 Indonesian Shadow Puppet- Kresna, Wayang Kulit Purwa, Central Java, photography by Alain Secretan (USA) 2004. (CC BY-NC-SA 2.0) TANKA break free from the past-- tell my past self ARIGATO even more than goodbye 過去の自分 とお別れを する時は さよならよりも ありがとうだね Uchimura Kaho 内村佳保 ** TANKA both are the real me-- one is the playful, extroverted me the other is fearful of COVID, the introverted me どちらとも ほんとのわたし なんだよね ひなたのわたし ひかげのわたし Uchimura Kaho 内村佳保 Born in Japan, Uchimura Kaho (内村佳保) lives in Tokyo. Her slogan won the grand prize at the Japanese Reconstruction Agency Slogan Competition 2017. Her book report won the special prize at the Defence of Japan 2019 Book Report Competition. She is the author of two novels, Jyuusansai no TAIDOU and Inishie Gatari vol.1. Her Tanka (a genre of classical Japanese poetry) won the grand prize at Minokamo city Tanka Competition 2021 and the Nikkei Newspaper the Best Tanka of the Year Award 2020. Find more on her website https://uchimurakaho.studio.site ** The Dance of the Blue God (based on the story of Krishna and Kaliya Naag) A blue god tiptoes by the Yamuna’s banks. Below the waters of the sacred stream, the many hooded Kaliya Naag* lurks, carnelian eyes stalking through gaps in lily pads. Waters churn, poisons simmer, swirling dark whirlpools, but the blue god, undaunted, wades into its depths. The leviathan cleaves the waves, twisting into muscular knots, coiling its scaled ferociousness around the blue god. He draws a whirlwind into his lungs, his thorax filling with the weight of planets and stars. The blue god pummels the serpent’s skulls, feet pounding, dancing the cosmic dance. Blood sprays across the waters. Distraught naginis* rise, ruby heads bowed, pleading for mercy. The blue god softens, growing lighter. The vanquished snake cowers in supplication, slithering away in an ebony wave, entourage in tow. Clear of venom, the Yamuna glistens mirroring the midsummer sky. The blue god floats above the rushes - lost rubies and pearls rising from the foam, crusting his dripping silks, lighting his prussian shadow. Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad *Kaliya Naag - In Hindu traditions, a venomous snake that terrorised the waters of the Yamuna river *Naginis- the two wives of Kaliya Naag Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad is an Indian-Australian artist and poet who serves as a chief editor for Authora Australis. She holds a Masters in English, and is a member of Sydney’s North Shore Poetry Project. Her recent works have been published in both print and online literary journals and anthologies including The Ekphrastic Review, Black Bough Poetry, Bracken Magazine, and The Eunoia Review. She won the 66th Moon Prize awarded by Writing in a Woman’s Voice Journal, and an Honourable Mention in the Glass Poetry Awards 2020. She lives and works in Sydney on the land of the Ku-ring-gai people of The Eora Nation. ** His Dark Materials A child of light, I come to life as darkness. My filigree skin carved by a craftsman’s hands, painted in bright-hued colours: blues and purples, scarlet red. My story is played out against the thin scrim of passing time, the flicker-flame of history, my limbs articulated by strong threads of fate. I do not control my own voice but sing his song. I am a dancing doll, manipulated by a master puppeteer; nothing more to me than backlit shadow. Louise Longson Louise Longson lives in West Oxfordshire. She is a qualified psychotherapist, specialising in trauma and enduring mental health issues and currently works to support those distressed by chronic loneliness and isolation. A late starter to writing poetry, she settled down to it in 2020 at the age of 57, and her work has appeared in various publications including One Hand Clapping, Fly on the Wall, Dreich, Vaine, Nymphs, The Ekphrastic Review, Drifting Sands, The Poetry Shed, Obsessed with Pipework and the various publication of Indigo dreams Publications. She is a winner of the Dreich ‘Slims’ competition 2021 with her chapbook Hanging Fire. ** Blue Shadow The Supreme Being of the Mahabharata has followed me from childhood, starting from the mantle of the dank middle room of our East Ham house. Kresna is my mother's god, whose colour is all attractive black. In my imagination, his blue shadow is a vestige like a Javanese puppet silhouette, waiting for the dalang to direct the next act. My mother loved Kresna, but hated being married. My father rolled Pay-Pay when it was affordable, smoked indoors while listening to the BBC on a transistor radio, and lazed on layers of blurring Hindi newspapers that covered his torn recliner. My mother collected Tesco stamps toward free suitcases and placed flowers at the foot of her god's picture. It was the 1970s and the National Front began its hold in Britain. My father brought every scrap of anger home from the pubs. Get out in the garden, he would say. My play outdoors was eclipsed by mornings sitting on the floor with my beaten mother. Her