 A Mad Tea Party, by Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald (USA) c. 1934? The Journal of Zelda The devil is the rabbit. And I am the fallen angel to whom he resurrects. I am melting, No! Falling, that’s what it is, I am falling! Yoohoo! Zelds! Tick Tock. I am following the rabbit. Hello Alice! It speaks, I listen, intent. Tick tock. Its eyes are red. His eyes are red, red like the devil’s. Red like my Scottie’s bowtie, the one I bought him in Spain. It was hot that day, hot today too. Hot in this tunnel. Why am I in a tunnel? They put me in the tunnel, that’s what it is. They’re always trying to clip my wings. But the rabbit… the rabbit wants to help me. Dance, Alice! Dance! Dance for us! It is my birthday— no, it isn’t! But is it? I wonder… My feet hurt. Red again. Red. Red. Red. Like rubies. Great glittering rubies scattered amongst the wet earth. And deeply buried in the white fur. In the mirror, too. I spot the mirror, the red. Spot! Spots! I am dizzy. It must be from all the falling. Red is the thermometer they poke under my tongue. Very dizzy… I dream. I am hot again. I might as well lie here to die. His fur is soft. This could be my coffin. I smile. What a pleasant dream. This one makes you larger, but this one makes you small. Very, very small. That’s what I must have done. I’ve taken the one that makes you feel very, very small. I lied to Scottie again. I’m fine (I am small! Help me, I am small again, Scottie!) I am fine, my love, do not wrinkle your brow at me (for God’s sake, get me out of this tunnel, I am burning alive, Scottie!) I do love the way you look when you’re angry (oh, not at me, not again, Scottie, please don’t let them do this to me, I have to dance for him) We shall have dinner at 4 o’clock, that sounds perfectly fine to me, darling (I hope it is the one that makes me big, I am tired, so tired of being this small) I do love that hat, darling where did you get it (is it your birthday again, who bought him that hat I wonder). Tick Tock, Alice! Oh dear, the game was rigged, and I’ve run out of time, I’m afraid. Tick tock. Tawni Bridenball Tawni Bridenball earner her Master’s in Creative Writing from the University of Denver. ** The Dance of the Mad Hatter An Alabama belle coasts, dances effortlessly across the floor. Gone is hesitance, any introverted jitters killed. A lieutenant, mesmerized, now offers politely to quench raging sarsaparilla thirst to this uplifting, vivacious whirlwind. Examine: Why? Zelda! Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner is a New Jersey-based poet of ten collections, 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). Visit her website at www.barbarakrasner.com. ** what linger becomes he last notes of a grateful dead song the jester the joker the candlestick maker lighting candles breathing fire daffodils yellow eyes drying from the inside out flying notes from a blossoming organ keys splayed westward while you look east making madness while fingering cup and teapot in the lazy last days pine and white orchids play in the soil streams do we remember spring and have the parties ended too soon dance with me juggle my love sweep me over green grass high hopes and let the dreams pass hover and wave enough to light the day and darken their eyes only then can we see the morning light mike sluchinski mike sluchinski reads vonnegut's harrison bergeron religiously. he’s grateful to be part of heartwood literary magazine, dublin poetry walk '24 & '26, superfan/dear easy mac, FLARE: flagler review, scifaikuest, tulane review, mantis, failed haiku, inlandia journal, kaleidotrope, eternal haunted summer, the wave (kelp), the literary review of canada, the coachella review, welter, poemeleon, lit shark, proud to be vols. 13 & 14, the ekphrastic review, meow meow pow pow, kelp journal, the fib review, south florida poetry journal (soflopojo), freefall, pulpmag, in parentheses, and more coming! ** Save me a Waltz Weltering around in my lingo like naked legs, a bedrock in sherds, blossoming, for I party daily, seeing that time of abundance, of reck-less, needs prophecies, a dance. Wine maybe. No scarlet shoes or masked bogeyman may faze me. The eat-me cake’s icing looks praisingly promising, honey mustard my fave. We look like castles gathering, on this check-checkered tartan, yet, it is about drinking, till strength less, till rough ready eurythmics, hands stretching. Addressing. This is not just madness, we aware of falling water-week-days, of blackness in strict ditches ahead. Yes, let’s dress up best, and refuse to be bored. Kate Copeland Kate Copeland’s love for languages led her to linguistics, her love for art & water to poetry. She is curator-editor for The Ekphrastic Review, and runs workshops & open-mics for several writing networks. Find her poems @ https://www.instagram.com/kate.copeland.poems/ & TER, WildfireWords, Gleam, Metphrastics, Hedgehog Press [a.o.]; her audio-poetry-book Caterpillar Tracks will go public in autumn, thanks to WildfireWords. ** Pantalone Tea Party Freeze