 Marais Salant N.7, by Delphine Derobert Masure (France) 2025 Salt in the Wounds We’ll cop it, capping debt we owe, spew words, not followed, action flow; how is the climate of debate - unchanged, response to challenge faced? Though hemmed, that safe our living space, seams torn for access, wealth and power, but frayed the mettle, human hope at lengths to which we tear apart, yet marvel, pyroclastic glow. Spoilt children, we cut off our crust as bread of kindness scattered far by undermining given place, laid bed on which rely for nest. That crust protects the dough beneath, but dough is cash, so we not slow; extract the past, foss oil and coal to fuel unbalanced growth account, to hoard those treasures of our past. Wind, waves due spin of lunar tide, as even sun explodes its gas; aurora light to dance the night while we but fiddle, burning site. Creation groans, spurts fumes about, vents anger at our nonchalance; a fantasy, that sympathy, or does our all consume with pain? Our window, pane is closing fast. 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 ** Kaleidoscope Frustration, anger, kaleidoscope of the mind, swirling in colour. 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. ** Eruption Finally, after millennia, it was the time To erupt, burst out and punch the sky No longer that underground black fury Desperate and angry in its containment By all the soil and rocks surrounding it Cold passive entities, not molten magma That needs to display itself in full colour Slowly rising, to fill a surprised grey sky For several hours, a show to remember And an identity spread across the world Howard Osborne Howard is a UK citizen, retired. Published author of non-fiction reference book, scientific papers and poetry. Interests mainly creative writing (poetry, novel, short stories, songs and scripts), music and travel. ** Prevention On unusually challenging days I can barely contain my anger, it invades my personal space introduces darkness to my sunshine as if someone has torched low simmer into bubbling scorch; the sudden build up - more than the humble vessel of my body can hold. I remove myself before eruption, inventory my bouquet of emotion and dispense of the inconsequential before becoming Vesuvius. 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, Ekphrastic Review, Quartet Journal, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Cool Beans Lit, and Haikuniverse. A lover of ekphrastic poetry, she is facilitator of the Duxbury Poetry Circle in Duxbury, Massachusetts. ** From Above the Salt Marshes Some only see muddled messes remark appreciation for extremes where water waves dance with fishes and land masses linger in framed scenes They don’t value the patience in between nor the slippery activity bubbling beneath where bacteria bounce upon seeping streams and crystals creep along wandering wreaths But the fickle middle is fates curing filter A colander of chemical residuals tossed Where nourishment rests in evaporated silt And bathes life's edges in preservation salts 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. ** Most Human Activity Kills An (almost) found poem Salt. Salt marshes. Dried out by coastal development. Wetlands. Drowned in rising water levels. Intertidal. Halophytes. Plants grow too big by feeding on pollution. Displace native species. Flooded and drained. Balance destroyed by altered water flow. Mud and peat. Sheltered. Lagoons. Estuaries. Pollution degrades ecosystems. All climates. Threatened by increased storm activity. Buffers against wave action. Threatened by large-boat wakes. Subsidence. Nurseries for coastal fisheries species, Birds, other organisms. Invasive species grazing on plants and roots. Filtering runoff excess nutrients. Polluted urban and agricultural runoffs. Reduced ecosystem service. Loss of biodiversity. No longer holding carbon But releasing it into the atmosphere. The contradiction-- Wetlands drowning and drying Ejecting slow death 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 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/ ** Rupture / Re-creation as above so below the rumble of earth parting of sky particles fly fluctuations one realm nudges another causes displacement chemical budging matter is torn at the sleeves at the hem of things the wind joins in eager for mischief let us watch at a drone’s distance this belch of forces record a moment of history as another drama unfolds in spirals as it does everywhere quickly forgotten while a sinkhole of doubt would swallow you without the wind to sweep you away all the