 Landscape, by John Wesley Hardrick (USA) c. 1930-1940 Gaea, Goddess of the Earth “When the well is dry, we will know the worth of water.” ~Benjamin Franklin Below the pastel parade the Chantilly cream of clouds the sheen of green softens beneath the yellow rustle of leaves. Near the dense blend of forest arboreal elders stand atop the rocks of ages shade the shoreline reflect buoyancy. Amidst the cascade of gifts Gaea sustains life itself– she offers us a glass of water day in and day out– goddess willing. Jeannie E. Roberts Jeannie E. Roberts is a poet, visual artist, and the author of nine books. Her latest full-length poetry collection is titled On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing (Kelsay Books, 2025). From 2018 - 2026, she served as a poetry editor for Halfway Down the Stairs. She finds joy spending time outdoors and with loved ones. ** The Bridge A long ago At the dawn of Creation There was a bridge That unified the banks of the river That unified birth and death The Inhabitants who lived nearby Called this bridge Life Time The Time of life Over the unknown Over the emptiness Where all was possible Dreams have become reality Today the bridge is gone Only the will to live remains Only the Present Only a peaceful Landscape Jean Bourque Jean Bourque is from Montreal. ** Creative Vision In the half-open space between water and sky mist rises above old growth firs, the smell of green comes from everything, grassy banks, pinecones, conifer needles, nurse logs with unearthed bark, and with all these forest floor smells, I still want more. Spider webs spread low, dew catches sun’s light, fresh holds the morning. This could be a woodland dream, perhaps I slept too deep, but no, as sun hits water, fish feed, ripples appear. Round the bend ducks fly in, wings beat hard, sounds flutter, slap the air. Above the tree canopies elbowed wings carry a feathered belly with sooty stripes, keen eyes scan for silver and fins. Whether a vision, or a real scene, skin, bones, muscles and grace all rejoice in this wild place. Ursula McCabe Ursula McCabe sold wine in Portland, Oregon for many years. Her work can be seen in Piker Press, Oregon Poetry Association, The North Coast Squid, Bluebird Word, and The Ekphrastic Review. She likes the ocean, forests, lots of birds and shopping at thrift stores. ** Moving Like A River …comings and goings from miles away that hold the stillness exactly before us. William Stafford, "Ask Me" Light reassembles daily on branches overhung with river’s moods and birds like airy stones that skip across. Sky’s breath collects in clouds. Painter at home in his nest, brushes dipped in sungold. No place else to be, no race to be superior. No gatekeepers but his eye, his talent, skill. Nothing but esteem, exhibit awards for best of his people. Every day, watch the river propel itself, its own design and power moving past borders, flooding over banks even though confined. Lynn Axelrod Lynn Axelrod's work has appeared in various journals and outlets such as The Ekphrastic Review, Sheila-Na-Gig, Orchards Poetry Journal, California Quarterly; has been anthologized, most recently in Freedom Of New Beginnings: Poems of Witness And Vision; and was featured in the San Francisco Chronicle. Her work is in the James Joyce Library Special Collections, University College, Dublin. She is working on her third chapbook. ** Boreal Villanelle Sun pours molten into the lake. Loon bares its white heart. Its red eye. White pines lie down on the water and love themselves. Heron flies the shoreline in a blue cape. Chipping sparrow strikes its flint. Sun pours molten into the lake. Ruby-throat hummingbird: glowing embers. Yellow Swallowtail butterfly flits Star flower to Dandelion. White pines lie down on the water and love themselves. I dip my paddle, a spoon to my lips. Ventriloquist loon throws his voice. Sun pours molten into the lake. Cedars exhale. Moist breath on my face. The lake liquifies my heart. White pines lie down on the water and love themselves. Campfire smoulders. Its red eye. Osprey coasts on a hot thermal. Sun pours molten into the lake. White pines lie down on the water and love themselves. Kate Rogers Kate Rogers’ new poetry collection, Baba Yaga and the Girl Who Ate the Rope, is out now with Frontenac House. She won first prize in subTerrain Magazine’s Lush Triumphant Award for her five-poem suite, “My Mother’s House.” Kate’s work has appeared in Pinhole Poetry, The Windsor Review and World Literature Today, among other journals. ** The Truth About Lakes Don’t listen to what they say. A lake can be a blessing or a curse. Its waters reflect and absorb at the same time, produce and consume in like manner. Gaze upon it at your own risk, for what you see looks back. One of you is distorted. Look closely: The forest in the lake and the forest above it. The clouds. The sky. What is reflected is beyond reflection. A lake carries you into recesses of feeling, writes Wordsworth, otherwise impenetrable. Plath looked into