Bare in Our Dark Bravery

Nudely we frolic. The lake, it beckons. Especially at night, moonshine obscured by cloudcover. Some say skinny-dipping, but not all of us are as skinny as skeletal shorebirds, and that’s okay--

We are all bodies: all bosoms, butts, and bellies. Like black cats, all bodies demand (and deserve) pleasure. That wondrous crone at our hips; that lying lizard after our hearts. Who are we to deny.

Nudely we frolic. The gray sky, it beckons. Bats swoop softer and the hornéd goats soar higher, higher, with us riders. Creatures as familiar as our own skins, which we bare in our dark bravery.

Court Harler

Court Harler is a queer writer, editor, and educator based in the American South. She holds an MA and an MFA. She's ownder of Harler Literary LLC, founding editor of Flash the Court, and former editor in chief of CRAFT Literary Magazine. Her multigenre, award-winning work has been published around the world. Learn more at harlerliterary.llc or flashthecourt.com, and find her on Instagram @CourtneyHarler.

**

If By Chance in the Woods

The day I fell for a werewolf I was forest-swimming, searching for twigs to spruce up my broomstick, letting my bare feet sink into damp soil under the fallen yellow orange leaves. He was on all fours playing at cracking open spiky chestnut cases for the nutty treasure inside. Much sexier than a truffle-hunting swine. I broke one of my wooden lengths accidently-on-purpose and he stiffened, dropped his treat, and twitched an ear in my direction. 

"Red? Is that you?" As he turned towards me, he was suddenly standing on two legs and had acquired trousers. "Red?" His brow furrowed, "Where's your...?"

He drank me up and down with his onyx eyes. 

"I was caught in an unearthly gust," I said, "blew every thread right off..." I faked a shiver through my alabaster orbs. 

The wolfman gulped, and the goofy hairy gentleman in him opened his arms to me, "Good thing I'm mostly rug, apart from mouth and muscle."

I melted into his fur, wondering: Who is this Red and how do I end her? 

Bayveen O'Connell 

Bayveen O'Connell loves writing short form fiction and non-fiction narratives. She's inspired by myth, folklore, history, art, and travel. Her pieces have appeared in print and in online publications. Bayveen's creative non-fiction collection, Out of the Woods, is being launched this October. 

**

Visiting My Ex-Wife’s Grave, Anger, and a Simple Syllogism
 
It’s not the hastily executed, 
shallow type, so popular with 
serial killers, and crimes of 
passion. Scattered leaves and 
twigs barely covering the victim’s 
mutilated body. In fact, she’s 
alive. So am I. We will not be 
going together. 
 
Adam coined the “f-word” just 
after The Expulsion. There was 
plenty of anger on both sides of 
the gates. Buddha sat around for 
a lifetime trying to get a handle 
on his. Or was that suffering?
 
My case is a simple syllogism.
I did not control my anger.  
Not her fault. 
So much for my marriage.

Matthew Sisson

Matthew Sisson’s poetry has appeared in journals ranging from the Harvard Review Online, to JAMA The Journal of the American Medical Association. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and read his work on NPR’s On Point. His book, Please, Call Me Moby,  was published by The Pecan Grove Press, of St. Mary’s University, San Antonio, Texas.

**

To Ricardo Falero Regarding Faust

You reek of Satan by this ruse
of ocean sky you wryly use
where Aires reigns as sign of fire
extolling courage of desire

in witches who before your brush
have modeled, as if joyful rush,
their varied shapes as school of fish
whose way to sabbath grants your wish

by baring flesh of female form
unveiled as if bedeviled swarm
unwittingly becoming feast
for savage soul of inner beast

perhaps as artist now charade
exquisite as your Faustian trade.

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.

**

Pursued by the Unbearable

Brooms bats boobs 
saurian demons
goats a crone
a black cat

the road to hell is paved 
with cliches
envisioned by a mid-century
advertising artist

except: 
a skeletal pelican
interjects a note
of the absurd

Is it Faust
whose beak can hold
more than
his belly can?

The alluring succubi
of his dreams—close behind 
the crone the voluptuous 
witch with fiery eyes

that duck-billed
hellion suggesting
the shape of Faust's
own tenure in hell

Is it Egyptian Henet
protective psychopomp
stripped of
its feathered powers

here attendant 
of damnation, bodiless
is bloodless not
nurture but torture

stripped of suggestion 
of the Christ’s
blood sacrifice
promised redemption

exeunt
stage left
pursued by
the unbearable

Mark Folse

Mark Folse is a poet. retired journalist and blogger and IT factotum and native of New Orleans. His poems appeared in the Peauxdunque Review, New Laurel Review, Ellipsis, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, The New Delta Review, Metazen, Ellipsis, Unlikely Stories and The Maple Leaf Rag. He was a member of the post-Katrina/Federal Flood NOLA Bloggers writing and activist group, and his work from that period was anthologized in What We Know: New Orleans as Home, Please Forward, The Louisiana Anthology and A Howling in the Wires.

**

Untitled

glowing naked,
she brings out the animal
in me

Charles Rossiter

Charles Rossiter, NEA Poems in Fellowship recipient, and frequent Pushcart nominee, has published poems in The Ekphrastic Review, Bennington Review, Paterson Review among others. Info on recent books with sample poems at : https://www.foothillspublishing.com/2019/rossiter.html 

**

Eternal Fights for Eternity

Eternal fights 
Between youth
And old age
Running to their Sabbath
Witches
Aging witches  
Thieves of life
Jealous of young and soft skin
They fight against death
Their naked skin molts
And changes into old skin.
It molts so much
That they refuse
To recognize it as their own
On their mutating body
They chase their younger sisters
Refusing their own destiny
In quest of an illusional Eternity
 
Jean Bourque
 
Jean lives in Montreal. He enjoys learning English as a second language through writing.  

**

The Descent of Faust
 
Faust -you have  been condemned to hell by your actions.
Your vile family of pain , perversity and hate have deformed and dehumanized your soul.
I abhor your demented visions that are inescapable.
You turn love and art into cruelty and lust beyond description.
Demons ravage a world where love once lived.
Loathing that allow devils to rule the earth.
Bodies without souls defile a world once blessed by God.
Where is  your  humanity - buried -not to be exhumed.
what has happened to your soul.
Evil creatures  defile a sky where birds once flew.
You rejected goodness and left the world to rot.
And yet you are not  past forgiveness.
Comfort , love and forgiveness await your return.
Prayer and redemption  are still possible.
The savior will accept you into his heart.
Do not defile the world further.
Repent--repent; live a clean and holy life once more.
Bend a knee and ask for love and forgiveness.
The wings you were given can fly you to heaven.

Sandy Rochelle  
 
Sandy Rochelle is a widely published poet, actress and voice over artist. Publications include, Synchronized Chaos, One Art, Dissident Voice, Verse Virtual,  Amethyst Review, Wild Word, Cultural Daily, Haiku Universe, Connecticut River Review, and others.

**

The Master

At sixteen I learned
the petty jealousy of spiteful older women
how a male weight presses on a sainted frame
what blood tastes like when the tongue is restrained
how fire in my eyes burns the waste around me
 
to be a woman is to be beautiful--
so to be ugly as a woman is to not belong.
I can be an ugly fiend
I can be a goddess
and a man would only love me in my divine
 
but let not the wild thing in me be tamed
bashfulness be damned, I wear my shirt like a cape
fly wildly into the clouds’ escape
“Margarita!” I shout
my hands reach out,
they seize, they twist
misery made me; I am witch.