unseen forces go to work make the earth turn over in agitated slumber and you alone again wondering what it could possibly mean Nina Nazir Nina Nazir (she/her) is a neurodivergent British Pakistani poet, writer and fine artist based in Birmingham, UK. She has been widely published online and in print, more recently with Black Nore Review, Black Flowers Arts Journal and Sunday Mornings at the River. She is also a Room 204 writing cohort with Writing West Midlands. You can usually find her surrounded by books, writing, or making art, which she sometimes shares on Instagram: @nina.s.nazir. She blogs regularly at www.sunrarainz.wordpress.com ** Haiku Whether in minutes Or years, the tension erupts Spewing its anger Andrew Jones Andrew has been published by The Ekphrastic Review and Sense&Sensibility Haiku. He loves writing short form poetry. ** The Day I Found the Gate I wasn’t looking for anything that morning, just walking the shoreline the way I always did, kicking through wet sand, the wind deciding my direction. But the sky looked wrong-- split clean down the middle, as if the world had argued with itself overnight. On my left, the air, pale and quiet, freckled with gray dots that hovered like timid birds not knowing how to land. On my right, a churned-up sky, blue spirals, white strokes, a painter refusing to stop. I followed that seam of sky, a loose thread that pulled me. Ahead, the ocean, a band of blue with a dark shape, sharp and regal. It looked like a crown, half-lifted. That was when I realized the horizon wasn’t solid anymore. The brown earth beneath the water was broken open in the center, split wide, a black gate. Above it, a peach glow gathered, soft and warm, a light through curtains. Beneath the gate, the ocean continued downward into sand, as if water and land had forgotten which was supposed to end the other. A slope of layers-- white first, then gray, then a purple bruise, then gold like sunlight, trapped. On the left, the layers fanned, a slow peel of earth. On the right, the gold bulged, an uneven mass pressing its way up, almost making it. Like charcoal, the bottom layer, black, swirled with white and brown. I longed for this heat. The wind dropped. The world waited. I stepped to the edge of the opening, close enough to touch the black gate if I reached out. And for a moment-- only a moment-- I thought I heard something behind it: a shift, a breath, like someone waking and realizing they were no longer alone. I don’t know why I didn’t open it. I only know this-- I will be back tomorrow. Andrew Mauzey Andrew Mauzey teaches writing and literature at Biola University in La Mirada, CA. He has most recently published poetry in Tab, 3Elements Literary Review, Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, and many more wonderful places. In addition to writing poetry, he is a hymnist for the Anglican church. He lives in Southern California with his wife and four young children. ** Pilgrim Lured at first sight by that golden nugget spread immaculate hot nude between the dancing sheets of water air and sweet nothings, I will try to leap on it, let my face to its kissing breeze snug my feet in its golden hug and dance my heart beats, but this only if I don’t fall in the fore-grounded abyss that stares not to miss; otherwise I will walk losing en bloc: my talk to the breeze bites on my lips my mind to the flaming pats on my feet my nerves to the twists of my heartbeats, but this only if I don’t fall head over heels in the fore-grounded abyss that stares not to miss; otherwise I will meander the call of the pilgrim’s love ideal even if it is not under the golden appeal but dwells entangled in the fugitive breeze which may take years to unclasp, no fuss, I will keep not falling head over heels in the fore-grounded abyss that stares not to miss; otherwise it will be as it is – feet receding in sandy moods face gasping at fleeting moments heartbeats melting with ebbing ease in the back-grounded blue abyss, otherwise called ‘bliss’, but this only if I don’t fall head over heels in the fore-grounded endless wheeze… Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas, MA, has taught and published on linguistics and culture at universities of Sofia, Delhi and London and enjoys exploring Sanskrit. She writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and her poems have often been honoured by TER and its Challenges. Her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europe Edizioni, 2021. ** for the salt marshes not much not much except the heron and the crane and streaks of white and