clothes concealed everything except the disappearance of what I loved, her sweet hope, her delicate way of speaking with her eyes. My mother took photos of her visible wounds, mailed them to her sister, and told me the story of how Sheshnaag protected baby Kresna. I forgave my father because I knew his humanity-- not his godless violent insanity, not his addiction, not his inability to fit in English society, not his failings as a head of a household, not his version of immigrant status, not his inability to fulfil his father's expectations, not his unfulfilled dream to go to college—I forgave him because he played the harmonica, held my hand as we walked to the library, and because he came to watch me, a brown-skinned angel in a Christmas play. My mother scolded me for crying when he spent the night in jail. She wept in front of her idol, shielding herself from my suffering. Rhony Bhopla Rhony Bhopla is a poet and visual artist. Her previous work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cosumnes River Journal, Pratik Magazine, and Notre Dame Review. Her multimedia piece The Indian Accent is featured online by the Crocker Art Museum. Rhony has an interest in indigenous artworks and heritage sites from around the world. She is a student in the Pacific University's MFA in Writing Program. When she is not writing, Rhony enjoys cooking and gardening. ** Not As My Shadow (A Puppet's Lament) I was, of course, by artist made, and by another then portrayed. My soul was borrowed voice and hand that spoke and moved me as she planned to tell a tale that otherwise could not have greeted ears and eyes through shadow cast upon a screen by light I blocked, where held unseen, I mourned the days ahead forlorn of home too soon I now adorn in purgatory known as art long absent life of soul and heart at least admired, perhaps, on shelf not as my shadow but my self. Portly Bard Old man. Ekphrastic fan. Prefers to craft with sole intent of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. ** Will Not My war is gone. My war is gone and you are not my war. I stand here suspended. You wait behind but my war is gone and you are not my war. My war brought riches. My war brought crowns of jewels and robes of bones and red vests that were the suns of the war. Now my war is gone and you are a shadow. You are a shadow dreaming of my war. A shadow suspended in my space but you are not my war. My face is a burned bark left at the end of my war. My arm is attached with bolts longing for the next war and all you can do is shadow me with hopes to be my next war but you shall never be my war. You trail me like a scout and mock me like a child but you will never be my war and you will never be me. My war is gone and you who are a tiny shadow will know no war. You who are already dead will know no war. You who do not know you are dead will know no war. You who wait for the arrows to pierce your shadow will know no war. You who are not my war will never be my war. My war is gone. John Riley John Riley has published poetry and fiction in Smokelong Quarterly, Better Than Starbucks, Ekphrastic Review, Banyan Review, Connotation Press, Fiction Daily, The Molotov Cocktail, Dead Mule, St. Anne's Review, and numerous other anthologies and journals both online and in print. He has also published over thirty books of nonfiction for young readers and continues his work in educational publishing. ** Dalang’s Opening Synopsis The kenong gongs! Time for Wayang Kulit to commence For I am Dalang Puppeteer of all Java, the nation. Pay attention to learn My lessons and intricate messages Of tales from Antasena Contradicted, by Bagawan Bagaspati. As music syncopates Soothing your soul, heart, mind Warriors face each other Holding, heinous heirlooms in hand. Shadows shall come Shadows shall go Shadows shall rise To reflect on the wall. Blood will be spilt From the daggers and dialogue As lives will be lost To your loud screeches of horror. Through the magic of flight With the heritage of Cupu Madusena Dead Pandavas will revive To the predilection of you audience. The jamboree will last From crepuscular through to dawn so Prepare yourselves children Let our Wayang Kulit commence … Alun Robert Alun Robert is a prolific creator of lyrical free verse. He has achieved success in poetry competitions across the British Isles and North America. His work has been published by numerous literary magazines, anthologies and webzines in the UK, Ireland, Belgium, Italy, India, South Africa, Kenya, USA and Canada. Since 2018, he has been part of The Ekphrastic Review community particularly enjoying the bi-weekly challenges. He is a member of the Federation of Writers Scotland for whom he was a Featured Writer in 2019. ** Strings Attached Shadow thing walks, dances Tethered strings attached, hands Rendered not your own, bidding done Indolent arms forced to response, resistance Not possible, accept fate and lose that Grimace – attitude does not become you, Sadistically, you are controlled All actions dictated by puppeteer - The audience whispers, applauds in glee, they, Touted from streets, purses open to pay, Admit to prime seats, flamboyant dress, Colorful garb distracts, flushed faces fanned, Hats held in laps, mesmerized are the Eyes, follow strings attached to limbs Designed to deceive; what a show! Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson is a Pushcart nominee, rescuer of feral cats, advocate of captive zoo and circus elephants whose poems appear in various journals including Sledgehammer, Misfit, Open Door and The Ekphrastic Review. Full length works are available on Amazon. Dickson enjoys writing to visual prompts, including art, nature and autumn colours. ** Java Shadow Puppet This puppet of leather and wood glides, graceful and lithe manipulated by unseen forces to tell the story of love and battle fear and victory and – again and always – love The puppet gleams with colours and curves But the shadow – The shadow is alive And that is the secret to the story Katherine Saxby Katherine Saxby is a veteran English and French teacher, an optimistic but negligent gardener, and an adventurous vegetarian cook. Katherine is always looking for ways to improve her lesson plans, her accent, her pie crust, and everything else (including her poetry). ** For Want of the Unattainable She lived in a land of make believe her suitors were the guards of demons and dreams - their spears pierced broken hearts of maidens’ lost hopes and made them whole. She was defended protected and bartered her gossamer self against all perils. Arms bowed behind her serpentine back, the taut black cord of want, lust, need, tortured her ruptured soul as it pleaded for love. Jane Lang Jane Lang has written for years. Her work has appeared in several online journals including Quill and Parchment, the Avocet, Creative Inspirations and The Ekphrastic Review. She has been published in several anthologies and written and given two chap books to family and friends in lieu of Christmas cards. She lives in the Pacific Northwest in a big house with her lofty ideas and ideals. ** Shadow of the Deity Kresna…deity, elegant in your fine robes of white and red, Your skin gold leaf, your face painted black. These are the colours of your spirit, symbols of your qualities… maturity and strength, knowledge, and serenity. Your audience assembled back and front, the oil lamp illuminates your stage, a translucent screen welcoming your shadow. Gamelan, choir, bells, and gongs usher you in, angular limbs move with the voice of the dalang, the expert puppeteer. His life of training, knowledge of narration and movement handed down through millennia. Who gave you life? The buffalo, which gave its own, the team of carvers with their intricate tools, or the puppeteer with his ancient wisdom? Kresna…hero of the Mahabharata, in shadow form you take part in stories, epics from the ancient times, of battles between good and evil, of divinities and cosmos. Your shadow brings to life the ancestors, lamp light and music breathe forth their souls, to protect participants through the long night of performance. Maryjane Sherwin This is the first ekphrastic poem I have written. I became interested in this form of poetry after taking part in a short online workshop recently. I have a Degree in Archaeology and a Graduate Certificate of History from the University of New England. I usually work in administration, but I have taken time off to pursue creative writing. I live in regional New South Wales, Australia, with my husband, two dogs, two cats, and two guinea pigs. My grandson thinks it is Noah’s ark. ** Hocus-Pocus We are all shadows, said Plato, sitting in a cave watching movies-- our backs to the sun-lit world, our eyes shackled to the wall before us And outside the cave people walk and sing and make love; and inside the cave we laugh and cheer and cry as the fire casts their shadows on the granite screen before us And the Wayang puppet-masters of Java meticulously re-create the illusion with control rods and handles and joints and screens and oil lamps and laughter-- and none dare notice the artful hocus-pocus Mark C Watney Mark C Watney is an immigrant from South Africa who teaches English at Sterling College in Kansas. As his brain ages, and his chess ratings drop, he is discovering a poetic sensibility he lacked as a younger man. Recent publications: Acumen, Dappled Things (First place, Jacques Maritain Prize for Nonfiction), The Ekphrastic Review, Saint Katherine Review, Front Porch Review, Presence, Cider Press Review, and others. ** Shadow Puppet The drumming in the wall is disorderly. His voice manipulates the metre of her pulse which I cannot ignore so I knock on the door. It opens a crack. The tension in her eyes slips through and I sense his presence back-stage. He lifts her arm, a master of puppetry. It is stiff with intricate lies tattooed and stained in purple and blue but it drops effortlessly