Stephanie Houser

Stephanie Houser is a recent philosophy and English literature graduate from Columbus, Ohio. She writes toward the edges of knowing—where philosophy meets feeling, and beauty collapses into its opposite. Her writing explores queer womanhood, divinity, and the strange tenderness of being seen. She currently works as a writer for a local, community-building nonprofit.

​**

​Mephistopheles on Walpurgisnacht

There! On the Brocken peak, where the shadows
dance. There, Faustus, witch and warlock
will gather. Let me take your cloak. 
We will ride on it like Arabians of old.
Fly, fly to the mountain! 
Weave between long-tailed demons,
labyrinth of bewitched broomsticks,
serrated hems of lizard tails and bat wings. 
Revel, revel in the orgy of fleshy curves, grunted snarls,
slapping, slithering tongues. What a party!
Ride, ride past the great horned goat,
tip your hat to the sacrifice. My mouth waters already.
Who cares about your Gretchen now, eh, Faustus?
When there’s such bounty to be had.

Barbara Krasner

Barbara Krasner majored in German language and literature. Through ekphrasis, she is reclaiming her intimacy with Goethe's Faust and his deal with Mephistopheles. She once saw a restaging of Gounod''s Faust at the Metropolitan Opera with Jonas Kaufmann in the lead role. She gasped throughout the entire production. She is the author of the ekphrastic Poems of the Winter Palace (Bottlecap Press, 2025), The Night Watch (Kelsay Books, 2025) and the forthcoming The Wanderers (Shanti Arts, 2026). Visit her website at www.barbarakrasner.com.

**

Visions of Faust 

The Devil's in the details
Beautiful promises front and center
Eyes drawn to what's desired most
Unable to see the full picture

Beautiful promises front and centre
A life of pure pleasures
Unable to see the full picture
Focused only on what could be

A life of pure pleasures
One could only dream
Focused only on what could be
He's forgotten the most important thing

One could only dream
Eyes drawn to what's desired most
He's forgotten the most important thing
The Devil's in the detail

Andrew Jones

Andrew Jones is 37 years old and just recently started writing again after about 22 years. His  focus is  on Gembun and Pantoum poetry.

**

​The Bruise

Translucent green clouds my vision 
And there she is again, poetry, my nemesis, my some-timey friend
The streets were empty where she ran, I couldn’t populate  her City of lights,
So many stars that I couldn’t comprehend what tiny flicker I
Could possibly lend
She flees, swirling her numerous pastel petticoats,
Hiding the brighter colours closer to the limbs, bruised
with over-use of tired tropes I tried to put aside to mixed reviews-
Her hair, so unruly, brushed, then mussed by the great men
Leaving the scintillating women to comb through it again and again-
Red-gold like fall, forest deep was her dress,
Gone again, but I saw her, and that’s something, I guess.

Debbie Walker-Lass

Debbie Walker-Lass, (she/her) is a poet, collage artist, and writer living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared in Collaborature, The Rockvale Review,Green Ink Poetry, The Ekphrastic Journal, Punk Monk, Poetry Quarterly, The Light Ekphrastic and The Niagara Poetry Journal, among others. Debbie was proud to be nominated by TER for the Best Small Fictions, 2024 anthology. Debbie is an avid Tybee Island beachcomber and lover of all things nature. She also enjoys collaborating with Jahzara Wood, together they write poetry as “The 1965.”

**

Victorian Bacchanal

As bare as a bubble, I slither and float,
Set free from my corset, astraddle a goat,
With nothing between us, as nude as you will –
Yet somehow my bustle is haunting me still.
The Doctor, beside me, is stripped, but unsheared :
He bristles, as always, with whiskers and beard,
And though he’s not now in his frock coat, it’s plain
That once tonight’s over he will be again.
Hell’s ghouls swirl around us, a riotous gang:
I’ve pulled out my braids, let my ringlets go hang:
I’m naked as Lilith!  But come on, attest:
You cannot but see how I look when I’m dressed.

Julia Griffin

Julia Griffin has published in several poetry magazines..

**

Faustian Dream

Faust, with the demonic presence of Mephistopheles
Despite degrees, and as a scholar, rejected the divine
As a sign of his embracing anything with satanic theme
Began a dream, of naked witches - a sabbath to attend
And spend every moment reaching sexual ascendance
Their attendance ever combining both duty and desire
On fire, with bodies and libidos seemingly unsatisfied
Never to hide their exuberance as some sort of lapse
Perhaps heeding the call to celebrate Walpurgisnacht
Marked as followers, flames of passion never doused 
Aroused, writhing and cavorting, all in erotic displays
Crazed with stimulation and excitement all the while
Nubile and attractive young women feeding his dream
A scheme to consolidate a dark commitment forever
As a clever ruse by the Devil’s attending representative
And give superficial recompense for a crossroads deal
But unreal portrayals of witches as haggard and aging
Raging and always with evil intentions, is just a cover
As another way to obscure strong physical temptation
Elation for Faust, albeit in an imagined delightful scene
Keen to participate, and revel in that orgiastic journey

Howard Osborne

Howard is a UK citizen, retired. Published author of non-fiction reference book, scientific papers and poetry. Interests mainly creative writing (poetry, novel, short stories, songs and scripts), music and travel.

**

Revisioned

Listen to the way the whirling wind
rattles all that we thought would last.
We float—untethered, swirled, ringed

 by spirals of bodies barely limbed
echoed inside a decaying past.
Listen how they seize the wind

 and scatter bloodlust end to end--
nightmares bordered with shadows cast
into swirling air--floating, ringed

 by demons that turn and return again,
looking for harvests of heresy amassed,
falling wayward into the wind.

 It’s not the devil that rescinds
the light, but the darkness of humanity’s vast
untethered hubris swirling us, ringed

 by greed and power, unoriginal sin
that refuses the questions spirit asks.
Listen to the way sycophants bend the wind,
snare us, suffocate us--floating, swirled, beringed

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/.

**

Somewhere Between Death and Reincarnation
 
In nature we never see anything isolated, but everything in connection 
with something else which is before it, beside it, under it and over it.
                                                             Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
​
The sky is scraped
to the translucent gray
of a wasp's wing
 
and the angel in her marble length
of tresses and gown trailing
a leaf-strewn earth
 
plucks the string
of a violin. Its note awakens grief
in branch, berries and vine,
 
in moss that sables the stone wall
and rust  the iron gate. Grief
that calls the wind to rise
 
and round up what remains
of my ashes scattered 
on the graveyard lawn  Soon they lift
and  fly into the ocean's air
sparked with a spitting chill
 
while a man looks on
wearing a lanyard of dark hair
braided and  anointed
with lavender oil
sprinkled lightly in. Two keys
 
dangle at its end,
one to the house, the other
my cedar box. A small casket
where he found a  bottle 
with a rose bud inside,
 
some pills left on the felt
lining and a farewell note
telling why 
 
and what must be done
on vellum  pale
as  the November sun, reading:
 
Plant the flower 
and a bush will bloom
in the heart of spring
when I come back
 
as a woman wrought
of stronger faith and will --
a different self
with a memorized soul.
(A bargain I made long ago.)
 
So strew the salted wave
with the opiates
and they will wash ashore
as sea glass in the sand
 
showing the bluish green   
of  your daughter's eyes
five  years from now, born
under  the full moon's rise.
 
