 The Muster, by Kate Vale (UK) 2024 Passing Is She, bright white in carriage throned, Her troops en masse, strict ranks conform, beneath a Standard pennant flag, as if, as passed, fresh wight in form? Marks fluid, inked, is this tattoo - like passings out to past belong - the military, best of show, prefigured, not as go along. Assembled, gathered on parade, so passing muster, tourist too, the knee high view of passer-by; I hear the sounds, as sight, ring true. Clipped hooves clop, stirrups, reigns that guide? You know that clank - boots, rifles, steel; attest lies with vox populi - Divine right rooted - service zeal? Stephen Kingsnorth Stephen Kingsnorth (Fitzwilliam College, 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 ** All Their Failed Maneuvering The shades are called to the flag raising with muffled drum roll and their moaning but they are always ill prepared to face such murky gray days over and over in the ever growing army of the doomed. Forced to reenact all their failed maneuverings every battle lost. The outcome of each day's war preternatural and predetermined so far beyond the world they thought they knew. dan smith dan smith is the author of Crooked River and The Liquid of Her Skin, the Suns of Her Eyes. He has been widely published in such diverse journals as The Rhysling Anthology and Dwarf Stars and Gas Station Famous and Deep Cleveland Junk Mail Oracle. He does not know how to cut and paste but somehow survives on the kindness of others. dan's latest poems may be found at Five Fleas Itchy Poetry and dadakuku. ** Forever Changing Painting strong women, in illustrious colours, forever changing. 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. ** Equine The time of year? It wasn’t clear; the age? It could have been a hundred years ago or yesterday; the horses? There was Alfred, great and temperamental, Sally, shy and pawing at the ground, and Blaze, just waiting while the others capered round - he wasn’t bothered - and then bringing up the rear was older Ernie - such a gentleman - and Willow, still so spirited and skittish. Or was it Macedonia? Bucephalus a kicking blur as sun emerged from cloud and shadow quickly licked the ground, and all the others followed suit. It might have been a field not far from here where we threw windfalls when we didn’t know much better, when we wanted just to tempt them to the fence. They cantered and they whinnied and they gloried in the free before the capture when the flags were out - the owners made a day of it - and all was rushing midnight, dappled happiness, a bay in mid-abeyance and a stallion disobedient, a flick of silver tail, a trail of movement that evaded being stilled. Caitlin Prouatt Caitlin is a Brisbane-born, Oxford-based Latin and Greek teacher. When not tutoring or looking after her toddler, Caitlin writes poetry, with a particular interest in how rhythm can contribute to an image. Much of her poetry centres on her experiences of being a parent, but she also often returns to Classical themes. She enjoys having a go at the Ekphrastic Challenge to hone her craft. ** The Musters For War Mustering their courage, mustering their faith, collecting together ready to charge, ready to fight, ready to kill, ready to die ordered in order they’re ready to go. These vassals and workers obeying the king obeying their lord, obeying their masters obeying them all. So strangers kill strangers, friends die the same. It’s when they pass muster that death makes the call to muster the ordered at his command. And when they pass muster, that’s when they’ll charge and that’s when they die over and over over and out in order when ordered again and again and again and again again and again and again. 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: Consequence Magazine, 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/ ** Miasma A swirl of hooves and manes and horse flesh. The swish swash of desperate men mustering the cattle to beat the fire. The sky an eerie yellow, orange and grey sits heavy all around, ominously peppered with ash and silt. There’s a gravity in the air to furrow the brow of the sternest of cowboy. No time to think. No time to muster courage. Act on instinct and a grave fear. And hope like hell that the God of Wind has a change of heart and blows in another direction. Adam Stone Adam lives and loves on the Bellarine Peninsula in Victoria, Australia - Wathaurong land (Balla-wein). He is an award-winning lyricist and emerging author who thoroughly enjoys short story and flash fiction writing. He is a member of Writers Victoria, Geelong Writers Inc and Bellarine Writers. ** The Muster No gleaming uniforms with gold buttons, no smart hats to match. ‘Just’ a gaggle of tired warriors who came home, who battled it out with the enemy’s tired warriors. But they were left standing. torn cloth, captured head gear, gas masks and shields. Hundreds of young men left unprotected on the muddy earth, in water-logged trenches. A wind assaults those heroes, a wind moves their rags. A single small flag held high-- is it theirs or the one they grabbed as a last moment of triumph from the defeated soldiers? Their queen rides past, inspecting what is left from a once strong and voiceful battalion, young men in their prime roaring their defiance at the outset of their long march towards the killing fields. Will they learn to love again? Rose Mary Boehm Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as eight poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was three times nominated for a ‘Pushcart’ and once for ‘Best of Net’. Do Oceans Have Underwater Borders? (Kelsay Books, July 2022), Whistling In The Dark (Cyberwit, July 2022), and Saudade (December 2022) are available on Amazon. Also available on Amazon is a new collection, Life Stuff, published by Kelsay Books, November 2023. A new MS is brewing. