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
coop to hurry towards the lovers who shyly embrace
in a sea of silent star sound; where the village houses
dance the khorovod and windows watch
the unfolding of blue magic.

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 widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She is a Pushcart and Best of Net nominee. Her eighth book, LIFE STUFF, has been published by Kelsay Books (November 2023). A new manuscript is brewing, and a new fun chapbook has been scheduled for publishing summer of 2025. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/

**

Consolation
 
Nostalgic for my childhood guardian angel, white and light 
who soon left my shoulder. This one seems out of control,
arms outstretched to break her fall on a huge pillow.
 
Other dreams transpired before this encounter. A pastoral
was tacked to my wall at university, happy labourers 
behind a crazy green man, nothing like the foliage 
 
I hunted in medieval English churches. This small pastel 
/ watercolour arrived at the beginning of a war
with no walls or roof, with nothing to resist intruders.
 
Small wooden houses are slipping off the mountainside 
as the news broadcasts mudslides, floods, explosions.
‘Don’t worry, it’s a dream.’ Is that what the angel has to say?
 
The dark skies of climate change hang over 
the couple repeating ‘je t’aime’ and holding each other 
while the world slowly unravels around them.

John Bennett

John Bennett has worked for New South Wales National Parks and has PhD in Poetics. He moved from Sydney to regional NSW over a decade ago and immediately involved himself in the cultural life of the region, including citizen science (birds and native forests). A documentary on his working practice, Poetry at first light was broadcast by ABC Radio National’s Earshot, 2016. His work now often incorporates video and photography into texts. A forthcoming multi-media exhibition explores a reclaimed wetland.

**

Wedding Night
 
Silenced by angels bestowing 
blessings—angels with open palms— 
the rooster clamours and squawks 
no more.
 
Hallowed blue night falls.
He holds me gently—shy
as he bends me back
for a first deep kiss.
I dream of houses:
a tumble of blue houses
descending the hill
to shelter and welcome us.
 
In the clock-tower’s windows,
last light of evening flickers out.
A soft bell tolls,
yet tells no time:
 
nor shall the rooster
crow on awakening.
For this will be our own time:
our night, and ours alone.
 
Lizzie Ballagher

One of the winners in Ireland’s 2024 Fingal Poetry Festival Competition and in 2022’s Poetry on the Lake, Lizzie Ballagher focuses on landscapes, both psychological and natural. She was a Pushcart nominee in 2018. Having studied in England, Ireland, and the USA, she worked in education and publishing. Her poems have appeared in print and online in all corners of the English-speaking world. Find her blog at https://lizzieballagherpoetry.wordpress.com/

**

The Dream: 1939

Mamaleh, mamaleh, say what have you been dreaming?
There’s sunlight in our little room and flowers by the bed.

Tateleh, tateleh, I’ve seen an angel falling;
The streets are creeping up on us, there’s trouble overhead.

Mamaleh, mamaleh, there’s nothing here to scare you;
Our neighbours all are friendly, it’s a home where we belong.

Tateleh, tateleh, the window frames are shaking;
There’s writing on the rooftops and the shape of it is wrong.

Mamaleh, mamaleh, we’re rooted and we’re growing;
We’ll raise our seed in pride and joy as all His creatures may!

Tateleh, tateleh, I’ve heard the angel calling:
Wake up, wake up, you innocents!  It’s done.  You cannot stay.

Julia Griffin

Julia Griffin lives in south-east Georgia.  She has published in several online poetry magazines, including The Ekphrastic Review.

**

Nuntius

The angel, with no time to slot his wings on,
Grabs two big petals and comes hurtling down;
The rooster, in his haste quite self-forgetful,
Bursts out more like a pony or a clown.
The wall-eyed homes are trooping down the hillside,
And so a couple's bedroom's thrust to view,
In all its rosy privacy; beyond it,
The outlook is cadaverously blue,
Which doesn't promise well for either human:
The white-faced girl, the clasping husbandman.
There's writing on the wall if they can read it;
First comes the star and after that the ban.

If you're permitted an Annunciation,
Rise up and head for Egypt while you can.

Ruth S. Baker

Ruth S. Baker has published in a few poetry journals.  She has a special love for animals and visual art.

**

​The Dream

Mother tells me good night; her fingers are cold, long nails that push my pores and dig into my skull. She holds me tight and tells me stories of Cinderella and the fairies and I wish for a midsummer night dream where I am Puck and I dance, stupid yet happy whilst I bray at the moon. My eyelashes are rough and seep into the crevices of my eyeballs, I feel I have not slept in hours, days, weeks. Yet Mother is there to tuck me in and tell me to rest. When I awake the mossy trees smell of hunger, sucking me into the little town with little people who vibrate like a string. Mother is the puppeteer. She is kissing my forehead now, and I wince at her touch- she feels like spiders against my skin that creep and dance against my follicles. Mother’s rouge smells like citrus and rubs against my cheek, flakes of chalk dissipating from her person. One day I too want rouge, so I touch my face and “O”- I gasp at my wrinkles, little mountains of a tiny clock that runs too fast. My hair strips off my scalp, sobbing, miserable. I weep in Mother’s arms at my loss, grasping the pitiable pieces of my beauty that have escaped me. She holds in her palms sweet scented chocolate candies whose innards rot with the scent of persecution. I take a piece, my ever expanding guilt a cavity that bites my lungs when I try to swallow. Mother stares at me, unmoving, and the hole grows bigger. In my ear, she whispers sweet things to me, soiled cough drops buried in dirt. Mother leaves. The minute worms that surround my heart begin to relax their tight hug, and I drift off to sleep. This sleep is real, I am sure. In my dreams I dance with the fairies, creatures that kiss my brows with their wings and steal me away to amazon skies. 

Anika Mukherjee

Anika Mukherjee is a 17 year old student writer based in Utah. She writes poetry, fiction, and screenplays.

**

The Moment

The angel—clad in cloudy billows,
wings like ghosts of leaves—speeds down,
spurred by an earthly gust, his right hand
stretched, but not yet touching
the dreaming woman inside the dream 
he’ll fade to black, his left hand cupped
to gather her in. She will not hear
the rooster’s crow at dawn. 
But at the precipice of this moment,
she still dreams: a ruddy 
sun-kissed lover comforts her
on a bed as white as the angel’s wings,
as her own pale face just tinged
with fever. Amongst the not yet 
angel-visited hovels of the little village
huddling together in the blue-black night, 
she sleeps for a jeweled moment more,
breathing in the glow of the dream.

Judy Kronenfeld

Judy Kronenfeld’s sixth full-length books of poetry include If Only There Were Stations of the Air  (Sheila-Na-Gig, 2024), Groaning and Singing (FutureCycle, 2022), Bird Flying through the Banquet (FutureCycle, 2017) and Shimmer (WordTech, 2-12). Her third chapbook is Oh Memory, You Unlocked Cabinet of Amazements! (Bamboo Dart, 2024). Her memoir-in-essays-and-poems, Apartness, is forthcoming in February, 2025 from Inlandia Books.

**

The Dream

The shingled rooftops sag under the weight of the amethystine sky. Clouds tumid with rain crowd the night, so that when the boy, a cherubic child of ten, gazes out from his window, he cannot see a single star. Pressing his cheek against the pane, cool with condensation, he angles for a better look but still sees nothing except those looming clusters of grey. His parents retired to bed some time ago. The boy recalls his mother reading to him. The copy of his favorite book—whose title is on the tip of his tongue, whose letters on the cover he cannot discern—hangs off the nightstand’s edge. He recalls listening to his mother’s tender soprano while he warmed under the covers, though he cannot remember how long ago that was or how he slipped into slumber. 

