 Gloomy Day (January), by Pieter Bruegel the Elder (Netherlands) 1565 Season-Tilt: With Spring-Flow and Dark-Spill Lift and curl the arm that guides the blade, Though shoulder sinews ache their length from frost. Prune the tree for fruit, the ground for bread, Reweave the roof against the Lenten blast. The leaden ice beneath the ice will crack, Drown merchant ship, down herring buss and barque. When molten snows roar down the castle crag: Hoard wood to gild, and salt to salve, the hearth Against the lumbering grays that prowl the town. Earth shakes its fevers loose with axle-turn. With every hare-coat warmed from white to brown, The thawing chills the wandering mind that burns. The cure for wintered thoughts is honeyed work: Hived light, the secret dance that breaks the dark. Lyn Davidson Lyn Davidson is a multilingual journalist, poet, and tour guide based in San Francisco. She can also often be found in Mexico and the Czech Republic. In November 2025, she created and led a historical walking tour called Prague Through the Eyes of Its Poets, in celebration of the city’s annual Den Poezie event honoring Czech national poet Karel Hynek Mácha. * The Letter “Read it, Wouter, read it aloud!” Claes shouts. It’s not my letter to read, it’s Willem’s, but Willem won’t read it aloud, because Willem can’t read, much to his shame and my great enjoyment. So I shove Willem out of the way, holding the letter he brought foolishly to work today, just out of his grasp, and Claes leans in close, salivating at the very promise of a secret. If Willem didn’t want it known, he shouldn’t have brought the letter to work. More fool him. The wind threatens to pull the pages of the letter from my hand and carry them to the sea before I read it. The Voorman will surely throttle us soon if we don’t get back to it. Trees need pruning. Wood needs cutting. But then there is this mysterious letter which needs reading. “Oh my dear Willem,” I begin, with my voice pitched high and my chest thrust forward lustily. Claes is already laughing. A love letter. Delicious. Willem’s face twists in shame. I continue. “By the time you read this, it will already be done. I am sorry I couldn’t find a way to get this news to you sooner.” Now that’s a turn. Perhaps not a love letter. I glance at Willem, and his eyes are wide. “Go on, go on,” Claes demands. I look to Willem. I look to Claes. These two paths of my nature are splitting before me. I should return the letter. I should get back to work. It’s not my news to know. My mother’s hand against my cheek. Her eyes saying all the things a mother’s eyes can say. “Wouter, we aren’t just the sum of our good, we’re also the remainder of our worst.” She said things like that. She said them while emptying slop into a trough for the pigs. “Should I be continuing, then, Willem?” I ask him, because I am, after all, trying to meet my mother in heaven one day, I remember. Wilem looks to the Voorman, who has not yet noticed our slacking. He looks to Claes, who has nothing of interest going on in his own life and who’s clearly hungry for gossip he can trade with the barmaid in the Kroeg tonight, where he’ll peer down her gaping blouse as she leans over the bar saying, “Oh, go on then Claes, tell us more.” And then Willem turns to me. “Read it for me, but quiet,” Willem says. So we huddle together from the cutting wind that is tearing the waves up and spinning the ships in the harbour. And I read it to him, with our faces turned together and the coming storm swirling at our backs. I tell Willem that his little sister is gone. I tell him that though they wished for him to be there, so he might bury her with a flower and a kiss, she couldn’t be buried. And we know why, Willem, Claes, and I. Because the death that carried her off was the spreading kind. “I’m sorry we took your letter, Willem,” Claes says. “You couldn’t know what it said,” Willem replies, turning his face into the biting wind that blows so hard his tears run parallel to his cheek. I fold the two pages together and pass them back to him. But we could have known, or at least we could have guessed, because isn’t that the news right now? Plague and persecution. Isn’t now the worst it’s ever been, and the worst it ever will be? Is it too much to want the missives of a lover to dispel, if only for a moment, this darkness? Jen Eve Thorn Jen Eve Thorn is a writer, director, and public speaker. Her debut novel, Bitch Coyote is a finalist for the 2026 San Francisco Writers Conference Contest and she’s a nominee for Best Microfiction of the Year 2025. Thorn’s work has appeared in the Los Angeles Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Raw Lit Magazine. She’s one of the founders of MOXIE Theatre and lives in San Diego with her husband and teenagers. www.jenevethorn.com * And the Woods Were No More In sombre bleakness labourers persist, clinging to leafless willows they cut while hauling wood to patch open roofs, as a paper-crowned boy asks for waffles. Castled mountains in the misty distance predict encroaching onslaughts of snow, as stormy waters nearby sink fragile ships and no one survives in that brownish flood. That morning the clouds kept layering. By noon their low-slung floor stretched in all directions along the river edge's to a few remaining trees, raising bony pillars in the crowded emptiness. The daily deluge of the unstopping rain that should have warned and urged them to find handy carpenters to build an ark loosened the soil, so trees gave way. One after another, the stands of old oaks, whose interior rings bore the evidence they had guarded and shaded the living here for hundreds of years, just toppled. No blasts of a mighty wind pushed them, just the toll of their greatly relaxed hold on the underlying wet earth -- and tumbling, roots and all, were tokens of fallen kingdoms. Royal Rhodes Royal Rhodes is a retired educator who taught the topic of Death & Dying for almost forty years. