 Courtyard Tables, by Glenn Harrington (USA) contemporary. Dear Readers and Writers, What a treat to feature this stunning artwork by Glenn Harrington, an award-winning contemporary oil painter whose work has graced the walls of important museums and galleries and has appeared in prominent publications like the New York Times, New Art International, and American Art Collector. Glenn is also a poet whose work appeared recently in TER (https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/french-ultramarine-by-glenn-harrington) and he responded to this challenge as well. His poem leads the selected literary works below. It has been some time since I wrote myself to one of the challenges, but I thought it would be interesting for the artist and journal editor to both write a poem this time. It is fun to occasionally participate along with our amazing writers. My effort follows Glenn's poem. The ekphrastic community continues to grow, connect, and create in so many different ways. We continue to have biweekly challenges to a diverse range of artwork inspirations, and this feature remains one of the most beloved projects of The Ekphrastic Review. I am continually moved by your imagination, creativity, and what you find in the artworks. Ten years of ekphrasis and one thing is clear as day: we are just getting started! love, Lorette ** Setting the Stage Pulling vest and table cloths taut a courtyard waiter is singing an aria to the little birds hopping under the tables in and out of spots of sunlight sifting through the magnolia leaves clapping in the breeze. Soon his theatre will echo clinks of silverware and porcelain and the collective hum of diners sharing their scripts of day. But for now he rehearses solo in the candor solitude inspires famous among his audience of sparrows and empty chairs. Glenn Harrington Glenn Harrington is a painter and writer living in Bucks County Pennsylvania, where his poems and articles have been published in magazines and journals. He is at work on two books of poetry, Trysting Trees, and, Friku, a decade of weekly haiku exchanges with his brother, Mark, a writer for NY Newsday. Glenn’s paintings have been exhibited internationally and featured in numerous publications including American Arts Quarterly, American Art Collector, and American Artist Magazine. His portraiture was awarded the Portrait Society of America’s Draper Grand Prize and he has been a frequent recipient of awards from the Oil Painters of America’s Annual Exhibitions ** Sfumato There was a secret in the painting at the Blackbird Café. You said so while we decided on a time and date for meeting, and I’ve always longed to be the kind of person whom the hidden things did not elude. The waiter has not quite opened the room when I arrive to wait for you. I bide my time while he sets up the tables, contemplating the field of sea aster blooms, searching for symbols and entendres that might mean something to you. After awhile, I lean in to examine the brushstrokes, realizing something of their hesitancy, sensing their soft uncertainty. I think about a meadow, I think about a day far away. Overcast, but the gray was lavender and the salty air tasted like rain. When the doors are propped open. I choose a table. We’re near the ocean, I tell you later, as you pour me a refill of robust Mourvedre from the carafe. We don’t see the water, though; our attention is on the wildflowers. But we can hear it behind us, rolling against the twilight, heavy and slow. I watch your mouth as you tease the pit from a round green olive. I wonder where those lips might take me again. Flickers of Friday and pale blue satin. There’s a tenderness there, I continue, following your eyes to the flickering candle. As if the painter was lost in something he’d forgotten. You have on that maddening smile, warm and generous, and when you tear off the baguette and press it into my hand, I understand what it means to break bread with someone. You tell me the earl gray flowers and sky are sfumato, a smoky technique of imperceptible boundaries born in Italy. We finish the wine and then espressos. What was it? I ask finally. The big secret. I look at my coffee dregs, think how some people read what’s there, too, for clues. Your laughter fills the room. You already told me everything, you say. I can feel the breeze from the ocean between us. There’s no big secret, you say, and I think you are saying something about life. It was an invitation, for you to look closer. Lorette C. Luzajic Lorette C. Luzajic is the founding editor of The Ekphrastic Review. Her poems, essays, and short stories have been widely published, with appearances in Cleaver, The Disappointed Housewife, Litro Magazine, Bending Genres, and more. She is also an award-winning collage and mixed media artist. Both her writing and her visual art practice are often fuelled by art history, a lifelong passion. ** Restraint Tables and chairs Like the help Don uniforms For the cause: Submission. He knows better Than to look up, She to look back. But O, where sunlight Strikes the red Centre. The night After closing, with Tables and chairs Bared and every- One gone, he looks Up; she consents With shining eyes, Right where sun Strikes—that exact Spot—stained even Now with their white Red thrashing. Mark Harrington Mark Harrington is a Long Island-based journalist who has secretly spent the past forty years as a poet and author of short stories and novels, forms he has studied since childhood. He has a degree in journalism from San Diego State University, where he also studied creative writing, and he did course work for a master of fine arts from Stony Brook University, where he briefly taught journalism. His work often explores crash sites where man’s aspirational vessels collide with the freight trucks of circumstance—a journalist at the scene of a poet’s attempt at hang gliding above the interstate. He has spent the past 25 years as a reporter for Newsday on Long Island, his birthplace. ** To Glenn Harrington Regarding Courtyard Tables The ambience of open air, an elegance already there, you paint as weight that columns bear of architecture's brazen dare defying time to stabilize the portico that greets the eyes protecting passage to and from the sky lit peace where sun has come as narrow slice to herald feast of broader glimmer farther east that craving trunk of shading tree so long has bent to better see in dawn as hands adept prepare to be the joy of local fare. 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. ** Covers The empty stage, ’fore setting play, blank canvasses, chef’s works of art, proscenium, and apron tied, though unscene flaps behind the wings. There stirrings, mash, splash, pour and more, with hiss from pots, clash, stash of pans; yet calm serene just through the door, where tables tipped but not the floor. What stands behind that smoothy hand, which soothing words to be deployed; does cost of courtesies mount up, revenge on menu for tonight? Is he thought dishy, steaming plate, his leg pulled when the tart is served? The court is sitting, session start, character actor playing part. How many covers come to light, as tables figured, multiplied; and then reviews in chat, online, delighted stars on a good night? But what’s behind the waiting stance - a chance for ale drunk by the yard as house red topped, left glassy wine, and wasted swill, some other pigs? 