 The Dream, by Marc Chagall (France, b. Belarus) 1939 Where an Angel Hovers and a Rooster Crows In navy turmoil the sky churns and the wind roils as she clings to ropes. Her grip weakens releases the mulish mass of aluminum. The propeller strikes a submerged stump as the hull hits an outcrop of granite. In navy turmoil her dreamscape shifts enters a medieval realm mossy village darkened with misshapen doors and windows where flowers reform the narrative relax her angst. In navy turmoil the sky churns and the wind roils as she clings to hope slides into safety a setting of softness where refuge arrives bestows an angel a rooster and the tenderness of touch amplifies renaissance with gentle strokes. Jeannie E. Roberts Jeannie E. Roberts is the author of several books, including The Ethereal Effect - A Collection of Villanelles (Kelsay Books, 2022). On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing is forthcoming from Kelsay Books in 2025. She serves as a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs. ** Sound & Vision Blue, blue Bowie cooed, while on the bed we sat and wrapped our arms around one another. It had been his favourite song, so we played it often and loud hoping, somehow, he would hear it, know we were thinking of him. We said nothing. What was there to say? Instead, we bent our heads. As I bowed my neck, the blues flooded from me and submerged the world underwater. I lived in Atlantis now; surrounded by silent, blue-bricked houses mossed with dull algae. Clouds dripped in shades of astronaut and ship cove. The flowers on the nightstand bloomed in sonorous hues. Even you, with your raw, red face, were cloaked in navy, as though your grief was turned inside out and propped up on display. But if you listened carefully, in time with the rhythm guitar, you heard the soft beating of wings. He had returned to earth, like some angelic alien descended from the sky, full of wisdom and hope. He reached out with open hands and kind smile. I felt his presence near my shoulder, wiping away the sadness with a flick of feather. He was so close. Come closer, closer, we were waiting for your gift. Blow my mind. I didn’t dare look up or open my mouth, but I was positive he heard me. The song stopped. He pulled away. Outside, a hen cruelly crowed; its beak slashing through the thick covering of blue. From the gash, colours oozed like blood. Louise Hurrell Louise Hurrell (she/her) is a writer based in Scotland. She has work published or forthcoming in The Circus Collective, Oranges Journal and From One Line's The Unseen anthology. Her short story "The Lonely Fan's Guide to H.G Wells" was shortlisted at the Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival's Writing Awards. ** Finding the Light Blessèd are those who peel back the darkness, see beyond chaos, shine light into the deepest corners of fear. Blessèd are those who fill their hearts with memories, with love, with the promise of a better tomorrow. Even if they delude themselves, they may enjoy another day, month, perhaps a lifetime of hope. Blessèd are those who generously share the gifts of their genius, who ignore those who would steal it from them. They understand that genius can only be given, not taken away. Grateful are those who embrace the dreamers, who feel the magic that comes from spreading love, from making darkness sparkle with colour. For they shall feel the earth healing. 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. 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. ** A Train in the Winter Passing A train passes, and the cold sky opens room for the freezing rain that turns to cascades of snow and returns to winter showers that make the waiting earth moist, flood, and raise the river moving past. Each form changes itself into another. The trees along the fields are mistaken. It is not yet the season of rain that sweeps from the desert of stones. That expected hour has not yet come, though these trees misunderstanding seem to have burst into blossom early, arranging their white bundles of petals along the twigs and the black bark, as if the result of a sudden Spring. Things around us melt into each other. The customary wind from the west cuts deep. And the sound of the storm front leaves behind it a silence, as if the earth were holding its breath, as the great, ancient oak came down. The cloudy evening's weary light shows us the tangle of fallen lines sparking, and twisting like live snakes. We look bewildered on this scene of ruin. And you, your eyes glow delicately in the impending darkness we face. Something once tightly held us, holds us, and gave us a shelter, with spread arms. But now I stand alone. It is God who delays, beyond these storms, the one we seek and who remains silent. Our souls sought that love, trying to follow that longing. And now we are found. Royal Rhodes Royal Rhodes is a retired educator, poet, and essayist. His work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Allegro, Red Eft Review, Lothlorien Poetry, Ekstasis Poetry, and the Montreal Review. He remembers the long winters and heavy snows of his boyhood. ** In Your Dreams I float above the village green reflection in the slit of an old goat's eye I whisper whisper I think I love you Prove it he bleats My laughter shatters the spaces between my bones and his soul Donna-Lee Smith Donna-Lee Smith writes from an off-grid cabin with a much loved and much revered old goat. ** The Chagall Dream Where the night song flows on angel waves, where the radio of the universe sends out tinkling voices drunk with happiness, where the cow can jump over the moon and where the chicken flies out of its |