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/ ** To Kate Vale Regarding The Muster Here gathered are your traces cast of yesterdays now glazed as past where stoic stares that never blinked at future rendered indistinct bespoke the faith that fear will call to fierceness that becomes a pall to.evil that would shackle soul to absence of the self control that is its nature by design as image of its source divine compelling fearless sacrifice of life and limb as precious price preserving justice under law as strength the free and brave will draw. 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. ** Worthy You don’t want to go there said the voices inside my head. But where is there? I wondered, not for the first time. How does one find out where one does not want to go? I came when called but now I am gone. No company follows me; nor does time. I keep casting nets of summoning but nothing remains inside except the outlines of stars, the silhouettes of the shadows of souls that I feel but cannot see. It’s not nothing; nor is it nowhere. But where is it? and why? They said fly the flag. But they knew nothing of wings. Flags are heavy with a hollow silence that reeks of ghosts. They are held by the gravity of earthbound bones, laid over and over again like sacrificial lambs over millions of unlived lives. I came when called but now I am gone. endless bodies spill out, one after the other, bearing the crossroads-- sailing over the earth’s edge into the absence of light Kerfe Roig A resident of New York City, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. Follow her explorations on her blogs, https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/ (which she does with her friend Nina), and https://kblog.blog/. ** After Kate Vale’s The Muster Young flowers grow in innocent sunburst spring gardens, HERE they thrive in yellows, reds and orange though there COMES a price for maturing, mute and muted, as drab as THE next marching flower purple, gray, colours muster together a BIG hup, hup, hup uniform command toward one more ceaseless PARADE. Daniel W. Brown Author's note: The words “Here Comes The Big Parade” are by Phil Ochs. Daniel W. Brown began writing poetry as a senior. At age 72 he published his first collection Family Portraits In Verse and Other Illustrated Poems through Epigraph Books, Rhinebeck, NY. world. Daniel has been published in various journals and anthologies, and he has hosted a youtube channel ‘Poetry From Shooks Pond’. He was also included in MId-Hudson's Arts ‘Poets Respond To Art’ in 2022-23 and writes each day about music, art and whatever else captures his imagination. ** Muster Must go to war looking good for some reason Scare them off Attract them Feel your Sunday best When you meet them Muster the manteaux The boots on your ground The cutting edge uniform It matters This wool may soon unravel the last thread of civilization This dress Designed to die for. Stien Pijp Stien Pijp lives in the Dutch country side. She is a linguist who works in the field of aphasia and care. A dreamy person who likes to hang around, to read and walk her dog. ** Curious Choice “The Muster.” Where to hang you? Odd tapestry of cold sunshine, Restive lancers, grim polearms. This choice will bemuse my friends. Manly strutting, cocksure bravado! Not my usual fare. Entry wall? An earthy rumpus of welcome. Inviting gusty, good-natured set-tos? Maybe the kitchen? My stews of Ragoos, Bigos, Stifados—burping, bumping. Echoing Bays, Pintos, Draughts—snorting, kicking. Ah, the library. Sink into soft leather, mind purling. Dissolve into dust of Crusades. Or the bath? Deliquesce amid steamy bubbles? How will apricot vapor recast tangy metallic dust? Then again, perhaps the office. To do pendant battle: paperwork vs infidel. Yes! The office! Place of my tantrums, snorting, pawing of earth! Where paperwork bites, stings, nettles Until I whine and bray in a dander. I know why I bought you! Anna Gallagher Anna Gallagher earned a bachelors degree in English and a masters degree in liberal arts from University of Delaware. She has enjoyed reading poetry all her life. After retirement she has tried some new challenges, including poetry writing! ** faire weather a rain-streaked window dulls the pennants blurs riders and mounts assembled on the field no need to attend it never changed an autumn pageant games and mock jousting today they would return mud spattered and loud today the field is muddy some horses uneasy it is a long tradition boys claim manhood with sweat and bruises sit proud in their saddles except once when horses fell and riders were thrown stories vary but all agree it was raining that long-ago day I watch from the window remember he was only twelve Kat Dunlap Kat Dunlap grew up in Norristown PA and now resides in Massachusetts where she is a member of the Tidepool Poets of Plymouth. She received a BA in English from Arcadia University and holds an MFA from Pacific University. She edited two college writing publications as well as the Tidepool Poets Annual. For many years she was Director of the National Writing Project site at University of Massachusetts Dartmouth and is currently the co-owner of Writers Ink of MA. Her chapbook The Blue Bicycle is being prepared for an autumn launch. ** Muster Haiku All able-bodied men must fight for realm in mist – girls eyes in tears. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and is a keen TER contributor. Her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europa Edizioni. ** Riding Farther, Beyond Milady, will you ride? Will you travel into the deepest dunes, far from ephemeral water's side? Others, bright popinjays, set their sights towards their homelands in the distant west. Their journeys are much different to ours. They will merely cross distance. We travel farther, to the realms beyond. Milady, do you yearn for your home? Does it call your spirit, summon your very soul? Ours is a home found in the harshest climes, far from markets, far from towns, far from pooled water. Far away from this harrying bustle, the cries that arise around us; the herdsmen gathering their hardy flocks and the wranglers of our steadfast mounts readying all for the muster. We travel far, deep, beyond. We'll leave this wadi fed oasis, a temporary convenience of the physical world. The only sounds we'll hear are the songs of the wind, the sand, and a heart beating deep within each traveller's breast. Lean voices will sometimes rise in stilted silty conversations, prayers, invocations and curses - spare, by necessity only. The sun, the stars and the moon, and our inner thoughts will keep us company, be our guide and our compass. No paper map can capture the shifting sands. Only those who know the deep desert dare attempt our journey. Travelling beyond will lend much time for inner contemplation. Already, perched high in your black headdress and robes, with your stillness, you are apart from the hoi polloi, separate to the scene. Milady, are you ready? Milady, will you ride? Emily Tee Emily Tee is a writer living in the UK Midlands. She's had some pieces published in The Ekphrastic Review challenges previously, and elsewhere online and in print. ** The Mind’s Command before the start of the Battle of Senses The enemy is advancing. Row after row, wave after wave. They will crash into our shores in some time. Their sharpened weapons flash like lightning in the purple sky. Their battle-cries rent the pewter air. But fret not, my dear men. We sweat in peace, in meditation. We have sharpened the saws of our breath, emptied our thoughts and sat in stillness. Mark my words, we will not bleed during this fight. Part the grey curtains of fear. Stand your ground. Mount your horses and elephants to travel away from the land of doubt. Let your courage spiral up and touch the uncharted azure of the skies. Let the spire of your strength silhouette this morning of glory. Let the cathedral of your past be a monument to your faith. Let the russet pennants of discipline ripple through the halcyon winds of the present. It is time. Time for us to emerge from behind the shape-shifting shadows into the open air and breathe, my men. Breathe. Breathe this air, fragrant with victory. Preeth Ganapathy Preeth Ganapathy is a software engineer turned civil servant from Bengaluru, India. Her recent works have been published in several magazines such as Last Stanza Poetry Journal, The Ekphrastic Review, Star 82 Review, Panoply Zine, Visual Verse, Quill & Parchment, Shotglass journal, Sparks of Calliope, Tiger Moth Review, The Sunlight Press, Ink, Sweat & Tears and various other journals. Her microchaps A Single Moment and Purple have been published by Origami Poems Project. Her work has been nominated for the 2023 Best Spiritual Literature. ** A muster of memories Emerging from the mist are figures blurred by memory. A surge of energy sweeps these bodies, becoming and un-becoming, an army of the unseen. Colours create contours and shadows stretch into shapes as the past and future clash in the pervasive present. They move but don't, their essence felt yet not, caught in the tide of existence this muster of spirits dances on the edge of what we don't wish to be. Between night and day secrets whisper in dark hues A muster of memories Nivedita Karthik Nivedita Karthik is a graduate in Immunology from the University of Oxford. She is an accomplished Bharatanatyam dancer and published poet. She also loves writing stories. Her poetry has appeared in Glomag, The Ekphrastic Review, The Society of Classical Poets, The Epoch Times, The Poet anthologies, Visual Verse, The Bamboo Hut, Eskimopie, The Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal, and Trouvaille Review. Her microfiction has been published by The Potato Soup Literary Journal. She also regularly contributes to the open mics organized by Rattle Poetry. She currently resides in Gurgaon, India, and works as a senior associate editor. She has two published books, She: The reality of womanhood and The many moods of water. ** Before the End and After the Beginning Slouching through grey fields and yellow skies the prophet’s life is not sunshine but scorching. Banners stand behind him, standards of an unknown god, lost in the dust and the depression. Hope is a forlorn word in the dust of the bowl that prophets use to carry their peace. Nobody told him about the bit of life between the twin destinies of birth and death. He was foretold. He was destined for an end. Nobody ever gave him a middle to work through. He expected blazes of glory and