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 ** Wait Staff Tips What you might not think about Is that we've been here for days Preparing tables and placing plates Then disappearing into the background And while we enjoy the quick wit The banter between each course We’re not so fond of the snide remarks And could do without the negative quips Of course, we know this job is a choice But at $2.13 an hour it’s hard to enjoy The buffet of insults spread among the employs Who are calming nerves, quelling voices Biting tongues and grinding their teeth But not so hard as to need a dentist Because this gig doesn't come with health insurances Nor does it offer a 401K safety net beneath So, please be courteous or at least be kind We are all working here to pay our own ways For gas, for food, for rent, and for our kids' better days These are some things to keep in mind The next time you order one too many drinks And forget how the wait staff are people too Scraping by to put themselves through school Remember that even a small tip goes farther than you might think 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 journey as an expat. ** Before the Hordes Invade As I prepare the last table before the evening rush, I delight in the warm evening air, the last slant rays of the evening sun. We’ll soon have to turn on the lights. This is the place where I was born, and it’s my moment of perfection, my moment of contemplation, my moment of pride. Our chef’s special tonight is Seafood Paella with Saffron Foam. He’s been teaching it to the sous chefs and commis chefs all week. A slightly salty whiff of oleander and yasmin, the heady scent of sea and bloom, secrets of Mediterranean nights. I can hear voices. The night shift begins. Rose Mary Boehm Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels, short stories, eight poetry collections and one chapbook, her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She is a several times Pushcart and a Best of Net nominee. All her recent books are available on Amazon. The new chapbook, The Matter of Words, was published in June 2025, and a new full-length collection has been slated for publishing in 2027. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/ ** First Evening Smoothing the cloth, he worries-- first dinner, new venture Mediterranean cuisine in Chicago no customers where are they? Do they not know the joys of dolmas, paella, moussaka, shakshuka, baba ghanoush, ratatouille? Will they finally come, dazed begging for menus stumbling over dish names fumbling for their wallets? He opens kitchen doors waving a white towel encouraging the scent of his mother’s recipes to bewitch his neighbours Amrita Skye Blaine Amrita Skye Blaine develops themes of impermanence, social justice, disability, and awakening. In 2003, she received an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University, and in 2024, a PocketMFA in poetry. Two collections came out this spring. She has been published in fourteen poetry anthologies, numerous literary magazines, and is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. ** A Portrait of Transcendence Crimson melts in peace, To sit, I stand Meticulous in my craft To be the omniscient God of the piazza I am a diorite blur, A phantom of punctuality Quiescent in my thoughts, Alacritous on my wisps of legs The reflection in glass flutes before they are refilled, Almost alone beside the trees and dangling leaves To blend with the arches In and out within two worlds To make love to perfection Sinking into paintings between service I cross between gold and gray-- Gale whispers in soft promises as I soften white cloths, Sunlight filters into my paradise To fulfill my desire in Eden’s languorous eyes A ritual of servitude, For I am the guardian of the Courtyard Tables, A portrait of transcendence through labour E. Joy E. Joy (she/her) is a poetess who views the world in melancholy sweetness; finding the beauty in decay and love in tragedy. She is a young author who utilizes her creative abilities from a AuDHD perspective to evoke intense feelings from her audience. When E. Joy is not writing, she is baking, embroidering, repairing headstones, and enjoying nature; usually feeding the chipmunks in her backyard. E. Joy has been published by Moonstone Arts Center, The Reprise Magazine, Rochester New York’s Rundelania & others. In 2025 she won first place in Cardinal Sins poetry contest and selection for their winter issue of that year. ** The Cafe I arrived just as the restaurant opened, while the waiter in his white shirt, black vest, and pants, looking handsome, smiled as I waited patiently for my appointment to arrive. He walked toward the table with a pad in his hand and pulled a pen from behind his ear. “Would you like some coffee while you wait?” “Tea, with milk, please.” He nodded and left to get my beverage. I scrolled through my messages to make sure I had the correct place and time which I did. I sighed and put the cell phone back in my purse. I looked around and the tables were decorated with exceptionally white linen clothes, and the chairs were immaculately cleaned to a shine. It had been years since I had been here and was shocked he chose this café since this is where it ended. He did not say what he wanted to see me about in his message, he just said it was important. The place started to fill with people, and it became loud. The waiter who smiled at me now looked on with sympathy while I sat alone, my tea now cold. I tried to reach him, but to no avail. Finally, after waiting for over an hour, I paid for my tea and left. As I walked the streets in confusion, my phone rang. He changed his mind. Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher has been writing since 2010 and has had many micro-flash fiction stories published. In 2018 her book Shorts for the Short Story Enthusiasts, was published, The Importance of Being Short, in 2019 and In A Flash in 2022. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna. ** Give and Get I hate my job, the lousy tips and pernickety customers. Sure we can accommodate you but bring your own almond milk. In fact, why don’t you just eat at home? Showing off the latest ladies showing off, the restroom mirror never lies. Take a seat, take your time, I am here with my insincere smile. I love my job, the great tips and pernickety customers. Sure we can accommodate you, it’s our pleasure to bring satisfaction. Please come back again and bring a friend Those ladies, Oh, those ladies, all cleavage and shining eyes. Take a seat, take your time, I’m here all night. shaun tenzenmen shaun tenzenmen has crafted himself as a lyricist/poet over many decades, throwing words to the wind. He publishes a daily poem at 1994ever.com. ** The Dynamic Duo i Before the hum of conversation rush of eggs and coffee clatter of utensils– forks and knives the stir of spoons– waitstaff complete last-minute tasks. Here tabletops blush crimson await overlays of white. Soon the scramble of servers clamor of customers will populate the courtyard. Echoes of exoticism accent the canvas– the arches stucco guava tree or maybe it’s a loquat or mango. ii Evocations of the 1980s and Minnesota’s Restaurante De Ol’ Mexico swept through my mind. Our manager referred to us as his “Dynamic Duo.” Hosts wore white shirts black pants and vests. Hostesses made a splash dressed in aqua. We worked as a team were the stir of spoons spoke Spanglish. Amidst the hum of conversation blush of crimson oversway of white we lived in a world not ready for a married couple who looked different. It was a