 CAN/CAN‘T by Pascal Möhlmann (Switzerland) 2024 Can You? Arms reaching out Pink, beautiful You can Arms reaching out Green, ugly You can’t Make up your mind Think again You can Antje Bothin Antje Bothin loves writing poetry. She lives in Scotland and has recently authored an inspiring book on a treasure hunt around Iceland. Her poems were published in several international anthologies. When not being creative, she can be found doing voluntary work in nature or drinking tea. ** Beggars As if their life were draining away, Wounds on their arms, Beggars show how life could do harm. Hands outstretched towards Infinity, Desperate hands, Full of hope. Quest for a small piece of happiness, Quest for a small piece of freedom. Heads hypnotized by a low and false light. A disappointed man turns his back On this hypocrite donor And secretly informs his pals Not to believe in artificial promises, But to believe in themselves. Jean Bourque Jean Bourque lives in Montreal, province of Quebec. He is French-speaking and a retired specialist teacher. As a retiree, one of his plans is to learn English. A new friend, Donna-Lee Smith, with whom he has the pleasure of chatting, introduced him to The Ekphrastic Review. Jean met Donna-Lee at the Conversation Exchange program that pairs up Francophones with Anglophones in the McGill Community for Lifelong Learning. This is his second challenge submission. ** Dream or Reality? Sporadic colours, green and pink cover the hordes of people. Arms reach out in desperation for something or someone and yell: “Can’t, can’t! I find it distracting and frightening. My body trembles as I watch the crowd grow in abundance and the chants become louder. I try to move, but my feet won’t lift from the ground, and the sweat pours down my neck as my heart pounds profusely. I realize the multitude of hands are coming for me. I try to run, but I still can’t move, and I have no voice to scream. Suddenly, I feel a touch and shudder. “Wake up, Char, you’re having a bad dream.” I open my eyes, and my boyfriend is leaning over, his hand on my shoulder. “Rob, I had the strangest dream.” When my eyes focus, the air is filled with green and pink. 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. ** Cordelia Imagine Goneril and Regan lurid green I am the colour of dawn Look carefully at my eyes Full of wonder and dismay Father in the foreground slips into madness I am daughter I am fool Between self and family I can barely/I can't even Lara Dolphin A native of Pennsylvania, Lara Dolphin is an attorney, nurse, wife and mom of four amazing kids. Her chapbooks include In Search Of The Wondrous Whole (Alien Buddha Press), Chronicle Of Lost Moments (Dancing Girl Press), and At Last a Valley (Blue Jade Press). ** Whispers Psst listen hear me. Psst look see me look this way. Psst I will gift you it all put everything in a blue bag ready for your hands to grasp. Psst you’re still not listening, you’re looking away. Psst Hey, you all in all your colours your faces not the same but still you face the same way away. Psst the bag has gone. I threw it away. 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 Pushcart Prizes, 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 ** The Beckoning Come pray with me I'll feed your addiction to the Valkyries Come play with me I'll whisper my love against your wisdom Come stay with me I'll mend your flesh in silver tones Come away with me I'll seed my weeping into your bones Donna-Lee Smith Donna-Lee Smith occasionally writes from a Viking graveyard on Gotland Island awash by the Baltic Sea. ** The Painterly Function of Arms, Hands, Squash, and Modal Verbs 1. Where rumours linger arms reach beseech relief unite in resemblance stretch to receive the blush of compassionate light. 2. Where rumours linger the roundness of colour arrests the eye amplifies the pumpkin in Caribbean blue as the bottle gourd listens in lateral repose its sage ear tilts to take heed. Here the artist whispers spreads suspicion expresses uncertainty to his still life. 3. Where rumours linger you reach for answers beseech relief lean toward the possibilities of modal verbs. You can and will persist midst brushes with can’t find comfort in your abilities and the wish to receive the blush of compassionate light the unseen companion who perseveres when the voice of doubt strikes. Jeannie E. Roberts Jeannie E. Roberts is the author of several books, including The Ethereal Effect - A Collection of Villanelles (Kelsay Books, 2022). On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing is forthcoming from Kelsay Books in 2025. She serves as a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs. ** What Haunts