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals. He lives in a rural village, near a nature conservancy and Amish farms. * Calendar Low postage for late Christmas gift, along with socks and woolly hat; is this a page from calendar, remaindered in post season sales? Mere half the year depicted here -- six Bruegels (for the one is lost), so interspersed with other art, a masterpiece but poorly print? There’s too much for that hung on wall, those details of an early March. Just glance above the circled date, but crown and waffles, heady mix of pre-lent carnival, and ships. To canvas for such vibrant life on A4 sheet in A5 size -- small token figured on a page. Combining climate’s coming harsh with festive ’fore approaching Lent, in range of yellows, tans and browns with known gradations ’twixt the planes - does melancholy hold the day despite the bay of crashing waves? Entitled gloom, for empathy, but surely dun as turn the page. 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 * The Tempest Pieter Bruegel was a painter of the flat Dutch landscape. But no artist stands still. After so much horizon he surely found The Dutch Hills (Heuvelland) with its mounds, valleys, streams. And then he just might even have been enchanted by the Ardennes, a harsher mountainous landscape in what is now Belgium. How can a painter resist the Dutch sky, permanently dramatic, even on most of its summer days. And often the storms roll in from the unforgiving North Sea, the flatlands allowing it free reign, come in they say, we won’t oppose you, and the dark clouds descend, the last leaves are taken in the late-autumn dance, the trees skeletal, ready for pruning. And the people are prepared. They are one with whatever the seasons are bringing, know that Calvin’s God will have His angry way. This is the time to prepare for spring. The small houses crouch down a little lower, the roofs are trying to pull in their edges, a tree or two gives in to the first onslaught, but the men are out there, hammering in those last nails, fixing Widow Hendriks’ window frame, cutting the dry branch that had been threatening to fall on the van Dyke house. They have thirty minutes before the full fury of the storm will drive them inside to wait for a meek sun which they know will come again once the clouds have unloaded, the wind has blown itself out, calm has returned. They will be inside their homes, their clogs in the mudroom, the fires lit, and on the table a stamppot with smoked sausage and gravy, their voices low, their hands not used to idleness. May our storm blow itself out -- let calm return Rose Mary Boehm Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels, short stories, eight poetry collections and one chapbook, her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She is a several times Pushcart and a Best of Net nominee. All her recent books are available on Amazon. The new chapbook, The Matter of Words, was published in June 2025, and a new full-length collection has been slated for publishing in 2027. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/ * Dystopia Elected Incompetence scorched the horizon burned old friends snuffed out reason suffocated cities Enterprising Peasants collected scraps connected the lost constructed shelter Governing Bodies slept Cathy Hollister Cathy Hollister is the author of Seasoned Women, A Collection of Poems published by Poet’s Choice. When not writing you might find her on the dance floor enjoying the company of friends or deep in the woods basking in the peace of solitude. A 2024 Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has been in Eclectica Magazine, Canyon Voices, Burningword Literary Journal, Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, and others. She lives in middle Tennessee; find her online at www.cathyhollister.com. * Wafelijser You lean close to the iron. Wind needles through the seam in the trees -- fingers again, old and mean, prying where heat collects. It slaps the trees until they forget how to hold still. Something clacks inside -- the kind of sound that sends you looking. Your sleeves ride up again. Cloth always quits early. Cold pinches the soft skin -- the same patch it blisters each year. The batter drags, thick as doubt, slumps in the bowl’s curve. You leave it to sulk. Sap does the same -- grudging, heavy, no mind to be made. You know what it wants -- the batter, the burn. Pulled from its place on the hearth shelf -- our own, old thing, seasoned to bite. Waffles for Carnival, sweet and gone before the smoke clears. They eat. You count your blisters. No one asks the name of the girl who cooked. The handle slews -- slips just enough to warn you. You set the iron down, stare at the skin: old shine of scars, new bloom of blisters rising into themselves. A boy walks by -- paper