When he crawls back into bed, the boy hears the first drop. A plonk that echoes through the room. It is silent for a few seconds. Another drop dribbles, then a second, a third. A trill dances across the roof, soon followed by an even thrum, a vibrating whoosh that subsumes all sound. The ceiling begins to melt. An aureole of plaster turns slick and bulges in the centre. The water forms into a bead, stretched like putty by gravity, until it is severed from the ceiling and plummets to the floor. The boy watches the puddle grow. He lapses into a momentary trance—the metronymic drip hypnotizes him. As the tempo quickens and sets him free, he hurries to his closet, empties his hamper, and puts it below the leak. The sussurating storm swells in volume. The boy returns to bed. In his mind, he calls out for his parents but cannot hear his own voice, so he wonders if he has shouted anything at all. Amidst the deafening hum, the roof lets out a catarrhal moan. In an instant, it ruptures open, with the hollow boom of a thunderstrike, and the rain gushes inside. Down goes the roof, disintegrating into ash around the boy. The clouds seem to brush the top of his head, so close he can almost touch them.

The feeble walls hem in the water, which rises and rises and rises. The boy’s bed rocks like a boat on the waves. Pieces of furniture, a lamp, dirty clothes draped over chairs, and wooden toy cars float along the frothing flume. The boy grips the headboard. His moss-green pajamas cling to his skin. Loose curls stick to his forehead. His tears disappear with the rain. He can feel his fingers losing strength, sliding off the oak frame. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tells himself to wake up; he convinces himself that when he opens his eyes again, it will be morning and the sky will be a cerulean blue and the sun will trickle in, teasing the approach of spring. 

Just before he sails over the cascade—crashing down the sides of the house—a being, a flit of white among the palette of greys, swoops from the sky and plucks the boy out of bed by his nape. Before he can see the torrents submerge the town, the boy is carried into the clouds. His vision is hazy. His eyes squint through the wispy whites. Catapulted from the humid limbo, the boy soars into the atmosphere. He is suspended in mid-air. On either side, he sees fluttering, feathery wings. He cannot be sure if they are his own, if they have sprouted from his own shoulder blades. 

Beneath him is the celestial ground. Tufts of cotton, convex with a plushness that reminds him of his bed. The boy does not hear the constant hiss of rain anymore; he hears only the wings, swishing through the air. All around him is the ethereal expanse. For the first time that night, the boy smiles. As he and that winged being fly through the fertile nothingness, he giggles and opens his mouth. The zephyr inflates his cheeks and turns them ruddy. Higher and higher, the two travel into the realm of dreams. They travel towards an escape. 

Daniella Nichinson

Daniella Nichinson  is a fiction writer from the Philadelphia area.

**

​Chagall’s Dream, 1939

Grim green of death pollutes the blistered sky 
Then tumbles downwards
tainting earth and homes in its wake. 

Homes hug the ground as they tilt
Dark and precarious like boulders
Defying gravity.

War hovers on the horizon. 
Its white blasts grip the crest, balloon into the sky
Masking moonlight.

A messenger flutter-kicks from the heavens
Resistant to earthly forces
Wings luminous with other-worldly light.

Hugging the heart with one hand
The other extends, fingers furled
In incandescent blessing.

Suitors dressed for flight 
Are shielded by sturdy headboard and pearly pillows
And the gravity of love.

A lowly rooster floats upwards
Looks toward the lovers
And awaits the signal to declare dawn.

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. Bill’s husband Kent is an infectious disease doctor. They share their home with their dogs Staccato and Presto. His poems have appeared in publications such as Red River Review, Ilya’s Honey, and National Catholic Reporter.

**

Our Wedding Night Made in the Image of a Novelty Napkin 

I am embarrassed for my forehead. For the lies that I fed to your parents. And the deafening absence and swell of my conscience. For the mice traps that punctuate my enticements. And whisker-kiss my ancestors from their sleep. For the weight class of my pillows. And the rain that airs its grievances on the slate of the roofs. I am embarrassed for not taking the dog’s threats more seriously. For the lack of any coasters. Or thimbles. Or any of those tiny mints. The white of your willpower. Any road maps of Prague. And its most reliable tailors. Or astrologists. For not including your neck in the trust. Or reserving the last sweet for the brother who’s determined to spend eternity in a cellar. And will soon resemble a turnip. Or a pinto bean. For the mechanical chicken whose heart I dinged up. And whose prehistoric shins I still sing to. For the soot and the cab fare and the inference of moon and the lack of any goat besides the dried blood and mud it’s tracked in on the sheets. I’m embarrassed for the loan I took out on the flowers. For the late hour of my calling. And for the look my landlord continues to give you over his newspaper. Which he studies like the lease of a dollhouse. I’m embarrassed for the trouble I caused blue. And its allegiance to the sea. For our Savior’s nonexistent sense of balance. And His questionable hygiene. For the short supply of any fun facts. Or floors to stack books. Or our hundreds of fur lined boots. For the craftsmanship of the windows. The angel’s lack of any tact. And the small bat it nurses at its chest. For leaving the door ajar. And still insisting the wind keep our place. As the universe applauds the modest size of our vows.

Mark DeCarteret

Mark DeCarteret has been a member of City Hall Poets for 30+ years.

**

To Marc Chagall Regarding The Dream

You paint as only soul could see
the truth of known reality
as fate and fear and faith disclosed
that hope envisions juxtaposed

against the darkened in-between
where unforgotten and foreseen
are woven into circumstance
becoming here and now the dance

transcending time and space as bond
to Love unending far beyond
from which it sprang as life renewed
by will that left its time imbued

with promise still the precious worth
of Grace preserved as Heaven's earth.

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.

**

In Chagall’s Dream
 
an ocean of mermaid clouds
swimming reefs of cobalt
 
cacophony of slate and tile
village tumbling hillside
 
a wobble-legged rooster
floating on betrayal
 
an angel earth-falling
lungs breathing twilight
 
a bedstead beach-anchored
on floral encrusted quilt
 
peach tones bleeding pale
skin tattooed in sorrow
 
a lover’s arm in velvet
reassuringly calm
 
the world slow-spinning
to overtures of war
 
turmoil rolling into fugue
discordant-dark     foreboding
 
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

**

​The Dream

My dear, all life is a gift towards death. 
Do you hear the angel’s wings
open like the wind harp’s dark saying?

He wears them as the dove tree wears its flower
and he has the body of a boy
whose blue eye yearns for the blue flower.

We are each born onto this earth
by our forebears, who breathed 
before, into us, that we may breathe

in time into the time in front of us,
shrouded in morning’s blue mist,
dark and cold like deep sea, and salty

as the origin of life,
staining the white cloth wafting from our bodies,
the cock’s moongleaming feathers

that makes it float a little
and forbear from crowing
so the floating houses don’t need to return

to gravity, solidly bound to their feet,
and we, dreaming in the great Dreaming,
are spared from farewell for a moment,

held in a long embrace.
For a long moment
bees bated in the lilac on our bed table 

burrow into the burning blue depths
and buzz out, unseen,
at four a. m., pollen in their faces

stinging their composite, rainbow gaze.
The boy’s golden hair has snagged
wisps of cloud colored like the undersides

of swallows, who don’t have feet,
who are therefore spared a little more
from gravity. The boy opens his arms.

We cannot see the future
in front or behind.
All we can see is the morning

is not yet here, the hawk moth is still
sucking the ever-replenishing flower’s
blue nectar that bears it towards death

over to the bluer beyond.
All we know is we are
being towards one another.

