 We Are All Eve, by Monica Marks (USA) 2023. Click image to visit artist site. Eve at Dawn Recycled from discarded parts, deserted wastes, thought inert, to craft a mediation’s start. Reconstituted from the past, collective memory at last, identity in wholesome heart. the art of healing on our part This meeting, collage on the frame, rings out our charming, chiming bells, tells of whom, what, why we are. Preformed in stature, dignity, whatever disability assigned, thought signifying all, but outperformed in being soul. As norm in this collective noun we people, persons earthed in clay, may find ourselves, bound in collage. Enhanced in status, being found, ephemera, that written off, we trust, spell out respect for all. For therein lies our healing call. 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 ** Only Human Blueness of my soul, transitioning into beauty. We’re only human. 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. ** Destiny The body, with a destiny that marked the beginning A proud torso, with breasts in a dark metallic sheen Hidden arms and hands holding up an angel’s wings As if wrenched away, and displayed as some trophy A sad predictable outcome, that was now not to be The neck reaching up toward the head, now missing Replaced by a representation of the sun and its rays A jewelled symbol, strategically placed on the navel And almost completes the message to be considered It was never just this one body image, all are special 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. ** The Invention of Violence That’s all that’s left of her. She was found in this tree. A guy with a rigged-up radio says he picked up a violet signal, whatever that is, and suddenly in a burst of static, lit up the sky. And now this. Police report says she’s from outer space, but a farmer not a mile from here says he saw her in his apple orchard last week trying to get a ripe one, but since it’s December, there ain’t no apples. Octavio, artist from the island of dolls, says he fashioned her out of chicken feathers and coins from the bottom of a well. Put a headdress on her made of cedar intended for metronomes and fire. All I know is somebody took her out of this tree like a bird of prey in the wrong hemisphere. Set her down here, just outside this garden that somehow appeared out of thin air. Beautiful and terrible angel from the clouds come to offer balm to conjurers who’ve lost their way with magic. This tree was never any good. Farmer says he posted a sign once warning folks not to eat anything from it. Lenny DellaRocca Lenny DellaRocca’s latest collection, Pandemonium, recently won the 2025 Slipstream Chapbook Competition. He’s been nominated twice for a Pushcart and once for Best of Net. His latest work can be found in Tupelo Quarterly, Denver Quarterly, I-70 Review, and Blazevox. DellaRocca has poems forthcoming in Chiron Review and Rawhead. In 2016, Lenny founded South Florida Poetry Journal where he served as publisher and editor. He is curator and a co-editor of Chameleon Chimera, An Anthology of Florida Poets. His other chapbook Things I See in the Fire won the 12th annual Yellowjacket chapbook contest. His other books include Festival of Dangerous Ideas. ** Staying With The Trouble (a rensaku) in our loneliness across the Eremocene she tempts us again to fly away on wings of mulberry paper far from not-Eden but we must remain wedded to the Chthulucene on the eve of hope 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. ** Weaving Out of Eve's Unending Mystery Scene If I'm honest, I’m not sure which one is me The layers overlap blurring out memory Bolster bulges and press form reliefs Where sounds seep from dry keys Gather belly button bruise rings Into bottled suspicious things Around mirror rigged wings But, through these flings Peirce identity themes Passing long springs A circuitous stream Clinging to strings And, yet believe On my dreams This means I will sing Still free To be Me Brendan Dawson Brendan Dawson is an American born writer based in Italy. He writes from his observations and experiences while living, working, and travelling abroad. Currently, he is compiling a collection of poetry and short stories from his time in the military and journey as an expat. ** Code Blue "...the persistent impact of invisible struggles while fostering space for vulnerability, healing and connection." Monica Marks website (on her art) "Turn to the right, there's a little white light Will lead you to my blue heaven." "My Blue Heaven," Walter Donaldson & George R. Whiting Was it love or writing that had been her armour? She had a passion for words -- cerulean, indigo, cobalt -- lines layered in sapphirine fabric painted on her blue torso. Did she look like the sky had fallen in blue notes? Or in an ocean where the white-capped waves were clouds, wing-feathers for an unidentified angel? She hadn't been able to find herself in time to be both arial and earthly -- an alchemical queen on canvas with pearl epaulets, her crown created with paint- brushes sprouting from her hair like sun rays. Was she, by night, a source of cosmic entertainment? Blue Moon, you saw me standing alone -- without a dream in my heart — without a love of my own... Why was it always the avian male who caught his lady's eye with azurite feathers? She was lacklustre today (drab, she was drab) unable to build a new nest hidden