And tear the paper
with a tender hand, letting it fall
as  pieces of  bread
 
so the birds may eat
the bitter sweet sorrow
of  my death and carry it deep

within their song,

Wendy Howe

Wendy Howe is an English teacher and free lance writer who lives in Southern California. Her work is deeply influenced by diverse cultures, history, myth and women's issues. Over the years, she has appeared in a number of journals including:  Liminality,  Silver Blade, Eye To The Telescope, Strange Horizons, The Winged Moon, Carmina Magazine, Crows and Cross keys,  Eternal Haunted Summer and Sage Woman. Her most recent work has appeared in  Songs Of  Eretz  and  The  Otherworld Poetry Journal.

**

Five Things I’ve Learned About Witches
 
1.     You can try to invite just one witch, maybe Hildy, over for a cozy game night. But be prepared for Hildy to start a massive group text sharing your address. Soon your driveway will be cluttered with brooms and your intimate game night will be transformed into a tournament. 


2.     Witches won’t arrive empty-handed. But don’t count on receiving any hostess gifts. Instead of chardonnay, they’ll bring their familiars. Of course you like cats, who doesn’t? But Friskers is always bristling. And some familiars aren’t even feline. Learn to like bats. If Ravenna shows up, get ready for her skeletal pelican-thing to swoop down and swipe random game pieces.


3.     If you’re planning to play poker or some other card game with witches, give that dream up right now. Witches love Scrabble, and if you have Scrabble tucked away in your game cabinet, it’s coming out. If you don’t own Scrabble, witches will conjure up a game board and letters just for the occasion.


4.     Witches don’t recognize the authority of Merriam-Webster. If you’ve just added S-T-I-C-K to the end of BROOM and think you’re going to clean up with a triple word score, forget it. Agatha will claim “broomstick” is two separate words and Hildy will insist it’s hyphenated and no dictionary on Earth will dissuade them. 


5.     If you stick to your guns, demanding the witches play fair, prepare for a ritual flaying. You can pursue them and their familiars, catch hold of the tail of their leering iguana, but you’re not getting your skin back until you surrender. 

Tracy Royce

Tracy Royce is a writer and poet whose words appear in Bending Genres, Five Minutes, MacQueen’s Quinterly, ONE ART, and elsewhere. She lives in Southern California, where she enjoys hiking, playing board games, and obsessing over Richard Widmark movies. You won't see her whizzing about on a broom, but you can find her on Bluesky.

**

The Method of the Chaos  
 
There is method
in the chaos
philosophers insist
to check if you will persist
in catching the gist
which is
nowhere to be seen
because
it is mean, it is mean –
it leaps on goats’ backs
it grabs their horns and speeds
in the universal wilderness
of rising hairs
and nude beauty
on beauty shoulders
while the goat of sex runs berserk
as his growling sound cuts the space
where Eros was supposed
to enchant the chaos
and trick the bodies in accord
with his irresistible sward
but to no avail –
there hangs a mystery spell
they are entranced by Lucifer
in their most vulnerable
readily available in Faust’s realm
who knows no calm
in meeting his damn brutal deal
with the devil
while his bargaining tool –
the Soul – was sold
for a grain of salt –
 and all of this
done by a scientist
who knew the gist
yet went to insist
heaven on earth
as philosophical rebirth  –
the thinker’s final abode
but is it the gist’s spot -
the catharsis against the nemesis
that is not in the realness
the beauty of their bodies
against the chaos of their hairs
the trance of our otherworldliness  –
is this the method in the chaos,
paid dearly by Faust –
the tragic twist
in its own mist –
the infinite pursuit
of stars through thorns -
the dearest beauty to uphold –
Faust’s last breath drops  
on the spikes of the method
yet saved in the penitence’ bond
of his beloved from beyond,,,
 
Ekaterina Dukas
 
Ekaterina Dukas writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and her poems have often been honoured by TER and its challenges. Her poetry collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europe Edizioni.

**

Saudade 

A flying assemblage
of empty wombs,
aborted dreams in coffins.
Cold hollowed moon
above half green autumn leaves,
giant arms around thorny trees.
Long silences then scream-
embraces that can never be.

How she must have walked
in darkness
to catch a glimpse
of a forming mind,
to hear the heartbeat.
How she must have watched
a wanting resurrection
of failed desire.

In autumn
a season of separations,
in October
a festive month-
of longing, of remembrance.

Abha Das Sarma

Abha Das Sarma lives in Bangalore, India. An engineer and management consultant by profession, writing is what makes her happy and fulfilled. Her poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Blue Heron Review and Poetry X Hunger among others. 

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 Impulse, and Intuition, by Camellia Morris. Deadline is November 7, 2025. 

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

The Rules

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

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

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

4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY.

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

5.Include MORRIS 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 7, 2025.

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

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

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

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

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

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

​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 Vision of Faust, by Luis Ricardo Falero. Deadline is October 24, 2025. 

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

The Rules

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

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

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

4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY.

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

5.Include FALERO 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 24, 2025.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So caught up in this web of wires,
though spiderbeam maintaining all,
in ether’s where the power lies -
with no escape from ties that bind.
Once mycorrhiza at its root,
now route held as its canopy,
this tree of life, its bark now byte,
was current totem of this tribe.

Like pylons marching cross the vale -
this outlook not for outback too -
but crossing for the local train
of eyes surveying what’s below.
See shoots break, twigs, from seasoned wood;
despite its urban work, urbane,
humility in bearing loads -
another tree cross comes to mind.

With clasps, gripped clips, pole dancing would
bring gasp when grasp what voltage streamed;
vein lifeblood coursing city lines,
this ruby flow with barbs, bolts, knots.
’Mongst light, string shadows, looking up,
with tackle found round junction box,  
both bands and blocks by column shaft,
some curvature of curlicues.

Connections found in detail oiled,
these interactions of the scape,
the labours of those engineers
who grounded means, communicate.
Here’s infrastructure, history,
with birds and bees, community;
how good it is to celebrate
the vision of true artistry.
 
Stephen Kingsnorth
 
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies) retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com
 
**
 
A Silent Buzz
 
As current flows through the wires
That almost inaudible buzz inspires
Waking up each intended recipient
A poke in their brain, yet innocent
Conveying that critical information
For some subsequent dissemination
Whether as a secret or even shared
Or for an announcement prepared
At a distance, that buzz is the same
Never knowing from whom it came
But wires almost seem to never end
From pole to pole ‘til they descend
Where a buzz is converted to sound
And its clearer meanings are found
But even then, it might still not die
As it’s likely that there’ll be a reply
 
Howard Osborne
 
Howard is a UK citizen, retired. Published author of non-fiction reference book, scientific papers and poetry. Interests mainly creative writing (poetry, novel, short stories, songs and scripts), music and travel.
 
**
 
The Telephone Pole
 
My big brother
propelled my small body
towards the wooden pole
that had all those cables crossing
high up in the sky.
He pressed my ear to the wood
and we stood silent
while I listened to the little people
that lived inside the pole,
murmuring in the old language.
 
Rose Mary Boehm
 
Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as eight poetry collections. Her poetry has been published (and rejected) widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was several times nominated for a Pushcart’and Best of Net. Her eighth book Life Stuff was published by Kelsay Books (November 2023). A new chapbook, The Matter Of Words, Kelsay Books (June 2025) is now on Amazon, and she just finished a new, full-length manuscript. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/
 
**
 
Hangs in Balance Almost Always Precariously
 
At any juncture, the world might change...
A message sent, another delayed
Nothing's ever guaranteed to remain the same...
Whatever interlinks us all
We call fate and destiny
Hangs in balance almost always precariously
Almost always precariously
 
One heart might swim while another might drown...
The proof is in living out your dreams...
And realizing all that you can become
And realizing all that you can become
And realizing all that you can imagine
Without subtraction, subtraction, subtraction.
 