Lucie Chou​

Lucie Chou is an ecopoet from China whose work appears or is forthcoming in Entropy, the Black Earth Institute Blog, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, The Ekphrastic Review, Transom, Tofu Ink Arts, Halfway Down the Stairs, Kelp Journal, Sky Island Journal, Plant-Human Quarterly, Slant: A Journal of Poetry, Wild Roof Journal and Poet’s Lore. A debut collection, Convivial Communiverse, came from Atmosphere Press. In August 2023, she participated in the Tupelo Press 30/30 project where she fundraised for the indie press by writing one poem each day for a month.

**

Ordeal
 
Day one
What a dream-come-true
to encounter Chagall’s Dream
out of the blue!
Surreal mainstream
persistently insane
triggering migraine –    
the Chagall cocktail
is not a fairytale  –
it’s so madly spirited –
you are left limited
to sob or spook.
Before you know
you’ve been framed.
But the gist is bent –
only roosters, angels 
and love souls can gravitate,
your wingless landing depends
on lots of perilous acrobatics
constantly risking absurdity
just as by Ferlinghetti.
I remind myself it’s art
brushed cold stalled,
yet, quietly leave,
rather – unfold.
 
Day two
Curiously, I find myself again
savoring the Chagall cocktail
with a couple explaining
to each other the meaning
of love dreaming.    
And that the dream
makes us human!
At the same time
the Dream couple  
can’t comprehend
why all their appeals  
to the night watch
of the dreamland
are in vain!
They are strictly framed!
But they are adamant!
To make it real again!
Oh, Dream couple, comprehend –
the surreal of Chagall
is your real hall of fame!
 
Day three
Afternoon free –
ultimate Dreaming spree
I’m alone, it seems here too
at three everything stops for tea.
The Dream gist that spirits my mind
is insane but brushed a heart vein.
The two scuffle for a second.
I try hard not to scream
and boldly proclaim:
Hey, Dream-Souls,
take your chance –
here is the key
to unlock the real –
DYI - Donate Your Ideal!
To the American dream,
actual on earth as it is in your heaven!
Rain roosters angels and sweet hearts!
Before I suggest more acrobatics,
a bunch of young fans flood the space
as if it was Nothing Really Matters.  
Their bouncing thrill
unframes Chagall.
The new normal.
No ordeal.
Just deal.  
 
Ekaterina Dukas​

Constantly Risking Absurdity is a poem by the Beat poet Laurence Ferlinghetti.
Nothing Really Matters is a name of American cocktail bar brand.  
 
Ekaterina Dukas, MA in Philology and Philosophy, writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning. She is an enthusiastic contributor to ekphrastic poetics and her poems have often been honoured by TER and its challenges. Her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europe Edizioni.  

​**

Dreaming

On a blue night
all the town houses
lean together
in a rough tumble
as if to listen
sharing secrets
trading gossip
resting in the lap
of white mountains
rising like shoulders 
to surround them
while the folk sleep safe
enfolded 
in blue layered comfort
and one couple wakes 
embracing
on the edge of their
simple wooden bed

weightless as moonlight
beneath a barefoot angel
who shines
not like the seraphim
with coruscating fire
but in ordinary trousers
and a plain shirt-
white winged–reaching
down to them
in  tender benediction

Mary McCarthy

Mary McCarthy is a retired Registered Nurse who has always been a writer. Her work has appeared in many journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic World, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic, The Plague Papers, edited by Robbi Nester, The Memory Palace, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic and Clare MacQueen, and recent issues of Gyroscope, 3rd Wednesday, Caustic Frolic, Inscribe, the Storyteller Review, and Verse Virtual. Her collection How to Become Invisible, that chronicles a bipolar journey, is now available from Kelsay books, amazon, and the author.

**

Visitation
 
Angels need no maps of the stars,
no compass to locate the forces of infinity--
they are the not that is,
a geography larger than what can be written down.
 
No compass is necessary to locate the forces of infinity
that gravitate, pull, and repel inside
a geography larger than what can be written down.
Larger than shadows, veils, and mirrors,
 
they gravitate, pull, and repel time.
They ride on invisible strings woven through air,
larger than shadows, veils, and mirrors.
Their landscape inhabits their very being,
 
riding on invisible strings woven through air,
moving on currents of skywind and dream magic.
Their landscape inhabits their very being,
alert to the pauses and imperfections of the light.
 
Moving on currents of skywind and dream magic,
they become feathers and wings--
alert to the pauses and imperfections of the light,
they become vessels and messengers.
 
They become feathers and wings.
They balance the world as it slumbers and waits.
They become vessels and messengers.
They become what is seen with closed eyes
 
They balance the world as it slumbers and waits,
echoing and reflecting the pull of the unknown.
They become what is seen with closed eyes,
the outline filled with what isn’t there,
 
Echoing and reflecting the pull of the unknown.
They are the not that is,
the outline filled with what isn’t there.
Angels need no maps of the stars

Kerfe Roig

A resident of New York City, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new.  Follow her explorations on her blogs, https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/  (which she does with her friend Nina), and https://kblog.blog/.

**

Temporary Shelter of Dreams, 1939
 
Let us exist in now
hair unbound,
desire afloat, unanchored,
 
we sail 
from the winter-whipped world,
the thunder-boots and snarling-dogs
of endless night;
 
hold me tight,
as angels pass over--
announcing life-tidings
or foretelling death
in plagues and wine-red seas, 
 
in transit,
we drift in delphinium light
on a counterpaned barque of fools and dreams
 
as the rooster crows
once in practice
twice with vigor,
and then over and again
in warning.

Merril D. Smith

Merril D. Smith writes from southern New Jersey. Her full-length poetry collection, River Ghosts (Nightingale and Sparrow Press) was a Black Bough Press featured book. 

**

​"why I get confused between smelling salts and dead African violets"

I dream that I am dreaming of sleeping in the street, but I am not asleep and my bed is a boat adrift in the blueness of the dead of night

I dream of a night adrift from walls, from constraints, free from the prying sight of the droopy-eyed sad faces of the houses holding the village's closed minds and vacant stares

I dream of vacant stares and empty stairs, empty rooms in a deep gloom under a blue-grey pall

I dream of a blue-grey pall, made from a palette of hues mixed from the ashes of emotions, love-hate-lust-anger-longing-despair-desperation 

I dream of lying under a night sky a particular shade of blue, the colour of the African violets in the blue vase once their blooms wither, their dying petals falling, shrivelling, falling, always falling 

I dream of a dream within a dream, a night visitor dressed in blue velvet with a red face and white hands.  I love-hate-want-despise this demon, who is a version of me in another guise

I dream that I am dreaming within a dream, I am the angel that watches over me, I am floating above, approving, announcing, protecting, advising, distracting, tempting, goading, reproving myself, and my other demon-self, while angel-me records it all on the unending scroll that captures every second of my life, just like the angel-self of every one of us keeps on updating our individual permanent records forever

I dream of the arrival of a white horse, a red horse, a blue horse, any horse galloping into the night, a horse that always arrives in my dream, a horse that saves the day, a mare, a nightmare, a horse that's not a horse but in this dream has become the cockerel that will bring the sound of the break of dawn and awakening, but the cockerel is here now, and it is still the dead of night

I wonder if the cockerel is really there?  What do I even mean by that?  I know this is a dream, even as I dream it within my dream.  I know I am me, I know that I am also the red-faced demon, I am the angel and I am the cockerel, I am the village and the sad-faced houses and I am the blue night

I wait for the horse - did I say there's always a horse?  I wait for the inevitable horse that I will mount and ride through the blue night till I wake up at the break of dawn

when I wake up I will write a poem called "why I get confused between smelling salts and dead African violets"

Emily Tee

Emily Tee is a writer from the UK Midlands.  She particularly enjoys ekphrastic writing and has had some pieces published in The Ekphrastic Review challenges previously, and elsewhere online and in print.
 

