to high school in Ohio. She likes to read, write, watch movies, and play basketball.
 
**
 
Walking
 
Dogs pester master,
after walking for hours,
until exhaustion.
 
Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
 
Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher has been writing since 2010 and has had many micro-flash fiction stories published. In 2018 her book Shorts for the Short Story Enthusiasts was published, The Importance of Being Short in 2019 and In A Flash in 2022. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna.
 
**
 
Lady In A Print Dress With Manet and Van Gogh  
 
Daydreams of fragrant gardens
and nights when she painted
the town red dancing the days
away with different cats who
were mostly dogs --
Poets, painters and philosophers
masters of seductive reasoning
who were themselves seduced 
by a ballet whose elaborate 
choreography often spun
out of control --
Once vibrant flowers 
that now droop and sag
exhausted in their beds.
 
dan smith
 
dan smith is the author of Crooked River and The Liquid of Her Skin, the Suns of Her Eyes. He has been widely published in journals as diverse as The Rhysling Anthology and Deep Cleveland Junk Mail Oracle and Dwarf Stars and Gas Station Famous. dan's latest poems have been at The Solitary Daisy, dadakuku, Rattle Prompt Challenge, The Ekphrastic Review and Five Fleas Itchy Poetry.
 
**
 
Pied Piper
 
I go to bed in my clothes too –
a green linen 60s floral shift
riding up around my thighs.
Nobody sees me but the dogs.
 
Sometimes my frock is a Dior mini:
bicolour, retro white and deep blue,
the kind of dangerous shade I imagine
the Bermuda Triangle might be.
 
I go to bed in it when I’ve been
out for a walk, or getting a new tattoo
(one arm is almost done, I think).
Bed is the only place to wear
 
your very best clothes – those outfits
you’ve discovered in op-shops, or inherited
as hand-me-downs from deceased
dowager aunts who bequeathed them
 
just as you donate your thoughts
to the ceiling – to the skylight covered
with fallen leaves – because it’s only
mid-afternoon, and the sun is shining.
 
Jennifer Harrison
 
Jennifer Harrison is an Australian poet living in Melbourne. She has published eight poetry collections and won numerous prizes, most recently the 2023 Troubadour International Poetry Prize.
 
**
   
Bedfellows 
 
Three mammals resting.  If the other two
Had recreated this, how would it be?
Smells: cotton washed last week, shed fur, not-new-
Underwear, heated paws, post-walking me,
Sweat and deodorant.  Cold tea.  Breathed air,
With underlays of – what?  I couldn’t know
If they could say.  Three mammals, skin and hair
And neural firings, visually on show
Through me.  I read that dogs are colour-blind,
Or partly, so they’re missing my insane
Candy-floss patchwork joy.  The canine mind
Processes pink as grey; the human brain
Thinks laundry soap can pass for Alpine Streams.
I wonder what I smell like in their dreams.
 
Ruth S. Baker
 
Ruth S. Baker has published in a few poetry journals. She has a special love for animals and visual art.
 
**
 
Beasties

Sated, they sprawl close
Unbothered by anxious thoughts
Saved from worry’s stab
In this riot of quiet
I’ve been told they can’t see colour.
 
Debbie Walker-Lass
 
Debbie Walker-Lass is a poet, writer, and collage artist living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared in Punk Monk Journal, Three-Line Poetry, Haiku Poetry, The Light Ekphrastic, The Ekphrastic Journal, and The Niagara Falls Poetry Journal, among others. She has recently appeared in local spoken-word showcases & attended the Rockvale Writer’s Residency earlier this year. Go Braves!
 
**
 
Anna
   …intimate partner violence…
 
-Thoughts 
 
…ya’ know when somethin’ happens 
every                 single             rotten              day
I don’t give a damn if it’s good or bad 
truth is it ain’t never good 
every time it turns out lousy
every time
an’ I tell ya’ somethin’ else
it don’t get no better 
I mean if somethin’ that looks good comes along
which it don’t never come
it’s gonna go bad fast 
you can count on it
an’ if it’s bad when it gets here that’s jus’ the beginnin’…
 
-Whispers
 
‘cept you two a course 
(speaking like a child)
little Sophie you givin’ Mommy yer belly?
that’s Mama’s baby girl
an big ol’ Lazybones ova here
you leanin’ on Mommy askin’ if everything’s OK?
everythin’ is perfec’ my good big boy….perfec’!
who’s a good boy!!?? who’s a good big boy!!??
want MaMa to rub under yer chin Mr Lazybones?
huh? want yer Mama to rub under yer chin my biggest boy
(back to her own voice)
jesus one a these days                      or nights
that ceiling’s gonna cave in 
an’ land right on toppa me an’ the dogs
and them jerks upstairs is gonna get their
wheel a fortune watchin’ all screwed up
me an’ the dogs under ‘em
them wonderin’ what the hell just happened
(little snarky chuckle - 2 beats)
it could use a new coat a paint too the ceiling
I’ll get right on that t’marra
yeeeah!
 
-Thoughts
 
it’s stinkin’ amazin’ that he thinks 
he can come waltzing in here
every single night                   
every     single     night 
an’ beat the hell outta me
smellin’ like a brewery 
lookin’ like a fer real nut job
an’ the mouth on ‘im! 
Jeeeezus! mouth like a truck driver
which he ain’t 
he’s one a them guys where they’re doin’ road work
he stands there all day long like some fat wax statue
twirlin’ that sign 
from real early in the mornin’
to early afternoon                   
to late afternoon 
can you imagine?
SLOW     STOP     SLOW     STOP
perfec’ job for the bastard 
those are the only two speeds he knows
he’s been doin’ that job now two days 
quittin’ t’marra
says he’s too old
his back is killin’ him
his feet are killin’ him
his hands are killin’ him
an’ he’s killin’ me 
but I don’t blame him fer quittin’
he is too old 
an’ it’s a stupid job anyways…
 
Whispers, Thoughts, and occasional out loud Words …
 
(WORDS - Whispered aloud barely audible…)  Eddie… (Anna leans over   groaning   every bit of her body aching from old age and years of doing a 
whole lotta nothing   she digs through the mess on the floor   pulls a new smoke out of a crumpled pack   tries to light the cigarette   CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK   the lighter finally lights after seven tries.  Lazybones does not move a muscle.)
 
Don’t ask me why they call ‘em lighters 
when that’s the one thing they can’t do 
stupid things.
Eddie
he’ll be home any minute 
crash through the door 
head right to the ice box 
that’s weird I know it ain’t no ice box
jus’ a habit left over from when I was a kid
50 million years ago
(bad British accent)
Excuse me. Pardon my lack of couth.
I mean, of course,
The Re-fridge-er-a-tor,  Honey-Bun. 
Do excuse me.
an’ sure enough 
 
-Thoughts
 
like he’s on cue or somethin’
Eddie slams open the door…
…wait…ain’t that a weird thing to say?
SLAMS open the door!
I don’t know
It jus’ don’t sound right to me
anyways he slams open the door
grabs a beer from the refrigerator
drinks practically the whole thing in one swaller
an starts staggering towards the bed
lookin’ like a ape
little Sophie makes her exit
straight under the bed
sometimes the fat drunken jerk 
even hits the dogs
which really gets my goat
 
-OUT LOUD WORDS
 
Is dis what’choo bin doin’ all day long
chain smokin’ dem cancer sticks
lookin’ at the ceilin’
and talkin’ like some kinda crazy mental case
to dem stupid mutts
 
-THOUGHTS
 
he grabbed me by the front a my moomoo 
holy christ here we go again
cigarette sparks flair up 
burn out
ashes on the bed 
that son of a…
see      here’s what gets me
what gets me is 
that mostly it’s silent
the back of his fat hand across my lef cheek
I woulda thought it a made some kinda noise
but I don’t remember hearin’ nothing
ain’t that weird?
 
-WORDS
 
You lazy bitch 
you better start doin’ somethin’ ‘round here 
sides takin’ up space and stinkin’ up the joint!
you hear me? huh!? you hear me?
what’re yous deaf?
an’ yer mangy reekin’ mutts too
get ‘em the hell outta here
 
-THOUGHTS
 
fat hand across the lef cheek again      silent
poor little Soph 
I hear her whinin’ under the bed
poor little thing
wish I had a gun I swear
were married now 47 years
man!...people shoulda laid they eyes on Eddie 
when I very first met him…
oh my god talk about a lady-killa 
a real dish I ain’t lyin’
an’ me…ohhh me… when I’s young…
I wan’t too bad on the ol’ eyes either get me?
an’ ya’ know I’m pretty sure we was in love
an’ the plans!
lawd have mercy!
what we was gonna do you wouldn’t believe
then time…I don’t know…
it’s like some kinda miracle ain’t it
it’s here           it’s gone 
an’ so are you
gone                  
see ya latta alligatta               
bye-bye 
you out after amountin’ to nothin’ but sad
my cheek hurts
know what’s funny
through this whole nasty nightly brawl
Lazybones never moved
I think I heard him groan once 
like he was dog-talkin’ to us
shut up yous! can’t ya’ see 
I’m tryin’ to sleep over here.
then the king of the castle
makes hisself heard…
 
-WORDS
 
…be useful fer a change an’ turn off the light 
I’m gettin’ up early
gotta drive right by the road work 
to get to The Red Ash Bar
wanna stop first
an’ tell that little foreman twerp
I quit!
give my             SLOW     STOP      sign 
to some kid lookin’ 
fer his first ball-bustin’ job
 
-THOUGHTS
 
while I was leanin’ over to turn off the light
I grabbed another smoke 
will miracles never cease
the lighter lit on the first CLICK!
In-freakin’-credible!
Eddie’s already snorin’      LOUD
I’s thinkin’ ‘bout 
what I’s gonna do t’marra
an’ out from under my side a the bed 
here comes little Sophie 
stepping carefully ova her big brotha
not that he would care….or even know
Lazybones he likes to relax
he groaned a little groan when Soph
stepped ova him
Sopje lays down on the other side 
both of us ready for a little siesta
Eddie’s snores is get louder an’ louder
an’ my little baby girl 
my sweet Sophie 
rolls over
and gives me her belly
 
FIN
(until the morrow.)
 