At any juncture, the world might change...
A message sent, another delayed
A fallen angel no longer descends...
But is gratefully rescued from any more turmoil
And equally an innocent is saved...
from being enslaved to a darkness uncaged, nocturnal
that wants to see you drown without hope
while another wants to see you flourish unscathed
While even now another wants to see a prince
The prince has been transformed.
Turned into a toad. Turned into a toad.
One that’s disfigured on the journey home
On the road. On the journey home.
 
One heart might swim while another might drown...
The proof is in living out your dreams...
And realizing all that you can become
And realizing all that you can become
And realizing all that you can imagine
Without subtraction, subtraction, subtraction.
That is the only way to avoid dissatisfaction.
Dissatisfaction, dissatisfaction
And find some real traction.
 
Mark Andrew Heathcote
 
Mark Andrew Heathcote is an adult learning difficulties support worker. His poems have been published in journals, magazines, and anthologies online and in print. He is from Manchester and resides in the UK. Mark is the author of In Perpetuity and Back on Earth, two books of poems published by Creative Talents Unleashed.
 
**
 
Urban Tree: a Stobie Pole Reverie
 
When I dream, I look up.
I see realness and rot
Texture and termites  
Topped with glorious
Jumbles of wire.
 
But I am steel and concrete
Tie-bolted and flanged
Smooth and bare 
Without crevice or crack.
 
Then I look down
And see you on the ground
With stencils and paint
Making me beautiful,
Making me art.
 
Lara Dolphin
 
A descendant of immigrants, Lara Dolphin lives with her family among the Allegheny Mountains of Central Pennsylvania on the ancestral land of the Susquehannock/Iroquois people. She has written three chapbooks In Search of the Wondrous Whole, Chronicle of Lost Moments, and At Last a Valley. She, like countless others, hopes for a world filled with greater peace.
 
**
 
Night Call Over Broken Wires
 
The phone rings that way after midnight,
when the first deep cycle of sleep is almost
complete, when dreams are raw and the throat thickens.
 
In one, the one that keeps threading itself
on a spool to be projected on closed eyelids,
ravens roost on urban trees within my head,
 
there is a gray road and bare wires roped
from bent electrical poles anointed with pitch.
These stretch over the edge of a flat horizon.
 
We walk without a word, familiar strangers,
facing orange clouds that rise ahead.
And when it starts to rain, I fall awake.
 
The voice at that early hour breaks with grief,
as I try to picture a face and form the words
to stop this crying, pretending my motive is love.
 
Royal Rhodes 
 
Royal Rhodes is a poet who lives in rural Ohio, surrounded by a nature conservancy and Amish farms. He enjoys the birds, deer, and other creatures who are his neighbours.
 
**
 
Wood Wide Web
 
We, humans, live in a bandwidth of mimicry
Grow within a mainframe of intimacy
Taking protocols from nature and translating them into Java and C++
 
And as urbanized, buzz-tree beings
We work within thresholds; often not seeing
The web of networked, electrical architecture feeding us
 
To the deep dark below, we route our data
In value shaped brackets coding <banana banana banana>
With cabled server braids in an exchange of resource packages
 
Reaching the cloud above, we scale Jenga’s fragile tower
While the MPS are increasing, we are slowing to trickle charge power
A missing markup beyond reality 101 fails and fractures
 
But there is agility in our development
Secrets the trees give us in their operating system
We have no more to do but rise beyond our screens
 
Search bar the sky in GPS synced time
Right click the UX of natural whys
And appreciate the forests’ beauty lining our streets
 
Brendan Dawson
 
Brendan Dawson is an American born writer based in Italy. He writes from his observations and experiences while living, working, and traveling abroad. Currently, he is compiling a collection of poetry and short stories from his time in the military and experiences as an expat.
 
**
 
Bodies in Place
 
Even a hint of a shape or form awaken memories
long thought to be extinct:
There were trees
there are trees no more
but they do in fact every so often
undergo resurrection
as phantom images, fata morganas, and holograms
carefully piled between day and night
where I have lost myself
 
But why? Just to remind me
and tell me again as if I never heard
that they live on
in fragments of remembrance
sometimes they even attain fragrances
carried by the wind
 
Now I remember! They spoke in languages beyond words
voices so timid they weren’t often heard in the street
Now I remember! Trees had faces
 
Trees had faces whose fleeting glances helped hold bodies firmly in place
in the world
 
Jakob Brønnum
 
Jakob Brønnum has published poetry and other work in his native Danish and in English. His latest books are the partly ekphrastic A Poetry Encyclopedia of Dreams (Cyberwit, 2025) and Dreamscape Journeys (Cyberwit, 2025). He lives in Sweden.
 
**
 
Progress
 
In the fields
the pylons march
like futuristic giants
their wires bristling
and ready to spark
with power
and domination
offering no haven.
 
In the streets 
the poles stand,
bees buzzing 
in the shelter
of their wires.
Their trunks
stand still
wooden,
statuesque,
hoping 
to stay 
unnoticed
as their wires rust
with flakes falling
like autumn leaves.
 
Soon both will
have to go
underground.
 
Lynn White
 
Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries ofdream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for  Pushcarts, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Magazine, Firewords, Vagabond Press, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes Journal. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com.
 
**
 
Connections
 
The sky weaves and unweaves
distances into a tree of messages.
The criss-crossing signals branch
to connect, to communicate the right notes
of green. Coherent fragments of syllables
are held by nuts, clasped by bolts –
the rustle of breath and the whispers of voice.
The meter holds the readings of time like a nest
of imperceptible decisions - left or right, which way to go.
The bees are apparitions dispatched
to faraway lands at the speed of an electron.
The wrinkled wooden pole holds it all together,
like an ancient bark of strength
The wires wake up in a constellation of crackles
like a hundred birdsongs.
 
Preeth Ganapathy
 
Preeth Ganapathy is from Bengaluru, India. Her works have been published in several magazines, more recently, in Pensive, Braided Way, The Orchard Poetry Journal and elsewhere. Her microchaps A Single Moment, Purple and Birds of the Sky have been published by Origami Poems Project. Her work has been nominated for Best Spiritual Literature.
 
**
 
The Loom
 
Here I stand in the centre of this swirl of clicks and messages.
I have no say in where they come from or where they go.
Voiceless voices stroke endearments from the air.
Anger heats the wires, but rain cools its ardour.
 
All I do is help them shuttle on their way.
They have no meaning, only the sky has meaning.
These little flirts of knowledge pass and fade.
Life is for talking and the warp is only there to keep it company.
 
I know how tall I stand to carry my loom up to the sky,
high above the mundane scuttling down below
Whatever tapestries the words may weave,
mine is the loom from which the patterns flow.
 
Edward Alport 
 
Edward Alport is a retired teacher and international business executive living in the UK. He occupies his time as a poet, gardener and writer. He has had poetry, articles and stories published in various webzines and magazines and performed on BBC Radio and Edinburgh Fringe. His Bluesky handle is @crossmouse.bsky.social. His website is crossmouse.wordpress.com
 
**
 
A Telephone Pole in Cincinnati:
 
Ring ring, ring ring, ring-
 
“Honey I have something to tell you..”
“After she left me, I have been feeling blue.”
“I can’t wait for her to say the words, ‘I do’”
“Hey can you help me? I tried my dad but the call won’t go through.”
 