in a green-leafed garden. Eden was a biblical memory, and she'd never found The Garden of Earthly Delights her white dress trimmed with rain-washed gold as if the sun had given her details of an American Indian legend where the firstborn son of the Sun is a bird-- Blue Bird-- and didn't Uncle Remus have a blue bird on his shoulder? It's the truth -- it's actual -- everything is satisfactual! When the band quit before Gene Austin crooned "My Blue Heaven" with the boys at The Friars Club, someone found an old guy with a cello for backup along with a song plugger who was pretty good with piano, plus a guy who could whistle bird calls. It was music from her mama's time, maybe when a singer who called herself Midnight Sugar wore a flapper dress trimmed with fringe -- did Midnight feel the blues like I do, with that special touch of words & music before time takes time, a lifeline with scrawls & squalls at rest when God calls out Code Blue to the whip-poor-wills & a blue bird I call happiness. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp lives and writes in Houston. Honoured many times by The Ekphrastic Review's Challenge, she finds that age is making her sentimental. Her mother, who always played “Blue Moon,”taught her that happiness can be translated as music: “When whip-poor-wills call” is the first line of “My Blue Heaven.” ** To Monica Marks Regarding We Are All Eve Yes, we too are bodies we possess. Yes, we too are tempted who transgress. Yes, we too are minds that serpents mold, helpless while they have us in their hold, making night the shelter where we hide hope in which our healing can reside, learning we are destiny we dare, grace that we can choose to live and share, pieced together as eternal whole, joyful, rising, thus transcendent soul praised for what its faith in time became -- servitude to cherish blessed in name of Mary, who from Eve begot, enshrined the strength to trouble not. 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. ** Mother of All Who Live and the Adamah Look what I plucked from the golden tree. Please, please, put it down. My love, my love, please take a bite. For God’s sake, do not take a bite! A whispered voice said it will set us free, Return it to the sacred ground. give us knowledge and inner sight. This snake-oil salesman only invites ─ My love, my love, please take a bite. For God’s sake, do not take a bite! Do not fear what you cannot perceive. Do not fall into Satan’s debt. Let us embrace this hallowed light. He’s using you as a vessel of spite This voice, no Satan ready to deceive. against the one who gave you breath. Do not fear what your cannot perceive. Do not fall into Satan’s debt. Death? I know nothing of death. Is his seduction more intense than mine? I do not mourn, I do not grieve. The cost of your passion is death I will love you through my every breath. for me, for you, for all your beloved thines. Melissa Wold Melissa Wold lives on the coast of Alabama surrounded by bays, rivers and the Gulf of Mexico. Her poems explore historic and current events, people, injustices and regenerations. She is happiest with her feet in the water and her face turned to the sun. ** These Wings I'll take it and fly with it then blue skies and angel wings falling cherry blossom while deep in my belly memories etched in acid pin me down in place star-headed I fight the contradictions to soar and fall soar and fall again every time a new beginning. Juliet Wilson Juliet Wilson is an adult education tutor, wildlife surveyor and conservation volunteer based in Edinburgh, Scotland. She can be found in various places online as Crafty Green Poet. ** Matrix This matrix works: hides, snubs, grabs reminds, strives but mostly – blows trivial choices; 13 different chopsticks perched on her head means she can stir at least 13 different meals at once, in between flying to oversee the kids in the pool so, keeping her wings open full, yet, ensuring her plexus hub is lit and ready to admit the magic jug waiting its turn to let out its charms at the bottom of this frantic matrix multitasking as holy flexing. This is Eve – the second sex as by the existentialists and by the genesis so, the question is: which is the better matter – the mud or the rib? -of course – the bone, so, man-kind, accept the prime shine of the second in line and meet her facial grid - with the sun tagged the moon engraved shooting stars still seen undaunted metallically bonded exposed not to impress but to express, despite the muddy muscular vagaries, the shrewd bony stamp of love at first sight. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and her poems are often honoured by TER and its challenges selection, her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europe Edizioni, 2021. ** The Other Face of Goddess She spreads her navel-gazing self across sky and plane. Airborne she is elixir gestating, carnival of magenta, seascape and uproarious femmescape. Come, she says, Suckle and be nourished with my goddess milk. I am the starry lunatic of your yearning forbidden and correct. Prowl and lose yourself this uncoiled night as I enfold you with all you hold dear, know fear, become supernature. Focus – you cannot cling to air. Sharpen your sights. Transpose desire –> elevate. My turbulence unfetters you, hurries you on to a Fool’s discovery. Nina Nazir Nina Nazir (she/her) is a neurodiverse British Pakistani poet, writer and fine artist based in Birmingham, UK. She has been widely published online and in print, most recently with Sunday Mornings at the River and Under the Radar magazine. She is also a Room 204 writing cohort with Writing West Midlands. You can usually find her surrounded by books, writing, or making art, which she sometimes shares on Instagram: @nina.s.nazir. She blogs regularly at www.sunrarainz.wordpress.com ** Eve Oh, my god with your wings of pink feathers and breasts of blue crown me in gold make me like you. 