Gunilla and I held mad tea parties amidst rock pools during low tide as seagulls flew overhead, eyes fixed on our fingers that held cookies or bread sticks they’d dive bomb, snatch, then gobble-down eight feet from our wet tablecloth, viewing us as an easy mark for food. Tossing seashells at cautious grey and white sky pirates circling above and taunting below, adjusting flamboyant clothes of silk and cotton we’d kick sand from red leather boots to our long pointed-toed poulaines then uttered dramatic oaths of love and devotion. When high tides rolled in, we threw party plates, cups and cake to the centre of our checkered tablecloth, pulled and tied four corners splashing through pools quoting favorite Lewis Caroll lines from Through the Looking Glass, yet like Zelda Fitzgerald, we left our party unfulfilled. Sterling Warner A Washington-based author, poet, educator, and Pushcart Nominee, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared in such literary magazines, journals, and anthologies The Raven’s Perch, Lothlórien Poetry Journal, Ekphrastic Journal Review, Bewildering Stories, and Verse-Virtual. Warner has written over a dozen volumes of poetry/fiction including Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Edges, Memento Mori, Serpent’s Tooth, Flytraps: Poems, Cracks of Light: Pandemic Poetry & Fiction, Halcyon Days: Collected Fibonacci, Abraxas, Gunills’s, Garden: Poetry, Seaboard Magic (2026)—as well as Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories. He currently writes, hosts “virtual” poetry/fiction readings, turns wood, and enjoys fishing and boating along the Hood Canal. ** Tumble Girl At the treeline Of the forest See the dull and Ticking tunnel I will tumble ‘Til I'm trampled Down the chute And up the ladder Rungs on wrongways Ringing singing Rhyming war-songs Marching feet Flags a-wavin' Teapot shaking Clattered vapours Whistle heat The checkerboarded Mad magician Flicks the runner From the table Tumbles dishes Tumble-wishing Make me bigger Make me tall Blooded hearts Melt rivers rising Still the pawns go on Colliding Merely checking Are you near me Are you playing Are you bored? Antling insects Inching upwards After parapeted Picnics Kick the bishop From the rampart Card trick trial Heads a-roll Tapping feet and Ticking timepiece Rushing hurry Hushing wait ‘Til the hearts On all my armies Melt the castle Cats and dishes Wishes magics Garden games, ‘Til the river Soothes me slowly Through shivved shivers Dripped with paint, ‘Til the crystalline White palace Waves me, waves Away, away. Zoe Kelton Zoe Kelton is a writer from the Pacific Northwest. Her work has recently appeared in the 2026 Whatcom Writes Anthology. ** A Mad Tea Party Look how well I hold the pose — pink dress fanned across the cloth like I planned this, like the cups didn't just fly from their saucers mid-sentence, like something gray and many-handed isn't pulling at everything I own. I have always known how to fall beautifully. Ask anyone. He stands at the edge of it — top hat, red boots, ringmaster -- watching the way men watch when they have arranged the weather and called it fate. The trees don't move. The castle holds its red. Behind us, the path goes somewhere I stopped believing in around 1930. What they call madness I call Tuesday, I call the creature that lives in the marriage, in the diagnosis, in the century's long idea of what a woman is for. It has so many hands. I have learned to pose among them. Call it a picnic. Call it a party. I painted it, didn't I? I put myself right in the centre and made it beautiful and signed my name. Lynne Kemen Lynne Kemen is the author of Shoes for Lucy (SCE Press, 2023) and More Than a Handful (Woodland Arts Editions, 2020). Her work has appeared in One Art, The Ekphrastic Review, MacQueen's Quinterly, and elsewhere. She received a 2024 Pushcart Prize nomination and serves as Editor/Interviewer for The Blue Mountain Review. She lives and writes in an 1830s farmhouse in rural Delaware County, New York, where she shares her property with a murder of crows, one of whom she has named Edgar Allen Crow. ** Messed Up Again It’s one a.m., I don’t know where I’ve been. Dorothy said to meet her in Emerald City, but I’ve lost my way. The Tin Man’s heart is broken, and I can't run in my ballet shoes. It’s one am, I’ve drunk too many cups of tea. Did my date drug me? Will I ever be the same? I don’t know where I am, I don’t know where I’ve been. Mother always said, be careful with your drink. Now I’m lost in the Haunted Forest with a crazy dancing cat. I can’t find the Yellow Brick Road or the rabbit hole I fell through. I should have listened to Mother because it’s one a.m. again. I don’t know where I’ve been. I don’t know where I am. Barbara Edler Barbara Edler is a semi-retired college composition instructor who lives in southeast Iowa. She said, "I love to explore my past mistakes and I write to heal my inner pain. Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald's painting A Mad Tea Party reminds me of the many poor decisions I made when I was particularly young and not too discerning." ** Wonderland from A to Z You’ve spilled tea on your pink dress, Alice-Zelda, and your golden ringlets dangle in disarray. Extra cups lie scattered on the blanket, although there are only three other guests, muscular demons lusting to seize you. Especially the Mad Hatter, looming tall and menacing in his red cape and boots. You have to watch out for him. But your eyes roll helplessly back inside your head. After this party you won’t be going home to the white fairyland castle on the western hill or to the gloomy brick castle in the east. After your high life and all your adventures you’re going somewhere else. fire in the asylum sleeping dormouse Ruth Holzer Ruth Holzer is the author of ten chapbooks, most recently, On the Way to Man in Moon Passage (dancing girl press) and Float (Kelsay Books). Her poems have appeared in Blue Unicorn, California Quarterly, Freshwater, POEM, Slant and elsewhere. A multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, she has won the Edgar Allan Poe Memorial Prize, the Tanka Splendor Award and the Ito En Art of Haiku Contest Grand Prize. ** … party in the park … they’re parked for their party on the avenue du bois maybe Boulogne maybe another wonderland (somewhere the white rabbit wasn’t invited); red castle versus the white rook a chess well-matched on the chequered mat nearby the mad hatted one all suave and swagger in suited and booted in a mix of Lycra and latex masquerading as master of ceremony black topper that jaunts he flaunts at tilted angle is that an armadillo role playing possum behind the cat fresh from a West Ender a Jellical cat perhaps Munkustrap not Bustopher Jones who’s too busy being upper- class and about town entertaining an Alice in a strawberry sorbet dress of too much tulle and pink ballet shoes who tips tea on her knee which is chai to her chi (which is all Greek to me!) while the cup juggling hare, unaware of the month, reveals himself a fraud dropping the cups on an Alice’s head to the audience of chopsticks’ rapturous applause: it’s a tumultuous picnic party of fairytale folk by any measure mistaken for a farce a treasured midsummer’s day dream Peter R Longden Peter R Longden grew up in Rotherham, South Yorkshire before moving to Coventry in 1981 for a long career working with young people. Now retired, poetry is a significant part of his life, both writing and reading. He is still looking to publish a first chapbook, having had individual poems published by 9th O’Bheal Five Words Competition (2022); two poems published by The Ekphrastic Review in 2024 and April 2026; and two ekphrastic poems in the Wee Sparrow Poetry Press Newsletters in 2024 and 2025. Other poems have been published in local anthologies. Writing poetry began over 25 years ago, recording how to see the world and what makes it the way it is. Peter is married to Sally with two grown-up boys (and a two-year-old granddaughter). ** In This Style No Price "This tea is too hot!" froths the Hare, "But it's given me muscles to spare, And it's added, for free, A petite extra me, In a salmony flapper dress. There!" Poor Alice, beginning to melt, In a dress which is more like a belt, Huge cups on each side, Is remarking, wide-eyed, On the curious cards she's been dealt. "It's clearly a chequerboard world," She ponders, "though vexingly swirled; This yellowy Dormouse, Looks simply enormouse: It's more like a pangolin (curled). "This party's a failure, I feel; There isn't a trace of a meal And I'm certain my neck Is already a wreck; How I wish I'd been left with Tenniel! "The Hare or the Dormouse: now which Should I switch with, commanded to switch? All right, then: the latter. (Don't mention the Hatter; He's out. The poor son-of-a-bitch.)" Ruth S Baker Ruth S Baker has published in a few poetry journals. She has a special love for animals and visual art. ** To Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald Regarding A Mad Tea Party Life became exhausting dance with purity and passion, fullness of creative zeal and emptiness to fashion sacred as a wonderland of paper-thin dimension, water colour artistry becoming intervention edifying troubled soul dividing its attention seeking to be recognized but finding reprehension weary from forlorn embrace mystifying grief with grace. 