black even they leave to nest with dutch farmers and less rain what to do with the white crust on pant legs and the ponds sparkle with diamond rings i can’t wear and the mud cakes and cuts boots and the leftovers the tides everything i wanted to leave behind and there’s not much more except the gulls and their idle talk and to run well just a sloppy walk at best all the way to the cafe with the rusted door and wipe my boots and make the last decisions of the day judged on a wooden bar will it be cider or sunset armagnac or that bottle from bordeaux well past its prime late in the day and the last of the light and sea air to taste mike sluchinski mike sluchinski is a recent pushcart prize nominee and grateful to be read in mantis, failed haiku, inlandia journal, kaleidotrope, eternal haunted summer, the wave (kelp), the literary review of canada, the coachella review, welter, poemeleon, lit shark, proud to be vols. 13 & 14, the ekphrastic review, meow meow pow pow, kelp journal, the fib review, syncopation lit. journal, south florida poetry journal (soflopojo), freefall, pulpmag, in parentheses, and more coming! ** Salt of Hearth A strange energy Deep within me Has an irresistible need to emerge I perceive it as dark and malicious This is not what I desire For my personal growth and happiness Nor for my loved ones Inherited from my ancestors A narrow passage has been formed Through a thick layer of pure gold Years of transformation From our inhumanity Towards kindness and altruism Transforming this dark impulse Into humanity and “Salt of Hearth” Now, I can flourish Jean Bourque Jean lives in Montreal. ** YellowsBlacksBlues that explode violent as any Turner storm as Gauguin's green horse canters somewhere on the outskirts of the marsh and with our heads in the clouds our thoughts refuse to stay underground. The marsh a bulwark symbol of resistance against the rising tides in reality's landscapes. dan smith Nominated for the 2026 Pushcart Prize and the 2025 Touchstone Award, dan smith has had poems in or at Deep Cleveland Junk Mail Oracle, Gas Station Famous, Jerry Jazz Musician, Scifaikuest, Dwarf Stars, The Rhysling Anthology and Sein und Werden. His latest poems have been at Five Fleas Itchy Poetry, dadakuku, smols, 40 Over 40 Poetry Anthology, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and The Ekphrastic Review Challenge. ** Duplex: Eruption The blast covered the world in ash in soot Bruised black blue, light was once white azure There’s pureness in purple bruise, as is azure What you see above comes below, hidden But for the crust and waters, body hiding Fiercer things, lest we’re harmed, which we exploit For charm, danger surrendering, waits to exploit But for the gate that keeps us safe, tiny thing. Tiny people build giant, tiny things Are giant and tiny things not the same? The things below and above are the same We came from hell once, now we’re in heaven We’re in hell now, we came from heaven The blast covered the world in ash in soot Arthur Neong Arthur Neong is a Malaysian Chinese. Having taught for 11 years, he now delineates the maelstrom of thoughts and visuals, hoping to make sense of it all. His works have appeared in Five Minutes, Particle, Eclectica, Eksentrika, Everscribe, Men Matters, Porchlit Mag, SARE, Wise Owl, Haiku Shack, Tiffinbox Review and elsewhere. ** Wetland The hybrid space of coastal face, as land the sea will share, both floods and drains where drench remains delight of daily fare as richer tide retreats supplied with all that it must feed to life enchained as links sustained by complementing need -- as forms that pay their due as prey, their obligation served, to play a part in pulse of heart conveying grace reserved as fertile berth of heaven's earth where soul enduring seeks its worth. 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. ** Union There’s a naked-guy in the window, and he’s thinking about jumping… “ I don’t know why I bring you to these things…can’t you be serious for just this once…I really want your opinion.” -On that day there was a convergence of color, but one stood out more than the others. Yellow. Sharing her is as difficult a memory-as losing a smile. Only a poem remains. A ghost drifting through the world buried in an alternate place, for it is surely not of this life- Truth returns, And behind it, truth again. Each layer unveils, each layer conceals. To look past it is not to deny, But to enter the infinite regress Where truth is both surface and depth. “Now you are just over compensating-It says something about “a hidden people", and “stones that bubble” - There it is - It says right here’ that it is a district in Paris.” -Yes Dear, I see what you mean… Beneath the cobblestones of the Marias district lies the memory of an ancient marsh, a place where reeds whispered to the wind and herons stalked the shallows. The marsh was said to be alive' -not merely with creatures, but with a consciousness that remembered every footstep along its banks. “That’s Better” 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 -- ** Everywhere and Nowhere Sometimes life seems so remote as to be invisible -- a mercurial point of no return. Sometimes life seems to be non-existent. What is it, exactly? Does it have a geography? Sometimes life seems to be disconnected from any location -- it constantly shifts itself around me. I want to take scissors, a knife -- cut it out, cover it with glue — collage it to someplace tangible, mappable-- end its evasion, translocation, mutation, evaporation, drift. Kerfe Roig A resident of New York City, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. Follow her explorations on her blogs, https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/ (which she does with her friend Nina), and https://kblog.blog/. ** Exposed Raw wind gusts scratch my face, hair gets pressed to cheek. Today I stand on cordgrass, feel movement under my feet. Out at the horizon the sun stumbles but keeps a hand at the door. Grey dawn began to lift, light a guidepost, a seer. I am only one short verse of sea’s song. Oceans have fought forces from the middle of earth, and yet somehow they still manage to hold a piece of me. Saltwater marsh is at its lyrical best -- Jubilant clouds hold nothing back. All our rhythms continue, a steady beat of flood and retreat. Ursula McCabe Ursula sold wine in Portland, Oregon for many years. Her work can be seen in Piker Press, The North Coast Squid, Bluebird Word, and The Ekphrastic Review. She likes the ocean, forests, lots of birds and shopping at thrift stores. ** Gaia Mother is always there looming—watching. Her frustrations will peak through the cracks we made. And like disobedient children we not listen, we will run away even when she holds us over the fire we set, as we cough, laughing through smoke Like any good mother she will give us 7 chances-- hoping we will get it right, so she won’t have to revoke our privileges. Surface concerns erupt her deep-gold, obscured by seismic threatening steel clouds Leveraging a still life obsolete- the bridge, our bed, calling- a postcard of melancholy. Disappointment turns vigilance to silence. Is it too late to brush us clean divine mother? Back to swimming, will muscle memory overtake the fright of not remembering how? The flakes of gold behind her disappointment illuminate hope. Mother longs for the day that love will be steeped in appreciation. Today, evicted from the deep blue we slumber on patches of sand, forgetting about the fire. Meanwhile, the mother angel drifts under water, unaffected by the undertow. The 1965 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. Jahzara Zamora Woods is a young poet that has recently published her first book, My Lamp Is On The Floor, available on Amazon. She has had several published poems, and she performs in Open Mic poetry readings in and around Atlanta. Jahzara and Debbie write together as “The 1965.” They have several publications or upcoming publications in both The Ekphrastic Review and Colaborature. ** Land of Glittering Salt Salt plains spread open -- as though the earth is carved out of glittering salt flirting on the tongue of the wind. Herons stitch slow silver arcs through air. Their wings skim over sun-lit water, hum ragged hymns to the dazzling blues stretching over ripples dancing as far as the eye can trace. Long legged Black-tailed Godwits sweep their bills, sifting crustaceans, frogs from mud and shadow pools. The sacred ibis ruffles her feathers. Sunset fires the sky ablaze. Pinks, corals, purples dance on shallow ponds like scattered mirrors. The air fills with salt. Ansuya Patel Ansuya’s poems have a sensual, soul searching quality. Her work has appeared in Allegro, Artemesia, Broken Spine, Crowstep, Drawn to the Light, Erbacce, Gypsophila, Half Way Down the Stairs, Ink Sweat and Tears, Last Stanza, Poetry Kit, Rattle and Renard. Several of her poems have been shortlisted at Alpine, Aurora and Bridport. She was a joint winner of the Geoff Steven’s memorial poetry prize in 2024, and her debut poetry collection Wolves At My Door was recently published by Indigo Dreams. ** Layers Of deep soils Discern The last rays of sun- In flurry Ravages of a mind. The expanse, The reposed and departed In delicate drizzle of rioting dust. Meditation hall mystique And my two-by-two feet Of piled cushions Now vacant. Gifts of a day Unshackled In Noble Silence- Mist, oh the mist And then clearing of it. 