​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 Train Through Town, by Maud Lewis. Deadline is December 6, 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 LEWIS 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, December 6, 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.

**

​Lady's Man 

I’m being John the Baptist this time round.
We’ll soon have tea.  I hope there’s madeleines,
Not just tartines.  This fleece may come unwound – 
They'd have a subject for their paint-pots then!
Maman says it’s my first real job; I’m paid
Each week.  She says, Merci, mon Dieu, mon gosse.
Our landlord is a bastard.  She’s afraid;
That’s why I’m holding up this silly cross
For these mad ladies, since they pay to look.
To hear Maman, they’ll all end up alone; 
They’d do much better if they learned to cook,
Not paint strange boys when they could have their own  –
And then we count the sous (some francs as well)
And whisper, Mais, merci, mesdemoiselles.

Ruth S. Baker

Ruth S. Baker has published in a few poetry journals.  She has a special love for animals and visual art.

**

​In the Monument

I too
have a tomb
             a lust 
for fame

a name
etched
           gold

flakes
salvaged 
on seraphim
           wing

pull me
          down
beyond
decision

let me
         feel 
marble
        soothing
my ashes

Donna-Lee Smith

Donna-Lee Smith writes from Montreal where cemeteries grace Mount Royal, reminding us  that we too are waiting. ​

**

The Woman in Cobalt

The room was an inferno. The heady scent of linseed hardly masked the stench of sweaty women bound in their soured, long dresses. Mother would beat the soil out of them for a coin if she had her way. Her sendoff that morning stung my ears.

“Comportez-vous bien. They are not paying you to slouch.” I snivelled agreement as the broom handle struck my bottom. 

“I know, maman! Easy money. I’ll do good,” I told her. She set her jaw and glared at me.

“Oui. Or there will be no food on the table for you, mom petit.”

The statue pose took getting used to. I prayed the scarlet welts on my backside were obscured from the painters’ keen eyes. The red-haired woman to my right studied my ribs with an intensity that made my welts throb. Could she see the stripes etched by the broom? The thought made me queasy. 

I focused my gaze on the back of the room where rows of canvases hung to dry like laundry. Blocks of colour. Nude people. I locked my knees, squared my shoulders and counted my breaths. I let my peripheral vision go fuzzy.

I was posed as Saint John the Baptist, the cousin who baptized the risen Lord. I imagined the crisp water of the river Jordan wetting my ankles and creeping up my legs, the current rushing past fast and deep. Cool cobalt outstretched on all sides. 

My right arm was suddenly foreign to me—a numb appendage. I thought, how droll. I imagined myself armless, plunging Jesus into the rushing water by sheer spiritual will.

After the baptism, we would feast on bread and fish with enough butter to reach every edge. Wine would be served, and I would fill myself. Friends would join us. Jesus, fresh from baptism, would share a parable. Mary, the Virgin Mother, would tap me on the shoulder and say I had conducted a miraculous baptism. She would embrace me, and her halo would cast a golden light on my face.

Animated debate snapped me from my reverie. I was hit with a surge of panic. Had I moved? Would I be sent home without wages? I darted my eyes from head to head to head. I caught a thread of stray words.

“Quality of shadow.” “Play of light.” 

Mon Dieu, I had stayed still. The air returned to my body. In relief, I studied the painters for a long moment. The women artists at L’Académie Julian appeared to see me as a bundle of lines and contours, not a boy. I had not resolved if that worked in my favour or against. They leaned over their work like bankers doing sums.

Might they notice if I budged a millimetre? I thought I might be enraged if I had spent hours rendering perfect proportions to look up and find the model had moved and my composition ruined. Of course, they would notice if my hair fell out of place. 

I doubled my focus and scanned the room for a place to rest my gaze. I had ages before our next scheduled break.

At break time, I circled the room and eyed the work in progress. I saw myself in blobs of fleshy tones in various states of doneness. Nothing about the work suggested it had not been painted by a man. 

The woman in cobalt locked eyes with me. I was frozen, expressionless. She smiled. I continued my tour and studied the caked pallets with their array of paint. I touched a puddle of crimson and found it was as soft as melted butter. Curious.

When the session ended, I collected my things and headed toward the exit. I passed the woman in cobalt. She took stock of her supplies on the floor but paused and tousled my hair. 

“Such soulful eyes,” she said. Her voice was no more than a ragged whisper. I feared I might melt into the floorboards under her scrutiny, yet the tenderness in her expression held me there.

“Did I get them right?” she asked. 

She meant for me to examine her canvas. I obliged with amazement. She waited. The uncanny realism stupefied me. In honesty, I had seen more paintings that day than ever in my ten years, but even so, her canvas was remarkable. I gaped at her. 

“How did you arrive at that shade of brown? Get it so lifelike?” I asked. She beamed. 

“Awe, you have the mind of an artist!” she said. It was my turn to beam. 

A flit of coughs followed. She covered her mouth and gestured an apology. “Doctor says it’s laryngitis again. Nothing serious.”

The cough sounded pained, but I was glad the doctor thought it was minor because I longed to see the woman in cobalt again and again. 

“If you help me clean my brushes, I may share my secret,” she teased. 

*

Years would pass before I registered that the woman in cobalt was Marie Bashkirtseff. That the prized realist painter had bestowed her secret on me, a starving boy. 

When art critics ask me about my signature style, I credit Marie as my first teacher. Incredible, they say. 

“You have caught the Bashkirtseff magic, jeune homme.” My heart flutters each time I receive such praise. 

“Tell us! Quel a été son sage conseil?”

To that, I chuckle and say, “You will have to help me clean my paintbrushes for that secret!”

Every October, I stop at Le Fleuriste for the richest blue blossoms in stock. I carry them through Champ-de-Mars, past le Tour Eiffel, across le Pont d’Iéna to Cimetiére de Passy. I sink into the frost-covered ground and tell Marie, who rests with the angels, that the critics are probing for her secrets. 

“Should I tell them?” I whisper. I set the bouquet close to the monument and think it might be good for the world to know Marie’s first lesson.

“Do more than look,” she had said. “See people, and they come to life!”

Marsha Masseau

Marsha Masseau is a visual and literary artist living in Ottawa, Ontario. Her artwork has been shown and collected locally; her writing has been published in anthologies and stand-alone in both physical and digital form. She adores exploring the margins between the two forms. Marsha is an MFA in Creative Writing candidate at the University of British Columbia.

**

Modèle Garçon
 
He observes me.  
 
In a bold voice, the boy model in a fur loincloth calls out, "What is your name?" then "Is your husband rich?" Believes he must be if I have the leisure to paint.  
 
I am, I am told, pretty. The boy asks for a sou for saying so. 

I give him a third eye instead.   

He wishes to be portrayed as a gentleman in an emerald waistcoat and striped trousers, have a pocket watch and fob, and—although no one will see—curly hair on a muscular chest.  

One after another after another, his eyes blink. They see opportunity. "Does your husband need a little footman for your carriage?"

I paint long colt legs and shiny black hooves on the boy. Giggle. "Now, prance like a high-knee pony." Giggle.

His eyes are not amused. 

He calls me Marie Antoinette and degenerate. 

For that, I give him horse teeth.

Seems I am not as fair as he first thought. The common boy now prefers the blonde artist in billowing sky blue who sits nearest the podium.