to her side, the tell-tale signs concealed in the low lighting cast in the hall. He articulates her mouth, choosing words carefully to match the shapes made by the opening hinge of her jaw. I observe her stick-like features projected as shadows on the wall, power at his fingertips, a closed door. Kate Young Kate Young lives in England and has been passionate about poetry since childhood. She generally writes free verse and loves responding to art through ekphrastic poetry. Her poems have appeared in The Poetry Village, Words for the Wild, Poetry on the Lake, Alchemy Spoon, Dreich and Friends and Friendship. She has had poems in two Scottish Writers Centre chapbooks. Her work has also featured in the anthologies Places of Poetry and Write Out Loud. Her pamphlet A Spark in the Darkness is due to be published by Hedgehog Press next year. Find her on Twitter @Kateyoung12poet. ** Shadow Puppets I still see you in the shadows. It’s where you’ve always been casting shadows over my life playing your part in its theatre while staying hidden to project an image which makes me feel as manipulated as you surely are behind that screen. It will take courage to draw back the blind to let me see your features, let me see who you are and who you can be when you’re free, when we both are free. So step forward. Step out of the shadows and on to the stage to greet me. When I see your smile we’ll rewrite our parts free of the puppet master and out of the shadows. Lynn White Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Vagabond Press, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes Journal. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com///www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/ ** When Sita Learned to Dance "Yes, I'm being followed by a moonshadow, Moonshadow, moonshadow, Leaping and hopping on a moonshadow -- And if I ever lose my hands, Lose my plow, lose my land..." Moonshadow, Cat Stevens 1. First the shadows danced moved by a child's hands: Rama said Gamelan rhymes with hands. 2. Words were braided into branches of trees, and shadows danced moved by the Gamelan's hands. 3. The moon was as full as a porcelain plate and lovers danced moved by the Gamelan's hands. 4. Ravana watched Sita learning to dance, dancing like shadows in the Gamelan's hands -- 5. how her heart caught the colors of morning! And the ring on her hand came from Rama's hands... 6. she'd be safe if she stayed in the circle of land as their shadows danced in the Gamelan's hands... 7. Outside the circle -- outside of good fate -- Ravana changed shapes in the Gamelan's hands. 8. An evil drama, that was Ravana! & Sita cried out, kidnapped... Could she be saved by the Gamelan's hands safe in the brown arms 9. of Rama? The candles grew dim, and the hour was late as the shadows danced, dreaming in the Gamelan's hands. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp lives and writes in Houston. Her recent book, When Dreams Were Poems, 2020, explores the relationship between art and writing. Honoured multiple times by the Ekphrastic Challenge, her poems have received honourable mention for the Pablo Neruda Prize and second place in The Houston Poetry Fest's Ekphrastic Poem Contest. The Gamelan is the "puppet master" and musician in the Wayang Kulit, his stories like the Ramayana often told in an outdoor setting. "When Sita Learned To Dance" is a Ghazal. ** Shadows in Time: A Sijo Sequence I. Pale shadows elongate with each passing hour of daylight, as seconds quickly become years in our tender memories, age dancing across our minds in a rhythm too unforgiving. II. The past and the present are both foreshadowed, omens presaged, by the routine lengthening of the night as seasons progress, the equinox of youth, so very sweet, rapidly forgotten. III. Slowly, the new becomes the old, and the old becomes the new in a cycle at once familiar and so very shocking, just as we are surprised at how our own shadows shorten with time. IV. They will shorten ‘til they cast no more, no longer absorbing or reflecting any of the sun’s light throughout the seasons, and the only shadows that we still cast are merely memories. V. Even those supple impressions will be forgotten in time, and once we are truly gone, our stories wafting on the wind, only the shadows of our bare headstones will bedim the sun’s light. Rose Menyon Heflin Originally from rural, southern Kentucky, Rose Menyon Heflin is a writer and artist living in Madison, Wisconsin. Her work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies spanning four continents, and her poetry won a 2021 Merit Award from Arts for All Wisconsin. One of her poems will be choreographed and performed by a local dance troupe, and she will have an ekphrastic creative nonfiction piece featured in the exhibit “Companion Species'' at the Chazen Museum of Art. Among other venues, her recent and forthcoming publications include Deep South Magazine, DREICH, The Ekphrastic Review, Fauxmoir, Feral: A Journal of Poetry and Art, Fireflies’ Light, MacQueen’s Quinterly, The Minison Project, Tangled Locks Journal’s MoonBites, and Visual Verse. ** Its irksome this shadow that follows cancels out my moves taunts and teases traces my extremities from my nose to my toes making out that I lie like poor Pinocchio I’m no Narcissus seeking self-reflection I have no beauty but see my aging mother in all the windows so have no need of shadow. Diana Moen Pritchard From a log cabin childhood on a remote farmstead in the mountains of British Columbia, Canada to retirement in Guernsey, Channel Islands, there is a wealth of experience in between which Diana Moen Pritchard endeavours to capture in her writing and poetry. She has some of her poems published in Ver, Reach, Artemis, Second Light, The Poetry Business anthologies. ** Shadow Puppet Welcome to a world of sweet illusions, where a puppet’s shadow dances on a screen, where from the dreams we dream come solutions to all of our troubles and confusion, and life is a puppeteer’s play, scene by scene. Welcome. Here is a world of only illusions, where all ties to reality are loosened. Here shadows form stories of make-believe, and from the dreams we dream come solutions to the griever’s grief, to the lover’s broken heart, and to the loner’s longing; for we’ve come to a world sweetened by illusions, an enchanted world, where a profusion of pictures is all that we need or see, where dreams upon dreams are now solutions to everything, and everything’s a fusion of images, flickering and inter-weaved. Welcome to a world of sweet illusions, where the dreams we dream become solutions. Gregory E. Lucas Gregory E. Lucas writes fiction and poetry. His short stories and poems have appeared in magazines such as past issues of The Ekphrastic Review, Blueline, The Horror Zine, Blue Unicorn, and Peeking Cat. ** Shadow Play We are two headed, bobbing on the surface of water both hiding and revealing, the being and its mirror image, the real and the reflected. Where do the two merge? Where does one end and the other begin? Like night and day the same worlds yet strangely different in changing lights, puppets in a shadow play. Is god the puppeteer? Does he pull the strings? Are we really tethered, empty entities, fleeting, or is it a sleight of hand, misguided, on our own, are we conjured out of nothing? Akshaya Pawaskar Akshaya Pawaskar is a doctor practicing in India, and poetry is her passion. Her poems have been published in Tipton Poetry Journal, Shards, The Blue Nib, North of Oxford, Indian Rumination, Rock and Sling, among many others. She won the Craven Arts Council ekphrastic poetry competition in 2020 and was placed second in The Blue Nib chapbook contest in 2018. Her first solo poetry chapbook The falling in and the falling out was published by Alien Buddha press in January 2021. ** Shadow Puppet When he shines his light on me I am nothing but the thing he wants: the twist and thrust of his puppet rods, dark on the screen of his desire. He dances me, a rhythmic indignity for all to see, trapped by a tune in his head... Does the crowd think me dead, though my eyes dilate in the lantern glow, or do they prefer not to know? Paul McDonald Paul McDonald taught at the University of Wolverhampton for twenty five years, where he ran the Creative Writing Programme. He took early retirement in 2019 to write full time. He is the author of over twenty books, which cover fiction, poetry, and scholarship. His creative work has won and been shortlisted for numerous prizes including The Bedford Prize, The Bridport Prize, The John Clare Poetry Prize, the Ottakars/Faber and Faber Poetry Competition, the Sentinel Poetry Prize, the Sentinel Short Story Prize, and Retreat West Flash Fiction Prize, nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and Best of the Net. ** Shadowing Jan, I still talk to you in my head almost every day. I hope you talk to me like that, too. Remember our spy phase in sixth grade when The Man from U.N.C.L.E. came on TV? This is going to sound crazy, but you know how my mind takes leaps. Today I saw a presentation of Java shadow puppets at an art museum. I think the only puppets I saw as a kid were on The Ed Sullivan Show. These flat puppets projected through a backlit screen reminded me of our spy nights. Remember how we’d sit on the hill across the street to shadow our folks watching TV? Their matching picture windows were almost like side-by-side screens. Boring! Well, it would have been if we hadn’t juiced it up by making up dialogues for the enemy agents who were only pretending to watch TV – their cover in suburbia. I’m pretty sure most shows were already in colour, but we still had black and white sets. The eerie blue light through cigarette smoke and sheer curtains showed us almost nothing – just who was on the sofa in front of the window and who got up. But we took our mission for U.N.C.L.E. seriously. You had a crush on Napoleon while I was nuts