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. ** Judas’ Curse: A longtime ago, a town flourished in Mid-Atlantic France. Unlike most towns in the area, this town was landlocked. Not a single lake or watering hole in sight. Fortunately, something protected the town in fortification and fertility: a purifying mineral. For millennials, a moat of salt circumnavigated the town. The salt warded off invaders and enriched the fields. It was a promised prosperity. Little did the town realize, no gift can last so long. The moat of salt hid a curse. Judas’ curse. And it waited for the perfect breach. A breach did come. After years of protection and prosperity, human consumption finally struck the inhabitants. Without thinking of the possible consequences of their ingratitude, the inhabitants drained the moat of salt. Why worry about invaders when an opportunity to fill their banks awaited? Their monetary banks, not the riverbanks. So little salt was left, not even an anchovy could swim in the leftover mud. Finally, on a cold December day, a pickaxe brought down the final strike, opening the breach. Judas’ curse erupted like Mt. Vesuvius, piercing the serene sky with a treacherous thunderstorm. Salt became silver coins raining down, cutting the townsfolk’s skins. Their protection was gone. Years later, invaders found the town deserted. As the centuries passed, the land had been converted into salt mines and silver quarries. The human ingratitude remained. 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 on December 26th. 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. ** Preservation Did she look back, Lot’s wife, at the burning city behind her, the angelic-hurled flames encasing Sodom in a thick shell of gold? Or did Edith keep at her back the charred bodies—her grandmother, their daughter’s big-eared friend, her shrewish neighbour—all that blackened flesh melted onto bone, the dead stacked in piles reaching as tall as the stone towers and their gay coloured banners, the corpses salted as if offerings for some unknown god? Or was she looking up at the smoke-smudged sky? She’d lost all sense of direction when they, her husband and his men, dragged her out of her home and into the cold night. The men spoke of salvation and of foul corruption. But the paradise that awaited them, one beyond the city limits, seemed to require something of Sodom even after its death. A contrast. Its shadows of veniality would make the light of their new Eden whiter. “Up the mountains,” Lot said after his guests left, the ones with glinting eyes. “A promised land,” he continued when she stood still. She kept on with the chores. Burning the kelp collected by their women, the ash a salt to preserve the goat meat. This was what was important. Not clouds in the sky, feeble-witted prophets from the desert with daggers for smiles. Brining away the rot so their daughters could eat, even when Lot spent the last of their hard-gotten coin on drink and dice. Honeying the figs into a thick paste: her youngest’s favourite. “Edith.” She was propelled forward, pestle in hand. Lot’s men grabbed his daughters, his most valuable possessions, pulling them by their braids. For himself, Lot stuffed what he could into his cloak. Only a diagonal plank of wood remained of the gate that marked the city’s edge. An exit not an entrance. But ahead a second gate glinted black, reflective as a pool, shimmering with columns. Beyond, flecks of skin evaporated into a mist. A blue bloom of bodies and sky flattened as if viewed from the waters covering the earth. Only she could see. Or why else would her husband squeeze each of his daughter’s necks, pushing them closer and closer to the boundary line that separated home from such horrors? “Lot,” she tried, but he continued, one step at a time up the mountain. “Girls,” she tried again, but they climbed on, could not hear her from the roar of the dying city, the voices melded into a universal groan. She didn’t turn; rather she turns, still turns, the white of her thigh hardening, part flesh part crystalline, jagged chasms of halite jutting from a calf, the blood and water all drained, all draining. She’s less a pillar of salt than the edge of a salt marsh: a trace of the water that’s gone. Catherine Reedy Catherine