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 ofdream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for Pushcarts, 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/ ** Eve Takes Stock of Another New Year How did it come to be, this blueing? It started with the skin over the heart, over the ribs, then a rapid spread across the thorax and upwards to the throat. Cyanotic now; enamelled by life to a shiny lapis lazuliluminescence. A face, once mysterious and compelling as a dark orchid, is now a clock showing every hour, every month and all the years passed. The sparse shock of hair? Each strand is imbued with fierce power, enough to crown this queen. Saggy arm skin falls into folds, from untold stretching, carrying, bearing the weight of womanhood and all it entails. I am Eve, I am ageless, yet I wear all the years. Somewhere deep inside, below the blue ocean of my body and the papery wings wide enough to embrace the world, a small sun glows, incipient, ready to smoulder. This is the source of my hidden depths, hidden power. I am Eve - daughter, lover, mother, doula, nun, witch, priestess, sibyl and crone. I am ready for this year. I will overcome. Emily Tee Emily Tee lives in the UK Midlands and when she's not walking or volunteering she's writing. She has a mini poetry pamphlet due out at the end of 2026 with Atomic Bohemian. ** I Wish I Could Be Eve Eve like a braveheart Knight Emerges from the night With her blue steel belly As a protective shield Teutonic knight's helmet To preserve her integrity Her white feathered wings To fly away from men’s harassment Their judgment and violence Eve rehabilitated and free You Are All Eve I wish I could be Eve Jean Bourque Jean lives in Montreal. ** Dichotomy We are All-Mother, childless or not, carrying our names Madonna and Whore even among ourselves. Lilith was a snake charmer. She had no choice. Those who don’t learn to tame the beast will be consumed by it. Eve was charmed by the snake. He claims she learned lessons of seduction and felt shame, and so she was cursed. And all ensuing generations of women have been caught in a double-bind. We, who must weaponize against our vulnerabilities, hold our tired wings aloft; pendant and potion suspended above the place that brings forth life. Our sadness is worn on our skin like a shield, blue as cold steel armor. Golden brown spikes radiate from our intelligence. And we ready ourselves to join Lilith’s ranks. Kaila Schwartz Kaila Schwartz runs an award-winning high school theatre program in the San Francisco Bay Area where she lives with her spouse and kitty overlords. Her work can be seen in The Ekphrastic Review, Moss Piglet, Boudin, Metphrastics, and Still Point Arts Quarterly, among others. ** Split Mask It feels like another Sunday morning. This fetish rising, ghost branching out. Witness to my own decline – Sometimes, I don't think… “I will return disguised as Socrates!” Excellent plan, Sir’ *(stet) – My Lady’ Healers of old say: She speaks in riddles, laden with charm, spirits, and spells. Beauty – If witnessed fully in her glory – well then…expression itself becomes real, and she will answer you. “When?” When the truth can become breathable. “Sometimes, when I don’t think.” MWPiercy Michael W. Piercy: At the intersection of Art, Poetry and Contradiction, you will find my work, you will find me. Observing memories and the present moment , thinking with an eye that shadows the natural world. Philosophy, Theology, and Science are core of my writing - I have found that I am a synthesizer. Managing ideas which do not always cohere. A manipulator of ideas – ** Genesis I have visited the deep dark womb where the seeds of flesh are hidden and I have taken them and grown my own roots. I refuse the names you called me. The seeds of flesh are hidden inside the bones of our Mother the Earth. I have refused the names you called me and entwined myself with cosmic dust. Inside the bones of our Mother the Earth there is no shame -- we are all entwined with cosmic dust from the same endings, the same beginnings. There is no shame in being a woman. Why did you invent deities who abuse and destroy, who end every beginning with a curse when they could be singing songs of life? Why do you worship deities who abuse and destroy? I fill myself with the winged spirits of birds, singing the songs of The Tree of Life, that rise, lifting me towards the light, naked and unafraid. I fill myself with the winged spirits of birds and I have taken them and grown my own roots -- they lift me towards the light, naked and unafraid, one with the deep dark womb. Kerfe Roig A resident of New York City, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. Her poetry and art have been featured online by Silver Birch Press, Feral, Pure Haiku, Zen Space, Visual Verse, Collaborature, The Chaos Section