He praises her proper, naturalistic style and how lightly she holds the brush, lauds how her lavender sachet masks the stink in this hot room. The turpentine, the dresses in need of laundering.  

His mother and sister take in washing. He asks me, "Madame, do you have a laundress?" 

Aggravating! A boy model opining and pedalling. Humph. 

When old enough to paint, the urchin can interpret his blonde lady in any manner he desires. He may change his name—I do not care to know what it is—to André and develop surrealism.

Then, suddenly, I think he may not. May not change art nor endure what is necessary to turn away from convention and deliberately defy reason. 

Rather, the boy may die young. He may succumb to consumption or conscription. Wars are coming.

Sad it is to paint his mouth as a round mourning brooch with a wisp of black hair and a jet stone. 

Without the money from his posing, how would the family survive?  

I draw feet under the brooch; fleet feet because his younger brothers would have to become pick-pockets.  

I dab two pink rosebuds on the brooch. 

His sister would dry her hands and scrub no more when men notice her bloom and her bosom.  

Sell the brooch, Bereaved Mother. Buy potatoes.  
 
I break the boy's slight figure into pieces. He snaps easily.  

In an act of experimentation as well as charity, I draw cubes and, in each, sketch a body part.   

"Come, play," I exclaim.     

The boy's eyes are the spinning tops he never had. He leaps down from the podium and runs to me. 

I can be kind. "Child, these are building blocks. How would you like me to arrange them? What would you like to become?" 

Silence. Shrug. He does not know. Knows only that he wishes to be painted in fine clothes.  

Mon Dieu.

The preferred artist bangs her brush on her easel, commands him to return to posing.  
 
Still, he lingers to tell me how his mother spit-wipes his face before he comes to Académie Julian to seek work. Tempting to fight along the way, but he does not. "Boys with black eyes are not chosen." 

I sketch dove wings on his back to lift him above the mean streets and deliver him to the podium every morning.  

Still, a cherub he is not. 

Wink. "Soon, I will appear as a satyr and earn seven sous for standing naked." Wink.

In his bold voice, the boy wonders aloud whether my husband will allow me to paint him when nude and quite a man.

I do not answer. 

Better that he pose as David or recreate Manet's The Fifer or even The Blue Boy by Thomas Gainsborough. My fellow ladies long to dress him as a dandy in a satiny suit with bows. 

If they do, I will be the one who smoothes the boy's hair and pats his white cheeks to rosy-red. I will whisper to him to keep a gentle light in his three eyes, an expression of the good man he will become when—if—he grows up.
 
​Karen Walker

​Karen Walker (she/her) writes short in a low basement in Ontario, Canada. Her most recent work is in or forthcoming in New Flash Fiction Review, Exist Otherwise, Misery Tourism, Does it Have Pockets? and EGG+FROG. 

**

Apart from a Double Gin and Tonic

there’s nothing I like more
than a group of women
freely doing what they want,
the only male among them
posing on a pedestal
which doesn’t mean he
is idolised, elevated,
glorified or revered,
even allowing for his youth
and the fact his parents 
raised him to feel superior.
He stands swaddled 
in a tiny piece of cloth
undoubtedly entertaining the notion
of eternal worship 
by the female sex. 
His prepubescent form,
dwarfed by the power
of estrogen, shrinks
to an ever paler version
of its imagined self. 
The smell of kerosine lingers
long after all the brushes 
are cleaned of him.

Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman

Linda is an Australian poet who lives and writes in the coastal village of Lake Tabourie, NSW, on traditional Yuin country. Linda enjoys seeing her poetic work published in various excellent literary spaces. ​

**

To Marie Bashkirtseff Regarding In the Studio

The classroom was for you a place
disinclination would not grace
with homage in expected style,
but chose instead by wit the wile

of composition here perceived
detailing truth to be believed
in circumstance as it occurred
that echoed hence forever heard

as moment in which you implied
persistence never satisfied
became by journal if not ouevre
your gift unending left to serve

the eye beholding kindred call
to most important art of all.

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.

**

Leader of the Pack

Now here’s a canvassing for art  -
nude studies only part portrayed -
beheaded as of no account;
as if distraction, forms below,
commission, Julian himself,
commercial, his Atelier.

For in one stroke Marie displayed,
where paraphernalia laid out,
a self-affirming soul proclaimed
as Rodolphe pays - the craft excites.
Faint praise, poor protest on her part -
‘the subject does not fascinate’.

Her diary-speak - as centrepiece -
speaks volumes in coquettish style;
‘so taken with’, and ‘so convinced’,
and ‘very amusing’ it may be.
For her, recall, ‘not fascinate’ -
the lady doth protest too much.

Enough! ‘Never been painted’ writ,
this ‘wonderful notoriety’,
reluctant rôle play thus dismissed.
A bright blue dress, brush, mahlstick pose,
(what caused her face-turn into light?)
a chair draped length, of purple fold…

Another skill as advertised,
she handles well, manipulates
the apparatus, chemistry.
The lad raised up here paint puts down -
his loin cloth wrap, sheep’s clothing so?
But who’s the leader of the pack?

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

**

​The Subject
 
The subject suspiciously eyes the skeleton to his left – and a step or two behind him. He can’t face it directly, for fear of being chastised by this wonderful femme palette of artists. A quiet stillness is his brief. He must stay “toujours comme on peut l’être.” His peripheral vision is enough. 

‘Why the skeleton?’ he ponders. A mannequin of bones. ‘What does it represent? Does it act as a reminder to the artists to think about their framework first and foremost? The bare essentials. Add the tissue, skin and a beating heart in time.’ Big, deep and meaningful thoughts for a twelve-year-old boy.

He feels somewhat exposed in nothing more than a tissu, though strangely secure, powerful even with staff in hand. He does sense safety in this atelier féminin. 

Still, that squelette and all its exposed bones! His weight shifts on to his right leg, away from the offending object, irrationally thinking he could leap from the podium and run if it came to life.

Marie Bashkirtseff is in the studio. Not yet twenty-three years and she is brilliantly artistique. She seems more interested in the skeleton than the subject, so the subject thinks. Perhaps she will paint it. Does it represent how she feels? She has been quite unwell. This is known because she is so well known and respected in the Parisian arts community. They say she was an exquisite singer but illness cruelly ruined her voice. 

From the romanticism of opera to the realism of oil painting.
 
Adam Stone

Adam lives and loves on the Bellarine Peninsula in Victoria, Australia - Wathaurong land. He is an award-winning lyricist and published writer who relishes short story and flash fiction writing. Member of Writers Victoria, Geelong Writers Inc (Committee Member) and Bellarine Writers.

**

The Women’s Guild In the Studio
 
The women got to learn new skills in art
in writing, sculpting, poetry, and paints,
although the men could limit, on their part,
exposure to what they deemed needs constraints.
 
The men, of course, would override complaints
that their involvement in more worldly views
than those imposed on women (“due restraints”)
were arguments that they could disabuse.
 
The men, therefore, would have a broader sphere.
Their subjects, mostly goddesses and saints,
undressed, some details meant they must draw near,
though canvases would not reveal their taints.
 
Once finished, body painting would commence--
their models, from the Guild, took no offense.
 
Ken Gosse
 
Ken Gosse prefers to write rhymed, humorous verse using traditional forms. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, since then he has been in The Ekphrastic Review, Pure Slush, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Home Planet News, and others. Raised in the Chicago suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, over twenty years, usually with rescue dogs and cats underfoot.