Reedy is an Instructor of English and the Chair of the Medieval and Renaissance Studies Program at Lake Forest College. Her fiction has been published in American Literary Review, decompmagazine and Crack the Spine. Her flash fiction Growth won the “Flash Flood” contest at American Literary Review. More of her work can be found at catherinereedy.com. ** Defining Energy It boils from within, rising through the magma from dormancy. The dark crude of my gut mingles with the softness of crystals waiting to be birthed. My arms and legs bare and erect with thoughts of the coming heat, the erotic consumption of the mind feathering through cracks and veins spilling over the crust of my skin. I did not know existence was a thing—prelude to knowing self. My love is hydrothermal, my hands tectonic; push of the senses that sublimate you like ice in the hot air. Then follows the hissing of the dense mist left praying on the mountain tops and cliff edges, the release of what was withheld, leaving you spent on the rocks. I will not turn you into sand but you welcome it. I will not turn you into mere smudge at the end of the wire. I will imprint my fibres into each palm, forehead, and nape, and you will always….. … welcome it. Eliza Clark Eliza 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. She was shortlisted for the Benjamin Zephaniah Future Writers Poetry Competition, 2025. ** The Golden Sieve There’s a hint of it out there on the shore, waves breaking high enough to toss dunes skyward, roar of rage descending from the sky… But it’s the real tsunami, the one we can’t see yet, flying below our radar, that tells us it could be over soon… the rapeseed spread yellow richness of this life near the marsh, the fen that died from over-use, city draining its grand purifier, the one that fed the grace of the great blue heron, the filter that fed all lives in and around the marsh-- the mesh that guards the inner shore from the tumult of weather that follows the lead of the land, the winnower that could have spared Louisiana, and the bog that still says protect me from rules of gold-plated government gone to muck. Beth Fox From years flying in a small plane, Beth Fox is taken with the many views from the air. Travel scenes and art inspire her writing, as can be seen in her chapbook by Finishing Line Press: Reaching for the Nightingale. Widely published in New England, Beth lives in Wolfeboro, New Hampshire. ** Gradient Progression Towards Awareness Take a walk with me Through the salt marsh Yes, the salt marsh would Like to invite me to sink Beneath its pungent reeds Feed creatures nesting under Layers of yellow, salty, grass Yes, I could listen To frogs croaking, flies buzzing, And the occasional car horns Bellowing from the nearby Roadways, its occupants Unaware the salt marsh even exists Stillness, stickiness, bad business Being out there disappearing Down the fissure into the belly Of the black marsh drowning Me in seductive, inky, darkness As I gaze up one last time Into the waning daylight Look, there’s Helios Driving his chariot All gray and sputtering Cosmic blue rain Down below him As he retires for the day Not even he notices What is underneath His luminescent wheels As long as he’s back In his Great, Glittering, Hall With his wine and olives His suspicious wife His frantic servants I will sink into the marsh My day is also done Laura Peña Laura Peña is an award-winning poet born and raised in Houston, TX. She holds a BA in English Literature and an MA in Education. She is a primary bilingual teacher as well as a translator of poetry into Spanish. Laura has been a featured poet at Valley International Poetry Festival, Inprint First Fridays, and Public Poetry. She has been published both in print and on-line journals. She has been a workshop presenter at VIPF in the Rio Grande Valley, TX and People's Literary Festival in Corpus Christi, TX. One of Laura's annual traditions is to write a poem a day for August Postcard Poetry Festival and has participated in the fest for the last 13 years. Laura has performed poetry for Invisible Lines at such venues as Notsuoh, Interchange, Avante Garden, and The Match. Laura translated Margo Stutt Toombs’ poem How to Tend a Wall into Spanish and the accompanying short film is premiering at Fotogenia Festival 2025 in Mexico City. ** Blue Marble I live with a blue marble buried in my right breast-- a benign sea monster the cobalt dye stirs awake. It swims a nautical mile to the distant golden shore of fat and connective tissue where it curls like a mollusc-- a brooding nautilus