John L. Stanizzi 
 
John L. Stanizzi is the author of 15 poetry books, the newest of which are SEE (A book of ekphrastic poems), Feathers & Bones, and Viper Brain. His latest collection Entra La Notte will be out in December. John was named winner of The Ekphrastic Review’s Nine Lives Ekphrastic Marathon, an incredible honour, one he says he will cherish always. A former Wesleyan University Etherington Scholar, and New England Poet of the Year,John was awarded an Artist Fellowship from the Connecticut Office of the Arts and Culture for work on his new memoir, Bless Me, Father, for I Have Sinned.  

**

The Art of Deception
                                                       
                                            "Suppose the Truth is a woman -- what then?"
                                            Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil
 
                                           " If one, settling a pillow by her head
                                           Should say: 'That is not what I meant at all;
                                           That is not it at all.'" 
                                            T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
 
 
Appearances can be deceiving.     When her grandmother, a teacher
for most of her life, bought a wig     she never explained
 
that it was because she couldn't afford     to have her hair done anymore,
to make herself presentable for the classroom.     The wig
 
was grey.     (Quiz:  how could youth desert us like a vicious wind?)
Brushing her dog's red hair     she thought of sea air,
 
the crisp crash of waves, floating to a stand-still     so like her life,
naps after long walks to the dog park     by a busy street.
 
She'd tried to beat sentient failure;     to take a writing class, to write
a villanelle, its origin from the Langue d'Oc      both countrified
 
and earthy, unlike the Langue d'Or --     "the language of gold"
spoken in Paris.     But she couldn't understand
 
Ezra Pound's passion for vagabond troubadours     his "periplum" --
the center of an empyrean journey --     his modernist
 
translation of Provencal love.     Wearing a broad-brimmed hat,
he questioned 18th century lyricism --     why travel
 
was like a song --     Gaily the Troubadour touched his guitar, as he
was hast'ning home from the war...     2 World Wars
 
were over (Thank God!)     but how could Pound's poetry -- his Cantos --
explain why she was born with red hair?     Don't let a man
 
put  his hat on your bed! older women said.     It had been a last straw, really
when such a statement     was used to describe red-heads
 
as whores;     what the family called her grand-pere's amour, a legal assistant
in the city.     How she loved her red-haired dog, Monsieur
 
Emmanuel! named for Emmanuel Kant --     or was it Descartes? Philosophy
and philosophers were so confusing.      After she'd met
 
a man with an attractive mixed-breed at the dog park     she had started a class-
required villanelle, writing     on an Empire Cafe napkin:
 
               O how often life's a mad deception!
               The air smoke-yellow in the city streets,
               How I dressed for yesterday's reception --
 
               The black dress, a fashionable conception,
               My love, a 'mess of shadows for your meat';
               This tattoo, from days when I took action...
 
That was as far as she got.     It was hot.  She'd pulled on a sleeveless house-dress 
and gone to bed with Emmanuel:     2 cups and an empty plate
 
lost in the bed-covers     the only evidence she hadn't been alone last night, a fixed
figure painted in tossed colors     a woman so unlike another of Aylward's
 
portraits, a regal woman     hair done up, dress with a dark blue fabric sheen --
like the mystery of her chickadee     why she seemed to be
 
a kind of Bird Woman, elegant, with 5 birds --    one, like a miniature kingfisher
(perhaps a blue jay?) in a glass cage;     one small and reddish -- a finch?
 
Then the large head of a crane     questioning confinement near her shoulder (She, 
like me, the voice in this poem) must be     her "other self," portrayed
 
with avian companions wearing shadowed, storm-sky blue    posed with a parrot --
But reader, I have Emmanuel!     whose name means God is with us,
 
and I hope to heaven he is     so that a woman with red hair could have a red-haired dog, his body stretched beside her in an unmade bed     disheveled on a Sunday
 
as she explores her dreams, the sea caressing her bare feet --
                                                                                                                the time-free days
                                                                                                                       her heart can reach.
 
Laurie Newendorp
 
Laurie Newendorp is a poet writing in Houston. Twice nominated for Best of The Net, she is a graduate of The Creative Writing Department (MA in Poetry), The University of Houston. Like Pound, she favours love quests in southern France, and the poetry forms created there, preferring the Sestina. "Gaily The Troubadour” quoted in the poem, is a song written in the 1820s by Thomas Haynes Bayly (1797 - 1839).

**
 
After the Walk
 
He is lying sprawled on the sheet,
My favorite, the one that is pink.
“What a charmer,” I think and blink. 
He blinks back. Slow and Languid.
I smile at his wrinkled eyelids, 
He turns to his side, making the bed lurch
And I watch the affection surge 
in his eyes as a shine. 
 
The time is way past nine, 
We are lazing around in bed. 
My little boys are resting their heads
After a run through the park,
Several strings of woofs-woofs and barks. 
Their tails are quiet with an occasional quiver,
Listening to the tales of the river
That passes behind the house. 
 
They are holding back all urges to pounce
And lying back with lolling tongues,
The rituals before sleep sets in have begun. 
I pull out the chain which reminds me of her
And of things that were
Her black furred boy, our black furred boy, 
Flicks his tail on my hand, he is not really coy.
My eyes blur with tears as I remember. 
 
It was just last December. 
You lay your head on the other side of bed,
The boys were sated after having been fed,
And you told me you were dying.
I accused you of lying.
You smiled and asked something of me,
I ignored you and got up to brew that tea,
But your eyes followed me out of the room. 
 
I had not expected to hear news of your doom,
Yet I came back and cuddled against you,
Under the covers, and let my brew cool. 
The black tail had flicked on my hair
And I had no laughter to spare,
But you let out a light giggle, 
And tickled me till I wiggled.
The boys also joined in the fun.
 
Yes, my grief is not yet done, 
And a black-tail flicks again at my arm
Seeking attention is part of his charm
And I let out a giant smile. 
It has been a while 
Since my lips pulled up all the way. 
The boys have noticed it, haven’t they?
He wags his tail in response, proud indeed.
 
It is easy to push away my need 
To have you around all the time,
When a dog is crooning and trying to mime
Right beside me as I try to recall
What was making me bawl. 
A ball is shoved at my feet,
A bark and playful blink follow in a beat. 
I forget what I was thinking about. 
 
Yes, yes, I had meant to shout
And ask you why you left
And left me languishing and bereft
But the boys seem to know
That a ball throw
Is the nudge I need 
To get out of the cycle of cry, rinse and repeat. 
I miss you terribly my love. 
 
My arms get a full-on shove, 
I raise my head and look at him
You know his fur can use a trim
I extend my fingers and caress his tummy,
He looks at me like he looked at his mummy--
—you. You shined so bright honey! 
He farts on my face, and no it isn’t funny. 
Don’t you dare laugh darling! 
 
You had been so charming, 
So full of zest, life, and laughter.
It is you who they take after. 
Making me live life, eat, sleep,
When I would just rather weep.
They give me faith that I will heal.
His nose tickles my feet, and I squeal.
He gives a cheeky grin, I swear. 
 
You were so lovely my dear
His smile reminds me of the day
When the sky was overcast and gray
And you were sunshine and bright
And we binged on Turkish delight
While watching the Telly
And laughter rumbled in our bellies. 
Suddenly, a car horn goes by the window. 
 
I, I need to get out of this limbo.
He is up now, attentive and alert.
Shucks! his paw has embedded dirt.
I get a lick on my nose,
I am drained now, from grief and its throes. 
He comes and lies beside me,
He is gleeful like you and just as free. 
And things are no longer bitter, perhaps they can be sweet.
 
Surabhi Katyal
 
Surabhi Katyal (she/her) is a writer, translator, psychotherapist, and researcher based in Rajasthan,India. She says that writing and reading have held her together while she has lived with a decade-long bundle of chronic pain and psychosocial disability. Currently, she is translating verses of Sant Raidas and Maithili Sharan Gupt into English. She is also working on editing the English translations and doing the Hindi translations of A Vennila poems. She hopes that her cats will let her focus on her writing projects more (unlikely).
 
**
 
I Might’ve Had a Sex Dream
                                                            
In the dream, I leave work and drive 18 hours nonstop, searching for an isolated cabin in the deep, dark woods. The sun sets, the sun rises. I never question if I’m awake. Did I mention, in the dream, I’m fired for watching porn? If I’d gone home, I might’ve told my husband it was a layoff; instead, I toss my phone out the window when passing the exit for home. Unlike the dream, I never watch porn, only read romance novels and inhale murky phrases like “wet friction,” or “grunting into foam.” Porn might’ve clarified the details. Critical anatomy shots at critical moments. I’m a visual learner. Before we married, my husband would run off after sex to confess, to seek absolution from his parish priest for a sin he’d committed, knowingly, willingly, and may I say–enjoyably. In the dream, I tilt into switchbacks and risk passing eighteen-wheelers, slowly climbing the mountainside. Did I mention the downpour? Wild lightning strikes hit dead trees and spark a fire. God, the heat. Sweat drips between my breasts in the dream. The torrential rain simmers the forest, and steam rises from the ground. Finally, in the dream, in my dream, I turn off the highway, grinding my car up a steep gravel road that dead ends at the cabin. I jump out, forget to cut the engine, and halfway to the door, the car revs higher and higher as if the motor is inside me. I knock hard on the door, and it opens to Carlos, my first boyfriend, the one who provoked Mama to say ‘you could do better,’ the one who refused confession or absolution, the one who feasted on wild-ass-monkey sex, and the one who, in my dream, swings the door open, sweeps his arm beneath me, lifts me and carries me inside. 
 
Anne Anthony
 
Anne Anthony’s gritty, tender, and amusing stories feature compelling but slightly flawed characters who tend to carry on conversations with each other inside her head. She stopped fighting them a few years back agreeing to tell their stories just to quiet them. Find recent publications here: https://linktr.ee/anchalastudio or check her social media: IG: @anchalastudio X: @DIHPocketsART  FB: @anchalstudio
 
**
 
Thereafter
 
Secretly I think of my life as a street—not a busy freeway, but a dead end with a way in but no exit except to unwind itself backwards into a repetition of what I’ve already done. It stands inside the shadow of a spiral that lengthens in a tighter and tighter coil as the years wear on and out. Exhausted I conjure exotic locations, endless oceans of azure skies, a vessel sailing forever towards the horizon, following a magical but unfinished map.
 
ink tells my story--
my familiars dream, chasing birds--
we fly together
 
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/.
 