time of clatter when forks and knives cut us to pieces. Jeannie E. Roberts Jeannie E. Roberts is the daughter of a Swedish immigrant mother and the author of nine books, including her latest full-length poetry collection On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing (Kelsay Books, 2025). She writes poetry and prose influenced by intuition, the human experience, and the natural world. Her work appears in books, online magazines, print journals and anthologies. In 2007, her poem, "La Luz," won first place in the Green Bay Symphony Orchestra’s statewide poetry contest. Musical composer Daniel Kellogg set her poem to music via an orchestral score with choir. She serves as a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs, is an Eric Hoffer and a two-time Best of the Net award nominee, and finds joy spending time outdoors and with loved ones. ** Travellers Jack's wife was short of breath, so they stopped at a restaurant to see about getting an early table. She'd overdone it with the walking today. She'd been taking him around this French city where she'd once lived, and around every corner it seemed was another church or park or museum she wanted to show him. He'd been so preoccupied watching her, remembering the doctor's cautions, that he'd stepped off a curb into a puddle. They were seated at a tree-shaded table in the courtyard. Jack suspected that the maître-d' had noticed his dirty shoes. That's why they were taken to the back corner. To be hidden away. Jack's wife fumbled with her bottle of heart pills, refusing help with the lid. He wondered aloud if this trip had been a bad idea. Relax, she told him, though she was still panting a bit, her round face flushed like a peony at one of the flower stalls they'd passed earlier. "I could be feeling this way at home, too. Let's enjoy this nice place." "A nice place," Jack repeated dully. There were a few oil paintings on the exterior walls and stone columns that wore their age with a sturdy, understated kind of grace. The building must have been several different things in its long history. Jack and his wife had known each other just three years. She'd been a high-school art teacher for decades. Now she taught classes at their senior-living residence. He'd been a husband and father, and then a widower. Semi-important at a bank. A few minutes passed, and another couple entered the courtyard. Jack waited to see if they got seated in a better location. "Look at the light coming through the fig trees," said his wife. "The red glow on the tablecloths in the middle of the courtyard." "Hmm." "Brilliant, isn't it? Reminds me of the stained glass in that last church." "I'm not seeing it." "Because you're not really looking. Oh, don't be miffed, Jack." She rubbed her lipstick off the rim of her water glass. "Now come take a photo with me." He scooted his chair next to hers, his hand shaking a bit as he held out his phone. The picture cut off his right cheek. She looked flushed, and he looked tired, but he supposed he could see some of that red she was talking about in the background. She studied the picture, frowning. "We do look a little cattywampus, don't we?" Jack saw an opportunity here. "We could cancel for tomorrow," he said. They were supposed to meet up with an old friend of hers, who lived an hour away. Jack's wife had a way of scooping up all kinds of people into her social vortex. She accused him of pouting when he couldn't have her to himself. "Don't be silly. We can't come all this way and not see him." The waiter came, and his wife conversed with the young man in French for quite a long time. They laughed about something Jack didn't understand. He kept waiting for her to translate the menu like she had at lunch, but now the waiter was gone. "What was that about?" "I asked him to run away with me. And I ordered the escargots, because you need to try new things." "I decide, you hear? I know what I need to eat." He knew he was being crabby and possibly unreasonable. Jack went to the bathroom to clean up. If he could just fix his shoes, maybe he'd feel better. He wet a paper towel at the sink. He crouched down and scrubbed until the paper fell apart and the leather, if not shiny, was at least a more uniform shade of brown. Standing again, he felt dizzy. He held on to the sink until things stopped spinning. When he came back outside, the courtyard was noisy and crowded. The waiter stood with his back to him, snapping a new white cloth over the table where he'd been sitting. "What's going on?" Jack asked in a panic. "Where's my wife?" The waiter turned, and his face was all wrong. Jack didn't recognize him. "I do not know," he said. "But I think your daughter—maybe she waits for you?" Across the courtyard, a young woman waved him over. He walked carefully, as if on a moving train, toward the table where she sat. He sank into the chair opposite her. "Your snails have arrived," she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. Ten striped shells nestled in the hollows of a white serving dish. The snails were tucked inside, under blankets of parsley and cognac butter. Jack inhaled the earthy smell and started to come back to himself. He held out the little fork and the shiny tongs to his daughter. "Just try one," he said. "Look at the light on these shells. See how the light falls on everything here." Susan Frith Susan Frith writes from Orlando, Florida. Her fiction has appeared in The Best Mystery Stories of the Year, Cleaver, New Madrid, Sycamore Review, Zone 3, and other publications. ** Lunch Date I’ve arrived early, a bird too eager, and watch a waiter finishing set-up. My get-up is an oxymoron, casual formal. I look torn from a website with advice on how to dress for women over 60. Nothing sexy, of course, which is fine, unless you are coming to meet me with something more in mind than a catch-up lunch. I wonder about wine, if it will be wise to drink, especially knowing how likely I am to spill on my dress. Yes. I am still clumsy. Awkward. Arms won’t work the way I’d like, fingers slip, legs sometimes go in ways the rest of me is trying to leave. The waiter is good at his job, fast and fussy, making sure tablecloths all hang just so. I could never be that precise. Already, my hair looks as though I am standing in a storm. Maybe I am. Maybe meeting you after so many years is a mistake, made as I sat nested in my life, surrounded by the same-as-usual. But maybe you will raise me off the ground and we will fly from this courtyard away from the mundane. Mary Christine Delea Mary Christine Delea is the author of The Skeleton Holding Up the Sky and three chapbooks. A former university professor, she lives in Oregon where she volunteers for a variety of nonprofit organizations. Her website is mchristinedelea.com. ** Wait in Gold Ageless garçon, how long have you been there, Grooming the tables for a perfect fête? The smooth blued cloth awaits the first assiette; Clients inclined to dining en plein air Appreciate the light, the well-placed chair, Perfect for small soirée or tête-à-tête, The fine couverts each masterfully set, The presence of the chic propriétaire. Did you, one time, wait on Degas? Renoir? What of Robert de Montesquiou? Charles Swann? You’re too discreet to say; besides, ce soir The diner is Monsieur Glenn Harrington. Like them, he’ll feast on what you serve and you: Your tastefully-observed, one-quarter view. Ruth S Baker Ruth S Baker has published in some online magazines, including The Ekphrastic