surveying a sky of fibrous clouds. The sonographer’s wand teases a trail of inky tsunami, oily silk undulating in pleats of ochre-gold. The sea goes cold again, waves dying down to a whimper on the slice of grainy imaging. Dots of calcium swirl around like a school of anchovies. My body settles in the pull of the moon, I own this archipelago for now— debris and all. Oormila Vijayakrishan Prahlad Oormila Vijayakrishan Prahlad is a widely published and awarded poet and artist. Her work appears in The Ekphrastic Review, Cordite Poetry Review, Black Bough Poetry anthologies, Poetry Sydney collaborations and more. She is the author of Patchwork Fugue (Atomic Bohemian Press, UK, 2024), and several chapbooks (UK and US). She was awarded Runner-up in the 2025 Writing NSW Varuna Fellowship. Her second full-length collection will be published by 5 Islands Press in 2026. She is the 2026 Writer in Residence at Woollahra Libraries, Sydney. She lives and works on traditional Gammeragal land. Find her @oormilaprahlad and www.instagram.com/oormila_paintings ** While You Breathe, You Hope The salt marsh erupts, a violent geyser. A volcano-like fissure reveals the interior. A cloudy afternoon bursts. Kettle steam. The underpinning of marigold color. The earth’s wide grin is a reminder of sulphury air. You realize you can’t dance to Chopin in a white bathrobe & shovel snow. The sand isn’t compact enough & the oyster shells would lacerate your bare feet. Living is a struggle of marred reality & you thought humidity doesn’t come ashore. Clarity opens this exquisite passage. The you not seeing it. An epiphany. The thunderclouds loom & clap. I want to swim down the throat of this leviathan to the icy, cobalt underbelly. Layers to sweep chatter away. I want to formulate my own medicine. Little puffs float on a feathered sky above a horizon, a thin mustache of pine trees. You seek cover in the beach forest. A red fox appears before the high tide rolls in. The cold wind lilts a lullaby. Whatever notes coast ashore; you hum. You veer into rest. John Milkereit John Milkereit lives in Houston, Texas working as a mechanical engineer. He has completed a M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the Rainier Writing Workshop. His poems have appeared in various literary journals such as The Comstock Review, San Pedro River Review and Naugatuck River Review. Last month, Kelsay Books released his fifth collection of poems titled The Beginning of Undoing, which includes ten poems that were originally published in The Ekphrastic Review. ** Fleurs de Sel, Fleurs du Mal Salt of the earth, stinging the day’s blue eye. The mud’s turned rock. One thousand years and more We’ve sucked such places sweet. Winged cinders fly Out of the shining. Here at earth’s split core , The scene’s all mineral: a chthonic fault Draws us down into ash. The grains rise high, A crystal cataract. All here is salt, Salt which lets nothing live or change or die. Ruth S Baker Ruth S Baker has published in a few poetry journals. She has a special love for animals and visual art. ** Operating Manual Congratulations on your purchase! The InsideEyez 3-in-1 Multifunction Lapidary Saw is ready to reveal the inner beauty of your geological discoveries. Please visit our website for detailed instructional videos and other resources to help you get the most out of your new lapidary saw. Observing the following precautions will help you use your saw safely: 1. When operating the InsideEyez 3-in-1 Multifunction Lapidary Saw, always wear appropriate safety gear including, but not limited to, protective eyewear such as goggles or safety glasses, a respirator, and a face shield. Tie long hair back. Remove jewelry, scarves, or other dangling items. 2. Never operate saw while intoxicated or under the influence of substances that may impair judgement or motor skills. Never use saw while sleeping or unconscious. 3. Lapidary Saw is not a toy and should not be used by children, regardless of their developmental stage or any complex that may currently dominate them. 4. Saw may be used to split and slab a variety of rocks, stones, and other roughly spherical items. Users may uncover surprises beneath a rock’s rough exterior. Occasionally a user will slice into a stone and reveal its interior only to discover their own psyche inside. 5. Should you make such a discovery, do not gaze too long into any black morass. Yes, you may see something gazing back at you, and yes, it may be grinning. Avert your eyes, and while you’re at it, cover your ears, lest your id begin whispering. 