crown slipping down one side. His arms swing wide, fat with the feast I’ve made since they stopped calling me child. For a few steps, the road performs the old script -- lets him play king. The crown folds. No one breaks the spell. Beyond the slope, the sea shoulders itself forward, blunt with old purpose. Boats lean, lean again -- rehearsing the fall they were born for. You don’t look long. The sea never answers for itself. Someone hacks at wood. Someone hauls the cold water. Flame coaxes from damp. The dark flinches -- doesn’t go. The light holds for now. The year shows its teeth. You reach for the hinge -- hands sure from years of this. Close the iron. Miss the slot. Try again. Fingers jolt -- nerve-fire, then nothing. You stand there. Wait for your body to remember what it’s for. When it does, the iron gapes open. The batter waits. The work outlasts the fire. Awen Fenwick Awen Fenwick is a poet based in Ohio. She writes about ritual, memory, and the body’s quiet forms of survival. New to the poetry community, she’s currently working on two full-length manuscripts and exploring how poems hold what doesn’t fit into story. * Dancing Already Although the chilly air beckons me to stay under covers, I wrap myself in my warmest clothing and venture out into the late January morning. Snow in the mountains looms far from our village. Wind-whipped water blows the boats in the lake. But I gather warmth from the grownups already welcoming this new year and the coming of spring, though still months away by the calendar. Fires brighten the dark as the men gather sticks and the women make waffles. Oh, you may call this a gloomy day, but for me and my brothers the day is glorious, the promise of dancing in sunlight its own kind of warmth. I won’t wait to make my paper crown for Carnival. We are dancing already, our steps making music, our hopefulness challenging the dark. Donna Reiss Donna Reiss is a writer, editor, teacher, bookmaker, and mixed media/paper artist. She 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. * To Pieter Bruegel the Elder Regarding Gloomy Day Eerie is your winter dimming, holding in its darkness brimming, haunting rage of melt descended leaving ill-prepared upended while, above their river, neighbours -- bent to wisdom's daunting labours -- pollard trunks of trees forbearing plumage spring will yield from paring as the children, smiles prevailing, feast upon their treats regaling eve before religious season resurrecting love from treason, teaching tale of hill and river -- foresight's faith is gift to giver. 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. * The Shipwreck in the early morning the quiet village still sleeps in an hour the women will wake, don their aprons and open their larders set out the meat, cheeses, and bread for for day’s meals send the boys to chop firewood send the girls for fresh milk eggs, fruits, and honey for breakfast in the early morning the quiet village is unaware that one of their ships so close to home has broken apart twenty men won’t be at the breakfast, lunch, or dinner tables the much needed provisions scattered, fodder for the sea creatures, the much desired bolts of cloth for new clothes, bedding, and curtains shredded upon the rocks and in the distance the wealthy nobleman sits in his castle overlooking the village, continues drinking his wine and shrugs off the loss too far away to hear the village waking to tragedy; the women wailing for their husbands the children crying for their fathers Laura Peña Laura Peña is an award-winning poet born and raised in Houston, Tx. She holds a BA in English Literature and an MA in Education. She is a primary bilingual teacher as well as a translator of poetry into Spanish. Laura has been a featured poet at Valley International Poetry Festival, Inprint First Fridays, and Public Poetry. She has been published both in print and on-line journals. She has been a workshop presenter at VIPF in the Rio Grande Valley, TX. and People's Literary Festival in Corpus Christi, TX. One of Laura's annual traditions is to write a poem a day for August Postcard Poetry Festival and has participated in the fest for the last thirteen years. Laura has performed poetry for Invisible Lines at such venues as Notsuoh, Interchange, Avante Garden, and The Match. Laura translated Margo Stutt Toombs’ poem “How to Tend a Wall” into Spanish and the accompanying short film premiered at Fotogenia Festival 2025 in Mexico City. * Before the Thaw: Sonnet after Bruegel's Gloomy Day Jagged heights hold back a roiling sky, The salt-spray stings, and bitter wind pursues The tattered clouds that low and heavy lie, Drenched in the leaden gloom of winter's hues. With gnarled hands, they bind the brittle brush, While children huddle, gnawing at their bread; Against the wind, the leaning gables thrust, As overhead, the scent of storm is spread. The woodmen bend against the mountain's breath, Their shadows lost in mud and tangled briar. They pollard trees against a seasonal death, While children dream of honey cakes and fire. Though iron clouds may shroud the sun from sight, The stubborn heart prepares for the coming light. Elanur Eroglu Williams Elanur Eroglu Williams writes from New York City, where she lives with her husband and daughter. Her favorite Shakespearean sonnet is Sonnet 29. * Winter: A Warning Stand in the right spot, and you