**
 
Pet Lover’s Dilemma
 
I am my own canvas
splashy and expressive
life etched on each sleeve,
 
my friends are monochromatic
fur is fur
they have no choice.
 
Although dissimilar
we are stitched together
by emotion and survival,
 
they rouse me from slumber
desperate to pad outside for relief
then return to fitful sleep… not me.
 
What do they know of insomnia?
Should I buy a doggie door?
Is that a crack in the ceiling?
 
Elaine Sorrentino
 
Elaine Sorrentino has been published in Minerva Rising, Willawaw Journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Ekphrastic Review, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Haiku Universe, Sparks of Calliope, Gyroscope Review, Quartet Journal, The Raven’s Perch, and Panoplyzine. She hosts the Duxbury Poetry Circle, was featured on a poetry podcast at Onyx Publications. Her first collection of poetry, called Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit is in production at Kelsay Books.
 
**

Muddy Water Rescue Plan
  
And then I was alone.

The brown dog was his. The black one, mine, half dead after the hours in the attic.

Me, on the bed in my neighbor’s trailer, Billie Eilish, through the earbuds I scooped up from the rising water.

When the rain came, the dogs and I climbed to the top of my beautiful house, with stones shaped and chiseled to resemble castle walls, muddy water lapping at our feet, me shrieking into my dead phone, waiting for the rescue boat to arrive.

Now in my girlfriend’s trailer, the mosaic of blankets, blue, pink, floral, stink of damp. A furious red rash creeps up my legs. My mouth crinkles from the dirty water infusion.

My husband left the day before the storm, said I can’t take your nagging anymore.

Maybe I was an ideal, something he dreamed up, something to fall short of. 

Maybe I should move back to San Diego where the sky, the sea, the eucalyptus shout colour.

Maybe Chicago. At least there, the wind matches my mood.

The black dog yaps in her sleep. My husband’s mutt gets up and nuzzles me. His breath is sour.

Snuggling together on the sunshine pillow, I kiss him back.
 
THE END
 
Laura B. Weiss
 
Laura B. Weiss is a fiction writer and journalist with work in Flash Boulevard, Bright Flash Literary Review, 10x10 Flash, Five on the Fifth, New York Times, and  Interior Design, among others. She was a Publishers Weekly book reviewer and  Bellevue Literary Review reader. She was also a Virginia Center for Creative Arts Fellow.
 
**
 
Count Your Blessings
 
If only life and love resembled the crumpled softness of a well-used bed.
Praise the dogs that lie beside my body when no one wants me.
I used to sleep better in white sheets until white became a shroud.
Praise the black and white floral linen on sale at 50% off, One Day Only.
At fifty-five, tattoos seemed a better option than another lover’s scar.
Praise the men I said no to, who took it for an answer.
This afternoon, I’ll wash the cup and plate and change the pillow slips.
Praise the dog drool and the silent farts that make me laugh when
all else fails.
 
Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman 
​
Linda lives and writes poetry in Lake Tabourie, NSW, Australia, on traditional Yuin country and enjoys seeing her poetic work published in various literary spaces. 
 
**
 
After the Walk
 
My body all flowers
My quilt and pillows flowers
 
Am I rehearsing for the grave
No one will leave stones or flowers
 
What do the dogs know
About roots or death
 
The strewn plate with its cups
Their stoneware bodies askew
 
Somewhere it is summer
And wild cones rebloom   
 
The ophidian fabric beside me watches and waits
Memory’s original snake returning
 
As if then is now
My body hums with a bouquet’s submission
 
Beloved
 
Wherever you are I know you listen
 
Amy Small-McKinney
 
Amy Small-McKinney was the 2011 Montgomery County PA Poet Laureate. Her second full-length book, Walking Toward Cranes, won the Kithara Book Prize (Glass Lyre Press, 2017). Her chapbook, One Day I Am A Field, was written during COVID and her husband’s death (Glass Lyre Press, 2022). Her poems have been published in the American Poetry Review, The Baltimore Review, SWWIM, Tahoma Literary Review, Tiferet Journal, Literary Mama, Pedestal Magazine, Persimmon Tree, and Vox Populi, among others. Her poems have also been translated into Korean and Romanian. Her third full-length book of poems & You Think It Ends is forthcoming 2025 (Glass Lyre Press). Small-McKinney has a degree in Clinical Neuropsychology from Drexel University and an MFA in Poetry.
 
**
 
After the Walk,

I collapsed in bed, my two other companions by my side, and couldn’t sleep. How could I? Mourning, rest escaped me. Not the dogs though. They conked out as if shot. Red, as usual, gave me not a jot of space, and pushed his lean body next to mine as if he was an appendage. Never a burden, always a patient joy, Smudge slept with her parts splayed, tart that she is. I lay on my back contemplating the spots of peeled plaster wishing I had the youth and spirit to rip off the wallpaper and paint the room in spumoni colors—lemon yellow, blushing pink rose with a ribbon of jade between the molding and the white ceiling. Suddenly, I spied little tears in the wallpaper bordering the window she’d ripped with her mittens. I hadn’t noticed the evidence of her before. Damn to renovations. I’ll keep the tears in her memory. Tomorrow we’ll walk to the unmown meadow and spread her feathery ashes amongst the yellowing grasses and jumping, green bugs. 
 
Lucinda Kempe
 
Lucinda Kempe’s work has been published or is forthcoming in New Flash Fiction Review, Centaur, The Disappointed Housewife, Unbroken Journal, New South Journal, Southampton Review, and the Summerset Review. An excerpt of her memoir was short listed for the Fish Memoir Prize in April 2021. Nominated for Best of the Net in 2024 by Boudin Magazine (The McNeese Review).
 
**

A Good Bad Gone
 
A mishmash puzzle, us,
a room that glints with
mismatched chintz
(he never liked it).
 
You walk so you forget,
but when the chazza shop
is beckoning, you reckon
that it’s worthwhile going in,
you can’t resist.
 
So armed with unexpected plates,
you take the left, you let the dogs off,
wander, think he would have rolled his eyes
at this new purchase: do we need
another plate? And you lost patience,
wouldn’t say again how chestnut
mugs and cheery sheets remind you
of your mum and how she squeezed
you tight in bed, the telly blaring
blurry comfort and another long-ago dog,
gone now, dozing on the proggy mat,
his legs a-twitch with dreams.
 
The cocker stretches, tiny scratch
reminder that you’re flesh and blood
and time is marching on and no-one
else will make the pot of tea
this evening.
 
Caitlin Prouatt
 
Caitlin is a Brisbane-born, Oxford-based Latin and Greek teacher. When not tutoring or looking after her toddler, Caitlin writes poetry, with a particular interest in how rhythm can contribute to an image. Much of her poetry centres on her experiences of being a parent, but she also often returns to Classical themes. She enjoys having a go at the Ekphrastic Challenge to hone her craft.
 
**
 
Dignity
 
I got my dignity.
Ain’t nobody can take that away.
Ha! Some try their darnedest though.
 
Flipping burgers at the Clover Grill don’t seem dignified.
True, the place has its charm. 
Red-topped diner stools, tile floor, pink menus.
 
Has history too. 
Been here on Bourbon Street since 1939.
Open 24/7.
 
You gotta dig deep to find dignity there.
Jesus said feed the hungry. 
I do that. That’s enough.
 
I just finished the night shift.
Took Huey and Louie for their walk.
Time to crash on this heap of a bed.
 
Too worn out to bother with the dress.
Yanked off my bra though, and slung it on the bedpost.
These New Orleans summers are too much.
 
Wish I had a cigarette.
Next paycheck I’ll get a carton.
For now just putting my fingers to my lips sorta helps.
 
I wish I had art for these walls.
I wear my art on my arm.
And I pull it up around me.
 
You can tell I’m partial to prints. Ha!
Who cares if the colors coordinate.
I get ‘em cheap at St. Vincent de Paul.
 
Time to sleep now if I can make these eyes close.
Wouldn’t mind a man next to me.
But I learned that lesson.
 
I got my dogs.
And I got my dignity.
That’s enough.
 
Bill Richard
 
Bill Richard is a docent at the Phoenix Art Museum and has loved art since he sat on his dad’s lap as a toddler and looked at books of paintings. He is also a standardized patient for medical schools, helping prepare healthcare professionals by giving them feedback on their communication skills. His poems have appeared in publications such as Red River Review, Ilya’s Honey, and National Catholic Reporter.


**
 
To Lyn Aylward Regarding After the Walk
 
The walk, far more than exercise,
was meant to fill discerning eyes
with things familiar much the same
and of the moment new to frame
 
with those to prize and those to rue
and those that fervent hopes pursue
together trek that underway
from dawn to dark of years by day,
 
is aging, energetic still,
the sturdiness of stubborn will
as ceiling lowers heaven's sky
for inward glance of upward eye
 
that senses in artistic soul
collage of patterns to extol.
 
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.
 
**
 
Interior Design
 
My mother always wore a sleeveless nightgown, always slept on the right side of the bed, even after my father died. She always wrapped toilet paper around her lacquered coiffure, secured the tissue with hair clips. She always separated silverware in the sink, organized knives, forks, and spoons in the dishwater. She ate at the same time every day, often eating the same meal: Oatmeal for breakfast, tuna salad on white toast for lunch, broiled chicken for dinner. She rationed two Stella D’oro cookies every evening as she relaxed In front of the television. She wore silver with silver, gold with gold, never mixed metals. 
 
Obsessive compulsive?
 
Some family members insist she was OCD. But me? No. She just wanted order, managing expectations birthed during the Great Depression and war. She wanted to wrap an imperial blue world of her own making around her, curl up in a blue-and-white comforter that matched the drapes, carpeting, curtains inside the armoire, the velvet tufted bench at the foot of the bed.
 
Barbara Krasner
 
Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She is pursuing a World Art History Certificate from Smithsonian Associates as she works on a full-length ekphrastic poetry collection. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, Nimrod, Cimarron Review, ONE ART, and elsewhere. She lives and teaches in New Jersey and can be found at www.barbarakrasner.com.
 
**
 
Curb Your Enthusiasm
 
Too many cushions, too many covers –
countless curves – that bed is a puddle
with many a squashy bubble
luring the woman to end her walk
and letting herself to the tuffs talk.
 