**

Sheri Flowers Anderson

Sheri Flowers Anderson is a writer and poet based in San Antonio, Texas.  Her publication credits include Sixfold Poetry, Pensive Journal, and she's the author of a collection of poetry entitled House and Home, winner of the Naomi Long Madgett Poetry Prize, 2022, by Broadside Lotus Press.  She's enamored with poetry about every-day things.  When she's not writing she enjoys creating collages, playing nerdy word games like Boggle and Scrabble, and assembling 500-piece jigsaw puzzles.

**

Studio Swan Song
 
I may be the youngest in this all-female studio,
but M. Julian has asked me to apply my palette
to its truthful representation, to present at Salon.
I am thinking about the composition, putting myself
in the best light, because he did ask me to create this art,
and this may well be my way to fame.
 
First as a singer, and now as an artist, I want fame.
I can paint the halo over my own head in the studio. 
Women here hate me for my talent, naturally-gifted in this art,
while men laud me for the way I choose my color palette.
I work ten hours a day, that’s how seriously I take myself
and how much I want to bring this painting to Salon.
 
Why did I wait so long to paint, to exhibit at Salon,
when it was my clearest path to success and fame?
I doubted my gifts, loved the wrong men, didn’t believe in myself.
That is the curse of women, we can only join a female studio
and gossip all day. Not me. I mix my paints, prepare my palette,
conceptualize my approach to create my best-ever art.
 
Maybe it took the trips to Italy, to refine my appreciation for art,
Maybe it took falling out of love with Hamilton, an offer from Salon.
Maybe it took all the traveling and moving to learn nuances in palette
and experiment with life and love and hues of fame,
gain acceptance and validation in M. Julian’s studio,
or just maturing to appreciate myself.
 
Grandfather is gone, my parents are useless, there’s only myself
to trust. I know I’m going to die young. Not much time left for art.
I have to make the most of M. Julian’s requests for the studio,
give him the opportunity to showboat at Salon,
place M. Julian in the Hall of Fame
for producing such young talent with meticulous palette.
 
I choose the best blue for my dress from the palette,
paint all other artists in black to mourn myself.
This painting won’t be my last but a milestone toward fame,
because I’m already thinking about another canvassed art,
a gathering of waif boys, who owe their power to females, for Salon
and that will fill seats in the M. Julian studio.
 
How I gain fame will make art:
Palette in hand, my gift to myself
and the Salon, my final goodbye to the studio. 
 
Barbara Krasner

Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her work has been featured in The Ekphrastic Review, Nimrod, Cimarron Review, One Art, Caesura, and elsewhere. She lives and teaches in New Jersey and can be found at www.barbarakrasner.com.

**

In the Studio

Comparative writing among the arts teases our brain and challenges the senses of our talents.
 
The delicate and charming ladies engage with erstwhile ambition. 
 
The audience and enthusiasts cheer and smile without divulging their artistic choices and desires.
 
 Such beautiful ladies not needing to rely on egos or feminine wiles.
 
Searching the eyes of admirers, who are  enthralled with the mystery of their talent.
 
The tools of their art on the dusty floor-not ready to be seen.
 
Only the young and charming model  is allowed to inspire and participate.
 
While invisible absent men secretly praise and conspire what they are not allowed to view.
 
Women-known for the creative act of childbirth revel in the creation of earthly enterprise.
 
 Sandy Rochelle
 
Sandy Rochelle is  a widely published poet, actress and narrator. She narrated and produced the documentary film ARTWATCH, about renowned art historian, James Beck. She is a Voting Member of the Recording Academy in the Spoken Word Category. Her poetry has appeared in One Art,  Wild Word, Connecticut River Review, Verse Virtual, Dissident Voice, Haiku Universe, Cultural Daily, Poetic Sun, and others.​

Our new contest is Send in the Clowns! 

Write poetry or flash fiction inspired by the intriguing history circus-themed artwork. 

Click here for details.

​https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/new-contest-announcement-send-in-the-clowns-flash-fiction-and-poetry

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 Dream, by Marc Chagall. Deadline is November 22, 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 CHAGALL 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 22, 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.

**

You Don’t Believe in Ghosts?
 
Just as well, says the man dressed
like a Victorian butler. (Once or twice
a year, the manor house is opened to tour,
proceeds going to a local charity.
Someone always brings up ghosts.)
 
Public lore has it all wrong, he adds.
Ghosts don’t want to meet YOU either.
They do occasionally group around old halls
like this one. Rarely do you hear rumours
of a sighting in a modest cottage.
 
Why would they get nostalgic for poverty?
They just want to relive their youth, hear
some dance music.
 
I believe ghosts exist, but in a different
dimension. You won’t spot a glowing,
voluptuous young lady silently playing
the spinet at midnight–
unless you’ve polished off the punch bowl.
 
Souls don’t carry their flesh and bones about–
 just their memories. You may feel
a quick shiver in their presence,
or it could just be the wind.

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.

**

The Un-House
                                                     
Hallowed
And
Unsparrowed
Nights
Tower. 
Evil 
Demons
Howl
Over
Unborrowed
Shadows 
Escaping 
                    from the cemetery of the unwanted and unclaimed. they hover, 
                    like injured hornets, in the hum of unhurried minds. their loss, 
                    unwinged and unwinding, festers like a bird unfeathered by grief 
                    begging and braying to fly. who are the caretakers of unloved souls? 
                    why do spirits have hearts only to be ignored? is a ghost truly a ghost 
                    if they have no one to haunt? purgatory is an unlimbo where heaven 
                    rejects you and hell discards you, an immortal unmattering, a solitary 
                    confinement of unseeness, a cage of unpersonhood where the unnoticed 
                    linger in unfeigned sorrow. unvisibility is not merely the absence of sight, 
                    but the unrecognition of the other; the othering of the undesirable. 
                    the unrepentant sin of loneliness kneels at the altar of unripened rejection. 
                    time is an untethered fascia thrashing in a sea of unblue and unbound
                    sadness, where emptiness drowns in unending despair. Shakespeare, I fear, 
                    was right: hell is empty; all the unheard are here.

Michelle Hoover

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!

**

Trick or Treat: a Haunting
 
My ghost hops--
I get him in my clutches 
and he disappears
 
Many think it risible
to see me chase him
down the street--
 
a treat, they think.
Fitzgerald would have
done it better--
 
locked him in the attic.
No longer spry, I try
and try to capture
 
the essence of my ghost,
but a host of questions always 
arise, enough to make me sick.
 
I despise my ineptitude; finally say,
“Hey, dude, get over here!”
He veers, he sees it’s only a trick.
 
Coconut candy or candy corn--
Ghost, your days have 
warn me out. Now I’ve had it!
 
I hail my 
witch-y broom
and zoom across the planet.
 
Ghost, or no ghost,
the coast is clear. My shrink
sums it up--
It’s all in your imagination, dear.
 
Carole Mertz​

Carole Mertz reads and critiques. Her recent reviews of poetry collections are at Mom Egg Review and Orchard River Pages and are forthcoming at Heavy Feather and World Literature Today. Al-Khemia Poetica nominated her poem “Ashes” for the Best of the Net (2025) Anthology. Carole resides with her husband in Parma, OH. 

​**

Once I Lived

In that raggedy black house
no more than a shadow
backlit against the white night
of a full Hunter’s moon.
Orange light still burns 
bright at its heart- 
on the second floor landing
where all my ghosts
have come undone - loosed
like fledged nestlings
dancing out of the windows
wild and innocent
scampering up on the roof
with not one scrap of sorrow
to slow or stall or trip them up
lifted high by music
only they can hear
while all the sad nightmares
fall– heavy and dark
stumble to the ground
without joy or authority
enough to scare anyone
or stop our glad rejoicing

Mary McCarthy

Mary McCarthy is a retired Registered Nurse who has always been a writer. Her work has appeared in many journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic World, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic, The Plague Papers, edited by Robbi Nester, The Memory Palace, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic and Clare MacQueen, and recent issues of Gyroscope, 3rd Wednesday, Caustic Frolic, Inscribe, the Storyteller Review, and Verse Virtual. Her collection How to Become Invisible, that chronicles a bipolar journey, is now available from Kelsay books, amazon, and the author.