it, hopeful at first, then dolefully. In me, says the lake, she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish. There is a haunting beauty here, and a beautiful haunting. I admire it from a distance, this bucolic scene. But I will not look into it. Don’t listen to what they say. Ron Wetherington Ron Wetherington is a retired professor of anthropology. He has published a novel, Kiva (Sunstone Press), and numerous short fiction, prose poems and literary essays. Read some of his work at https://www.rwetheri.com/ ** Billowing Billowing life is the essence-- Secrets concealed in its fold, Wild, unrestrained, and untold, Hide in its green opalescence. Billowing whiteness of heaven-- Breath from a passionate lung, Ever renewed, ever young-- Rises like luminous leaven. Under the surface, a riot, Raging in torrents unseen, Mirrors the white and the green-- Billowing, hidden and quiet. Iryna Hall Iryna Hall immigrated to the US from Ukraine in 1997. She is married, with three children, and lives in Utah. Iryna writes while managing multiple sclerosis. ** The Manifold Matrix The manifold matrix multiplies its magic, This way I hear the radius say each line of number is a prayer I pray. I follow the outline and trace the plot, gracing each spot as parallel zigzag motion rises. I zoom out to find no commotion, only magnification and movement in time and space. Gravity is a rhyme so sublime, nestled within time and paced, Within a mathematical place where pi winks its eye at me. Light curves along the horizon and I am free, a shadow humming through a black hole wonder while the universe tears itself asunder. The stars smile as my earth family tries to predict and frame a destiny. Me and you, three, one, and two, are triangular explanations of symmetry. I ask the universe to sing its hymn to me, expending every virtue toward every dividend. Time is a fractal, a spectacular tactical enactment, With all the atoms breathing between me and you. It is true, and they say there is nothing, I say look deep down, just look, find the intuitive mathematical muck, bathe in it, then save with it. All while the multiverse continues its dance Within every solar stance, numbers hum and the big bang fires its gun. Architecture bends and strings climb through the vortex, and I wonder what we will call ourselves when we reach this intergalactic interval. Will we feel the future’s clause and its power, stars disguised as principles all too smart for planetary darts. Sunlight dawns in every universal day as I gather the knowledge needed for the journey to come We rise above inner hells with fire inside, learning through experience, with wings to fly. Magic becomes mathematics as vectors chase light, fractions of traction pulse grace and presence with little or no regard for the energetic expense. Ciara Byrne Gaffney Ciara is a poet based in Dublin Ireland who writes at the intersection of art, science, and imagination. Her work engages deeply with visual prompts, using mathematical metaphor, cosmic movement, and introspective inquiry to create layered responses to the world around her. ** Heaven I’ve dreamed of heaven before. Verdant forests with calm river flow where peace was felt in my core Knowing what the gods have in store this life’s chances I will not blow. I’ve dreamed of heaven before. The lights shine on that distant shore: the promise is there, I know, and I will feel peace in my core. It’s the same for all, rich or poor: we all can bask in this serene glow. I’ve dreamed of heaven before. Though the dream ended, I swore: I believe, there’s no need to show; this eternal peace is felt in my core. It’s hard to believe in times of war when pain is all life seems to bestow, but I’ve dreamed of heaven before and felt its peace in my core. Michelle Garren-Flye ** the waterfall while the lush green trees sit peacefully amid the wind, the roaring waterfall rushes down into the stream below. yet, unbeknownst to the human eye, a sad truth awaits the cascade. with every drop of water, nothing even attempts to grasp and save it; they simply let it fade out of existence, another drop among countless others. however, when it comes to the animals living on the land, everyone will do everything within their ability to save, to preserve, to support. but the waterfall keeps on living. rushing, roaring, plummeting. just like any other day. Arynne Chang Arynne Chang is a 16-year-old high school student with a passion for poetry and songwriting. Her work often explores themes of memory, time, and the human experience through layered metaphors and reflective storytelling. Outside of writing, she enjoys composing music and discovering new ways to tell meaningful stories through both poetry and song. ** Another River Again, I find I am writing of rivers. Their water is always with me. A daughter of Venezuela, I swam the Orinoco River—a tadpole ghost frog, green body swishing. Later, my body was a rainbow trout in the Au Sable, the Holy Waters flanked by state forests, canopied in