Review. ** The Courtyard Cafe They live now in the permanent world... Wendell Berry After dawn, the gray lingers (suggesting another shower) while the sun blooms pale as cloth draping the courtyard tables. A graceful tree umbrellas the centre. Its bark peeling and leaves gossiping in the wind as if to emulate the whispers of last night's guests. And one of them (an actress from the 'forties) remains seated with her dress unfolding over the chair like a red morning glory. Elegantly, she sits signing a photo of herself and waits for someone to remember, to ask. Her signature filigreed like the rim of a graveyard gate -- and I whisper Gene, Miss Tierney is that you? She looks past me; but the waiter nods -- assembling linens and cutlery in the distance. He knows she's here but not here with us. So I wonder if she still casts a shadow or her reflection in the silver of a bowl or looking glass. But even more, if she's buried in the garden cemetery -- somewhere between Edith Piaf and Oscar Wilde. Her lovely bones resting beneath the gaze of The Virgin who weeps in her verdigris veil and robes -- while flowers spill over the tomb pastelled with rain. Wendy Howe Author’s note: "The garden cemetery" in this poem, alludes to the famous Pierre Lachaise Cemetery outside of Paris where famous writers, actors, artists, musicians and other kinds of celebrities are buried. Wendy Howe is an English teacher who lives in California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, women in conflict and history. She has been published in the following journals: The Poetry Salzburg Review, The Interpreter's House, Corvid Queen, Strange Horizons, The Acropolis Journal and many others Her most recent work can be found in The Otherworld Poetry Magazine (on Substack) and Crow And Cross\Keys. ** The Column and The Receipt My dearest, I saw you sitting there by yourself underneath the Roman arches, back of your head against a Tuscany column. You’re probably worried about your mother’s health and college, and if the food delivery guy can find your address. Your mahogany chair was a little wobbly and so you asked the handsome waiter for a napkin or two to wedge between its leg and terracotta tiles. You still look great, but I wish you’d smile more and spoken to that waiter. I was nervous to approach; you were always very critical of me. I hope your writing is coming along well and you finish that poem you’ve been working on. Please don't mind my scribbling on the back of this receipt. I’ll be seeing you soon. Best wishes, your future self. P.S. That olive tree is bigger now. Eliza Clark Eliza Clark is a poet and writer from the West Midlands, UK. Her work explores human relationships, identity, place, and our connection to myth and nature. Her poetry has appeared in Writerly Magazine and Blithe Spirit. ** Preparing a Table for Chekhov If in the first scene a busser is setting a table Apart from the glitter of the ballroom, Then in a following scene Someone should seek refuge there. If in the second scene partygoers arrive, Musicians should start to play While guests mill about smiling and talking, Scarfing zakuski and sipping champagne. If in the third scene daylight descends And guests in fragile masks Get merry and drunk, The doctor should slip into the courtyard. If in the fourth scene he slips past the sycamore, Then he should find at the ready A table set with oil lamp and chessboard. If in the fifth scene his opponent has not yet arrived, He will pour himself a glass of vodka And pass the time thinking about acids and biles. If in the sixth scene he and his opponent Share many drinks and merry conversation, It hardly matters who has the advantage in chess. If in the final scene the dawn is breaking, The revelers will spill into the street singing Vichnaya Pamyat. Memory is Eternal. 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. ** Mum’s Birthday My sister and I are watching the sun crest over El Puente Nuevo in Ronda. The camarero delivers two sparkling drinks then preps for lunch service. It has become ritual, each year, in a different place, we raise a glass to the mother she barely knew. Already, she is planning where we will go for Mum’s 100th. I smile. The icy gin and tonic freezes my throat. Lesley Rogers Hobbs Lesley Rogers Hobbs (she/her) is an Irish poet and artist living in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and service dog. She explores relationships, nature and trauma in her work. Her poetry is published in The Ekphrastic Review, Open Door Poetry, The Hyacinth Review, Querencia Press and Cirque. ** Lamenting Time Leaves of the weeping fig and ornate ivory columns added to the ambiance of this exclusive restaurant as Francois followed the familiar pattern of spreading tablecloths before smoothing the linens for the special event-- one that would celebrate the engagement of a young woman he had known for the past ten years. His earliest memories of yesterdays were chatting over a cup of coffee at Café de Fiore, his latter memories of whispered secrets before the end of her study abroad program. That friendship continued when he moved to America although she never understood his true feelings. Once here he took this job as a waiter at Le Pavillon to pay the rent. He realized her grandparents had arrived early for the festive occasion before he arranged place settings on the tables. Francois had hoped not to be present this evening, but two servers had called out. As he finished setting the tables, the musical selection piped throughout the courtyard seduced his memory, rekindled images of their time together. It would be a difficult evening. 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 in the Aurorean (US), Crossways Literary Magazine (Ireland), Eunoia Review (Singapore), Nine Muses (Wales), Scarlet Leaf Review (Canada), Strand (India), The Madrigal (Ireland), The Wild Word (Germany), and Voices of the Poppies (United Kingdom). He holds the rank of full professor at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, RI. ** Vespers As the sun dips below olive groves Pierre smooths white linen over wood, a quiet preparation before the rush of footfall clatters cobbled stone. He considers this gentle hour of contemplation, of light stealing through Romanesque pillars, slowly shadowing the courtyard in thought. The bistro is old, the ground uneven where boots, clogs or slippered feet embroidered their ribboned paths through needled alleyways and lanes. History has left its stain on the busy market stall, its waterfalls of fruit and breads soft-spilling the crates, the clang of the old bell from Église. The heat of the day is cooling. Soon, the faithful of Provence will flock to table, dip their heads and offer prayers of thanksgiving. Kate Young ** These Chairs Linens with red trims and black-vested waiters, serving under the trees. Soon these chairs will combust guests, swarms of guests, to spring forth, vectoring in random surges, in all directions, through and among the tables, as though they had no commonality. An authentic vaudeville. Wrapped in haute couture, spinning jauntily or turning solicitously, riffing on the afterglow of a noble idea or curating sounds fastidiously to a ratable effect. The guests will be envied. How will I place me? Literally. Somewhere in the middle. Where I can hear the curated sounds and relish the solicitations. Where the spew is edgy, and tomorrow I may solemnly apologize. G. L. Walters G. L. Walters lives with his spouse