“Hello, you've reached the Judge's answering service”,
“Dude she's coming over in a half hour and I'm totally nervous”
“Hey, do you want to go this weekend with me to the circus?”
“Yes I would love to have that two o'clock appointment, that would be perfect.”
 
“Hi Grandma, I wanted to call to wish you a happy birthday..”
“Susan, why did you leave the cat with me you jerk? She can’t stay..”
“Gretchen, I need your help with the homework, I don’t understand Feng shui..”
“No red icing, I only want green on the cake”
 
“Yeah dad, I’m at the museum and I’m calling you on a phone from 1942!”
“Hi Mr. Davenport, I’m looking to speak with Mary-Lou”
“And then I told him, oh no, A-choo!”
“Hi, yes you have the wrong number, the previous owners have moved”
 
A telephone pole, something to wrap yourself to during a storm. A steadfast of the time. Remember when placing a call cost only a dime? When’s the last time you called the Cincinnati Weather Line? 514-241-1010, dial the number and call them again.
 
Ryan Steremberg
 
Ryan Steremberg is a recent graduate of Muhlenberg College, having spent half of the past two years studying in Copenhagen, Denmark. Writing since 2018, his work comprises of poetry, short plays, and short fiction. His work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, and has been accepted to appear in an upcoming Wingless Dreamer publication.
 
**
 
Urban Trees
 
The pole stands tall and holds
lines that connect to all around.
Routing power like a heartbeat,
constant source to life below.
 
At some distant power station
generators constant thrum
pour their output down these lines
to poles like this across the land.
 
We take for granted the role
poles play, who route all power
to those connected, each home
or business web crisscrossings
from the wellspring source unceasing
 
Soldiers standing guard and holding
lines essential to our needs,
perches for some birds all baffled
by these leafless urban trees.
 
Bill Hudson
 
Bill is retired and lives in Davenport Iowa. He is a member of the Quint Cities Poets and has had a number of poems published in The Lyrical Iowa, The Dubuque Gallery and The Rockford Review. He enjoys ekphrastic writing challenges and is looking forward to further images on this site.
 
**
 
conversation
 
where did you grow up
I asked the utility pole
 
I cannot decipher your birthplate
its numbers and letters meaningless
 
were you born in a forest of Douglas firs
or Southern Yellow Pines
 
your birth date is unknown
but the year you were harvested
stripped of bark and branches
perhaps 
 
festooned with surge arresters
like giant bees in disguise
metal bands and lashings
 
your open crossarm
welcomes wires and insulators
 
an invitation to scampering squirrels
a gathering place for birds
 
I wish you roots
to again drink sweet water
 
I wish you still dressed
in needles and cones
 
did you just speak
or was that the wind
shaking your guy-wire
 
a sort of buzzing
or contented humming
 
you answer me in light
that pools on the street
and fills my window
 
Kat Dunlap
 
Kat Dunlap grew up in Pennsylvania and now resides in Massachusetts where she is a member of the Tidepool Poets of Plymouth. She holds an M.Ed. from UMass Boston and an MFA from Pacific University. She edited two college writing publications as well as the Tidepool Poets Annuals. She was Director of the National Writing Project site at University of Massachusetts Dartmouth and currently conducts writing retreats on Cape Cod. Her chapbook The Blue Bicycle is being prepared for a spring launch.
 
**
 
Rational Animals
 
This weathered wood
Powering on
Its restless branches
Rusting forth
Since 1850
 
This wild wood
Shooting stars beneath its bark
Nature, human viewed
Observant, but
Intrusive
Since staying put
 
Would nomads not
Carry a message across
On the pulse of their heart
 
Stien Pijp
 
**
 
It / The Sentinel
 
Abiding in peace, it perches near the commuter train,
Bulwark of silent oversight, sexless, nameless, it sits, tight, upright-
Conduit of many communications, birds, bees, and humans, too
Doing all of the business that birds, bees, and humans do-
Earth-bound, in the ground, a souvenir, a shell-
Fasted to wires and forced against its will-
Green, green it used to be, a lively home, an abundant tree,
Home for some, still, still and ungreen, ungrowing, it simply stands-
Ignored until needed, by Arthropod, Chordate, and Human-
Jubilant noise scatters when the Chick-A-Dees monopolize the wire-
Kvetching, and singing of bird things and bees hum with the choir-
Latching onto the glinting orange clips, used to attach various wires to It-
Meanwhile the humans hum through the heavy lines, all abuzz,
Nothing buzzes like a human with not much to say, and all day
Open to talk anyway- and so The Sentinel feels needed during the day-
Present and happy in its former-tree way.
Quietly, It dreads nightfall, when Bees and Birds and men go to their
Restoration, deep in the night- it remains alone until
Sunlight returns to lessen its plight-
Trees can stretch out while the winds shake off leaves,
Under the canopy, lilting with the breeze, connected underneath by roots-
Vexed that it can no longer feel its own shoots, It, the former tree
Waxes and wanes with the hum of the trains, and some feeling remains-
Xenial hospitality, welcoming guests-it
Zig zags with electric life, nevertheless.
 
Debbie Walker-Lass
 
Debbie Walker-Lass, (she/her) is a poet, collage artist, and writer living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared in Collaborature, The Rockvale Review, Green Ink Poetry, The Ekphrastic Journal, Punk Monk, Poetry Quarterly, The Light Ekphrastic, and The Niagara Poetry Journal, among others. Debbie was proud to be nominated by TER for the Best Small Fictions, 2024 anthology. Debbie is an avid Tybee Island beachcomber and lover of all things nature. She also enjoys collaborating with Jahzara Wood, they write poetry together as “The 1965.”
 
**
 
Early Morning Connection
 
I heard the ringing
from the wall-mounted
phone near the living
room on Whittenton Street
as dad jumped out of bed
to answer it before the third
ring woke the entire family.
A desk sergeant relaying
The message that the store
alarm had been set off.
At 2 am, I accompanied dad
in the blue 50 Desoto coupe
the three and a half miles
to Taunton Green where
A cruiser was parked in front
of Foster’s Men’s Clothing.
As we approached the officer,
he instructed dad to unlock
the front door and proceed
into the store. Unable to contain
myself I indicated to him
that he had a gun, and if this
If there was a break-in, 
he should take the lead.
 
Jim Brosnan
 
A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Long Distance Driving (2024) and Nameless Roads (2019), copies available at [email protected]. His poems have appeared inthe 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.
 
**
 
When Birds are Gone from the Wire
 
the air will be absent chirp song,
feeders, pregnant with untouched seed,
trees, shelters for abandoned hideaways.
 
When spring arrives without chickadees,
wood frogs, butterflies, and bumblebees,
the promise of a fresh green start
 
will fade like patience in an instant world,
loons will no longer wail to their mates,
sunrises will lose their soundtrack.
 
When dandelions and hibiscus fail to bloom
there’ll be no reason to run barefoot
or catch fireflies in an open field;
 
engaging with an ecosystem out of whack
will feel as meaningless as skipping
the perfect stone over a lifeless sea.
 
When birds are gone from the wire
we’ll wake to realize there’s no turning back.
 