chilly Michigan wind, lapping water and the soft flicks of fly fishing. Now, I am just a human woman, middle-aged, who hikes among the trees of Pennsylvania, the place that finally felt like home. I knew because it smelled like green and rivers ran through it. The forests were never far away. I could visit my frog and fish relatives, remind them of me. Janette Schafer Janette Schafer is a poet, photographer, playwright, a realtor living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She holds an MFA in poetry from Chatham University. She is the author of three collections of poetry and the chief editor of two poetry anthologies. Her writing and photographs have appeared in numerous journals, newspapers, and websites, including Vox Populi, The Missouri Review, The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, and Eunoia Review. She is a winner of the Academy of American Poets Prize. ** This City When my brushes and I wander away for a day, we float with the clouds, their glow of rose reflecting in the river, and, fading from sight, all the leaves on the trees curling toward the river we cross on a fallen limb, like a road to carry us home to our city that beckons us always. My art is at home there. 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 ** A Land Untouched Lush. Ripe. Verdant. Full foliage in bright sun. Lands untouched by humanity, human pollution, or waste. Imagined dinosaurs graze on the top leaves of trees, unconcerned with tiny beings on the river. Rocs and pterodactyls soar overhead, riding updrafts and screeching with the joy of freedom. Heavy, full air pushes deep into your lungs, far beyond the thin gasps from the city. A pulp magazine paradise that may never exist again. Brydon Caldwell Brydon Caldwell is a long time teacher and emerging writer from the western edge of the Canadian Shield. He was recently named the winner of the 2026 Icelandic Festival of Manitoba Short Story Contest. His writing can be found in The Ekphrastic Review, The Fib Review, and the upcoming Fear Dealer, Opolis 2026, and Still From Somewhere anthologies. ** Reflections As if it's always been this way; once ochre sunlight sweeps the river of mist, a glass reflection reveals elms hovering over elms, maples rising above maples, and pine boughs curving over their bristled duplicate-- a miraculous duality that is after all significant beyond numbers an illusion of light creating one vision out of two a river inverted as a mirror time swept over a waterfall as if it's always been this way as it will be today. Daniel Warren Brown Daniel Warren Brown is a retired special education teacher who began writing poetry as a senior. At age 72 he published his first collection, an exploration of family titled Family Portraits in Verse, and Other Illustrated Poems. Daniel has been published in various journals and anthologies, most recently Jerry Jazz Musician, Chronogram Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review and Kinds of Cool, an anthology of jazz poetry. He was included in Arts Mid-Hudson's Poets Respond To Art in 2022-23. Daniel writes each day about music, art and whatever else captures his imagination. ** Keeping it Real with John Westley Hardrick Your partial namesake painted Double, Pairs, and Diptychs,—not you John Wesley Hardrick, a Hoosier Group impressionist master artist, whose delicate touch applied oil on canvas with masterful brushstrokes invoked indelible spirits and reenergized a mundane, forgettable landscape painting of any Indiana River that renewed vigor and life through eyes of commoners who recognized the shape of a distant organic bridge linking mighty banks where water catapulted past rocks, raced over nearby falls, and rushed their way down to local lakes and tributaries to give Hardrick’s pastoral paintings depth and perspective in a world too often appreciated and defined by its multidimensional nature rather than a forest green heartbeat denoting new beginnings along a waterway that reinvented its precise course through reeds, driftwood, and moss on a daily basis, making each new salmon run a challenge, best fishing holes a crapshoot, secret get-a-way knowledge partly guesswork. Oh, but you never planned, cultivated, or cared about a single vision perceived identically—person to person—through time in memorium; the essence of your Indianapolis landscapes and portraits captured nature’s naked beauty, now and into perpetuity, overwhelming static interpretation. Sterling Warner An award-winning author, poet, and English Professor, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared many literary magazines and anthologies including The Raven’s Perch, LothlórienPoetry Journal, and Ekphrastic Review. Warner’s collections of poetry include Rags and Feathers, Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Edges, Memento Mori: A Chapbook Redux, Serpent’s Tooth, Flytraps, Cracks of Light: Pandemic Poetry & Fiction, Halcyon Days: Collected Fibonacci, Abraxas, Gunills’s, Garden: Poetry, Seaboard