The one sharp line is laid pointedly sublime –
blob and dog having shoved the pliancy
of dress and flesh left her body edge
stretch forthright like a tugging kite.
 
Otherwise, here at the flat upper part
should have been a double oval plot
with perpetually swaying nod;
and at the lower plumb fringe
should have been an oblique weave
ambushing every limb’s groove.
 
Instead, it is geometrically projecting
annunciating:
I am mindful just of spiky adjectives
I take no curly compliments
I am Aphrodite of cutting-edge musings
I am here to draw the bottom line
of the internal cloud nine.
 
Unlikely, it is taut and sharp
like a string of a harp
with no twists to breed false tones
after my geometric clearance
for the earnest hand
I see extending out of the blue
to begin a tune of incredible cue.
 
So, curb your enthusiasm for curves
and take my sharpness
as the flatted-fifth harness.
 
Ekaterina Dukas
 
Ekaterina Dukas writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning. Her poems have often been honored by TER and its Challenges. Her poetry collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europe Edizioni.
 
**
 
Filling Spaces
        
Dog breath fogs the window in the cramp of your bedroom, your lover gone, but at your bidding, dismissed the day before your fifth anniversary, a preemptive move, knowing he’d forget, never mind the cloying scent of a perfume you’ve never used that you sniffed on his jacket. Two still-plumped pillows head what used to be his side of the bed. Pottery he made, as yet unsmashed, lies in a box at the foot. Everything here abhors a vacuum. Black dog, upside-down, his wanting belly exposed, fills one gap. His dreams ride the refuge of the space your lover vacated, as he nestles into the billow of the duvet. Brown dog’s spine rides the left longitude of you, warms the length of your leg. The dogs flanking your sides arrived courtesy of your lover’s need to rescue, discovered in a burlap sack three years ago and brought home to salvage what was lost. Now, a larger loss looms over the room. You’d thought you were glad to see the back of him, but now wonder whether you did the right thing. You stare at the dusty sunbeam spilling through the window and a whoosh of air pushes from your lungs. You lose your eyes, start the hard work of erasing, of replacing.
 
Mikki Aronoff
 
Mikki Aronoff’s work has been nominated for Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, Best American Short Stories, and Best Microfiction, with stories appearing in Best Microfiction 2024 and forthcoming in Best Small Fictions 2024. She lives in New Mexico.
 
**
 
Grief Has More Than One Pattern
 
Daydreams take up most of her time –
dreams of what it must be like
to be a dog, to have a life
where someone else takes care of
the dirty dishes, the disheveled bed,
the comings and goings of daily doings,
even where the next tattoo will go.
If only some benevolent being
(someone who loves her as much as
her dogs do) would take charge
and let her focus on clouds and colors,
walks in the park and midnight jazz.
 
He used to do that for her. He loved her
as much as she loves her dogs.
 
Maril Crabtree
 
Maril Crabtree’s book, Fireflies in the Gathering Dark (Kelsay Books), received a 2018 Kansas Notable Books award. Her latest book is Journey. Her poems, essays, and short stories have appeared in numerous journals including Coal City Review, I-70 Review, Literary Mama, Main Street Rag, Persimmon Tree, Poet’s Market and Third Wednesday. She believes that a poem’s apothecary of words, of sounds spoken and absorbed, can be a healing force in our culture. Her online work can be seen at www.marilcrabtree.com
 
**
 
After the walk
 
the shutters closed
               upon return
sprawled out in bed
 
hot wind outside
the sun fierce on our skin
fierce on our road
we’re done now
I’m done
 
a space for time
a room for lying about
on this layer of earth
 
Stien Pijp
 
Stien Pijp lives in the Dutch country side. She enjoys thinking, poetry and clay. She is a linguist who works in the field of aphasia and care. A dreamy person who likes to hang around and walk her dog.
 
**


At Noon
 
I let the sun eat
me
and my captive Halloween
ghosts
itching to ignite.
 
I let love go-
bald like the eucalyptus grove
by the path I climb,
like the silver oaks
that rise beyond
hope.
 
As in a note that I find
at free bird house library
on the road I walk at noon,
Write a line and pass it on-
I let the sun eat
my youth and colors gone cold.
 
At end I lie
free of my weight, sprawled,
browned as the eucalyptus bark
tattooed with time.
Fearless of fall.
 
Abha Das Sarma
 
An engineer and management consultant by profession, Abha Das Sarma enjoys writing. Besides having a blog of over 200 poems (http://dassarmafamily.blogspot.com), her poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, Silver Birch Press, Blue Heron Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru. 
 
**
 
Sunrise Aches of Evening Years
 
oh, but I’ll be up again, darlings--
blame these old bones, rigid and stubborn
as your love for walks when air is cool
and sun tepid; your dawn in my
evening years rejuvenate as much as
it bears down with all its energetic leaps;
alas, my cartilages, my muscles, my nerves
require horizontal walks of complete stillness
for a little while—maybe a few more whiles;
come, lie next to me; accompany me
through this internal adventure—I hear you,
my darlings, but all I need is a little while,
plus a few extra whiles, and I’ll be up again!
 
Manisha Sahoo
 
Manisha Sahoo (she/her), from Odisha, India, has a Bachelor’s degree in Engineering and a Master’s in English. Her words have appeared/are set to appear in Inked in Gray, Borders not Bridges, Apparition Lit, Sylvia Magazine, Atticus Review, Amity, Noctivagant Press, and others. You can find her on Twitter and on Instagram @LeeSplash.
 
**
 
I Search for the God of the Afternoon Doze
 
of two dogs lying down with me
of the smell of trees on their coats
of the ice cream pink and blue swirl
of quilts surrounding us
of the pattern of light that will fade
of a green dress hiked to my thigh
of dreams and intricate tattoos
of my right hand fallen like a fat leaf by my chin
of pillows tossed to the floor
of eyes that will close in a moment
of dirty plates by the bed I think of then forget
 
Catherine Anderson
 
Catherine Anderson is the author of four full-length collections of poetry, and a recent memoir, My Brother Speaks in Dreams: Of Family, Beauty & Belonging, about growing up with her brother Charlie who had autism and was institutionalized for a time. For decades she has worked with new immigrants and refugees in the field of interpretation/translation. In her free moments, she likes to draw owls.
 
**
 
Lady Dogs 
 
It's the happiest she’s been in a decade, here on the bed with Beck and Sue. He'd be horrified to see it: the bed in disarray, dogs on the duvet in animal abandon. What about the shed hairs, he’d say, my allergies, the mess that lady dogs make. She hated the term ‘lady dogs’: as if insults are improved by euphemisms.
 
They’d had a long, gorgeous walk across the common. Beck and Sue were everywhere, scampering like crazed things: she’d never known dogs dig so many holes! But both came to heel when she called, as if they’d been acquainted for years. They hadn’t - she fetched them from Rescue Dogs that morning. But look how they adjusted to their new home, stretched-out on her bed like they’d lounged there forever! Brown haired Beck at her left, snoozing on the swirled sheets; black haired Sue playing possum, a twitch in her hind-leg the only sign of life in her weary state. When they ran to the bedroom she hadn’t even stopped to wipe their paws: she didn’t need to care anymore.
 
She felt at peace with these dogs. She’d missed the creature-warmth of a loving presence, so lacking in her life through her years with that man: his skin like refrigerated lard; his chill, bony limbs poking holes in her patience, her will to live. She knew things would change with Beck and Sue, felt instantly connected when she collected them this morning: sweet-natured Beck’s gentle eyes, Sue’s lean snout that she likes to nuzzle with. He feared being nuzzled by dogs: shunned the wet nose that Sue forced upon him, nuzzling his face to get attention. She guessed how he’d react, claiming dogs made his asthma rage; but he was easily upset, that man. Everything annoyed him, her most of all. He didn’t like the sandy shade she dyed her hair, the way she wore her dresses short, the beautiful tattoos she’d been adding to for years, just to spite him. But dogs were the final straw: he’d fumed when she bought them home, flew into a man-rant. Asthma, asthma, asthma! He only ever thought about himself, that man.
 
It occurs to her now that their walk across the common will be a twice-a-day routine: Beck and Sue need exercise, but now her garden’s out-of-bounds. She’d never known dogs dig so many holes: who knows what these lady dogs might find beneath the freshly-turned earth.
 
Paul McDonald
 
Paul McDonald taught American literature at the University of Wolverhampton for 25 years, before taking early retirement in 2019. He is the author of 20 books to date, which includes fiction, poetry and scholarship. His most recent poetry collection is 60 Poems (Greenwich Exchange Press, 2023)
 
**
 
Where the Red Hair Grows
 
                   “Dogs are better than human beings 
                   because they know but do not tell.”
                    - Emily Dickinson
 
the silence crackled 
and began to dance. 
the heat stuck to light.
my two beautiful dogs.
one large with long paws,
movie glam, and glistened 
with gold. the other smaller
made with silver trim, 
and sparkled like a star.
there was a story that
went back a half century.
my mind drifted through 
the years. my wonderful 
memories unfolded.
 
Michelle Hoover

With thanks to Wilson Rawls, Where the Red Fern Grows, Ch. 1.

Michelle “Line/breaker of the North” Hoover is an amateur poet and professional wiseacre. She lives near a mountain on unceded Ute territory with her onery feline, Stevie, the Magnificent Marshmallow. She enjoys her toes in the grass, a hardy laugh, and a backstroke under a starry sky. Her work can be found in The Ekphrastic Review; enjoy!
 
**

Afternoon Siesta
 
Cynthia is in deep
meditation as she
reclines on her
wrought iron bed
covered in colourful
floral quilts, content
with her hand
on her brown
lab’s neck
as a stiff breeze
ruffles lace curtains
above the pillows.
Her leafy tattoos
prove her bond
to nature while
Cynthia’s dyed
red hair and facial
wrinkles remain
evidence of maturity.
 
This afternoon she
is resting from
a two-hour hike
along the marsh,
where she paused
to observe
a snowy egret,
motionless
fifty feet away
with her two dogs,
Zeus and Bandit.
 
At this moment
her fingers are 
poised on her lips--
some dark secret
never to be shared.
 
Jim Brosnan
 
A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Long Distance Driving (2024) and Nameless Roads (2019) copies are available [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. 
 