will see black winter eat its way across the land, sinking sharp teeth deep in the soil, swallowing the heartening colours of fall. Stack your firewood, countryfolk, store hay for livestock, secure your shutters and doors. Beware, those who suffer from sadness on dark days -- winter in this place will sup on your soul. Catherine Reef Catherine Reef's poetry has appeared in several online and print journals. She has published more than forty nonfiction and biographical works on subjects including Sarah Bernhardt, Queen Victoria, and Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. A graduate of Washington State University, Catherine Reef lives and writes in Rochester, New York. * Anticipation Interrupted Looking back, we should have had the foresight to undertake this fence repair earlier in the day, before turbulent seas and darkened skies trumpeted their announcement of a squall brewing; but this morning’s clear sky, its searing sun centerpiece indicated a day of frolic and levity which led us to dream of sprouting buds on leafless trees and crooked branches. Surely, spring is just around the corner, but first, Mother Nature demonstrates her ability to dramatically shift between freezing and warm weather conditions. Quick, before it’s too late, please pass my wattle, drawknife, and mallet. Elaine Sorrentino Elaine Sorrentino, author of Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit (Kelsay Books, 2025) has been published in journals such as Quartet Journal, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Minerva Rising, Willawaw Journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Gyroscope Review, Ekphrastic Review, and Haikuniverse. A fan of ekphrastic poetry, she is facilitator of the Duxbury Poetry Circle. * Ancestral Homeland For a moment, I thought that I was looking at a picture of the Hudson River, an Asher Durand or Thomas Cole. On a closer, look I realized this painting was made almost half a century before the Dutch would ever lay claim to the Hudson River Valley. Henry Hudson sailed up the river in 1609, claiming the area for the Dutch. Later, it would be taken over by the English, but the Dutch influence still remained. A smattering of Dutch place names. From Manhattan, the Bronx, and Spuyten Duyvil, all the way up to Kinderhook and Voorheesville. Folktales like Washington Irving's The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Winkle. Dutch Reformed churches that dot the landscape, surrounded by the graves of original settlers with names like Van Wyck, Van Voorhis, Rombout and Brett. The Hudson River was carved out by a glacier thousands of years ago, a great scraping of ice and rock across our state. It carved out a glacial gorge that extends from the Adirondacks to Manhattan and Long Island. It is believed that people tend to settle the places that remind them of their ancestral homelands. The Scots Irish in Appalachia; the Germans in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania and Ohio. While there are some differences, perhaps the Hudson River with its craggy rocks, or the low-lying coastal areas of New York City, New Jersey and Maryland, reminded the Dutch of their ancestral homeland. Lila Feldman Lila Feldman lives in Upstate New York and works in healthcare. She enjoys creative writing in her spare time, mostly prose and memoir. This is her third time submitting to The Ekphrastic Review. * There Goes the Sun The skies are burnt, charcoal clouds stand to attention ready to pounce at any moment; the air sticks as if posing a question, and little men scurry wondering where the end of the world sits. Does it fall off an edge? Where does the sea drain? Why do the trees remind me of Roman statues? They ask, while eating a lunch of wheat and week-old meat. They sit in circles, chanting, trying to remember their homes. They chatter and make sure each word follows the last, without success. This is the industry; lift your neck above the curtain of mustard smog, of prying eyes waiting for you to drop. Brew the tea to oblivion, follow the recipe and the orders. Bleach your mind so that you don’t notice it was you who turned the once white clouds black. 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. * Chiaroscuro No one hears her cry, her urgent whispers. We’re too busy fighting a brisk breeze beneath portentous skies. Later, longing for bread and wine, we discover her blank eyes, the upturned bowl, flour dusting the floor, her checkered apron. Now we grieve nature’s calling, always shifting -- dark to light, light to dark. Barbara Edler Barbara Edler is a semi-retired teacher. She lives in southeast Iowa along the Mississippi River. Writing poetry is her lifeline. Her work has been published in a variety of journals and books including Lyrical Iowa, Grant Wood Country Chronicles, Encore Prize Poetry 2025, Ethical ELA publications, and The Cities of the Plains: An Anthology of Iowa Artists and Poets. * It’s Our Own Damn Fault We bring dark storm clouds Ravaging Earth to anger Her thunder ignored Each tree we fell is reason For lightning to strike us next Rose Menyon Heflin Originally from rural, southern Kentucky, Rose Menyon Heflin is a poet, writer, and visual artist living in Wisconsin. Her award-winning poetry has been published over 250 times in outlets spanning five continents, and she has published memoir and flash fiction