Elaine Sorrentino
 
Elaine Sorrentino, author of Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit (Kelsay Books, 2025) has been published in journals such as Minerva Rising, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Gyroscope Review, Ekphrastic Review, Quartet Journal, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Cool Beans Lit, and Haikuniverse. A fan of ekphrastic poetry, she is facilitator of the Duxbury Poetry Circle.

**
 
Suburban Trees
 
It is said in suburbia, you knew your curfew was up when the streetlights came on 
Summer days were spent running, biking, playing street hockey and basketball,
Exploring the woods and frogging by the creek 
The world was safe, and kids roamed free in the shade of suburban trees
 
They served as a perching spot for an assortment of birds,
Robins, sparrows, crows, and an occasional hawk
Morning doves cooed in the cool mist of dawn,
While children walked to the bus stop and dads started their cars
 
They were interspersed with other trees, like maple, pine and birch,
With rhododendrons and azaleas next to everyone’s front porch. 
 
In the wintertime, big icicles hung from these trees,
While children built snowmen and snow forts beneath
Snowball fights provided hours of fun,
While we waited for the storm to pass and everything thawed 
 
The newer neighbourhoods across town didn’t have suburban trees,  
But rather fiber optic cables run through the ground underneath.  
New houses built three times the size of ours,
Over old farms and forests that had been torn down
 
But though nuclear families each had their own homes
The neighbourhood still had a life of its own
Through whispers of gossip and the hum of lawn mowers
Dads exchanging lawn care advice and snowblowers
Through Fourth of July picnics and block parties
Friendships were forged and life lessons learned in the shade of suburban trees. 
 
Lila Feldman
 
Lila lives in Upstate New York with her husband and works in healthcare.  She enjoys creative writing in her spare time, mostly prose and memoir.  This is her second time submitting to The Ekphrastic Review. 
 
**
 
Urban Tree
 
hire wire
bees on trapeze
world communications
buzzing toward power stations
rising
 
rising
through cloudless skies
a living hive crackling
criss-crossing intersections of
high wire
 
Kate Young
 
Kate Young lives in England and enjoys writing poetry, painting and playing the guitar, ukulele and mandolin. Her poems have appeared in various webzines, magazines, and Chapbooks. Her work has also featured in the anthologies Places of Poetry and Write Out Loud. Her pamphlets A Spark in the Darkness and Beyond the School Gate have been published by Hedgehog Press. Find her on Twitter
@Kateyoung12poet or on her website kateyoungpoet.co.uk
 
**
 
Leaving the Nest
 
A bright orange painted the horizon, the sun woke up with a smile giving breath to the green pastures that waved back, the dusk of the city streets and the blue birds who cheerfully sung their song. Many say that a bluebird’s song is the heartbeat of hope and the echo of dreams yet to come. Dreams are wings we borrow from tomorrow, yet there is no dream like that of animal born to fly. 
 
High above the busy road, empty sidewalks and pavement marked with cracks stood a wooden power pole, its splintered body acting as a bridge for the many wires that clung to it and stretched out in in many directions. The wires carried a slight humming sound, like the string of an instrument, vibrating with every blow of wind that passed. They not only held the electricity but the weight of a family of blue birds with feathers so blue, they mocked the sky and waters. This small flock of birds chose this unlikely place to call home. Their nest was forged together with straw, forgotten scraps of paper and twigs, an architecture of chance bound against the metal brace of the pole.
 
Every morning that God blessed these birds with, they would line themselves along the powerline. Their small feet wrapped around the metal, balancing on the electrical line The power line functioned as a bridge, a connection between many worlds, They stood high above the busy two-way street watching over all the vehicles that zoomed by like flying fish in the open waters. They appreciated the time they spent here as they were in preparation for leaving the nest.
 
One by One, the blue-feathered sky-dwellers began to leave. The eldest of the flock spread her wings first towards the Northeastern wire, leaving with such haste, eager to explore more of the world and leaving the place she called home. Her song carried down the power line, an echoing goodbye they will all live to remember. Another leapt off the wire, but in a different direction, the same for the next one and the rest. Their goodbyes soft and brief as though they planned to return. The youngest bird, who had spots of gray marked across his wings, held the concept that it was simply a tradition, so he stayed put awaiting their arrival, knowing well that they would return to the nest filling the line with chatter. 
 
The young bird pressed his claws against the humming wire allowing the subtle vibration to run along his tiny blue feathered body. He listened to the chatter of the folks gathered on the streets below and the deafening environment of the skyscraper jungle. He watched his nest as it grew silent, the interior so hollow it chirped back like an abandoned house. The nest looked suited to a family of birds, but it felt empty, the warmth had since faded. The young blue bird had not realized their goodbyes were final, he trusted the winds would drift back to him. 
 
Our feathered friend remained on the wire for another three weeks, unsure whether he should leave. Each Day this question echoed endlessly in his mind until he accepted that his family belonged to the sky and would never return. For that reason, the gray spotted bluebird leapt from the wire with his wings slicing through the morning air like knife through butter. His head held up high, wings spread out as far as possible and a song so beautiful, nothing could compare. As the young avian took flight into the blue skies, he then realized why his lost family left the nest, the sense of freedom is for the best
 
True discovery and exploration of yourself begins with a journey on your own horizon.
 
Jelani Simons
 
Jelani Simons is a young Black individual from Sandys, Bermuda. He spends his free time playing video games, watching sitcoms, anime, basketball, and listening to R/B & Christian music. He also likes playing basketball and going for nature walks. He enjoys exploring the city.
 
**
 
blue sky steps
 
standing outside on my blue sky
steps i climb the walls and
up the poles so you can see me
up there on the ledge
the edge of whatever this world
wants today and the edge of
a grandstand and birds they
grip wires tightly and hold
on we all spend so much
time on high wires holding
on and we connect and
you see me through the window
an open sky and the wires still
hang there to show us the way
mystify and some they say
we were better off when
the poles were put in
and the crews came out to the
country in the ‘50s and plugged
us in and most of us climbing those
blue sky steps put the old radio
away and the batteries thrown
away and there was something
new to plug into and now well
now we plug in and no wires
needed and they don’t hum
anymore and i can’t get up
that high and there’s no
point in climbing
anything let alone a pole
when i can sit on
my couch unplugged
with all of you around me
on the edge of whatever the world
wants today
 
mike sluchinski
 
mike sluchinski knows the perils of the high stakes cutthroat poetry game and bets it all on the ekphrastic review and a bunch of great readers and editors at failed haiku, inlandia journal, kaleidotrope, eternal haunted summer, the wave (kelp), the literary review of canada, the coachella review, welter, poemeleon, lit shark, proud to be vol. 13, the ekphrastic review, meow meow pow pow, kelp journal, the fib review, syncopation lit. journal, south florida poetry journal (soflopojo), freefall, pulpmag, and more coming!
 
**
 
The Technological Tree:
 
It was the dawn of autumn; an unpredictable date compared to June 21st and December 21st. What was an ordinary day for strolling with the dogs led to unexpected mental fabrications. All because of a freshly painted electric pole I had walked past. The fact that its rusted cables still hadn’t caused a blackout in daytime surprised me.
 
How uncanny that an electric pole could look like a tree, right? So I will try to visualize it as a tree. 
 
It’s not a scion of Gaia, just like the trillions that drape her in various colours every year. It’s not a god’s craft, the kind they tell you in church, mythology, and books about symbolism in the arts.
 