My Eyes Isn’t Can/Can’t What haunts my eyes isn’t can/can’t How much money or alms can be earned for wages? What haunts my eyes is why I too can’t fly. Lord knows I’m green with envy at times. Working for loose change—petals blowing on the tide A brush stroke here or two that catches the gospel. I sing for the bees and sleep on a cactus bed. I guess this easel is about to flower and suck me in. What haunts my eyes isn’t can/can’t It’s a tear I can’t somehow wipe away at a wine bar. What haunts my eyes isn’t that it’s my birthday today. And I haven’t figured it all out yet. What haunts my eyes is I want to bare my soul and undress. And remove every falsehood till I’m broken and found But secretly I believe I am not that gifted. Or even that proud, look, I wear no garb of gold. What haunts my eyes is a memory of when you were mine. And we interconnected like a jasmine vine in the dew. And secretly you were mine like a flash of lightning. Posing in the nude, Burning my fingers like only you could ever do. Oh, Picasso had two wives. And dozens of lovers they did as Picasso’s muses Six mistresses lit a torch to his Rose Period and set it aflame. But I am not a pretender. I want to whisper, Darling, we’ll meet later. Sooner or later after the turpentine dries And the jasmine flowers fade from sight. There’ll be no can/can’t see you later. Whatever haunts my eyes, I hope it's you when I look back. Mark Andrew Heathcote Mark Andrew Heathcote is an adult learning difficulties support worker. His poems have been published in journals, magazines, and anthologies online and in print. He is from Manchester and resides in the UK. Mark is the author of In Perpetuity and Back on Earth, two books of poems published by Creative Talents Unleashed. ** Can vs Can’t - Interpretation (a villanelle) Chance synchronizes interconnected Can vs Can’t red verses green as arms semáforos like cabriole points up to ‘xx’ vs ’x y’ as signals slant volcanic clashed abstract red contrast. Hauteur, y tu picaros chance synchronizes interconnected Can vs. Can’t brushes surreptitious angst, joy reverses chiaroscuro like cabriole points up ‘xx’ vs. ‘xy’ objects slant?! engagé faces in shock surceased as ingenuous belief cerulean bag of kudos. Synchronicity chanced interconnected Can vs. Can’t , Equivocating comic iconoclast clarity in the extreme so seems malapropos rhyme without reason matched claret masked precisely seriously verdant, gestures humorous yellows chance synchronized interconnected Can vs. Can’t Like cabriolet points up to code ‘xx’ vs. ‘xy’ as signals slant. Carolyn Mack Retired teacher, and grandmother, Carolyn Mack resides in San Diego backcountry and Cortes Island, BC, Canada. Although living abroad while raising her family, she studied in Oregon at Southern Oregon State and Guanajuato University. More recently she has published a book of illustrations. Her poems have been accepted in literary journals here and in the UK. ** Turning Can't into Can Philippe shook his head in dismay. The dress-rehearsal dance practice was going very badly. Yes, Giselle looked beautiful, as always. Odd, but still beautiful. This was what happened when the bride-to-be roped in her artistic friends to help with wedding preparations. Philippe, a superb dancer and choreographer, had been tasked with the special wedding dance where Giselle and bridesmaid would welcome the groom. A groom, who of course was not here, and would not arrive in town until just before the wedding. The problem had never been Giselle, who Philippe knew as both a friend and a colleague. She would pirouette and prance easily though the simple routine he'd prepared, ever the centre of attention, just as she deserved. Even the three bridesmaids, two of Giselle's cousins and an old high school friend, all untalented cloggers, could manage the unsophisticated steps. No, the problem was Guido-Jorge, who had decided they were going to do the make-up. Despite Giselle's request for something "minimal and natural" Guido-Jorge had insisted on 'unleashing their inner auras' as they'd put it. That was why Philippe had been confronted with Giselle in shades of cerise, still beautiful of course, and the green bridesmaids looking ready for a role in a pantomime as the wicked step-sisters or witches round a cauldron. "Carla! Darla! Sonya! Try not to tread on Giselle's dress. Less of the soulful yearning! Project more joy!" Philippe knew his directions were not getting through. As soon as they'd been painted the three girls seemed in a trance. One of them, Sonya, was only half-painted, though for some reason her bare arm had a prosthetic open wound, 'to let the evil miasma flow out', according to