in Arlington, MA. His poems have previously been read at The Ekphrastic Review, The Wee Sparrow Poetry Press Newsletter, and Spillwords.com. Gary holds a JD from Cornell, an MMAS from the School of Advanced Military Studies, and an MA in English from SNHU. ** Courtyard Tables From hidden speakers, Al Jarreau’s yearning wafts as the red tables are dressed with freshly laundered white tops. Guests will bring their conversations, orders will be given and confirmed, the whoosh of waiters bringing food, fifty forks on plates, spoons in bowls, meals presented, removed, dessert menus tendered, laughter. The symphony of small sounds soften the sung words and transform Jarreau’s honey voice to pure instrument in the courtyard. Marge Pellegrino Marge Pellegrino’s youth novel Journey of Dreams was a Smithsonian Notable, and Southwest Best Book. Neon Words: 10 Brilliant Ways to Light Up Your Writing inspires. Her essays have appeared in Multilingualism Studies, Anthropology Now, Knee Brace Press and The Story Beast. Her poetry has appeared in anthologies including Amaranth Review, Blue Guitar, Long Island Journal, Writing Out of the Darkness, Arizona: 100 Years, 100 Poems, !00 Poets, and The Sculpture Speaks: A Refugee’s Story of Survival. ** Morning at the Museum Such a lovely morning, strolling subtly guarded rooms, Always on guard Not to stand too near, Longing to see every brush stroke, every pencil line. Oh it was hard To keep our distance, not to get a fine For our poor museum etiquette. And yet we do lean in, we squint, We are bent toward this landscape, that portrait, An abstraction Where an artist has painted the colour of subtraction. But we, though eager to learn how they draw, how they paint, Begin to feel a little faint. Hungry now for an unguarded room, we depart The galleries. We admire a waiter, bent to his art, Smoothing a cloth for us to dine At a table without a wrinkled line. Donna Reiss Writer, editor, teacher, bookmaker, and mixed media/paper artist, Donna lives in Greenville, South Carolina, where she is a member of the Greenville Center for Creative Arts, the Guild of American Papercutters, and the Poetry Society of South Carolina. Follow her on Instagram @dreissart ** Lunch Service Their ravenous eyes course through the menu, hurdling here & there, their indecision asking for recommendations, their eyes lit by sparks, anticipating something, anything, that will fill the holes that fester deep inside them, their eyes pleading for the pain to stop, their exteriors calm, cool, surface-composed. I see their hurt, they would be aghast if they knew. I have lived that pleading. David has witnessed me pleading He longs for it, I am certain Sucking saliva back into their mouths, their first plates, then their second arrive, they devour pyramids, fans and flowers, band-aids for the holes in their soul, band-aids which don’t stick as promised, yet they cling to misplaced-hope that they will somehow-one-day stop their soul from bleeding. Find the magic potion, their desperate eyes ask of me. I feel their fear when nothing stops the blood-let, hope slowly draining from veins. I have lived that desperation. David desperately needs me I convince myself, try to Their alcohol-induced laughter, will they remember these moments? or will these blessed gaps in time fall into the abyss of unwitnessed joys, in a thrice fade to nothingness? I remember when I had something that, in the end, wasn’t anything. I have lived that loss. David does not bring me flowers anymore To whom does he deliver them? Jennifer Gargon Jennifer Gargon writes across multiple genres, both in English and French. She enjoys exploring the rawness of emotions, diving deep towards the essence of our human experiences, what binds us as one, what fragments us as many. She lives in Vancouver, B.C.
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 Marais Salant N.7, by Delphine Derobert Masure (France) 2025 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 Marais Salant N.7, by Delphine Derobert Masure. Deadline is December 5, 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 MASURE 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 5, 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.
Pooling Resources Accustomed, coast our weekly width, until the unexpected falls; some sudden dive, slap bellyflop, or foreign body floating by - watery grave as just passed, died - but otherwise, routine applies. Slow crawl, then breast, now butterfly, they’re making waves for those sedate; this aqua pool marine in tone, sees shallow wading through resist in complementary mix of styles, both impulse, intuition drives. It being of the blood as pulse - some stimulus gives impetus and quickened spirit finds release; but intuition’s measured, more, an instinct, deeply rooted, core, heartfelt as golden veins are mine. The waters broke when we were born, delivered, water-baby due; resources pooled from genes and here as nature, nurture play their part. The source, a springboard, mind or soul, to turn our width to greater length. 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 ** Avoidance Sky sunny and hot, swimming in the warm water, avoiding troubles. Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher has been writing since 2010 and has had many micro-flash fiction stories published. In 2018 her book Shorts for the Short Story Enthusiasts, was published, The Importance of Being Short, in 2019 and In a Flash in 2022. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna. ** Surface Tensions Wading into the pool of impulses, I can’t see what is waiting ahead And without insight into what waiting ahead is Intuition coils and tethers my hand to shore Coiled ashore and tethered by intuition One hand wanders back and one towards A backhand to the future handed to me The rest of me resists in stagnation Resting in stagnation. Resisting on instinct Intuition anchors my feet in still sand My sandy feet intuit and sink still As winds of insight push the way forward In my sight, forward winds push intuition So, I wade into the pool of impulses 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 journey as an expat. ** 14 ½ Forward, her mind screamed Six months ago, at fourteen Bikini, beach dreams Soft sand, lips: “Relax, just kiss” Words steamed like water for tea. Mind honed unwilling Sharp as ice shards in mem’ry Lone sea gull screeches- Many ways to say “Goodbye,” All writ large, six months too late. 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 as “The 1965.” ** Fregoli Fantasy I. Impulse Young and beautiful, I float in a shapeless patient gown Trailing the clear blue harbour of Balmoral Beach Until the urge abandons me like a seastar Along the shore of my hospital bed II. Intuition Negative capability flows through my veins With the steadiness of an IV drip Saving me from discernment Giving me the grace To wade into the Liminal waters of The present And past 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. ** Watching a Girl in Bronte Rock Pool She wades in the pool of her thoughts, watching a wave rise from the ocean, peeling along towards the shore, then spill and break. Her hesitation ripples: to swim beyond? to dive deeper? to live freely? She gazes at the steps by the rock pool wall. Will she step over hesitation, immerse herself in the ocean? This is the time to dive into the fluid nature of life with all its saltiness and liveliness- trust where your swimming will take you. Caterina Mastroianni Caterina Mastroianni is a poet and educator living in Sydney on the land of the Cadigal and Wangal people of the Eora nation. She has published poetry in various literary magazines and Australian anthologies, most recently in Kalliope X, Poetry of Flight: The Liquid Amber Prize Anthology, Oystercatcher One Anthology, Burrow, Live Encounters Poetry and Writing Journal, Honeyguide, Medium and Poetry for the Planet: An Anthology of Imagined Futures. ** How I Long To walk the ocean- Not swim or canoe But walk Like a friend long lost Kissing unafraid In a never-ending embrace Of that solitary realm Beyond. Alone on the ocean floor Recline- Waves beating Fierce and gentle, Time’s giant arms in wait For a single star to light From depths of darkness And swallow by and by. 