If anything, Man assembled this arboreal abomination of aluminum alloy.
But then again, isn’t that the idea?
 
An electric pole is the technological tree of Knowledge and Life combined. It’s not one of a kind, but one in millions within a global grove. Civilization built a civic Eden; our sapience is tethered to those trees. Lucifer’s forbidden fruit is no longer an apple… Unless you count Apple. Adam and Eve’s new temptations were Hubbell*, Hertz*, and the Bernes-Lee*.
 
I bite into a Pink Crisp as I write my biblical perspective on Microsoft Word.
 
Celine Krempp
 
* Harvey Hubbell discovered electricity
* Heinrich Hertz discovered radio waves
* Tim Berners-Lee invented the World Wide Web
 
Celine is a French-American with her paternal family from the Northeast side of France. Working part-time as an art museum security guard inspires Celine in her ekphrastic writing. She is new to The Ekphrastic Review, having written “Her Final Performance” and “Agwé’s Believer” for the challenges. When she’s not brainstorming her next creative project, she walks her dog VanGogh, reads books, indulges in sweet cravings, and binge-watches The Magic School Bus on Tubi out of nostalgia. Celine is constantly jotting down ideas for short form writing inspired by her emotions, personal and professional experiences. Many people, including her therapist and colleagues, have described her work as “a relatable commentary with vivid imagery.”
 
**
 
The Backbone of Communication
 
There is a telephone pole outside the track,
Wires stretching like veins on my hand.
They carried my voice the day I broke down,
After fouling every throw,
Watching my chance at states slip away.
 
I called my mom with tears in my throat,
My dreams are heavy in pieces at my feet.
The line rang, then her voice arrived-
Steady, warm and unshaken.
She told me that I was more
Than a missed mark or a scoreboard.
 
Later, her text lit up my phone-
“I’m proud of you no matter what”.
Just words, simple letters,
But they carried strong through the wires,
 
That is the backbone of communication
Not technology, not circuits or the steel,
But the love that travels through them.
A reminder that even in failure,
I was not alone.
 
Rhiana Thomas
 
Rhiana Thomas is passionate about creativity, community and making a positive impact. She has worked on projects that mix art, fashion and education, including teaching and hosting events focused on sustainable practices. Rhiana values compassion, determination, kindness and leaving a positive mark wherever she goes, always striving to uplift those around her.
 
**
 
circuits
 
what was once but now is not --
felled and replanted, rootless,
disconnected from its source --
yet still elemental, sustained
by the essence of its structure
 
surface fading quietly, barely
noticed beneath appendages
stripped away and replaced
by wires, veins searching for
a heart, currents vibrating
 
like questions searching
for an answer, rings mapping
memories of leaves and wings,
forgotten forests shadowed
with threads of distant voices
 
random paths crossing over
each other until it’s impossible
to know what was created
out of what—layers of stories
patched into unfinished dreams
 
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/.
 
**
 
The Lonely Seagull
 
It’s a sunny day in the summer. Everybody is on the beach. But there is this telephone pole with many wires going in different directions, that’s in the middle of the beach parking lot and on that pole, there is this curious looking seagull. He is all white and has grey wings. He is a lonely seagull, and he has no friends or lovers that he is interested in. Every day you will see him at nine clock sharp on that pole when everybody starts coming to the beach, and then he starts yelling for no reason at all, he just wants everybody to hear him and know that he is here. He is always watching people. He has staring contests with everybody at the beach. When he is standing on the pole, he can see everything that is going on, he also sometimes watches people and what they are doing. Today he is watching the people, on one side he is seeing kids get ice cream and another thing he is seeing is all of the food trucks in the parking lot and all of the different smells coming from them and he is watching people leave and come in to the beach, people who are here every day are starting to wonder, does he ever leave or go get something to eat? Because he has been standing there for hours on end just looking at people he doesn’t know. Then let me tell you about this very special day that happened! He was still standing on the pole at the beach when this other seagull came flew over and sat on one of the wires, he was huge and he had black wings, he had two fishes, he put them down draping over the wires, he didn’t like that he had company, but the black winged seagull gave him one of his fishes. He was being friendly, so they started talking in seagull language and all of the sudden they both flew away together!! The next day they both came back and now they both started watching the beachgoers together. Now he is no longer alone in life, and he is very happy for the first time. And now he will always be happy as a seagull with a French fry!!
 
Addy Schonemann
 
Her name is Addy Schonemann, She grew up in Newburyport, Massachusetts. She graduated from Newburyport High school. In college she studied Culinary Arts for four years at Johnson & Wales University. Some of her favorite foods to make are pasta dishes, and anything that looks tasty. Then in high school, she got her first job, which was at a local hospital’s kitchen, her role at work was to bring the food to the patients. She is a very crafty person; she loves to crochet and listen to music. 
 
**
 
Standing Tall
 
It is not a tree, but a mirror of one,
its wires, the branches, extending long,
holding the weight of many voices, signals, stories.
 
There is no need for rhyme
just the truth of human need,
of reaching, of connecting,
of feeling less alone amid concrete and steel.
 
In this engineered tree,
life flows through unseen currents.
          A testament to our desire to be heard.
 
Nivedita Karthik 
 
Nivedita Karthik is a graduate in Immunology from the University of Oxford and a professional Bharatanatyam dancer. Her poems have appeared in many national and international online and print magazines and anthologies. She has two poetry books to her credit (She: The Reality of Womanhood and Pa(i)red Poetry). Her profile showcasing her use of poetry was recently featured in Lifestyle Magazine.
 
**
 
Content Warning
 
Yes, you’re right, ma’am, some people do call it a “trigger warning.” I’m just trying to alert everyone that I’m about to show an image of...What? Oh, no, sir, you don’t need to excuse yourself, you can simply step outside or just close your eyes if you prefer. Like I was saying, I’m going to show an image of the aftermath, and people who are sensitive may wish to...Excuse me? Am I going to show the body? No, of course not. This photograph was taken after the removal, and I can tell you firsthand that was a gargantuan effort...I’m sorry, no, that wasn’t meant as a joke. I apologize if that was insensitive. If anyone understands the damage a giant on the rampage can cause, well, you know we had this problem just across the county line last year. That’s why your mayor brought me here to talk with you tonight. Because we found a way to rid ourselves of that behemoth before he ate any more...Virgins? Can you please speak up, it’s hard to hear you all the way in the back. It sounds like you asked whether we tried offering virgins to the giant? Well ma’am, that might save your livestock, but I imagine the virgins might not be too happy with that plan...Folks, the mayor has just reminded me that the giant usually awakens by dawn, so we need to move this along. I’m going to go ahead and show the image now. See, when we were under attack in Littleton, we found a way to lure the giant into the power lines...I’m afraid you’re right ma’am, those red stains aren’t rust, that’s why I issued the warning about...Did it hurt the giant when we turned the power back on? Well, I’ll admit, that wasn’t our biggest concern after that incident with the school bus...Yes, it was full of children at the time. So. We know electrocution works, and...No, I don’t think a nuclear strike would be more effective! Anyway, if you just look
 
Tracy Royce
 
Tracy Royce is a writer and poet whose words appear in Bending Genres, Does It Have Pockets?, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Villain Era, and elsewhere. She lives in Southern California where she enjoys hiking, playing board games, and obsessing over Richard Widmark movies. You can find her on Bluesky.
 