Guido-Jorge. Philippe had tried to reason with Giselle, but to no avail. "Hush, Philippe. I'm so honoured that Guido-Jorge decided to help. They're a genius. I know it's unusual, but what a statement it makes!" Philippe wasn't sure exactly what it was saying, especially as Guido-Jorge was insisting that various legumes and plant bulbs be brought in as props for the simple dance routine. "Hush, Philippe. It's part of their cultural heritage. They are bringing nature into their art. The dancers are part of that. Everything is from the spirit, the aura. Just relax, lean in. That's what I'm doing. All will be well." Giselle seemed very at peace with it all. "I'm not sure I can..." "Hush, Philippe. Turn that can't into can." "Philippe! Here, drink this. Cassava, papaya and a few medicinal herbs. It will recharge your positive energy. Your aura is shading towards cyan. That must stop!" Guido-Jorge held out a tall glass of a viscous pale yellow drink. "Yes, Philippe. It really helped me calm down," said Giselle. There was a chorus of yesses from the bridesmaids. Philippe thought to himself, what harm can a fruit and herb drink do? He drank down the contents of the glass. "Argghhh! That's more like it!" A calmness and an inner energy suffused Philippe. Everything was clear. The girls were the perfect colours, each radiating their own special spark. "Okay. Giselle, Carla, Darla, Sonya! Follow my lead. We are going to turn can't into can. Let's put on a wedding dance like no-one's ever seen before." Guido-Jorge smiled. The dancers and their director swayed and moved to an internal beat. It was always so rewarding to connect people with their inner auras, unleash their inner "can'." Emily Tee Emily Tee is a writer living in the UK Midlands. She's had some pieces published in The Ekphrastic Review’s challenges previously, and elsewhere online and in print, including in the 2025 Poetry Diary from Sunday Mornings at the River. ** What We Had in the After-Life The oarsman hissed, Ladies, prepare your songs. Is it not a new year each day? Rafts knocking the shore, we scrambled out as missiles fired one hundred kilometres to the east. Faces uplifted, arms outstretched we unstitched our lips, searching for psalms our souls did not understand how to sing. Breasts and arms bullet-holed black, our bodies were stained with the blood and putrescence of those we left behind. As we laid sacrifices to the victors on sand rimmed in ash, one bruised green gourd, one blue silk bag squat with salt, a gleaming tea tray reflected the face of she who wanted to believe there might yet be mercy. Janice Scudder Janice Scudder lives in Colorado. ** Hands It looks like a hot bubble that breads biblical trouble. Love isn’t in the air. Mankind is in spiritless despair. AI is a Flying Dutchman, in a way. Real hands are called to uphold the poor old panting world. Spellbound by the rapture, the artist galvanized his brush to capture all burnout labourers unto his canvass sheltering their prayer for a sway of our god-given gift – sharing the planet in good faith. The hues hint their vocations. The crimson hands pulled a child out of a shrapnel typhoon helping her to walk the earth again and making her parents rejoice in heavens. The pallid hands cooked soup for the desponded homeless on the street discounted by gluttonous Midas’-like fists. The green hands reached the shifting verdant edge in a heated argument exchange for stopping yet another private jet. No luck as yet. But there is always hope left – wrapped in a blue heaven-sent present to be opened on Christmas morning – the magic that all await to be revealed like a smile slowly blooming upon hungry mouth following the spoon from pot to lip, man, it’s closing the gap between heaven and earth! Planets’ reclusiveness resolved, joy is at hand – a fig fallen from the garden of Eden for freshly squeezed sweet nothings as it was in the beginning. But just about to sample its scriptural taste, I notice something I can’t understand though I can comprehend – some smudged impression, some chimera of dread between some likeness of teeth, though I can’t be sure, indeed. Yet, I can comprehend though I can’t understand – a phantom trying to loot our bona fide gift. I can’t comprehend though I can understand – the ghost of the upper hand – the artist’s cold dish best served brushed off hand. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas, MA, writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning. Her poems have frequently been honored by TER and its Challenges. Her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europe Edizioni. ** To Pascal Möhlmann Regarding CAN/CAN'T You paint both feast of Him as gift and feast of His command to lift the hands that beckon Heaven's reach instead as lessons they would teach extending Grace to spirits poor, embraced as those who suffer more, to be, by toughened love of kin, the mirror that reflects within the strength to know that sacrifice, endured is blessing's precious price, as service to the greater whole of common, selfless, sovereign soul whose yearning is the trust of yore evolving as forevermore. 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. ** Can/Can’t Turnip cabbage Butternut squash Can of olive oil Mother do help us We can’t. We can’t do it The knowledge of ages The ancestral bliss You contain it We turned to tiktok We turned to twitter We turned to our contemporaries Feeding us their feeds We eat our daily pixels Swallow the whole of the world On a perfectly clean dish We can’t do it Father do help us The turnip cabbage The butternut squash Can of olive oil They prompt in us the appropriate scene The classic kitchen The good soup The right choice of kitchen tools We can imagine. We can We can exactly pinpoint the essence We know the stereotype, the prototype and the exquisite We know how to judge We are judgement in the flesh Perfect pawns of categorical imperative But what about turnip cabbage Madre Mia What about butternut squash Please mother Hold us Comfort us Stien Pijp Stien Pijp lives in the Dutch country side. She enjoys thinking, poetry and clay. She works as a linguist in the field of aphasia and care. A dreamy person who likes to hang around and walk her dog. ** All That Was Bright upon the night long rain, flapping mid-air like the sunbirds in silence- imprinting moments that never came. Blue and deep, all that was. O lord of miracles I offer you life's celebrations, beauty once held- chirping of robins and blackbirds, nightmares through early hours. I offer you my burden today of not praying enough. Darting thoughts like the naked iron rods out of years in layered bricks, slipping spirit from the weeping holes. Abha Das Sarma An engineer and management consultant by profession, Abha Das Sarma enjoys writing. Besides having a blog of over 200 poems (http://dassarmafamily.blogspot.com), her poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, Silver Birch Press, Blue Heron Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru. ** Evolution "If she tells fortunes with a deck of fallen leaves Until it comes out right -- (How could you not love a woman who cheats at the Tarot?) " Robert Hass, The Problem of Describing Color We could have been anything possible or improbable, call girls or soloists in a church choir in the country, sisters born naturally in the verdant bed of Mother Nature -- we were three: Ivy, Vetiver and Rose. Ivy, a twin, had a passion for still life so she painted a flower poet, stems and leaves of Ivy (her namesake) in a lovely shade of turquoise, its colour called the sky-stone by Native American Indians, a blue-veined rock they used in ritual healing. Vetiver (the other twin) said water -- its rippling aquas -- reminded her of the springtime when she learned to swim in a pond named for Eustacia Vye in a Thomas Hardy novel -- a tragedy -- written before Vetiver's arm went missing. Rose said Pascal took too long to paint it -- the lost limb -- using a shade of algae green: Painterly, complex & tripartite, how could he fantasize all of us? Calling us his little secret? Never trust a man who wears a watch! Rose came to him with open arms reaching for a basket full of stars; Ivy said her wish was for a starfish an open creel in deep-sea clouds where lovers' dreams turn upside down & Vetiver's an essence. Call her grass -- a miracle of propagation, all the answers in her roots (some might say the grass is greener) a seasonal dissertation when work evolves in brush strokes -- with jabs and dabs -- a Rose by her own name, with fewer thorns guarded by a bulb of garlic... How can one painting have 3 lost loves, evolving, bold in wildflower souls, with passionate stems growing quickly although our art is timeless -- an artist's question of Can't or Can as he paints us in our new colours as we spill from a moon-silver paint pan? Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp, whose Dutch surname means "new in the town" although she is now a grandmother, has been honored multiple times by The Ekphrastic Review's challenges. Her book, When Dreams Were Poems, explores the relationship of life to poetry and art. Eustacia Vye (a character as well as the name of a pink rose) becomes "part of the pond's world of algae" when she drowns in Thomas Hardy's Return of The Native. ** Art Reflecting Life He applied the finishing flourishes on his 55th birthday months before Glinda and Elphaba defied gravity in theaters, both painting and flick a depiction of inclusivity, each spreading the truth that despite the color of our skin our needs are the same. Elaine Sorrentino Elaine Sorrentino has been published in Minerva Rising, Willawaw Journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Ekphrastic Review, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Haiku Universe, New Verse News, Sparks of Calliope, Gyroscope Review, Quartet Journal, The Raven’s Perch, and Panoplyzine. She hosts the Duxbury Poetry Circle, and was featured on a poetry podcast at Onyx Publications. Her first collection of poetry, called Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit is in production at Kelsay Books. ** Supplication These girls, arms flung up in adoration, yearning to be part of the performer’s world. Swifties pledged to adore their Queen. Light from the stage spills over them, kissing their young faces with garish green and bastard amber. For a few hours, they can worship their heroine. Arms outstretched, they look like Michaelangelo’s Creation of Adam. But this time, it’s no Sistine Chapel. More likely, a sports coliseum. A man turns away from the Goddess, ignoring the girls and waiting for the screaming to stop. Lynne Kemen Lynne Kemen’s full-length book of poetry, Shoes for Lucy, was published by SCE Press in 2023. Woodland Arts Editions published her chapbook, More Than a Handful in 2020. Her work is anthologized in The Memory Palace: an ekphrastic anthology (Ekphrastic Editions, 2024), Seeing Things and Seeing Things 2 (Woodland Arts, 2020 and 2024). Lynne is President of the Board of Bright Hill Press and has served on many other not-for-profit boards. She is an Editor and Interviewer for Blue Mountain Review. She is a nominee for a Pushcart Prize this year. ** On Mohlmann’s Can/Can’t Why the women and why the whispers, who has done it-- the thing not spoken of? Who has the right to point? And who the guilty ones? This painting is fake, it’s staged, I fear. The women needy, to be sure, but who holds their destinies, who opens their doors? It looks like the man is unfriendly. But see the green hands, grasping-- always grasping for the best, the women want more than the rest. At this hour, the male holds the power; the women think they’re bereft, don’t know they're actually blest. The man holds the moneybag near, the women peer in the wrong direction. It’s a painting trying to be a Greek Chorus, as if a god such as Horus could answer their pleas. Carole Mertz Carole Mertz, author of Toward a Peeping Sunrise, a chapbook, and Color and Line (a poetry collection of ekphrastic and other poems) resides with her husband in Parma, Ohio. In December, 2024, she published her hundredth review; many of these cover the works of contemporary poets, see World Literature Today, Full Stop, Mom Egg Review, Heavy Feather, and Oyster River Pages. ** Can/Can’t or can/can whatever just kick it as far as it will go let it roll or let it ride all the marbles all the time(s) tell it slant or force a rhyme meter made me meter matters murder me with silent chatter truth be told teeth shatter and meat pulls away from the bone I hate to say he was right i’d rather tell a story about sunlight but nothing impresses like the grotesque green = enmeshment we can’t even see anymore glass is cloudy mirrors have gone brown and we’re left with intention and a microphone of all things give it here I’ve got one last song to sing. Crystal Karlberg Crystal Karlberg has been a middle school teacher, library assistant, mentor, advisor, activist. Her poems have appeared in The Threepenny Review, The Penn Review, Best New Poets, Beloit Poetry Journal, etc. ** Seventy Different Voices cataclysmic cracks in the skull designed by fifty dearest dissuaders and hopeless hopefuls; another twenty wait and wait, their choice of topic an arm’s length away, their strong voices ready to boom, conserved through the menial issues cackled, clawed and chipped away at by the cacophonous rest, loud without purpose, piercing the sound barrier for the fun of it, to sleep through what matters more; come portentous point in history, and the handful turn on the megaphones to drown in a silence of an unused throat. Manisha Sahoo Manisha Sahoo (she/her), from Odisha, India, has a Bachelor’s degree in Engineering and a Master’s in English. Her words have appeared/are set to appear in Inked in Gray, Usawa Literary Review, Bridges Not Borders, Apparition Lit, Sylvia Magazine, Atticus Review, and others. You can find her on Instagram/X @LeeSplash **
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