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, Blue Heron Review, Poetry X Hunger, here and elsewhere. ** Avaricious Whirlpools Water source of life Invigorating and refreshing water Lacking resources in too many countries Wasted by greedy humans To the detriment of other humans Avaricious whirlpools Generated all over the world By data centers Causing water shortages And frequent droughts Impulsive whirlpools of gains Dragging farmers and local residents In their furrow In their fury Jean Bourque Jean lives in Montreal. ** The Pool It was several weeks before I could swim again, and when I did, I gathered those winged wanderers known to flit across water on evenings when one season slips into another: small, trembling lives slick with water, and laid them along the pool’s rim so they could fly again, perhaps perishing that same evening. There was of course no way to know. When I waded into blueness I thought of another poem I read once, about twins who drowned holding hands so they would not be alone. And I was young, too, when I dove into a two-week trajectory of pregnant to not. Twins: the image still on the sonogram: two faint moons and nothing to hold but air, only myself and those who wear the wind. Elanur Williams Elanur Williams writes from New York City, where she lives with her husband and daughter. Her writing can be found in The Ekphrastic Review, Eunoia Review, 3Elements Literary Review, Door is a Jar, Feminism and Religion, and elsewhere. ** Impulse, and Intuition Let me free my mind of worries. And be impulsive; let me fly On a whim to the Canaries Buy a new bikini from Sainsbury's. Drink some vodka, and show my thighs. Follow my heart, my intuition. My gut – who needs to be lucid? 24/7 Let me sacrifice some inhibitions. Fantasize about a masseur giving me free tuition. Like Shirley Valentine's dream, I'm in heaven. I'll pack my suitcase and disappear. Put on that nasty factor 50 sun cream Dance beneath palm trees, showing my rear Eat a spicy barbecued sea bream. And fall in love with every new experience, my dear. I'll soak in a pool like a mermaid. Pretending I have some need to be saved. And pretend it's me that's being played. While all along it's you who'll need a band-aid. A moment of my time, so you're not mislaid. Mark Heathcote Mark’s poems are published in journals, magazines, and anthologies online and in printed form; residing in the UK from Manchester; he is the author of In Perpetuity and Back on Earth, two books of poems published by Creative Talents Unleashed. ** Perks for the Aquatically Inclined Immersed in a warm pool, sporting my black bikini, I am weightless and unhindered. My arms float to the surface with little effort primed to start the breaststroke, my legs, sturdy yet buoyant propel me forward, smoothing a path back and forth across the water. Endorphins released, I halt to absorb the mental boost of wellbeing and tranquility, no one near to distract me. In this meditative Blue Mind state, I conclude that in the sphere of physical activity, swimming is the great equalizer. Elaine Sorrentino Elaine Sorrentino, author of Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit (Kelsay Books, 2025), has been published in journals such as Minerva Rising, Sheila Na-Gig, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Gyroscope Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Quartet Journal, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Cool Beans Lit, and Haikuniverse. She is facilitator of the Duxbury Poetry Circle in Duxbury, Massachusetts. ** Untitled As she moves forward ripples drift away... Without her notice Like old dreams and memories Who she used to be Andrew Jones Andrew recently starting writing again after a 20+year hiatus. He enjoys writing short form and traditional poetry as well as lyrics. His poetry has been published in sense&sensibility haiku and The Ekphrastic Review. ** She Died of Misadventure Eve— “Without childhood or youth, she came from the moulding hand of her Creator, in the full maturity of her powers. . .” from Women of the Bible by P.C. Headley, 1851 She died of “misadventure”. A mysterious word, a magical term, to open many coffers. Abracadabra, and she was gone. Implication of imagination in her movements. Once in the world, she grabbed attention. Went beyond the earth to dive into virgin waters, separated on the second day of creation. There for lured temptation of the cold and wet on her fingertips. Turning to and fro in a toggle of exploration. What adventure did she seek to stimulate her brain? The heavy play of swimming. Pulled and lifted body defying gravity in a wave of impulsivity. Reaching to wrestle the tide and float herself before the fall—predicted for us all in the garden of beginning. Sinking toward redemption, she tested her metal in the mental challenge of overcoming. Channeling intuition, crossing boundaries of the human when all she wanted was to swim. Euphoric in the water. She died of misadventure. Cynthia Dorfman Cynthia Dorfman writes in Maryland in the U.S. Her recent work can be found in Moss Piglet, Bramble, and the Journal of Expressive Writing. ** Impulse and Intuition naked if you look at the way the body-hair lies streaked across the humps and bumps of flesh you can see we were born to be in water only eyes are a hindrance but consider how rarely we do things with them fully open and an impulse is there to be followed with a swirl and a swish every bubble means trouble and a quickened pulse a wave of the hand or the water is a wish no one can arrest the advance of a ripple outwards from the body to its destination when once the arm has moved though light may stipple the foam-crowned crests with a hint of reservation and the liquid which lightens us by bearing weight offers resistance which makes our responses late… yet the lascivious element that caresses every plane of our skin with bodiless fingers which gently penetrate all our orifices in anonymous intimacy which lingers communicates wordlessly through subtle motion currents and eddies stroke the submerged reluctant hand intuition as formless and powerful as the ocean pushing closed hand to open mouth in an unplanned gesture of silence and enforced hesitation as the unauthorized syllables are swallowed by an unruffled surface and a declaration better unmade is withdrawn unsaid and followed by clear water between anybody involved a fluid relationship painlessly dissolved Mike Rogers Mike Rogers taught literature in German at the University of Southampton UK 1972-1999, writing stories since age eight, poetry in quantity since 2016 (always thought the stories were better); only trying to get poetry online this year; succeeded with Snakeskin twice and Blue