**
 
King’s Walks
 
24 days ago, I noticed how slow King walked. His progress was usually lagging a little due to his massive bulk, but he kept falling far enough behind I had to wait for him to catch up. He was just getting on a bit, 13 now. Our afternoon walks out in the woods were the highlight of his day (if you don’t count dinner), so we still ventured out, morning and afternoon, no matter what the weather.
 
15 days ago, I woke up to a revolting smell. The morning light was barely slipping through the blinds in the shades. The other dogs had evacuated the bedroom, leaving King slumped on the floor surrounded by foul piles and mounds. I could see his body heaving with effort. I got out of bed and put my hand on his head; he struggled to his feet, and we walked to the truck to go to the vet’s.
 
13 days ago, the phone screeched out during the early morning. It scared me for a few reasons.  It was the vet’s office calling to report their findings. King had cancer. And it was too late, and he was too old. No other details they shared mattered. I don’t even remember what kind they said he had.  I rounded up the crew and headed into the woods while the sun was still out to warm us.
 
4 days ago, while I was washing dishes, I heard a crash from the hallway. I dropped the plate and was already in the doorway when the crack echoed out. King was splayed on the floor. He was fighting to get to his paws, but his legs convulsed so horrifically, it was impossible for him to get up. I crouched and pulled him to me. The convulsions stopped as darkness crept down the hallway while we were lying there. That day, nothing was done, no walks were taken. 
 
This morning, King didn’t go near his breakfast. I let the bowl out all morning. I shooed the others when they came sniffing around. That was King’s food, though he hadn’t eaten in a few days. He watched me do chores from his deflated cushion. When I took a break for a cigarette and coffee he struggled to his paws and settled his large head on my lap and cried. I understood, and I cried with him. 
 
After the walk, I got in the shower to scrub the dirt from my skin and the guilt from my heart. But it was no use, the remorse crawled into bed with me. The remaining members of my small pack joined, and I am grateful for their warm bodies, soft fur, and the unrelenting love only dogs are capable of.
 
The first walk we took after I brought him home, King was a holy terror. He ran from me the moment I unclasped the leash. He frolicked in the mud, got stuck in the woods’ overgrowth. He attempted a small howl, but just frightened himself. I wriggled in after him and ended up with a tick. He relentlessly chased squirrels until he finally caught one, and I had to coax him with multiple treats to let the poor thing go. I remember thinking that he was hustling me. My energy was spent by the time we got back, but he bounced around like he had just woken from a full night’s sleep. When I finally scrubbed the dirt from his fur, he curled around me in front of the tv for the night. And that was how we spent almost every day. 
 
Tomorrow, I’ll call the tattoo parlor for an appointment to get a crown added to my right arm.
 
Samantha Gorman
 
Samantha Gorman, a lifelong lover of books, lives in Western Pennsylvania. After taking several creative writing classes, she found her voice and had begun the adventure of becoming a writer. She writes poetry, short fiction, and is working on her first novel.
 
**

Always Three 
 
She absently rubs my neck. The woman whose name I’ve never known. I’ve been with her enough days to know she sees no one but me and Polly. Polly is what the other dog is called. She calls me Susan. She’s not been around other people so I don’t know what she is called. Many days she will lay in bed until noon, just the three of us while she stares out the window. After a long time, she will get up and give us little biscuits and a saucer of tea. Her tea is in a big cup. She will put big white shirts over her clothes and spread colours on paper. She gives them to the mailman every couple of days and he brings her money. She lives in color. She lives for color. After the day is over, she’ll sit on her little balcony alone and eat dinner, then all of us will sit together and listen to music while she reads or knits or just sits. Sometimes we’ll dance, sometimes we’ll cry. Whatever we do, it’s just the three of us. Always.
 
Anna Svatora
 
Anna Svatora is a high schooler in central Ohio. She has participated in a few state writing competitions and hopes to become a full-time author one day.
 
**
 
Thinking
 
Thinking, thinking, thinking. All day she spent thinking. She lay in bed just thinking of her life, thinking of her lost love, regrets, sorrows, and joys. All day, all week she spent thinking, thinking of memories of when she was young, memories of her husband she misses so dearly. She lies in bed with her dogs lost in her thoughts of all her memories she has of life, good and bad. She enjoys the time she spent thinking of those memories. She smiles slightly, “a well lived life” she thought.
 
Abbi Dose
 
**
 
My Two Dogs 
 
I lie in bed contemplating everything that a person could contemplate on a Monday morning, allowing the sun’s rays to enter my cornea and make it impossible to sleep. I looked to my left and right and my black Pocket Beagle named Rosie and my brown Labrador dog named Teddy were still snoozing even though the sun’s rays had filled the entire room, it still had not woken them or stirred them in the slightest out of their slumber. Even though both dogs were different sizes and different breeds they still manage to get along no matter what. I thought about the world and wondered about how people were unable to get along like how dogs were able to, it just doesn’t make any sense since humans are smarter than dogs and we are unable to get along. I sigh, knowing that we humans have a long way to go until we get along and so I pray to God and then get up and walk to the kitchen to prepare my dog’s food. I grab by dog’s food and walk to their bowl and pour it in and now I hear the running of paws to my location and I see my Teddy running to the food bowl but not eating it right away instead he waits for Rosie who comes running in a little bit after him and so they both start eating from the food bowl not growling at each other just eating and enjoying each others company.
 
Samuel Verhoff
 
**
 
You see, poems are not exactly my specialty. so ill do the bio.
 
As a wee little lad, I loved to eat dirt. You see I wasn't the brightest person in that metaphorical box. But I had something even greater, since I had the IQ of a dead pigeon, I knew that I could easily eat dirt. but since I knew that dirt wasn't normally easy to eat. I thought I could try multiple things that might change the way it works. I tried soaking it in water and even trying to take it grain by grain. I realize how dumb this was about a month later, and even now I still think about it once a week. but I just felt determined by this pointless act, that would not benefit me but actually make my hours worse because of the stomach pain. After I tried multiple different ways and after I had basically given up. I had a spark of ideas, one I thought would for sure work. "if I could just put it through a strainer" I thought to myself. now I didn't own one, and to my surprise, there wasn't one in my shed either. But then I remembered the meat mallet my father used to almost crush a squirrel that got stuck in our humble home. I used it with water and a bag. I put the bag under the meat mallet and turned the mallet to the side, I used clean water and pressed the dirt against the mallet while the water flowed. turns out that's not how straining works. so I tried to, and part of my brain felt so accomplished it made the dirt not taste half bad. I haven't eaten dirt since but if something like this happens again. I'll be sure to try whatever it takes to get my dumb goal accomplished
 
Cole Stefanovski
 
**
 
The Encounter
 
The bed is strewn with fatigue,
pillows tossed about, Labradors
panting on each side of he mattress
and myself resting
 
from our early walk. Before dawn,
we hiked through the woods. long and slow
winding through a place where everything
dissolved into silhouette and the shining stillness
 
that lingers after an Autumn rain.  The moon
had cast her presence on the water, a woman
gowned in white -  drifting on a current
headed down stream where  the stone depot
remains with ivy sprawling over its walls;
 
and memories have seen the sorrow
of too many departures.
 
The dogs whimpered,  sensing a ghost;
and I felt the shadow of a story
trail behind. Someone harbored
by the huddle of trees, soft-fallen
of foot and voice,    
 
said to go home, fall asleep
and the rest would be revealed    
in a dream. So here I lie
 
fading into slumber, wondering
what spirit called my name, begging me
to learn of her legend. 
 
The dogs lie corpse-still, their breathing
now easy, hardly heard but they know
about the moon and  how she parts
 
that curtain of mist hours before
most souls revisit their past. And I think
the dead must breathe as they shimmer
in the dark or half light,  inhaling our scent
knowing which ones to pursue and possess.
 
The sky lightens with a train passing
on tracks that follow the river. And I hear travelers
discussing in one of the carriage cars
 
how a lady drowned, submerging herself
in the cold darkness of midnight. Her birthday 
just moments away; and her lover gone
to the glamour of gambling  A grand casino
in Monte Carlo they say. La Salle des Americains
 
known for its rich tapestries and tables
spinning his life into nothing
but the luck of numbers. Tomorrow
 
I turn thirty, my husband still in Paris
but his letter sits on the chair, a few inches
from my hand, waiting to be read again
 
and I realize there are no trains
that go through this town, only a woman
wanting to press his words
 
against her heart, waiting to awaken
from my dream. A stranger to the dogs
but not this house which she owned
lit by gas lamps and gloamed by the green
dusk of willows -- more   
than a hundred years before.
 
Wendy A. Howe        
 
Wendy Howe is an English teacher and free lance writer who lives in Southern California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, diverse landscapes, women in conflict and ancient cultures. Over the years, she has been published in an assortment of journals both on-line and in print. Among them: Strange Horizons, Liminality, Coffin Bell,  Eternal Haunted Summer , The Poetry Salzburg Review, The Interpreter's House, Silver Blade Magazine, The  Orchards Journal, Indelible magazine and Eye To The Telescope.  Her latest work will be forthcoming in The Acropolis Journal  later this year.
 
**
 
Sacrament with Dogs and Tattoo Sleeve
 
The dogs dream of running
toward her right beside her
 
the way the soul speedwalks
stock still toward the body
 
when the body’s hungers
have all been checked off
 
like items on a to-do list.
I love the good bad things:
 
the bright red heels
that crush my toes like ice
 
in an overpriced drink;
scarfing stale kid’s cereal
 
straight from the box;
an afternoon in bed letting
 
the bright unproductive light
poke holes in my sorrow
 
like the ones I’ll later stab
into the film of
 
a microwave meal.
Douse me in doubt,
 
drench me in deep
lavish unknowing,
 
like a bird bathing herself
in a highway puddle.
 
My God is a girl
holding a mirror
 
between her legs
or a convenience store
 
bathroom—perfect
for when perfect doesn’t
 
matter so much as relief.
Maybe God isn’t good
 
but where love goes
to get her nails done
 
so she doesn’t have to
hold anything for a while.
 
There are days I think
I’ll layer my floors in filthy
 
laundry if it means I
don’t have to walk anywhere
 
I haven’t already been.
I want to let my dogs out
 
and then watch them rub
their street-slick snouts
 
on my sheets.
Like a low-cut dress, life
 
won’t ask you to bend over
but is what is
 
revealed when you do. 
 