Magic (2026)—as well as Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories. Currently, Warner writes, hosts/participates in “virtual” poetry readings, and enjoys retirement in Washington. ** John Wesley Hardrick’s Dreams In his basement studio, he recaptures reflections growing underwater forests churning waters clumped like clouds river banks a slather of oil slick colors. And travels with Lady X after her abandonment at the train station moving hand-to-hand town-to-town home-to-home incognito steady gaze bringing change. Jennifer Hobart After a career in healthcare data and analytics, Jennifer Hobart is picking up writing again. She recently attended the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop. ** Making Contact Divided by a river, the banks observe each other Trees on each side, struggle to look more proud Yet whether accident or design, one reaches out A bridge between perspectives, and yet in a way With more in common than in reality, separates Water flows slowly beneath, as history ever does Glancing up and briefly holding it in its reflection Clouds look down, almost nodding at the scene Nature senses an important connection is made Yet just took only one perhaps fortuitous event Maybe chance played a part, but meaning stays Across the divide Leaning, bending and touching Began something new 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. ** Adversity in Diversity Our privilege, John’s painting skill, imagined dreams beyond his lot - Kentucky Night Riders, failed kill, their hooded incites, escapades; his insights of more glowing scapes, the land more kindly than its folk. Did "Methodist" sustain at all beyond first chapel display site, as works were lost, unclaimed through cost - redemption from Railway Express - that patrons bloomed beyond his real of carpet cleaning, meeting ends? The writing on the wall proclaimed rejected murals came with price - as "aspirations lowered" claimed - but bared the truth, unrecognized, that molten metal was the charge - a milieu framed by labour’s sweat. From trucking to the taxi trunk - a sales pitch point in later years - for prizes, medals, lowly paid; that foundry where he earned his keep. Discarded, re-imagined work found home at last in public park. This peaceful calm remarkable, though surface tension floats through scene, a mirrored theme through outcast works, the schemes of those throughout his class. Unbalanced treatment, Parky sign, exhibited for those who see. 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 ** No Home Beyond the Easel Pearled into one that hasn't already been painted. The river quickens into whirlpools -- the dance of light you see on a polecat's back shortly before it disappears into a terrain of dark canopy that never stops climbing. The river has no home beyond the artist's easel, waiting for the paint to dry. The sky is a chalky cobalt blue. Trees lean in like maulsticks. Over a prism of reflection -- blue blends into black and back to blue, pearled into one. Mark Heathcote Mark’s poems are published in journals, magazines, and anthologies in both online and printed forms. Residing in the UK from Manchester, he is the author of In Perpetuity and Back on Earth, two books of poems published by Creative Talents Unleashed. ** Bucolic Scene belies what has shuddered through my life. And oh, how the placid lake and me, we let the ripples run Let them rush on, collecting into tumultuous churning -- below, steel blue and grey-white, underneath our charmed facade. On the canvas, I stroked verdant foliage to life, tossed brilliant petals in my own divine arrangement, my own freedom to choose. My grandfather was a free man, a Kentucky landowner, but just like the river and me, he had to run on. Night Riders were closing in, and he didn’t hesitate, he chose escape, and with my grandma and their weeping children, they ran further North-free again, yet burdened by multiple losses: Our home, surrounded by acreage, nearby family, animals, friends. Beyond his lifetime, and mine, this will be known as “Generational trauma” but back then, his example to us all was “Move ever forward.” His foresight saved my father, his siblings, grandma, our entire family legacy. And I was taught to push trauma down, to the bottom of the frame- where my artist eye could observe it without wincing, the fury contained forever in the work, below. My artist hands, turned browner in the sun, were not besmirched by their colour, this quality unseen in the work. Yet some can sense a special glow- It’s my soul, It’s my soul. Debbie Walker-Lass Debbie Walker-Lass, (she/her) is a poet, collage artist, and writer living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Collaborature, The Rockvale Review, Green Ink Poetry, Punk Monk, Poetry Quarterly, The Light Ekphrastic and The Niagara Poetry Journal, among others. Debbie was proud to be nominated by TER for the Best Small Fictions, 2024 anthology. Debbie is an avid Tybee Island beachcomber and lover of all things