**

Haiku Series
 
A furze of shadows
charcoal fade decay of days
nightmares bloom in black.
 

**

Phantom memories
a silent scream caught mid-throat
cobwebbed existence.
 

**

Hunter’s moon rises
sparks the ruins to riot
inferno inside.


**
 
Insistent darkness.
The ghosts answer, dance wildly
in my haunted heart.

Siobhán Mc Laughlin
 
Siobhán Mc Laughlin is a poet and creative writing facilitator from Co. Donegal in Ireland and a regular contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. Her poems have appeared previously here and in other publications including The Poetry Village, Drawn to the Light Press, Reverie, and The Martello  Journal. She is a big fan of haiku and ekphrastic poetry. She does not believe in ghosts but loves all kinds of gothic literature and art.

**

Doors Swing Open at the Old Hall: a Pantoum

All year they await the invitation, the obligation
to party this single, moonlit night.
They starch their wings and cinch shroud strings,
they’re gathering at the Old Hall tonight

to party this single, moonlit night.
Some break out their black, some their white,
they’re gathering at the Old Hall tonight
in the silver light where living and dead alight.

Some break out their black, some their white.
They dust off year-long tangled threads
in the silver light where living and dead alight
with blended bodies’ shriveled detritus.

They dust off year-long tangled threads,
that harsh hall light shows no tolerance
for blended bodies’ shriveled detritus.
Some fly to the gables to block the dawn

and harsh hall light shows no tolerance.
Up top they engage in ethereal tryst,
flown to the gables to block the dawn,
keep celebrating the Day of the Dead.

Up top they engage in ethereal tryst.
All year they’ve awaited the invitation, the obligation,
to celebrate the Day of the Dead,
with starched wings and cinched shroud strings.

Barbara Krasner

Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. A six-time Pushcart Prize nominee, she is the author of two poetry chapbooks and three novels in verse. Her work has also appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, ONE ART: A Journal of Poetry, Nimrod, Cimarron Review, and elsewhere. She lives and teaches in New Jersey and can be found at www.barbararkrasner.com.
​
**

Dark Sprites’ Delights!
 
On the year’s brightest night
each dark sprite will alight
in the light of the full moon’s bright glow--
starting darker than coal,
rising from depths of Sheol,
breaking free of their gaol far below,
then they’ll dance and they’ll sing,
celebrating, since spring
won’t return for another half year
while cold, dark days ahead
will give rise to more dead
who will join them in cheering on fear,
and for one gruesome night
they will dance to the fright
of the children who dare to appear
every Halloween eve--
for each little pet peeve
feeds their fancies since long, long ago.
 
Ken Gosse
 
Ken Gosse prefers to write rhymed, humorous verse using traditional forms. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, since then he has been in The Ekphrastic Review, Pure Slush, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Home Planet News, and others. Raised in the Chicago suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, over twenty years, usually with rescue dogs and cats underfoot.

**

For Claudia, in Honour of Her First Halloween: 

Within, a haunted 
life - shadows 
and hidden rooms 
loom against 
the full moon's
silver glow, inviting  
in winged sprites 
of the night. 

Elanur Williams

Elanur Williams, part-time teacher and full-time mom, lives and writes from New York City. 

**


Folded Wings – A Cento
 
At the frosted window in the cavernous dark
Something white moved 
among the tangled branches
A shower of angel feathers perhaps.
 
Why am I afraid of the dark
But more afraid of what the light reveals
I turn from the window
Before death enters.
 
Folded like the covers of a book
Their pages too heavy to turn
The wings of night birds
Have gone quiet.
 
As through an hourglass
Into the marble of ages
What's left is blue emptiness
Spinning from the galaxy.
 
Kathleen Cali
 
Author's note: The word “cento” is Latin for patchwork and comes from pieced together lines taken from poetry. This technique is not something new; early examples of cento poems can be found in the work of Homer and Virgil. The painting of The Old Hall, by John Anster Fitzgerald, inspired this cento incorporating the lines of poet Linda Pastan who passed away at the age of 90 in 2023. She was the poet laureate of Maryland from 1991 to 1994. The lines were selected from her poetry book “Insomnia” published in 2015 and came from the following poems: At Maho Bay; At the Edge; Chaos Theory; Consider the Space Between Stars; Cosmology; Course of Treatment; Eclipse, Edward Hopper, Untitled; Elizabethan; Exercise; Last Rites; Late in October; Repetitions: After Van Gogh. True to the cento form, the sequence of words is taken “as is” with no changes made to the wording of any line.

Chicago-born and Midwest raised, Kathleen resides at the Jersey Shore. Her poetic interests include formal and modern poetry and haiku. Always the student, she enjoys poetry writing workshops and working with her local library. Other interests include historical fiction and photography. Kathleen enjoyed a career as a senior auditor and educator and served as an assistant professor of business following receipt of her MBA. Technical writing and editing were a major part of her profession; now she uses her skills to craft poetry. Her poetry has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review; her haiku was published in her local community’s magazine. 
 
**

The Spirit of Dwelling

Fey folk rise like mosquitoes
from scraggly grasses,
hungry for memory.
Night’s bright sphere
climbs the witching hours
over the vacant manor, beckons
spectral beings from unsound ground.
Clotted ivy adorns the portico,
droops on the skeletons
of cobwebs, and orbs of energy
blaze from the foyer
where dried leaves swirl and drift
on swift breeze.
Outside the house stands hushed,
but inside the old hall
swarms with esprit:
sprites and spirits and goblins
gather for ill and goodwill, merriment
and mischief, claiming the derelict
home for their own.
Dancing to chamber song
only their ears hear, they whirl and flit,
flirt and shape-shift, as if to lure
man from moon or bed.
Rest eludes their haunted realm
when humans slumber
and time is under spell.
When full moon descends again,
morning withers the ghosts
of revelry and remains.

Heather Brown Barrett

Heather Brown Barrett is an award-winning poet in southeastern Virginia. She mothers her young son and contemplates life, the universe, and everything with her writer husband. Her poetry has been published in several journals and literary exhibits. Her first book of poetry, Water in Every Room, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books. Visit her website to read her work: https://heatherbrownbarrett.com/

**

Halloween Haunt

Heathrow is where a witch will hitch a ride
At dusk on Halloween. She'll leave the ground
Laid flat beneath a jumbo's underside--
Latched safely to the plane, she's Boston-bound.
On Halloween, this witch, whose children fled
West long ago to haunt the States at night,
Embarks upon a trip that she'd find dead
Exhausting if she used her broom all flight.
Nocturnal pilots have no means to see
Her broom and she are stowed below the rear
And flying to America for free--
Until they land, and then she does appear,
Not one bit weary, whizzing through the air
To greet her waiting grandkids with a scare!

Mike Mesterton-Gibbons

Mike Mesterton-Gibbons is a Professor Emeritus of Mathematics at Florida State University who has returned to live in his native England.  His poems have appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Better Than Starbucks, the Creativity Webzine, Current Conservation, the Daily Mail, the Ekphrastic Review, Grand Little Things, Light, Lighten Up Online, MONO., the New Verse News, Oddball Magazine, Rat’s Ass Review, the Satirist, the Washington Post and WestWard Quarterly.