Lexi Pelle
 
Lexi Pelle was the winner of the 2022 Jack McCarthy Book prize. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rattle, Ninth Letter, Plume, SWWIM and The Shore. She is the author of the poetry collection Let Go With The Lights On (Write Bloody Publishing, 2023).
 
**
 
Allison Wright lay in bed as the early morning sunlight filled her room through the open window. The cool springtime air caused her curtains to rise up and fall back down slowly. It was a beautiful day, but she could not be more nervous. Today was the day. Race day. Not just any kind of race though, Allison competed in dog racing. She stroked her golden retriever, Holly, absentmindedly as she stared up at the red walls and ceiling of her room. Her other arm rested against her other dog Skye, who was lying on her back, all four fluffy legs in the air. She believed that she was a Beagador, half beagle, half labrador, with fluffy black fur, with white patches of white on her chest and toes. Holly rose gently up and down as she slept, but Skye’s tail continued to wack Allison’s arm as she grinned mischievously up at her owner over her furry stomach. Skye was full of energy, while Holly was very calm, except when people came over. The two of them obviously were not racing dogs, but they still came to the races to watch their older brother Bandit, her greyhound, compete. When she had competed in track and cross country in her high school years, Bandit had run with her when he was a little puppy when she was practicing, and she had realized how fast and talented he was. They started small, competing in the annual town race, which was easily won. After that they took on the state, and now she was twenty-one and the two of them were about to compete in the country wide race. She glanced over at her clock; it was 7:39. Better get going she thought, and she climbed out of bed, causing Holly to wake up and stare at her with sleepy eyes. Skye, on the other hand, rolled over, falling off the side of the bed, and bounded up to Allison, jumping up and down excitedly. She changed out of her green nightgown into a dark gray t-shirt with a picture of Hawaii, which she hoped to visit someday, and pulled on a pair of jeans. She never wore makeup, which her older sister, Kaylee, never understood, so she did not waste any time on that. She then pulled her copper colored hair up into a messy bun, brushed Holly and Skye’s fur until they were both silky and shiny, and went downstairs for some breakfast. She glanced at the clock in the kitchen as she prepared the dog’s food first. It was around 7:50, she would need to leave at 8:15.

About an hour later they were pulling up to her parents house. As she began to open up the car door, Skye pushed her way through it, and Allison had to quickly grab her leash, Skye especially hated car rides. Holly and Bandit followed. She was about to reach the doorstep when the door opened and her two little nieces, Bridget and Madeline, ran out to greet her.

“Hi Aunt Alli!” they squealed happily before dropping down to pet the dogs instantly. Allison laughed, and looked up to see Kaylee and her husband Derrick in the doorway, smiling at her.

“Hey little sis,” Kaylee walked down and gave her a hug. Derrick followed, greeting Allison with an embrace as well, and offered to take the leashes. She thanked him, and handed Holly and Skye over to him, but kept Bandit, who stayed close to her. She walked towards the house and found two boys standing in the door this time. One was her nephew, Cason, and the other was her younger brother, Noah. She was just barely finished saying hello to them when she was suddenly becoming squished from all over as her mother and father joined the group hug. 

Once everyone had finished their greetings, they started heading out to lunch; the dogs stayed home, of course. There they met up with her grandparents, a few aunts, uncles, cousins, and some friends. They all caught up with one another and talked excitedly about the race.

A few hours later, Allison was on the road again, pulling into the racetrack’s parking lot. Only Bandit was with her this time; the other two dogs were riding with the family. She walked him over to the track. He sniffed excitedly at the ground, his tail wagging enthusiastically. Bandit loved to race, just like Allison. She smiled down at him. Even after all these years he still reminded her of that little puppy bounding down the high school’s track next to her. They went inside the building where the racers gathered, preparing their dogs for the contest, for victory. Allison stroked Bandit, while he nuzzled his face into her lap. After a while she glanced at her watch. It was almost 6:00. She could already hear the crowd. The announcer started to call the dogs and their owners out to the track. The race was about to begin.
 
Becca Bates
 
Becca Bates is a freshman at Granville Christian Academy. She plays volleyball for her school's team, and has written and published a book with two of her friends, Earth Defenders: Alien Attack.
 
**
 
This Life
 
Daddy said go on and live your life,
Don’t get old with regrets like your mama and I,
Take one step forward until you feel what’s right,
You won’t always have time on your side.
 
Daddy says he feels seventeen inside,
Yet the glass shows an old man with his eyes,
He knows that life has somehow passed him by,
With no turning back, no matter how hard he tries.
 
Sometimes I feel like I want to stay in bed,
Pull the covers up high right over my head,
Pretend the world’s heard all that needs to be said,
That my scars will stop bleeding because they’ve already bled. 
 
Then I hear daddy’s voice in my mind,
Saying honey remember there’s no thing as rewind,
Put one step forward, you will be just fine,
Your two steps back were just a moment in time. 
 
My feet hit the floor from guilt or drive,
I push myself forward and start the climb,
Perhaps his sadness isn’t just for what he left behind,
But for fear that his life could be repeated as mine. 
 
Corrie Pappas 
 
Corrie Pappas is a small business owner living outside Boston. Her work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review and she is the author of the children’s book, Come Along and Dream. 
 
**
 
A Question
 
She lies awake, burrowed
into a bloom of quilts, a flurry
of pink and turquoise, yellow and indigo.
Her mind races like her Golden Boy
on the wooded path. He’s dozing now,
warm against her left flank, the spot he favours.
Blacky lies on her right, legs splayed,
belly exposed and vulnerable.
They smell of leaves and earth.
She watches the shadow
of the old oak shape shift
across the ceiling as the day winds down.
She strokes her lips, ponders
her husband’s return,
whether there’s room for him.
 
Susan Carman

**

This week's prompt is with Halloween in mind! Sign up for our Writing Ghost Stories workshop on zoom, October 20th! Our zoom workshops are lively sessions curated to inspire and inform. In this session, we will look at a variety of artworks on the theme of ghosts and use them to inspire poems and stories. You can register by scrolling to the end of this challenge post.

**
​
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 The Old Hall, by John Anster Fitzgerald. Deadline is October 25, 2024. 

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  FITZGERALD 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 25, 2024.

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.

**

Sign up for our Writing Ghost Stories workshop on zoom, October 20th! Our zoom workshops are lively sessions curated to inspire and inform. In this session, we will look at a variety of artworks on the theme of ghosts and use them to inspire poems and stories.

​​

The Copper Thunderbird                                    
 
                                             "I will give to them an undivided heart and put
                                              a new spirit in them; I will remove from them
                                              their heart of stone and give them a heart of flesh."
                                                                                          Ezekiel 11:19
 
The turtle hissed beneath the leaves.     Beetles swarmed
the bright marquee of a local movie house.     Fall and Spring,
 
You and I in the balcony --     summer gone to winter dreams --
our lives transformed by the magic of film     in the same way
 
nature changes cycles     and time holds us, as Dylan Thomas
said, green and dying.     I knew the Raven, actually a Blackbird,
 
would wait in the oak trees     to cry out that its eyes were art;
that the Ojibwe     would find the land where food grew on water,
 
and how their hearts     would read the stones, the petroglyphs,
symbols of their songs and dances     while we explored the world
 
of rock'n'roll on a night-drenched driveway     until a turquoise
Ford Thunderbird     would carry our "tribe" to the Holiday House...
 
Norval (from Scots Norman, North Valley)      was called
the Picasso of the North.     In poor health at our age, his life was saved
 
by the animal wisdom of the seven clans --     the bear, who protects:
the fish who grows legs and becomes the turtle;     the deer, with hooves
 
that heal, like the horse;     and the bird with spiritual knowledge
of the skies, the moon and stars.     How full the moon, like an Ojibwe
 
moon-mask, as it sailed over houses in North Austin;     above
places where we danced     summoning the spirits of teenage love
 
as heavenly shades of night were falling     on a 45 rpm record.
If the earth were as simple as day & night     a world created  in black
 
& white (but it isn't)     how would the thunderbird signal the rain,
the lightning that "snakes" from under its wings?     The sound of a storm
 
and what does it mean?     The sun set in copper, with pigments
of light, as in  visionary puzzles --
                                                              how an artist imagined the Thunderbird's flight.

Laurie Newendorp
 
Honoured many times, and twice nominated for Best of The Net by The Ekphrastic Review, Laurie Newendorp is a poet writing in Houston.  Her love of animals, art and archaeology surface in "The Copper Thunderbird, " the name that Morrisseau's grandfather, a medicine man, gave his sick grandson as it was an indigenous Indian belief that a new name, as a part of a healing ritual, would restore health, creating a new person. The Holiday House is a drive-in hamburger restaurant in Austin, Texas.
               
​**

Cycles for Morrisseau
 
Lunar cycles, sun cycles,
carbon cycles, water cycles.
 
Many sacred rotations, 
spinning, churning
a vast centrifuge.
 
Mother mitochondria,
organelles dance and
revel with energy.
 
Cells rollicking in
minuscule sparks,
our symbiotic ancestors.
 
An infinitesimal seed.
Germinates, then cracks 
in a burst of vitality.
 
Emergent creatures vie
for oxygen. Giants breathe 
under sapphire waters.
 
Crawling, hopping, flying,
digging, climbing, strutting.
Eyes, fur, teeth, feathers, bones.
 
Bodies filled with liquid.
We live, die, and become
something mysterious.
 
May the world keep cycling 
again and again to sanctify
the wonder of life.

Rachel Prizant Kotok

Rachel Prizant Kotok (she/her) is the author of Morpho Didius, a collection of palindromic poetry (Armature Publishing, 2024). A finalist for the Tucson Festival of Books Literary Award for Poetry, she is a finalist for Southwest Review’s Morton Marr Poetry Prize. Her work has appeared in Tiferet Journal, Star 82 Review, The Centifictionist, Wend Poetry, and elsewhere. She teaches English learners, lives in New England, and keeps a Gregor Samsa beetle figurine nearby when she writes.