6. If you find yourself unable to ignore the insistent whispers of the id and your dark desires begin bubbling toward the surface, your superego will intervene, its cool blue wig tingling with proscriptions. That periwinkle perfectionist will quash your id. 7. Or attempt to. 8. It’s all so confusing, isn’t it? You only wanted to expose an agate, perhaps reveal the pretty crystals of a geode. Instead of brilliance and luster, you’ve unmasked flaws and a societal scold eager to polish away every facet. Perhaps your ego can mediate, bathing you in the amber glow of reason. 9. Should internal conflict persist despite your ego’s generous application of defense mechanisms, bury your anxieties along with your newly split stone. For a list of suitable disposal sites (including local salt marshes), contact the customer service department at InsideEyez 3-in-1 Incorporated. Tracy Royce Tracy Royce does not own a lapidary saw, but she recently purchased a hair dryer with an instructional manual cautioning her to "Never use while sleeping." Tracy's work has been nominated for a Pushcart, a Touchstone Award for Individual Haibun, and Best Small Fictions. Her words appear in 100 Word Story, The Mackinaw, MacQueen’s Quinterly, and elsewhere. She lives in Southern California, where she enjoys romping in the mountains, but you can find her on Bluesky. ** Water to Blood (In The Garden of Salt) "A new volcano has erupted the papers say... And I had waterspouts... far out They'd come and go, advancing and retreating, their heads in a cloud, their feet in moving patches of scuffed up white." Elizabeth Bishop, “Crusoe in England” In the shape of a connective stick figure legs dangling down from the window of her mind, she is mechanized as she contemplates the broken edges of her life, how the earth can open in a rift like the neck of a nature-made funnel, contents from a lightless underworld, its composition characterized by a piece of rock music, Water To Blood. Blood to Brood. Love blue and explosive as a volcanic eruption that imitates the sky before it reaches down to the horizon, where it becomes a paler blue, like the cap of a baby boy a newborn carried to the arms of his mother for the first time. It's the same with baby girls, first moments of absolute love, although the girls have caps as pink as laundry on the mis-matched morning a red football jersey is mixed with the whites on Hot -- white that's white as suds, scuffed up water waves waiting to sprout in the Marais Salant on canvas, garden islands in a salt marsh, its length as long as a run down the field in a touchdown... Inside the body of the poem, the mind's windows show black dots in the lighter blue surrounding the volcano -- its "fire" a burst of blue eruption that resembles an Indian Shaman's feathered headdress. Possibly, the dots are mosquitos, but she prefers to think about the Salt Marsh Moth its white wings spread like angelic protection for the sun and night bumble-bee colors that define its body. Moths fly to flame (supposedly) which would explain the surprising beauty of nature. In Sicily, the salt is harvested; and in the painting, Marais Salant she wonders if the wind, circling in the sky, will carry the moths to flame blue as blood born out of water, transformation like a magician's trick -- reality born from fiction as ideas for a poem sprout in a salt marsh: Glass chimneys, flexible and attenuated, sacerdotal beings of glass as water spirals up like smoke in the days smoke is a memory of light -- of sun and prayer and passion -- life-giving grains of the unexpected (a stable turbulence) when lines dig for meaning in a French marais. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp writes in Houston where she earned a Master's Degree in Poetry (Creative Writing) at The University of Houston. She thanks the wonderfully imaginative poetry of Elizabeth Bishop for both the epigraph and quote from “Crusoe in England,” used in Water to Blood, the poem's title taken from a musical composition of Marais Salant (Salt Marsh in English), like the voice of nature on YouTube. ** Pardon My Plosion It happened on a Tuesday when Mother Earth (ME) erupted unexpectedly Lord knows what she'd downed for brunch perhaps an oil rig or two several gas lines for sure When out of the blue her tummy went funny and up she threw a sub continent unchewed Oh dear ME she belched she spewed Please do excuse my blast from the passed Donna-Lee Smith DLS writes from Montreal where, as far as she understands, there is no active spewing. **
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