 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.
0 Comments
Your comment will be posted after it is approved.
Leave a Reply. |
Challenges
|