Poetry Project, and The Ekphrastic Review, and published in Ella@100, Incandescent Mind, The Raw Art Review, The Anthropocene Hymnal, and The Polaris Trilogy. Follow her explorations on her blog, https://kblog.blog/. ** Where is Eve? Everyone asked who Eve was at the party. As glasses dipped into punch, and gin turned blue, when was she going to appear? This illusion this memory of what we pretended to be. I dropped my tumbler, shattering into teeth on the parquet floor, they called for Eve, no-one came, instead a small non-descript robot rolled in, drank the spirit from the room, and swayed out; still we waited, small talk filling the gaps, until she was announced; and that was when my memory faded-- I woke the next day in someone else’s bed. I wondered what it was that Eve said to me. Zachary Thraves Zachary Thraves is a writer and performer from the UK, based in East Sussex. His poems have been accepted by Broken Sleep Books and Juste Millieu to name but two, and his plays have been performed locally and at international competitions. He performed a one-man fringe show in 2023 exploring his bi-polar and the mental health industry, and in the same year won best actor for portraying Charles Dickens. He lives with his partner and has two children. ** Always Eve Our wings unfurled, disguised as shoulders, do not reveal that we can fly. Our voices melodious, disguised as instruments, are not silenced for we shall sing. Our lips buttoned, our visages hidden, our bodies draped do not constrain us; our magic is strong. Our names are Eve, always Eve, always mirrored, always mysterious, always powerful. 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 ** I Will Never Be Your Dream Girl You gave me wings flightless and ornamental as a dancer’s feather fan a showgirl’s fancy boa - Without arms I have no hands Without legs I cannot walk away Without a face I must speak Without a tongue words unshaped by lips words no one can hear - In the bowl of my body the engine of generation refuses to lie quiet - Shining neon blue-green as the beetle’s hard armor come to rest in the rose it devours - I am the thorn in your side the sting in your flesh the poison in the serpent’s kiss waiting for you here in the heart of your garden. Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy is a retired Registered Nurse who has always been a writer. Her work has appeared in many anthologies and journals, including The Plague Papers, edited by Robbi Nester, The Ekphrastic World, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic, The Memory Palace, edited by Clare MacQueen and Lorette C. Luzajic, and issues of Verse Virtual, Third Wednesday, Earth’s Daughters, and Caustic Frolic, as well as others. She has been a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. Her collection, How to Become Invisible, an exploration of experience with bi-polar disorder, is available from Kelsay Books and on Amazon. ** I Am Eve You Are Eve We All Are Eve Drape me in your memories amid the darkly blues Kiss my scalloped bosom with the painting of your hues Gainsay my demise with the union of our muse Donna-Lee Smith DLS writes from La Ville de Montreal where an old saying lives on: This is a city where you can’t toss a baseball without breaking a church window. Twain (of said saying) tossed a brick, but you get the gist. ** Eve Reimagined Ears of wisdom feathers, white and softly flecked with pink, layered and grown large by folds of experience -- We fly with angels We listen as the child speaks, knowing the importance of her words, Follow ME into eternity Our third eye, brightly crowned, sees what man can not We are not ribs -- broken pieces of him We are born of our own stunning seed pearls, perfect and glistening through centuries of oppression… We rise above them all! Our small mouths whisper, their small ears listen We offer pomegranates… full and sweet and juicy, not to make the serpent rise -- But to feed the world. Susan Mayer Brumel Susan Mayer Brumel has been writing poetry since retiring from a thirty-five year career in hospice social work and bereavement counseling. Her poems are inspired by her patients’ spiritual journeys, the compelling beauty of nature, and the human condition. She has been published in several online journals and in print, and had the great honor of having one of her poems nominated for the Pushcart Prize, 2024. When not writing, she enjoys spending time with her grandchildren, taking voice lessons, and playing pickleball - very cautiously. She lives in central New Jersey, near the seashore. ** New Contours We will keep the flow breaking into your body low-- What was I thinking when the outlines grew wilting my skin-- hard lump drew new contours. What was I thinking-- when I resolved to walk the half marathon. Are you ok? asked the nurse adjusting the knobs-- We are all eve marching with the dripping chemo defying the lashes of time. The sun is slanting on my roof, flapping shadows of mynas randomly cut my path, preparing to roost, to return here often, to let go of no one. Abha Das Sarma Abha Das Sarma lives in Bangalore, India. An engineer and management consultant by profession, writing is what makes her happy and fulfilled. Her poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, Blue Heron Review, Poetry X Hunger, here and elsewhere. ** You Were the First The mother of all living, keeper of keys, the bearer of being, ancestral lines, you were the first. We are all Eve. The usher of kinship, circle of ease, you are the cradle, feminine shrine, mother of all living, keeper of keys. The planter of roots, bosom of seeds, the grower of branches, coequal vines, you were the first. We are all Eve. The holder of starlight, mirror of peace, you are the luster, subsequent shine, mother of all living, keeper of keys. The giver of gusto, wings of release, the guider of spirit, creative minds, you were the first. We are all Eve. The decanter of depth, color of seas, you are the water, life-giving brine. The mother of all living, keeper of keys, you were the first. We are all Eve. 