then death and was therefore unprepared for the plodding of his rugged horse along a rising road. This is the end, but not his. Not yet. Maureen Martin Maureen Martin is an aspiring writer from Ohio. Her passions include Shakespeare, literature and film criticism, overindulging in herbal teas, and working as an English teacher. She is a published poet, with several pieces appearing online at the The Ekphrastic Review. ** Follow Me Closely I shuffle in the saddle, my spine unaligning with every jostle of the horse. I relish the respite when he pauses. Is he as horrified as I am? I gape at the mass of flesh, blurred by the smoke, everything ahead an expanse of formlessness. And my men are behind me. My back groans when I turn around, my fellows are simply shadows. It is better for me that way. Is it blind trust that keeps them in line? Or fear? Do they know that I do not know their names or their wives’ names or if they have sons and daughters? Do they know how it churns my stomach that I have asked them to follow me into their last fight and I do not know who they are? What they like to eat? Who they were before? The opposition will get the lucky ones, a quick arrow or a deep slice from a sturdy sword. Disease will ravage the average folk while the lack of food and drink will hunt down the poor bastards that are overlooked. I yank the reigns, Peacock neighs, and marches us into the thick of the fight. I hear the shuffle of the group behind me. For those that make it out alive, I vow to break bread with you and learn your name, write your story. But for now, please follow me closely. Samantha Gorman Samantha Gorman, a lifelong lover of books, lives in Western Pennsylvania. After taking several creative writing classes, she found her voice and had begun the adventure of becoming a writer. She writes poetry, short fiction, and is working on her first novel. ** The judgement of Ériu, Banba and Fódla They gathered about the green hill in their coloured cloaks and the jingle of bridle and bit. Uneasy alliances were sworn beneath unsettled skies for the enemy ships were slick as salmon, and they filled the trough of every wave, thunder breaking from their wordless throats. Thunder broke from wordless throats as the enemy gathered about the green hill in their coloured cloaks, and the musical jingle of bridle and bit was lost in the roar of the waves. We, in our ships bright as leaping salmon, will bring the sea troughs ashore, fill them with blood. Words broke like thunder from the throats of the three queens upon the hill, and filled the trough of the waves with the jingle of horse-music. They opened their palms and let good sense rain down on both sides, coloured cloaks and leaping ships, and the world filled with peace, for a while. Jane Dougherty Pushcart Prize nominee, Jane Dougherty’s poetry has appeared in publications including Gleam, Ogham Stone, Black Bough Poetry, Ekphrastic Review and The Storms Journal. Her short stories have been published in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Prairie Fire, Lucent Dreaming among others, and her first adult novel will be published in 2025 by Northodox Press. She lives in southwest France and has published three collections of poetry, thicker than water, birds and other feathers and night horses. ** Lady Grey Poupon Muster muster muster I’m so sick of muster It’s mustard darling now finish up your truffle poutine & go tell papa he’s torn his flag again I’ll mend it when Lady Grey Poupon & her troupe agree to cut their muster Donna-Lee Smith Donna-Lee Smith writes by light of moon and lament of loon way south of 60. ** Wicked Women It was a rag-bag of the young and the old, the bleary-eyed and the hawk-sharp, their horses and donkeys and asses, that assembled that morning. And there were dogs. Dogs of the street, circling for scraps. Curious dogs that had wandered from their guarding posts to sniff around the crowd for any signs of danger. Dogs deliberately brought along by their owners to swell the melee and add yapping and growling to the menace of the crowd. The disorder hid the steely purpose of the villagers. Everyone, be they man or beast, had a focus on the mission they had been set the night before by the Captain. The village was under siege. They had to defend it from the forces of evil. The Captain was the seventh son of a seventh son. With his all-seeing eye, he saw things that others did not. He understood the ways of the underworld and divined messages from the other side. How lucky that the Captain had returned when he did or they would have been ignorant of the threat by forces they could not comprehend. Yesterday evening, he brought the tale of his return journey from foreign parts to the Inn at the crossroads. The road back had taken him through the acres-wide forest to the north of the village. The branches of the trees and the bracken on the floor harboured spirits from the beyond. His attuned ears heard the whispers, heard the voices rising on the breeze, sharing their plans. He was chilled to his core. This morning the Captain, up front of the mob, was in full battle regalia, astride a fine Chestnut mare. Both held their heads high and haughty, both dressed with elaborate white head dresses, evoking the tales of far away that the Captain spun whenever he returned home. Stories of terrifying warriors, adorned with yards of pristine linen, necks hung with beads in all the colours of the rainbow and armed with decorated clubs