**

cycles

norval morrisseau
also known as copper thunderbird

            
a picture is worth a thousand stories


your throbbing colours tell and retell
the stories passed down to you
stories that nourished your people
stories of the cycle of life
like the generations of salmon glutted red
returning to their death to birth
then nurture their watery grave
your throbbing colours tell and retell
the stories of your own life that you honored
as you struggled through your own telling
finally  there were the stories of the theft of your sacred gift
crafted from your visions and dreams
such were the stories that shaped you
and now your memory
like the red salmon glutted with life
                       
Lou Ella Hickman        
      
Author's note: Salmon take on a red colour just before spawning.

Sister Lou Ella Hickman, OVISS is a former teacher and librarian whose writings have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies. Press 53 published her first book of poetry in 2015 entitled she: robed and wordless. She was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2017 and in 2020.   James Lee III composed “Chavah’s Daughters Speak” for a concert held on May 11, 2021, at 92Y in New York City for five poems from her book.  Another concert was held in Cleveland, Ohio on March 28, 2023, sponsored by the Cleveland Chamber Music Society.  Her second book of poetry, Writing the Stars,  will be released on October 4, 2024. (Press 53).

**
​
Cycles

Thinnest wavering lines connect us.
That, and the red we all share. 
Blood red that seizes your attention. 
Black lines and vermillion make your eye move
In a circle. A cycle.
Where does it begin or end?

Do you recognize us? Are you sure?
We traverse verdant land and emerald sea
Our bodies overlap.
We need each other like earth needs ocean.
Like you need us.

Bill Richard​

Bill Richard is a docent at the Phoenix Art Museum and has loved art since he sat on his dad’s lap as a toddler and looked at books of paintings. He is also a standardized patient for medical schools, helping prepare future health professionals by giving them feedback on their communication skills. His poems have appeared in publications such as Red River Review, Ilya’s Honey, and National Catholic Reporter.

​**

Sacred Hoop
 
I.
Look to the east
as the tadpole hatches,
catches horizon, glides
from sea to Mother Earth.
 
II.
Look to the south
as the fawn
matures to doe
under the moon.
 
III.
Look to the west
where a sun-kissed 
whale cow strives 
for water’s surface.
 
IV. 
Look to the north,
to star-studded Father Sky,
the turtle creeping
into the sea to die.

Barbara Krasner

Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She is pursuing a World Art History Certificate from Smithsonian Associates as she works on a full-length ekphrastic poetry collection. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, Nimrod, Cimarron Review, ONE ART, and elsewhere. She lives and teaches in New Jersey and can be found at www.barbarakrasner.com.

**

​To Norval Morrisseau Regarding Cycles

You speak in ancient seeming glyphs
of timeless climbs to final cliffs
from blackened depths to dampened beach,
from there to peaks the mountains reach

that pierce the very atmosphere
the conscious know as engineer
of moisture's cyclic fall and rise
permitting living enterprise

to draw from common circumstance,
at peril wrought by random chance,
existence both of self and sort
such evidence will long report

as heritage of time and space
that dawn renews for life's embrace.

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.

**

The Cycle Continues

A coincidental thing occurred when I looked at “Cycles,” the Morrisseau painting-my
Brother, Jay, had sent me an article about an “air bike” he had fashioned from
Copious spare parts, garnered at little cost, he was known for squeezing a
Dime until it cried, he probably still has each one of our grandfather’s special socks-
Economy was in grandpa’s genes too, except for Christmas time, when he proffered
Full length crew socks to each of us, brimming with his spare change, rubber-banded,
Garaged in his underwear drawer for the last year, a favorite gift that I had to
Habituate myself to accepting without comment, knowing even a tiny discrepancy
Ignited fury, Jay’s face turning from glad to a mask of pain, at the thought of being
Jerked around by grandpa, as if there was a conspiracy to give me a quarter more-
King Jay was forbidden to count his money during our family celebration, & he always
Loathed waiting for the car ride home to do it, & for my part, I kept quiet, trying not to
Murmur one word about how much my haul was that year. I would pick out one shiny
Nickel and give it to him, saying he now had five cents more than me. There was no
Opposition in the car, he didn’t want to incur the wrath of dad, impatient to get home to 
Pabst and his motorcycles, hand-built built with precision and style, & he was often
Queried by magazines and newspapers about his fabulous cycles, (one with two engines)-
Resplendent with chrome kickstands-- and my mother, sitting atop the custom-leather seat,
Stunning, with her Jackie-Kennedy hair and pink lipstick, and my brother, an acolyte
Transfixed, but too restless to be taught first-hand by the master, who, sadly, left last August,
Utilizing his last breath to reassure us, (he that was so unsure of the world) of love, but
Veering back to the article, I know if dad could read it, he’d smile so big, as his boy
Wielding some sass, was quoted “I loved the idea of a bicycle with an Evinrude motor”
Xenogeneic, this hybrid cycle was touted as an original masterpiece by Farm Show Magazine
Zealot of the bargain, he said the total cost was $150.00. I don’t doubt it. The cycle goes on.
 
​Debbie Walker-Lass

Debbie Walker-Lass is a poet, writer, and collage artist living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared inPunk Monk Journal, Three-Line Poetry, Haiku Poetry, The Light Ekphrastic, The Ekphrastic Review, and The Niagara Falls Poetry Journal, among others. She has recently appeared in local spoken-word showcases & attended the Rockvale Writer’s Residency earlier this year. Go Braves, (There’s always another season!)

**

Cycles

He was a collector of stories, as beachcombers collect. He assembled some of them here, for the Anishinaabe—the people of First Nations.

Here is Mi-zhee-kay, the turtle who saved the world from the great flood. Here is Mishi-ginebig, the horned serpent who lives underwater, its shed skin symbolizing rebirth. Here is the fiercest of all,Misshipeshu, the Great Lynx with spines on its back, master of the water and adversary of the Thunderbird, master of the air. And others, all with tales.

These are stories that twist good and evil, forward and back, male and female, in the Two-Spirit world that transforms one thing into another. It is all here in the storyboard: the cycle becomes a transmutation of life and death, of non-human and almost-human. I watch them cycling ‘round and the painting becomes kinetic, a kaleidoscope of form and color. There is no right-side-up here; turn it as you wish.

These images magnify the oral tradition. We anthropologists collect them, stories and images alike. Henry Schoolcraft assembled tales from these Ojibwe, Franz Boaz from the Inuit, both of them reflecting our fascination with folklore a century back. Longfellow created his own story here: Hiawatha, the misnamed Ojibwe warrior, Manabozho. Stories worth telling, worth seeing in pictures.

Beachcombers, all of us, our collections keep these stories from washing away.

Ron Wetherington

Ron Wetherington is a retired anthropologist living in Dallas, Texas. He has a published novel, Kiva (Sunstone Press, 2014), creative non-fiction, including prose-poems, in The Dillydoun Review, Literary Yard, Penumbra, Abandon Journal and The Ekphrastic Review, and short fiction in Words & Whispers, Adanna, Androids & Dragons, and in Flash Fiction Magazine.

**

All these stones, incised with stories, rattling around in the gaps 
 
1
My memory is faulty and full of holes--
and yet the fossils of my youth keep turning up, unsought.
 
2
Is ancient farther away than yesterday?--
each is a gesture to something that no longer exists.
 
3
Embedded in my bones is the urge to transcend their gravity.
I tell myself that my body is merely a vessel.
 
4
Chaotic remnants, scraps of the unfounded--
I feel them trembling inside me.
 
5
Nothing disappears.  What is it 
that I need to do to find out what belongs to me?

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/.

**

A Healing Frame

For vibrant colour, outline clear,
here’s Copper Thunderbird at work
as cycles round in credal dance,
though new name, ancient healing stance.

His faith was catholic, as meant,
evolving fusion’s widest spread
First Nation to the mystical,
including apostolic thread
as borne of fire, whisky risk dread.

Would he divulge too much himself  -
taboo to share his native myths?
With Cree syllabics as his sign,
once moose hide, birchbark for his line.

From ten his school was hunt, fish, trap,
and draw in elders’ discipline.  
An influencer, Thunder Bay,
he made his mark on Woodland folk,
new glyph traditions now bespoke.

A constable Shepparded him
to meet those who could open doors;
a mural, Expo ’67 
(I hold postcard my teacher sent!) -
while vinyl, movies, screened his art,
and astral travel played its part.

Earth tones near neon here we see,
glass stained as pained by struggles, faith;
flogged fakes for real as fraudsters found,
but not his soul, artist unbound.

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

**

​Melancholy by the Creek

The intense summer retreated
Leaving the creek an old man-
Cracked and dry and thin-
Hiding in the autumnal mist.
I plunge cupped hands in, pull them out,
The water clear yet a crowded microscopic soup.
What tiny creatures have I plucked from their home
And their everyday business?
Have they existed only these last twenty-four hours 
or have they seen rise of the dinosaurs?
will they witness the fall of man?
Even smaller than these unseen critters are their atoms.
Could they be made of the same carbon that once composed my
Great-great-great-grandfather that I never knew? 
And what about the atoms contained in my own cells.
Joan of Arc’s hydrogen or
Robert Frost’s nitrogen? 
I’d be honoured and bewildered.
These tiny beings and me, I hope we do good with these atoms
While they are us, then go on to do better.

Samantha Gorman

Samantha Gorman, a lifelong lover of books, lives in Western Pennsylvania. After taking several creative writing classes, she found her voice and had begun the adventure of becoming a writer. She writes poetry, short fiction, and is working on her first novel.

**

Dream – The Aggañña Sutta1

for Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha)

Do man’s visions last? / Do man’s illusions? / Take things as they come / All things pass.
Lao Tzu, "All Things Pass"

Beyond the delusions of ‘immutable will/predestination’ and deterministic frameworks of ‘good ‘n evil,’ there’s an electromagnetism of the replicative Cycles of Cause ‘n Effect—where the electrons are the apostles of duality (prevail both as particles ‘n waves); where the protons never meet their demise (only morph into neutral pions and positrons); where the neutrinos are disciples of anti-matter (shape-shift into muons and taus at will);2 where the ‘universal constants’ struggle for the room to roam; where the Platonic ‘ideal forms’ are deprived of all value; where the psyche (spirit) is emancipated from the cobwebs of the ‘sacred tablets;’ where the asuras (devas ‘n devis) themselves are the loyal subjects to the continuum of dialectical ballet dance of prakriti and purusha;3 where the quest for a ‘universal prologue ‘n epilogue’ is as futile as desiring the O2 to manifest as a single molecule in the realm of Mu,4 his R.E.M. gets dissolved by the cock-a-doodle-do of a rooster’s at circa seven ante meridiem; he at once resolves to the digital stylus ‘n tablet to poem the dream while ‘tis still fresh like the spring water flowing down the temple of the Himalayas. 