nature. ** Beneath For weeks Mara researched deep sea creatures, devoured ichthyological texts, scoured the Internet for visual reference. And with painstaking attention to detail, she’d created a creature with tentacles tethered to biology, but which had nonetheless emerged from the depths of her imagination. After her presentation, it took mere minutes to paint it away. The presentation had flopped; Dr. Hardy had lived up to his name once again. “You’ve painted a competent landscape in the style of John Wesley Hardrick, then defaced it by plonking this cartoon cryptid in the foreground.” She’d tried to defend the work, but he’d cut her off. “If you want to throw in with the pop surrealists, you’re in the wrong MFA program. Your thesis exhibition is coming up, Mara. Think about it.” She had thought about it, and what pained her more than the rebuke was the thought of her student loans, and what it would mean to shoulder all that debt with no degree to show for it. So, she applied the white, burying her creature beneath a placid reflection of clouds. Or, she mused, perhaps the white mass was a plume of water, splashing upward as something substantial submerged itself. Not gone forever, but biding its time just below the surface. Something strange and unique and powerful, something patient and certain to reemerge. Tracy Royce Tracy Royce is a writer with fiction in 100 Word Story, Bending Genres, Flash Frontier, and MacQueen’s Quinterly. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions, and her story, “Sibling Rivalry,” was selected for Best Microfiction (2026). Find her on Bluesky. ** The Inquest Last night I wrote you a letter, its words breeding a poem. This morning I walk into the mountains, their waterfall rushing with emotion, my handwriting on a page of white vellum... Helga Gundersen I My father died and always said his soul would become his passport back to a land where lindens whispered old secrets and their deepest fragrance at dusk. II My father died and left us his other life, a journal of stories sitting under dust and lamplight. Inside, a sheet of paper was folded, slipped into the heart of his hand-written pages. We were surprised and read the poem learning that a young woman grieved the man who had forsaken her. The air damp and her cold fingers catching the sudden fall of tears. III My breath gone, cobwebs spun from its dust and a red moon bleeding through the mist as pathos fills the woods, the pastures like a herding song, .a calling back of what's been lost, emptied into the glacial. thaw pouring its cascade over a broken bridge of bark, a breach of trust,,, These images and more spilled from that woman's tongue long before our birth. Yet, we now become the donees of her song inhaling the scent of wine and candles. Their flames peaked along with our curiosity as we surmise -- she could have been the daughter of a farmer or school master, someone my father loved months before he left Sweden, someone who wrote letters that were never answered. A girl who had a miscarriage and afterwards walked the pier; her blonde hair measuring the wind's intensity her eyes watching ice drown in the rush of melting water. The river wide and waiting. the fir trees mantled with blue sunlight, the lindens just beginning to leaf. Wendy Howe Wendy Howe is an English teacher who lives in California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, women in conflict and history. Application of imagery, personal reflection and rhythmic language are basic elements of her writing style and expression. Over the years, she has been published in a variety of journals. Among them: The Poetry Salzburg Review, The Interpreter's House, Indelible Magazine., The orchards Journal, Songs Of Eretz, Sun Dial Magazine, The Linnet's Wings and many others. ** Down the Green Valley Down the Green Valley the runnel flows gathering leaves, twigs, bubbles: fish blows following wake to caress the shore. Old man casts line; young man thinks it a bore. Meaning of life in a pool, old man knows. Bait, throw, reel, bait, throw, reel. Old man slows. Walk along muddy banks . Sun glows - perfect spot, resting on the lore down the green valley Frogs splash, bugs fly. Fate only throws A moment. The old man sighs, bestows life, if only young man walks through the door. But, he moves to cars, girls, days of teen core. Old man nods, youth will learn he supposes down the green valley. Robin White Robin is a lifelong creative: poet, writer, painter, collagist, and mixed media artist. She was born and raised and lives in a small gown in Georgia, USA. She loves music from gospel to hair metal. Going thrifting and antiquing followed by good food and good company is a perfect day. Her dream is to live on the beach at her favorite place in the world, Jekyll Island, GA. ** A Moment in Time How does one capture a moment, a feeling, an expression and encompass it all in one single work of art? I’ll tell you how I do it. My family and I work together to create one cohesive masterpiece.
