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
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