**

The Ghosts of Pluckley
 
Deep in Kentish countryside
The ghosts of Pluckley smile –
They hide behind tall, shadowed trees
Disguised as shifting form in breeze,
Laughing in true ghostly style.
 
Now you may have heard the morbid tale
Of one young lady’s ghostly plight –
She haunts the locals young and old,
Terrifies the brave and bold
With leering cackle gleaming white.
 
It seems she once was married
To a kind and wealthy lad,
He bought for her a diamond ring
And asked what else he could bring
To make her truly glad.
 
She said she’d like to take her gift
To her grave for life’s renewal
And though he thought it was a waste,
Granted this at death in haste,
And she was buried with her jewel.
 
The man who dug her deathly grave
Eyed-up the gem in steely stealth.
He planned at once to sneak away
At midnight on her burial day
To retrieve it for himself.
 
But when he took the dead white hand
The finger had swollen, fat and cold,
He flicked his penknife’s sharpened blade
And severed off the flesh in shade,
Then slipped the ring from rigid hold.
 
Two years passed uneventfully
Until one dark December night –
His house shook with wind and rain,
The storm beat in on windowpane,
He sat alone by candlelight.
 
Suddenly there came a knock
Like fists beating bone on tomb.
At his door a young lady stood,
He started back, wondered if this could be
The hand of fate, his call to doom?
 
He thought he recognised the face
Cold shivers slithered down his spine.
Avoiding her stare his eyes glanced down
To red streaked stains upon the gown,
Was it blood or was it wine?
 
She raised her hand as if to speak,
At once his veins congealed to stone
For on that hand a gap gaped wide
Where once she’d worn a ring with pride
But now wore just a stump of bone!
 
He tried to shut the door, alas,
The gushing gale galloped in.
He stammered “H.. How do you do?
I think I knew a girl like you,
Fingerless, ghostly white and thin”.
 
“It was me”, she screamed from ghostly lips
Faded as a summer bloom,
“I’ve come to haunt your memory
With spirits from the cemetery
Until you die in gloom.”
 
So grave robbers may you take heed
Of this our legendary host
Who haunts the night and surely lingers
Over all who steal fingers,
For Pluckley boasts a ghost!
 
Kate Young

Author's Note: Pluckley, in Kent, is said to be England’s most haunted village according to the Guinness Book of World Records. It is reputed to have twelve ghosts.

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

**

you rang?
 
the night is chill
the ground dew damp
we saw a light
in corner rooms
heard the laugh
of scraping branches
 
master had a bell
we did his bidding
warm tea
on silver platter
warm scarf and robe
against the night
 
in the dark we hear
again the call
like moths to light
we drift from shadows
to that lighted window
carrying only yesterdays

Kat Dunlap

Kat Dunlap grew up in Norristown PA and now resides in Massachusetts where she is a member of the Tidepool Poets of Plymouth. She received a BA in English from Arcadia University and holds an MFA from Pacific University. She edited two college writing publications as well as the Tidepool Poets Annual. For many years she was Director of the National Writing Project site at University of Massachusetts Dartmouth and is currently the co-owner of Writers Ink of MA. Her chapbook The Blue Bicycle is being prepared for an autumn launch.

**

The Cabin by the Mansion

There is a ghost in this cabin
of the governor who built it
this humble cabin where he hides
from his opera-singing wife

There is a ghost in the bathroom
where he shaves and showers
swearing in a whisper, always a whisper

Next door is a grand mansion 
the ghost abandoned to his wife
She sings loud and alone 
against the hard tiles of the shower
but softly in bed clothes at night

He hates opera
She hates the quiet
They cannot live together
They cannot stay apart

He visits her in the dark 
and takes off his clothes
with the pssp pssp of whispers
against the echoes of song

There are ghost children 
who dance in the yard 
between cabin and mansion
Each night a bonfire 
inside a circle of stones
They frisk, they frolic 
in smoke rising to the moon

As voices blend 
the soft and the strong
they dance to the harmony 
of whisper and song

Joe Cottonwood

Joe Cottonwood has repaired hundreds of houses to support his writing habit in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California.

**

One Night a Year

One night a year the boundaries blur: insect, animal, human, fantasy, reality.  Any and all combinations are possible.  Although it's midnight under the full moon, the sky above The Old Hall glows as if it's noon, for those with the right eyes to see.  Just a few drops of tincture, pupils dilated, and a new world reveals itself.  Only the most daring and most free-spirited may enter.  Only they are able to pass the guards at the gateway.  It's free to go into The Old Hall but ultimately the revellers will pay the price.

Inside, they are waiting, all the night creatures - the foxes, the bats, the moths, the chittering cockroaches and spindly spiders - and with them are their fae friends, the winged folk, slim as sylphs and floating light as air.  They turn and twist, dancing to a music only their ears can hear.  Tonight, these crowds will assemble at The Old Hall for frights and frolics, for pranks and antics and fun.  Underneath, something darker lingers.

Those of human form who dare enter the doorway will never be the same on their return.  A part of them will remain forever behind, locked away.  At first, to those who know them, they will seem distracted, forgetful.  Over time they will become listless, filled with an unspoken longing.  As the special night comes back round they will become restless, unsettled.  Even if they try to fight it eventually they must return to The Old Hall.  No-one has ever come back from their second visit on that one special night a year, the night the portals open to another realm, the domain of the old gods, the ancient earth spirits.  They demand a high payment for allowing strangers in. 

It's for this reason those of a cautious disposition hide themselves and their loved ones away, to deaden the sound of otherworldly laughter and parties, on the one night a year when the old world opens its doors and allows those brave enough, those free of spirit to enter, but not to return.

Emily Tee

Emily Tee is a writer from the UK Midlands.  She particularly enjoys ekphrastic writing and has had some pieces published in Ekphrastic Review Challenges previously, and elsewhere online and in print.​

**

A 'Spirit'ed Gathering

The house, shrouded in ivy and shadow,
sways softly,
     into and out of focus,
as dusk blends into dreams.

Its windows glow
with the pulse of forgotten stories.

In the unmown grass,
spirits of children  
float between the shadows,  
their fingers outstretched  
to grasp the (moon)light.  
And their laughter
     silent but real
tumbles like leaves in the breeze.

On the roof,
dark silhouettes stand guard
protecting the remains of memories.

And together,
these spectres 
weave a spell,
connecting the living with the lost.

Nivedita Karthik

Nivedita Karthik is a graduate in Immunology from the University of Oxford. She is an accomplished Bharatanatyam dancer and published poet. She also loves writing stories. Her poetry has appeared in Glomag, The Ekphrastic Review, The Society of Classical Poets, The Epoch Times, The Poet anthologies, Visual Verse, The Bamboo Hut, Eskimopie, The Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal, and Trouvaille Review. Her microfiction has been published by The Potato Soup Literary Journal. She also regularly contributes to the open mics organized by Rattle Poetry. She currently resides in Gurgaon, India, and works as a senior associate editor. She has two published books, She: The reality of womanhood and The many moods of water.

**

A Sanctuary

Like the old snow
that clings and sinks
against wishes,
they crawl up the sanctuary-
the pitched roof beyond belief.

Webbed dragon ghosts
hold to ransom
a spell of fantasies-
pangs of memories
bruised like the birds on a sidewalk,
some eaten half,
blood on their necks, all dead-on return.

Together they rise
raring to blow mouthful of fire
that burned the grief,
the cheerful chatter of granddaughters
hide dida hide-
and whatever was left of him.

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.