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 memory, 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. Since 2018, she has served as a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs. She is an Eric Hoffer and a two-time Best of the Net award nominee, and finds joy spending time outdoors and with loved ones. ** Free Will I embrace a truth subordinate to the story I’ve been told. Looking forward to a future full of days when I have beaten my swords into bookmarks. When I will follow my free will until the city where I live seems suddenly more solitary, knowing I will be seen but never understood. So I have always been in love with Eve from the moment I realized she instigated our life of longing. If she’s not a saint, no saint could exist without her. If only Adam had been so bold. Lou Ventura Lou Ventura lives in Olean, NY. His poetry and prose have appeared in several publications including The Ekphrastic Review, The Worcester Review, English Journal, and The Calendula Review: A Journal of Narrative Medicine. His poetry collection, Bones So Close to Telling, is published by Foothill Publishing. ** In the Composition of Wings Grandmother Eva, you offer translucent wings to welcome me into your past. Your face, a dial into the Eva women who came before you. Your body, blue with the misery of the Khurbn, the loss of young ones before their time, grieving for parents, whose deaths always jolt. Grandmother Eva, you descend from the original Eve, that Chava of Life. Your head-spoke metronome jabs into collective memory. It clocks me as it once clocked you. But when crossed, those spokes become spears, instruments of impalement. I come from your javelin of boldness. To say what we think, to be blunt, even acerbic. I come from Eves who calculated in their heads when men had to write down numbers. Grandmother Eva, your face turns to the future, pointing toward the danger ahead. You know its signs. Wrap me in your wings, protect me as only you can. Let me hide between your breasts. Let me slide between the interstices of your remiges. Let me fly with you above the earth. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner is a New Jersey-based poet of ten poetry books, including Poems of the Winter Palace (Bottlecap Press, 2025), The Night Watch (Kelsay Books, 2025), Insomnia: Poems after Lee Krasner (Dancing Girl Press, 2026), and the forthcoming The Wanderers (Shanti Arts, 2026), and Memory Collector (Kelsay Books, 2027). She sees her paternal grandmother, Eva, the one she never knew, everywhere. ** The Chanteuse Despite the blue glamour of her sequined gown with sapphire earrings dripping radiance down — the curve of her face and neck, she feels the poignancy dragging in this dusk-lit haze and wraps it around herself like a stole of feathers — softly the blended grays of scenery from her past. Nights spent on the pier with bistro smoke and jazz, the lean saxophonist in his loose shirt and jeans matching the muted black of sea lit by the moon. Its tide rolling in like a slow song on the tongue, cocktail bitters, flavoured heartache belonging to neither the old nor the young. Just those deeply in love with a dream they can never keep. She shadows her ashen hair and collagen lips with saudade, yearning that unravels from its subconscious sleep. Wendy A Howe Wendy Howe is an English teacher who lives in California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, women in conflict and history. Landscapes that influence her writing include the seacoast and high desert where she has formed a poetic kinship with the Joshua trees, hills and wild life spanning ravens, lizards and coyotes. 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. ** The Serpent Aboard (a Sonnet) We are all Eve, in a garden so lush, The aroma of nectar in the breeze. Lovely, the colors, the stroke of a brush, Candy cane fruit hangs upon the great tree. Gathered here together we stare in awe, Golden warm rays of light caress the skin. The only perfection we ever saw, A valley of gold where none wish nor sin. Nothing to want yet we held out our hands Crimson red apple so juicy and sweet, Cursed the people of a once great land. Ripe and ready but forbidden to eat... A serpent slithered aboard the great arc, For we are all Eve, alone in the dark. John Ford John Ford is a father of three, devoted spouse, blue collar, horticulturalist, with a passion for poetry. John lives in Colorado Springs, Colorado, USA where he has published numerous poems, flash fiction, and a one act play, in the college funded academic journal Parley. His poetry has also previously appeared in The Ekphrastic Review.
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