**
 
Woman, Crow and Telephone Pole
(Easter Sunday, April, 1985) 
 
The damp hush of dawn
becomes a crow's voice, his silhouette
bluing into raw song
 
while his legs stay anchored
to an old clock tower
marking east from west
parking lot from railroad track
 
A woman feels him cry, his throat
strained and stretching a prayer
toward her heart and a huge pole
that binds a blend of wires - soon
 
to be plucked by wind, to carry the calls
of people who still
dial their beloved kin
and share as if angels
the risen light and good news.
 
Joy comes in the morning.
Its bright fingers loosen
the draw strings of night
and love for a man
who shares her bread and tea,
 
who stares at the urban tree, thankful
for how it guards and insulates
the sound of a soul — that like her own
becomes a personal psalm
 
Wendy Howe
 
Wendy Howe is an English teacher and free lance writer who lives in Southern California. Her work is deeply influenced by diverse cultures, history, myth and women's issues. Over the years, she has appeared in a number of  journals including: Liminality, Silver Blade, Eye To The Telescope, Strange Horizons, Carmina Magazine, Songs of Eretz, The Winged Moon, Eternal Haunted Summer and Sage Woman. Her most recent work appears in The Otherworld Magazine.
 
**
 
Untitled 
 
The little boy stands there on the kitchen tile floor, looking at the phone on the wall that is just out of his reach. He runs to the kitchen table, drags over a chair, places it right under the phone, and hops up onto it. He sings out the tune of the song he made to remember his best friend's phone number. He punches in the number and hops off the chair, running to the window with the phone. The line stretches the farthest it can go as the little boy looks out onto the street. He stares at the phone poll, imagining the call traveling through the cords to the house across the street where his friend lives. The phone rings two more times before a lady picks up the phone. 
 
“Hello?” the lady says in a kind voice. 
 
“Hi! This is Christopher. Is Jake free to play?” he asks, still staring out the window.
 
“Hello, Christopher! Yes, he will be right out! He says to bring your baseball bat!”
 
Christopher runs and hangs the phone back on the wall. He runs to his room and grabs his baseball bat, a ball, and a glove. He runs out the door, shouting “Momma, I will be home for dinner!” and then he is gone.
 
It is a warm sunny day in the summer. Kids are outside in the yard playing in the sprinklers, and moms are sitting on lawn chairs drinking lemonade. The boys grab their bikes and ride down the street to the park, where there is a big open field. They start to throw the ball back and forth.
 
“Do you think every summer will be like this?” Christopher asks.
 
“I hope so. But get this! My mom says that next summer, for my tenth birthday, I could get a phone line to my bedroom! Isn’t that so cool?” Jake says.
 
“That is so cool! Then I can call you and not have to talk to your mom every time.” Christopher and Jake laugh.
 
“You should ask your mom for one too!” Jake suggests. 
 
“No thanks, I’m good with the one in the kitchen.” Christopher shrugs. 
 
“What? Why?” Jake asks.
 
“Well, I like to look at the phone wires when I call people, so I can imagine the call going through the cords to the pole and to the houses. But my room is in the back of the house, so how will I know if my calls go through if I don’t watch it?”
 
Jake and Christopher continue to throw the ball back and forth. 
 
“Now that I think about it, my calls never go through when I try. I always have my mom call people and hand me the phone.” Jake says, throwing the ball to Christopher. 
 
“Well, do you watch the call go through the lines?” Christopher asks, throwing the ball back to Jake. 
 
“No,” Jake says, throwing the ball again. 
 
“Well then, maybe that's why.” Christopher shrugs, throwing the ball back at Jake, who gets hit with the ball because he got distracted watching a butterfly. 
 
“Ouch!” Jake shouts. 
 
“Maybe you need to watch more than the phone lines.” Christopher laughs as Jake runs to get the ball. 
 
Callie Aversano
 
Callie Aversano is a writer/ songwriter originally from New Jersey, but found her way to Providence, Rhode Island, to pursue her passion in the Hospitality Industry. She is known for her diligence, caring for, and helping others, as well as writing her feelings down and turning them into songs. 
 
**
 
I Am One of Many
 
they say we originate from the same thread,
from the same roots; that we are humans,
and nothing else; that we are connected,
beyond species, through bodies and minds
in ways science could never grasp; that
we crave connections because we seek
the roots we branched out of; that we
separate in directions which will soon
converge to that one point where we
began; that the earth is round because
we keep coming back; that the feet
know to stand up because those who came
before us did this too, to rise after a fall,
to fall after a rise, to wake after sleeping,
to sleep after waking; that we exist in a
circle of life; that we are ones of many,
connected to the same roots, the same thread;
 
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 in Inked in Gray, Usawa Literary Review, Bridges Not Borders, The Ekphrastic Review, Apparition Lit, Sylvia Magazine, Atticus Review, and others. You can find her on Instagram/X/Substack @LeeSplash
 
**
 
Watching a Dying Planet 
 
My sister is clairvoyant. 
She knows that.
So do I, but there’s no way 
we’re going to tell Mama.
 
To Mama and almost everyone else 
in town, Mandy is a gifted artist who sells 
canvases at boardwalk art shows.
Her current series of quirky utility poles
is very popular.
 
There’s not much she can do to change
the future, so she turns her back on dying trees, 
the lack of rain, plight of bees, fireflies, 
and fishing industry. Staying calm is 
the kindest thing to do.
 
Meteorologists alarm us enough already,
and people find Mandy’s paintings whimsical.
Some buyers joke that the jumbled wiring, knots, 
and bent arrows she adds to utility poles 
look like a dad’s failed handyman project. 
 
So Mandy keeps us looking up. 
Looking down only reminds us
of what we’ve lost already.
  
Alarie Tennille
 
Alarie Tennille was a pioneer coed at the University of Virginia, where she earned her degree in English, Phi Beta Kappa key, and black belt in Feminism. She has now lived more than half her life in Kansas City, MO. Alarie received the first Editor’s Choice Fantastic Ekphrastic Award from The Ekphrastic Review, and in 2022, her latest book, Three A.M. at the Museum, was named Director’s Pick for the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art gift shop. In April, Alarie was proud to be named the 2025 Muse of The Writers Place.
 
**
 
Along the Wires
 
Wagtail, weary for a tree,
Fairy wren and lorikeet,
Strive no further. Come to me:
Honey-eater, rest your feet.
 
Fairy wren and lorikeet,
Let me hold your nests, your chicks;
Honey-eater, rest your feet
On my kindly, rosy sticks.
 
Let me hold your nests, your chicks:
Find yourselves a living space
On my kindly, rosy sticks.
In the pulse of my embrace,
 
Find yourself a living space:
Take the shelter I can give;
In the pulse of my embrace,
Share my strength and make me live.
 
Take the shelter I can give.
Wagtail, weary for a tree,
Share my strength and make me live.
Strive no further. Come to me.
 
Ruth S Baker
 
Ruth S Baker has published in some online magazines, including The Ekphrastic Review.  The birds mentioned here are all native to Australia.
 
**
 
Mother Tree Transmogrified
 
Stately Hemlock
     gracing my serenity & solitude
'til heathens
     chopped you down
     chopped you up
ravaged 
     your forest connections
crowned you
     with medusa wires
plastered your trunk
     with missing feline fliers
How I panic
     when your wiry branches
     spark & sag
breaking my connections
     with my weird, wired world
 
Donna-Lee Smith
 
DLS writes from Montreal, a city where there are more telephone poles than trees, a sad state of affairs as trees give us oxygen and shade. 
 
**

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