over Illya. Once a car with two men pulled up in front of my house. We squealed and ran. We actually believed those actors might drop by to help solve our case! Your folks hardly moved – just sat watching the tube with your mom’s head leaning on your dad’s shoulder. Remember how we wore ear plugs from our transistors, pretending we were intercepting transmissions? Their diabolical boss bribed script writers to slip clues into the night’s programming. “Shhh, Olga’s speaking. If anyone mentions red dog, they’ll meet the 7:30 a.m. train arriving from Pittsburgh at Grand Central Station tomorrow. No red dog means they’re stuck here another week. Wait, Olga just got up and left the room. She must be packing!” A few minutes later, there was a loud bang at Anna and Misha’s home next door. The window went black. “I’ll call you tomorrow!” I yelled, racing for home. My dad had thrown the TV against the wall and shorted out the power. I’d never heard the term broken home before, but I now knew what one sounded like. Alarie Tennille Alarie Tennille did have a crush on Illya Kuryakin (actor David McCallum). The rest of this writing is fiction. Alarie graduated from the first coed class at the University of Virginia. Now retired, she devotes a substantial part of her poetry life to The Ekphrastic Review. Please check out her three poetry books on The Ekphrastic Bookshelf and visit Alarie at alariepoet.com. ** Shadow Puppets Are elegant, intricate cut and painted, arms and legs long and thin as spindles, the hands delicate, expressive, their gestures clear, emphatic, unmistakable, cast in shadows against the lighted screen, they move like dancers through the old stories everyone knows, sacred and familiar, repeated in that magic theater. As night falls the music rises, flutes and drums beat and chime as voices sing an introduction. Lit, the fire lantern shines through the white cloth casting the puppet shadows into crisp relief, where every movement every small detail, is figured in the bright space between memory and creation where Master and audience find themselves again dreaming the old stories down to their eternal bones- shining like diamonds, true as all the fixed and errant stars we trust to guide us. Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy is a Retired RN with a life long love of art and writing. Her work has appeared in many anthologies and journals, including Third Wednesday, Verse Virtual, The Ekphrastic Review, and Earth’s Daughters. She has been a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. Her digital chapbook Things I Was Told Not to Think About is available as a free download from Praxis magazine. ** The King I Am Notice the gold leaf, leather, buffalo horn Magnificent ornament of my clothes. Craftsmen wear their fingers To the bone to make them, And my nose so proud It points like an accusing finger At you, my friend. Beware. It detects wisdom, good and evil. Each hot, Smokey night The play, my play, Has me confront monsters and men In my kingdom, in my palace. I chase ogres, glimpse beautiful Sita. Ring the gamelan! Draw near! Let the play begin! And yet. And yet… In this whirligig someone says, Some whispering child from the front row, That I am but shadow, A prop, someone’s hand in my stomach! I wait in the darkness Mute in the darkness Hiding my shame My gold and vermillion jewels But a dull smudge in the darkness. I am shadow now, only essence. There is a moment When the shadow draws back When the eyes in your heart Are opened and you see me In all my glory. Lucie Payne Lucie Payne is a retired Librarian and is writing as much as she can. ** In the Land of Shadow Puppets I snuff out the candle just as the gamelan gong sounds once, twice. A moment of silence and then the drums begin to beat. Shadows march out of my mind. Guided by bamboo sticks fixed to hands and feet, exotic shapes scissor across a sheet bleached white by light. They poke elongated noses into my psyche, its foibles and fancies. Hours pondering le mot juste. Holding my husband’s hand at concerts. His hugs that find us dancing through the kitchen. Who are these shades from another culture whose playfulness stirs a flurry of memories? Let them be spirits come to guide me. Let them know my name, rekindle joy. Sandi Stromberg Sandi Stromberg is a dedicated contributor to The Ekphrastic Review, which has honoured her with one of its Fantastic Ekphrastic Awards and twice nominated her poems for Best of the Net. Also twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize, her poetry has appeared in many small journals and anthologies, most recently in MockingHeart Review, Equinox, easing the edges: a collection of everyday miracles, San Pedro River Review, The Ocotillo Review, and in Dutch in the Netherlands in Brabant Cultureel and Dichtersbankje (the Poet’s Bench). For ten years, she served on the board of Houston’s Mutabilis Press, dedicated to poetry.
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