Saad Ali

1. Aggañña Sutta: The creation narrative in the Buddhist tradition, which professes the cyclical nature of the existence/cosmos and its processes – without the need for a Divine Being, such as, Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva et al – where the expansion and contraction is repetitive.
2. McKee, M. (2014), “This Shape-Shifter Could Tell Us Why Matter Exists,” Nautilus.
3. Prakriti and Purusha: In the Samkhya School of Thought (Hindu Philosophy), ‘prakriti’ denotes matter and ‘purusha’ denotes conscious energy.
4. Mu: In Zen Buddhism (Chan School of Thought), ‘Mu’ denotes nothing(ness), without reason/purpose, et cetera.

Saad Ali (b. 1980 CE in Okara, Pakistan) – bilingual poet-philosopher & literary translator – has been brought up and educated in the UK and Pakistan. He holds a BSc and an MSc in Management from the University of Leicester, UK. His new collection of poems is Owl Of Pines: Sunyata (AuthorHouse, 2021). He has translated Lorette C. Luzajic’s ekphrases into Urdu. His poetry appears in The Ekphrastic Review, The Mackinaw, Synchronized Chaos, two Anthologies by Kevin Watt (ed.), and two e-Anthologies at TER. He has been nominated for the Best of the Net. His ekphrases have been showcased at Bleeding Borders, Art Gallery of Grande Prairie in Alberta, Canada. His influences include Vyasa, Homer, Attar, Rumi, Nietzsche, Dostoyevsky, Freud, Jung, Kafka, Tagore, Lispector, et alia. He enjoys learning different languages, travelling by train, and exploring cities/towns on foot. To learn further about his work, please visit: www.facebook.com/owlofpines. 

**

Degrees of Magnitude: Three Earthquakes
 
The first. 

Awakened from a deep sleep, I screech like a macaw whose tail is pulled.  I’m certain I’m being attacked. A malicious intruder is hiding beneath my bed, stretched flat on the carpet. His hand is gripping the mattress frame, shaking it. He’s kangaroo-kicking the supports, making sure I’m petrified with fear before he leaps up to throttle me. That’s the only possible explanation. My bed rattles loudly, like a cup filled with dice. Everything else around me is as tranquil as a meadow. No pictures have fallen off the walls. No crashing sounds are coming from the kitchen. Ceilings haven’t crumbled. Walls haven’t cracked. Table lamps haven’t broken. This can’t be an earthquake.  
 
The second.

Quickly, I estimate how far I have to run. Five steps. A door is supposed to be a better spot to stand during seismic activity than the middle of a room. If a house is properly constructed, the lintels are reinforced by timber studs under the plaster. Can I reach the safety of the arch in time?  The floor is rolling like a board mounted on ball bearings. I begin to doubt my ability to walk, or to balance. Once, on a sailboat, I felt this same uncertainty, and yearned for sea legs. Now the earth is a surfacing whale. Waves are rippling over its back.  Rock-solid foundations pinning the building in the ground seem to slide, the way a melting ice cube slides over a puddle of water. For the full minute the temblor lasts, I’m the prisoner of a whirlpool. Finally, the upheaval weakens in strength, the tempo of convulsion slows. Under my shoes, a fainter motion continues, small aftershocks that crawl instead of undulating, the twitching movements of a bug on a rock creeping back and forth and side to side. Drifting atop our planet’s molten core, the continent seems to hesitate, trying to decide where its new resting place will be.  
 
The third. 

On arrival at my office job one morning, I’m met by a friendly colleague who invites me into our warehouse. He’s given me the tour before, knows how impressed I was by the aisles of massive metal racks, eight feet tall, piled high and heavy with boxes of products. They’ve shifted positions overnight. Those fixtures wouldn’t budge if assaulted by a platoon of workers, or rammed by a forklift. Tremors displaced them as easily as if they were made of toothpicks. Across the length of the cavernous space, the long rows are snaking. There’s no other word to describe the curves.  As I struggle to comprehend what I’m seeing, similar images float into my mind. Water meandering along loops in the San Joaquin River. Ridges being traced by wind across the contours of a sand dune. The shelves have preserved for us the path they followed, the shape of how the earthquake moved.
 
K Roberts

K Roberts is a professional non-fiction writer, a published artist, and a first reader for two magazines that publish experimental prose. Recent essays have been accepted for publication in Soundings East, Axon: Creative Expressions, and The Listening Eye.

**

Serifs.

From the margins of the text
From the frayed edges
From between the insular script 
From underneath the sleeves of sleep 
From the kinks of synapses 

From the margins of the text

From the frayed edges

From microscopic spores in 

fingerprints from crushed up foragings 

From the margins of the text
From the frayed edges

Creatures emerge and evolve to crawl
From the pages out into the forest

From the margins of the text
From the frayed edges

Limbs and tails unfurl from ink and pinpricks 

Wings claws teeth peck out through bindings 
Fledglings fall tumble slither disentangle from the scriptures

From the margins of the text
From the frayed edges

Creatures emerge and evolve to crawl 
Limbs and tails unfurl from ink

From the margins of the text
From the frayed edges

Eyes blink open
Lungs breathe air 
Skin stretches into shape
Hearts begin to beat.

Saskia Ashby

Saskia is a UK experimental fine artist who enjoys being active across a broad field and encouraging others to be creative without anxiety .

**

​ All Things
​
 Green for grass that nourishes,
for the buds of early Spring
the emerald, olive and darker tones
of the leaves of the summer forest.
 
The Earth Mother, brown, umber
nurturer, sustainer, provider
creates the colours of wild flowers
the plants which feed and heal.
 
Blue for the sky, whose dome
reflects its changing moods
of brightness, menace, anger;
the dark fury of the storm,
the fierceness of the lightning.
 
Blue too for mountain streams,
river rapids that roar through canyons
meander lazily to the oceans
which ebb and flow to the lunar cycle.
 
White for the virgin snow
for the soft clouds of Summer,
for the lace woven on the waves
for the angry spray on falls.
 
Bound into the seasons’ cycles,
the fish, the turtles, and all
the myriad, watery, creatures.
The bear wandering the wilderness,
the imperial eagle, the mountain King
The moose too with its great antlers.
 
All are intricately bound, 
part of a green, brown, blue 
and white seamless whole
even the fall of a sparrow
challenges the rhythm or pattern.

Sarah Das Gupta

Sarah Das Gupta is a  writer from Cambridge who enjoys many types of art and found herself in agreement with Morrisseau's ideas.

**

I Blink
 
The water dimples beneath my feet,
the greenery intertwined with the rocks
so vivid, they couldn’t be the bottom,
but here I hover several feet above them,
the sun warming my iridescent body.
I flit over the water after my brief respite,
the wind rushing around my translucent wings--
 
I blink.
 
My pink tongue envelopes the small creature
that flew right into my path, the perfect treat
on this fine, sunny day. The warmth of the green leaf
I spread my toes, and taking in one last look
of the vast blue sky with wispy clouds of white,
the trees of immeasurable height that my cousins house in,
I leap from my perch and, with a soft plop, I dive,
the cool water cocoons me. I kick to begin my swim--
 
I blink.
 
I swallow the fighting frog,
its tiny body no match to mine.
After watching it for several minutes,
it finally jumped, 
having no clue to its fate
once in my domain.
My belly now satisfied,
I glide through the water,
my scales glinting with my movement
under the sun’s beams that filter
through the restless substance of my home.
In deep thought,
I travel towards shallower territory,
unbeknownst to me,
as I enjoy my peaceful journey--
 
I blink.
 
A satisfying crack of bone
explodes in my mouth,
my powerful jaws
destroying my meal in seconds.
Swallowing, I feel it travel the length
of my body
until it settles in the pit
that is my stomach.
Swaying my body back and forth,
I slither through the rocks,
the grass,
the roots
of nature’s maze.
The sun warms my body,
and I take a deep breath,
allowing myself to just be,
not worry about where to go,
where to be,
where to start over.
The ground shudders,
an audible rumble echoes,
but I pay no heed,
watching the flowers bend and bow
under wind and fellow creatures--
 
I blink.
 
My claws sink into fine flesh,
the fresh scent of iron blood
seeps into the air.
I grin.
My feathers ruffle in the wind
as my arms flap furiously,
fighting for height.
Once up high enough,
I rest my arms,
gliding along the sky,
in line with the trees
of reds, golds, and greens.
With gentle beats,
I hover with the wind’s help,
passing off my slithery kill
to my loving partner
to feed our youngsters.
With one last glance,
I dive back down,
looking for another unsuspecting creature
to finish off our meal.
The soft tips of the grass tickle my arms
as I pass over the ground,
searching,
searching,
searching--
 
I blink.
 
The screech ends abruptly,
my prey not having time
to realize,
it was my meal,
having watched it tease me
as it flew so graciously
over
and around
in circles
over my head
for hours.
But now it came down
to me
and it became mine
to eat.
Fly no more,
it shall not tease me
with its elegance
any longer.
Grumbling,
I waddle my way
along the rocky ground,
the clatter giving away
my location
long before my hiss
or lengthy short body
could ever hope to
accomplish.
All who see me
fear my long, 
jagged teeth
embedded in
my camouflaged skin,
allowing me to hide
on both land
and in water.
 
As I slip into the clear liquid,
I watch as a buzzing fly
lands on the water,
its tiny, black feet
hardly denting its surface--
 
I blink.

Katie Davey
 
Katie Davey is an aspiring author from the rural parts of House Springs, MO. She has published two pieces through two separate challenges for the Ekphrastic Review, the first titled Hidden Prophecies as part of the Richard Challenge, and the second titled Listen Well, Listen All, of My Tale to Caution All as part of the Vicente Challenge. She has worked on Harbinger Magazine as a staff intern and is a member of Stephens College's chapter of Sigma Tau Delta. She earned her BFA in Creative Writing, with minors in Equestrian Studies and Psychology, at Stephens College in May 2024.

​