and arrows, more accurate in their delivery than the muskets the men harboured in their dank cottages. A standard bobbed between the white-flecked steaming haunches of the horses, the bearer making his way to the front. The Captain roared his instructions. On his signal they were to follow him across the plain and into the forest. They were to stay together, keep their animals quiet and their own tongues still. The spirits had ears everywhere. The Captain turned onto the plain and dropped his arm. The gentle yard-horses reared at the pull of the bit in their mouths and the slap on the work-gnarled hands on their haunches. The undisciplined platoon immediately dissipated over the plain, swirling in and out of their lines as the sand might lift and scatter in the sea-wind. They made it to the edge of the forest as an ill-drilled troupe and waited for more instructions. With one finger to his lips and his other hand beckoning them on, the Captain led them into the tinder-dry forest. To a man, they heard the wails as soon as hoof hit bracken. And then the cackling. They froze, stuck to their horses, petrified by the creatures hidden in the canopy and the undergrowth. The Captain ordered a dismount. At this several horses reared and turned for home. Some left frightened men behind, some took their riders with them. The depleted foot soldiers followed the standard deeper into the forest. The clearing came into view as they crested the hill. From below came a dreadful cacophony of shrieks and laughter. And cackles. Hideous, ear-piercing cackles from the rictus mouths of crones. Tough men, like Amos the blacksmith and Elijah the Innkeeper, blanched and shook. These were meddlesome women cast out for interference in the ways of the village. For witchery. Ugly, ancient hags. Hairless, toothless, colourless, shapeless women with spells enough to bring fine men to their knees. Living between this world and the next. No use to anyone yet here were ten, eleven, maybe a baker’s dozen, writhing in malignant ecstasy. And cackling like the devil. How can this be that these disgusting and dangerous creatures cannot understand their lowly status and their need to be grateful? Grateful they had only been banished and not drowned or burnt. The Captain’s headdress could be seen swishing frantically from side to side as his horse circled along the edge of the rise. The men began to dissolve into the undergrowth, quietly slinking down the hill with the hope of escape. Suddenly the Captain raised his arm and gave the signal to charge. His horse, nostrils flaring and mane slicked back by the wind, ran towards the coven. Startled, a handful of the men leapt to their feet and unthinkingly joined the charge. The witches, seemingly oblivious to the danger, continued their rituals and merrymaking. As the Captain reached the clearing the women turned as one and rose to meet the tops of the canopy, their eyes glowing. The horse skidded and stumbled, throwing the Captain to the ground and, knees buckled, it crumpled on top of him. This was their last battle. The men shrank back in horror shielding their eyes to avoid the spells and the spirits boiling the air. At first the heat scorched the dry scrub. Then the flames took hold, licking at the trees, igniting the undergrowth and surging across the clearing. The men were engulfed, charred where they stood or lay, no chance to escape. The crones, gathered unscathed in the centre of the clearing, cackled as the smoke and steam rose through the canopy, the wind blowing in across the plain. The ash fell across the village, petrifying all that lay in it’s path. No-one survived save a small girl child whose mother had been drowned as a witch five summers ago. Caroline Mohan Caroline Mohan is based in Ireland and writes sporadically - mostly stories with the occasional poem and mostly in workshops. She is currently enjoying ekphrastic writing. ** Days on End She lets me in even though I’m a stranger. She offers pleasantries slightly askew, like the sky’s been yellow for days on end, I swear the sun forgot to set! Down the hall that leads to her bedroom, I catch the starchy rustles of the nurse we hired to help her dress and feed her cat. She’s been painting again, a good sign, or just a sign that something reminded her of whom she used to be – the evergreen smell of turpentine or the ochre in a sunrise. My head tilts, a reflex from when my opinion was the first she wanted. The canvas is thick with vertical lines, black in their middles easing to gray, bars of a prison cell or shadows across her carpet. I like this one, I say, but it’s the wrong thing because she’s gone now, drifting to a stool by the window, wrapping herself in a cloudy silence to punish my wandering beyond a stranger’s small talk. The beige cat opens its mouth against the corner of a blank canvas inclined against the wall. Outside the window, the world is the colour of mustard, of my mother’s permanent day. Joanna Theiss Joanna Theiss is a writer living in Washington, DC. Her stories have appeared in Chautauqua, Peatsmoke Journal and Milk Candy Review, among others, and she is an associate editor at Five South. In a past life, Joanna worked as a lawyer, practicing criminal defense and international trade law. You can find book reviews, links to her published works, and her mosaic collages at www.joannatheiss.com. Twitter @joannavtheiss Instagram @joannatheisswrites
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