Unicorn. Will carry on (have a BIG back catalogue of prose and verse). Love sonnets and ekphrasis. Resident in Frome Somerset UK since 2020. ** The Change Intuitively, Rachael knew it was Raphael that had entered the pool suite. He was the longest serving of their pool boys and the quietest. She dipped and bobbed, blue rubber cap breaking the surface, water dripping from her goggles as she continued her steady breaststroke. She had been swimming for twenty minutes already. Thirty lengths in, her breath was under control. She carved a furrowed V-shape down the middle of the pool. Their row had been ferocious. One after another she threw the books piled up ready to be read followed by a paperweight and her stilettos. Her glass, half-full, luckily missed Eric and hit the wall, red wine running down the wallpaper as the shattered glass tinkled onto the floorboards. Eric retreated to the bathroom and stayed there until 3am by which time Rachael, her anger spent and beginning to sober up, had fallen asleep in her clothes. In her water-muffled world she was aware of the hose slithering over the deck, bouncing on the grout-rimmed tiles as the water hissed in spurts from the nozzle, making it jump and spray, like a snake disturbed and spitting venom. Three floors above, Eric turned off the computer and dressed quickly, double-tying his shoelaces before he slipped out of the bedroom door and descended the curving staircase silently. He crossed the vaulted entrance hall, meeting no-one, and exited through the front door. Raphael’s shadow darkened the water, made green by the pool tiles, as he squatted to retrieve the hose and direct it into the bucket in his hand. The sharp hiss of the water hitting the plastic echoed around the tiled walls and bounced off the full-length patio windows, as the afternoon rain ran down the outside, cooling the day and steaming up the inside panes. Rachael winced, wished she had her ear plugs in, but continued her swimming. Thirty lengths more for her first kilometer. Her head was clearing now, as it always did when she swam. Things would change. Eric always had plans and most of them didn’t include her. It was time to surprise him with some plans of her own. In his stable-block office he opened the safe. He only kept emergency documents here. All other important papers were in the safety deposit box at the bank. He riffled through the envelopes and folders and pulled out his Australian and South Africa passports. He would be a long way away by the time Rachael or anyone else would even know he had left. He had spent a productive hour transferring funds and putting the final parts of the plan into action. Raphael was under instruction to delay her in the pool - whatever he had to do - before leaving for LAX. To avoid suspicion they would travel separately until their rendezvous in Cape Town where Eric would furnish him with a fake passport for the rest of the journey and the chance of a new life together. Intuitively he knew it was going to work out just fine, as all his plans did. Raphael startled her as he threw the nozzle into the pool, the hose unraveling in front of her. As he squatted, back turned, to retrieve the bucket, she grabbed the hose and, on impulse, yanked it towards her. It tightened around Raphael’s legs and unbalanced him, tumbling him into the water with a splash. He surfaced with a gasp, his curls relaxed to his shoulders by the water. Even through her goggles she could see what it was that had drawn her to him all those months ago. No wonder Eric couldn’t resist him either. But then she knew from her own experience that Eric had a penchant for the pool staff. After all these years she knew now you should never marry the man who is willing to have an affair with you. She took her goggles off. Raphael smiled at her, the skin around his dark eyes crinkling up with delight. She started to laugh. “Don’t you have a plane to catch?” Caroline Mohan Caroline Mohan is based in Ireland and writes sporadically — mostly stories with the occasional poem,and mostly in workshops. ** Aquatic Regression: What do I feel? Just the cold ripples crashing against my skin before I disappear. I close my eyes and enter the darkness, my body navigating the silent great blue. Can sleepwalkers swim? If I sleep and swim… Have I become a fish? Once upon a time, my amphibious ancestors evolved from fish and rose from the sea like Aphrodite. Am I de-evolving? Regressing to a marine form to stay in a chaotic world safer than the Earth? Will I be a mermaid before a fish and finally a single cell organism? Will I be better seen through a microscope’s lens when I was barely seen as a human? Is this the true topic? Not watery beauty, but physical prejudice? Am I better off dissolved into sea foam crushing against rocks than I ever will be as the human I am? Celine Krempp Celine is a French-American artist and writer. Working part-time as an art museum security guard inspires Celine in her ekphrastic writing. She has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, participating in biweekly challenges and anticipating the online publication of her ekphrasis stories on Vivian Browne in December. When she’s not brainstorming her next creative project, she walks her dog VanGogh, reads books, indulges in sweet cravings, and binge-watches classic shows like The Big Bang Theory and The Addams Family. Celine is constantly jotting down ideas for short form writing inspired by her emotions, personal and professional experiences. Many people have described her work as “an enlightened commentary with vivid imagery.” Celine currently has art on display at the Phillips Collection and the Fine Line Creative Arts Center. ** Poses Always in motion. You know what I mean. They follow me, or at least they seem to turn up wherever I go. There are so many of them. We travel along separate trajectories, spending hours apart, days even, and then suddenly we are face to face back to back reflecting each other with a nakedness born of necessity and its harsh light. frozen images almost on the verge of kinship -- who is shadowing whom? Kerfe Roig Kerfe Roig resides in NYC where she makes art and writes poetry. ** Infinity Pool My legs push through the resistance of the water My arms pump to lend momentum Some might say I’m making circles But I’m creating infinity My arms pump to lend momentum I hope this exercise heals my joints, buoys my spirits As I create infinity Maximize my life span I hope this exercise heals my joints, buoys my spirits And doesn’t make me dizzy as I go round and round To maximize my life span Water-walking a figure eight My head feels dizzy, but I persist round and round Creating a whirlpool of intense resistance Water-walking a figure eight Which feels like infinity I create a whirlpool of intense resistance How long have I been at this? Feels like infinity. I fall out of the circles and head for the steps. My legs push through infinity. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner was an avid water aerobics fan until the confluence of chronic diseases put her in an autoimmune bubble. Maybe one day when her resistance has strengthened, she can return to the pool. 