In a general overview, this is how I preserve a special moment in time. What do you do? Kindest Regards and Well Wishes, Maple Brush Katie L. Davey Katie L. Davey is an aspiring author from the rural parts of St. Louis, Missouri. She acquired her BFA in Creative Writing, with minors in Equestrian Studies and Psychology, at Stephens College in May 2024. There she worked on Harbinger Magazine as a staff intern and is a member of Stephens College's chapter of Sigma Tau Delta. She has published six pieces through six separate challenges for The Ekphrastic Review, the most recent being "A Humble Request" as part of the Skyllas Challenge. ** In Xandiana An African-American Evoked this scene, not by decree But his own hand: a seeing man, He raised blue hills where water ran Here for the world to see. To buy this now would be a sound Investment, but the artist found Too few who bought, in spite of all his skills, And though he dreamed in Xanadu for free, He drove a taxicab to pay the bills, And sold his visions incidentally. This makes one think how many were Stripped of chances by the law: But think of all that Hardwick made: The faces and the views portrayed, Scenes of living grace galore. Remembering the human price, Be grateful for whatever led This Indiana artist's head To Kubla's kind of paradise. Ruth S. Baker Ruth S. Baker has published in some online poetry journals. She has a special love for animals and visual art. ** The Holy Water Let me live and die in the kindness of this holy water. The welcoming beauty of life unknown. To submerge in the mystery of life. With the sacredness of a Baptism. Let me sink -drown and be born again. Where did this blue world come from. A mysterious land of water and silk. Of endings and beginnings. Of life untouched. Of purity so bright it hurts my eyes, And makes me love all that is. To swim - to paint . No judgement . No pain. Just of sea of beauty To fall back to the animals and live. To be holy again. Sandy Rochelle Sandy is an internationally published poet, actress, filmmaker, and voice over artist. A Voting Member of the Recording Academy in the Spoken Word Category. Grammy and Emmy nominated. Publications include Impspired, Dissident Voice, Verse Virtual, Amethyst Review, Wild Word, Haiku Universe, One Art, and others. ** To John Wesley Hardrick Regarding Landscape You overwhelm the eye with rich detail -- some softened by the mist becomng veil -- in what I see as portraiture of lands that adds another sense to eye and hand's iconic feel for yield of time's terrain so nurtured by the flowing through its vein of many rains as manna heaven sent, though random, reassuring as intent to be for faith enduring promise kept by torrents and by tears that softly wept would destine such abundance to evolve adapting as it must with firm resolve to rise above the stolid earth and stone as future's kernel yet again regrown. 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. ** During the Walk The clouds are anonymous cumulo-nimbus lines that perch atop the green hued dreams. Cupping the long arch of a path divergent in the forest, the trees cluster amidst the continuous ringing cries of cicadas and crickets. There is no respite from the high decibel songs now monsoon’s here. The land came first and then the sprinkle of trees and then the white barks that stand clothed in the shadows. The water here is a mirror, affording an honest straight forward reflection of all the thoughts that are ferried by the cool morning scented breeze. Why are they ferried everywhere we go? Like the hidden cost of a burden one doesn’t really need. Beyond the curtains of mist, rise the hills. Beyond the trees the terrain extends an invitation for the walk towards the great within. The footsteps are mere intimations of yearning outlined in the wet mud. The shapes you leave behind on the soil are not yours to carry. Step lightly. The feathery air will still know you were here. The lake does not whisper any clues but the spot in the middle which is a soft stroke in silence. The bank curves. The still waters navigate deep into this land of wisdom, this sky that holds the blue, the reminiscence of a knowing sun that lights up the façade of memories. The hidden frogs, the beetles, the ants, camouflage purposefully in time although everything is moving towards night. The gift of a rustle, the benediction of a bird call. Nothing pristine enough for the waters and the leaves to leave untouched. Look into the waters and you will see a face carved with lines. The clouds in the eyes. The heart is a map of choosing wherever you want go. The reflection is a compass on the long way back home. Look up into the distance. The ripples don’t lie. They’ll let you know the breeze here was light, ready to move along with the mind. Preeth Ganapathy Preeth Ganapathy is from Bengaluru, India. Her works have been published in several magazines, more recently, in Pena Literary Magazine, Pensive, Braided Way, The Orchard Poetry Journal and elsewhere. Her microchaps A Single Moment, Purple, and Birds of the Sky have been published by Origami Poems Project. Her work has been nominated for Best Spiritual Literature. **
0 Comments
Your comment will be posted after it is approved.
Leave a Reply. |
Challenges
|