pieces. She has had a free verse poem choreographed and danced, an ekphrastic memoir piece featured in a museum art exhibit, and two haiku published in a gumball machine. Among other venues, her poetry has appeared in Deep South Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, and San Antonio Review. An OCD sufferer since childhood, she strongly prefers hugging trees instead of people. * A Home for All Seasons The ominous sky loomed dark and dreary. Settlers toiled in the icy countryside chopping wood, carving tools and clearing the land. Housing was needed for families who lost their minimal possessions in a raging fire that left burnt-out shells once inhabited by townsfolk who called this countryside home. In the valley below, houses covered with thatched roofs stood erect, a testament to the strength of the residents. Willow trees flanked the slopes of the hills and were prized by the residents for their flexibility and resilience. Crackling sounds from blades of axes pierced the air as logs split from the trees and fell to the ground. Towering willows secured themselves to the restless landscape during the snow and ice of winter months and sheltered everyone from the harsh elements. Oldtimers shared stories of trees swaying in the blustery winter breezes. Howling gusts reminiscent of wolves in the forests, filtered through the leaves as branches bent but never broke. The strength of the trees mirrored the resilience and adaptability of the people. Willows, perfect for the terrain, prevented soil erosion and flourished on the rocky hillside. Children scampered beneath them in summer, shielded from the hot sun as they played rousing games of hide and seek. Ropes strung from branches with attached wood seats that were carved from limbs and made into swings, provided hours of merriment for youngsters. Moms with babies in tow supervised play activities as they sewed scraps of fabric from worn-out shirts and dresses into patchwork quilts. These countryfolk were devoted to their willow trees for the medicinal properties provided. Bark, stripped from the trees in the spring and chopped into small squares were chewed to a pulpy consistency and served as a natural pain reliever for achy shoulders and backs. A welcome respite after a long day of toiling in the hills. Grandparents, wise from their years, used the example of the willow tree to tell their grandchildren stories of survival during harsh winters, hot dry summers and springtime when rains were absent. Rain needed to moisten the manure-covered soil to guarantee an abundance of fruit and vegetables, especially corn. Crisp on the cob, ground into meal, stirred in soups and dried for popping on hearth fires highlighted the many uses for this delicious vegetable. Grandchildren learned about survival and adapting to daily challenges when everything appeared bleak. Snow-capped mountains stood tall in the distance as ships in the waterway below tossed about in stomach wrenching waves as they inched their way to the shoreline. Loaded with textiles, spices, tobacco and sacks of sugar, the ship’s stop was a welcome respite for the townspeople. Trading occurred and essentials were received until the next ship arrived in four to six months and the process repeated. Through it all, the church in the valley, identified by its spire, remained a symbol of hope for the people. Traveling preachers periodically stopped and delivered encouraging Sunday sermons. A resident pastor and his family were due to arrive before the end of the year. Afterwards, families gathered for the noon-day meal of hearty soup and fresh baked bread followed by bowls of preserved fruit. During warm months, the men of the community gathered on front porches and smoked pipes filled with aromatic tobacco while children frolicked among the trees. After the dishes were washed, dried and stored in cupboards, women gathered to piece together the squares of their patchwork quilts in preparation for the cold months ahead. Neighbours helped neighbours. Men laboured side-by-side to repair and build houses that provided shelter for families and pitched in during planting season. Adolescent boys picked wood remnants and chips to fill timber boxes that guaranteed crackling fires that kept homes warm throughout the icy winters. Women worked together to harvest corn as children picked up loose kernels from the soil to save for popping or to feed pet chickens. The little valley and the sloping hills made a community for all the people. It was home to many generations and would continue to be for years to come. Beverly Sce Beverly Sce is a published author, writer and inspirational speaker at woman's retreats. She had an extensive career in public health at the local, state and national level and served in the U.S. military. She has been published in numerous journals and book anthologies and most recently had a piece titled, "Christmas Eve Traditions" accepted for publication by Grace Publishing in December 2026. Beverly facilitates a variety of in-person and virtual workshops including, "Life Writing, Divorce Recovery” and “Writing the Journey Through Cancer.” In addition, she facilitates a Creative Writing Circle for Women. Beverly lives in Pennsylvania with her husband and their five-year-old German Shepard, professor emeritus at Barque University.
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