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 websiteat www.barbarakrasner.com. ** Same But Different Impulse acts without thought Of consequence or motivation -- Leaving scars in her wake, For she is motion erupting From a single point -- Buffeting, colliding with the world around her. Her sister Intuition moves as well But she glides, harmonizes -- Flows, ripples, undulates, For she is a thousand droplets of external knowing Felt and funneled into a single point, Entraining the Universe's desire. April Dawn Patterson April Dawn Patterson is pursuing her MS in Clinical Mental Health Counseling through Texas A&M-Kingsville. When not studying, she unwinds with philosophy chats, astrology memes, and Star Trek reruns. ** Swayed Swayed by waves toes sucking against ebbs and flows your speedo hides bits and bobs shrivelled against ocean chill I watch you duck dive between her legs her squeal a sea gull's delight I fight my impulse to catch the next flight out Intuitively I breaststroke back to you And what do I see? Her face is your face staring back at me Your kissing cousin flown in from Tasmania Donna-Lee Smith Donna-Lee Smith writes from Montreal, an island lapped by the rivière Saint-Laurent. ** Sixth Sense Chrissie swept her fingers through the water, enjoying its cool smoothness on her skin. The water was so clear she could see her toes dangle beneath her. Like bait, she mused. A swell caught her unaware, blap in the face, and she spat brine, but the saltiness stayed in her throat and nostrils. Looking back toward the shore, she saw nobody except for that silly boy passed out in the sand. But she could swear she heard music, two faint bass notes. Looking around once more, she was sure there was no one else, no radio. Yet again she heard it, da-dum, da-dum. Her pulse quickened as she thought, It's time to get out. Tracy Royce Tracy Royce is a writer and poet whose words appear in Bending Genres, Flash Frontier, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Villain Era, and elsewhere. She lives in Southern California, where she continues to celebrate the 50th anniversary of her favourite film, Jaws. You can find her on Bluesky. ** The Currents Within Water moves without warning. Sometimes it is a sudden rush beneath the skin impulsive, untamed, swift that carries us forward before reason catches up. Othertimes it is a gentle flow the quiet whisper of intuition that guides us along the hidden murmurs we often ignore. Together, these make up our dual song the sudden surge and the steady stream reminding us that life is truly lived when impulse and intuition meet. 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 has been featured in Lifestyle magazine. ** we (mostly) shall grow up bare naked (or nearly) we body-surf at the beach daring the wave to slam to grind our flesh into the rocks prefrontal cortex unready for judgment radiated by ultraviolet energized by ozone deluded by hormones scented by brine high on sunshine until by blind luck or sheer intuition corner of eye divines the hulking oncoming driftwood log so I grab you and dive among kelp between barnacle boulders scraped not clobbered crazy not killed because our instinct is survival coughing lungfuls of the salty water from whence we came Joe Cottonwood Joe Cottonwood repairs homes and writes poems under redwood trees in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. His next book of poetry (from Sheila-Na-Gig) will be titled buck naked is the opposite of hate. He appreciates wagging tails and dog-eared pages. His website is joecottonwood.com ** Untitled “I heard the water’s voice within my wake translate an impulse into waves of sound from sun-flecked ripples as I turned towards the living light, to stream a new idea which I could not communicate in words, but felt, in water’s churning pirouette around my body, light and water dance in step with me, awakening my mind. “Then I turned right, still fixing on this light, and plied my right arm forwards with its draught that sailed along the current of my thoughts, my left hand raised to navigate a course beyond my past amnesia’s slackened wake, experiencing the birth of certainty, to be the co-creator of my future world and wade intuitively to the shore.” Raymond Garfoot Raymond Garfoot is a retired Methodist Church minister living with his wife Ingrid in Peterborough UK, now concentrating on expressing his own ideas in poetry and researching Jesus' spirituality. Having had some work accepted for The Ekphrastic Review, he feels more confident to continue using poetry to enlarge his own understanding, together with his interests in art and classical music. ** The Glass Portrait “Mirrors ...cannot be trusted.” Neil Gaiman I'm told not to turn away but swim through the glare toward my reflection — plunging into a long gaze as the waviness of an old looking glass absorbs my age. I'm told I will live for centuries — always appearing twenty five and feeling the same while that mirror confesses my true face and form letting others deceive within their deco frames -- (hand held, hung or standing.) I'm told there are no loopholes or bargains just the joy of becoming immortal: an Odalisque, a Mona Lisa or that Girl With A Pearl Earring... yet, I fear the tides of boredom. The spirit of my conscience draw-stringed in her two piece suit, drifting miles out with water echoing through a stone accordion of cliffs — as the moon pulls her toward oblivion — soon drowning in the distance while a sandpiper digs along the shore where she's left her footprints trailing into the sea. Wendy A. Howe Wendy Howe is an English teacher who lives in California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, women in conflict and history. She has been published in the following journals: The Poetry Salzburg Review, The Interpreter's House, Corvid Queen, Strange Horizons, The Acropolis Journal and many others. ** The Exodus of Joy I never could have believed Having swam in such civilized waters That words hold meaning I Believe In the domain of the heart I Believe The glass is half full I Believe Everything is empty How many times Do I Repeat this ritual Fingering the rim Giving an inch to fear I move MWPiercy Michael W. Piercy: At the intersection of Art, Poetry and Contradiction you will find my work, you will find me. Observing memories and the present moment, thinking with an eye that shadows the natural world. Philosophy, Theology, and Science are core of my writing - I have found that I am a synthesizer. Managing ideas which do not always cohere. A manipulator of ideas. ** Shallow Beginnings, Deep Ends and waves lap at curled toes, lick sand off from under the feet, caress, cajole, guide further into the forged blue, imitating the sky under unassuming milky foam, shielding secrets underneath, playfully pull by the ribs with alluring lure of golden treasure aligned across horizon, that seductive mirage, like moths to flame, innocent insects towards Venus flytrap, sugar laced in poisonous potion such that sweetness lingers on tongue while insides hollow out; and eyes cloud under deceitful gentleness and warmth of mounting tides, threatening to inject into empty lungs a deadly elixir, life-giving otherwise, but feet kick, arms thrash, and you learn to swim, survive, instead. 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  Courtyard Tables, by Glenn Harrington (USA) contemporary. Click on image for artist site. 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 Courtyard Tables, by Glenn Harrington. Deadline is November 21, 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 HARRINGTON 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 21, 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. |
Challenges
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