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. ** Alice at Tea “You are most welcome to join us,” the Hatter said. The table was set, teapot, teacups, and what appeared to be tiny petit fours on a small silver platter. “Thank you,” Alice did a brief curtsey, looking around for others. “How many are you expecting?” “Oh,” said the Hatter. “Maybe some, maybe none.” “Well,” said Alice, “How many did you invite?” The Hatter gave her a haughty sniff, “Why no one, of course!” “But you just now invited me!” “I most certainly did not!” he said, as the two of them sat. “I said you are welcome to attend, but I did not invite you!” Alice was flustered. “But how can you have a tea party if no one is invited?” “I’ll be there,” he huffed. “Isn’t that the important thing?” He sniffed again. “If anyone else cares to attend, it’s up to them!” Alice frowned. “How is it a party if you’re the only one there?” she asked. “That’s a stupid remark,” the Hatter replied, cocking his head in a most officious manner. “Just how many does it take?” “Well,” she said, “I imagine more than just the two of us! I always had at least three.” With that, the Hatter stood abruptly, grasping the edge of the table. “Well, then!” he exclaimed, “this is not a party, after all!” With that he upset the table, and the teapot, teacups, cakes, and Alice went flying. “Oh, dear!” she said, “are you Mad?” Ron Wetherington Ron Wetherington is a retired professor of anthropology. He has published a novel, Kiva (Sunstone Press), and numerous short fiction, prose poems and literary essays. Read some of his work at https://www.rwetheri.com/ ** Through the Blue Dusk (a cento) It was the summer she slid down the bannisters, lived in a blue velvet trunk. A sudden rain fell, passing through like a blurring hand over a wet picture. Masquerading as herself, she made an awful struggle to hang onto the past. Not very long after, the good times had come to an end. One morning, with very little warning, she stood in the skeleton sun, possessed, Then made a long, slow gurgle like water running out of a bathtub. Night lends a majesty to experiences of whirling, raw emotion. Under elms streamed the incognitos, the figurants of current scandals, The taint of hysteria that goes so often with her kind of life. Lost in intricate fragility, She found herself in the magic palace, a resting place for the fine and glittering. Tracy Royce *Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald, famous flapper, wife of F. Scott Fitzgerald, and a writer and artist in her own right, died in a fire during what would turn out to be her final institutionalization. This cento is constructed from excerpts of her 1932 novel, Save Me the Waltz (written in part while she was hospitalized); three short stories: “A Couple of Nuts” (Scribner’s Magazine, 1932), “The Girl the Prince Liked” (College Humor, 1930), and “The Original Follies Girl” (College Humor, 1929); her play, Scandalabra (written 1932, produced 1933); and an article, “The Changing Beauty of Park Avenue” (Harper’s Bazaar, 1928). Tracy Royce embraces the strangeness of centos, erasures, and other forms of found poetry. You can read more of her found poetry in Bending Genres, dadakuku, Feral, Villain Era, and of course, The Ekphrastic Review. ** Accepting the Invitation Dear Zelda, I wonder if you remember that charcoal afternoon when soft rain beaded the Packard's windshield as we made our way on back country roads to the tea party where the Mad Hatter served orange marmalade jam on pumpernickel slices with peppermint tea poured from porcelain vessels embossed with portraits of Kings and Queens when the ticking cuckoo clock was as memorable as the lingering tone of a cathedral bell. Did you know that Scott had also been invited? Jim Brosnan A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Long Distance Driving (2024) and Nameless Roads (2019). His poems have appeared in the Aurorean (US) Crossways Literary Magazine (Ireland), Eunoia Review (Singapore), Naugatuck River Review (US), Nine Muses (Wales), Scarlet Leaf Review (Canada), Strand (India), the Madrigal (Ireland),The Wild Word (West Germany), and Voices of the Poppies (UK). He is a professor at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, RI. ** Quixodyssey The landscape seemed to be sketched on a flat background—smudged, impermanent, unreliable. The more she examined it, the more her perception became muddled, the more she failed at focusing on anything at all. Light wheeled in a spiral, arriving from an invisible source that was down and up at the same time. It felt like being inside a runaway kaleidoscope, An intermittent glitter passed across her eyes, conjuring the complexity of contingency. Everything was broken and yet somehow appeared to be complete. She was supposed to return to the Other World, she knew that, but she could not turn away. She felt herself becoming part of the shifting scenery, ebbing and flowing into what was, for all practical purposes, no longer there. falderal deliriously insane Kerfe Roig Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. Her poetry and art have been featured online by Feral, Pure Haiku, Collaborature, The Chaos Section Poetry Project, and The Ekphrastic Review, and published in The Anthropocene Hymnal, and The Polaris Trilogy. Follow her explorations at https://kblog.blog/. ** Untitled Alice is smashed. The clams made her sick. The weeds made her high. The cat was purple. The tea wasn't tea. It was laudanum. And she's about to have a Jabberwocky explode from her belly. She wonders if she shrinks, that it might get smaller too. Though nothing is relative in this place. The Aces are painting the roses dead. The white rabbit represents all the men she'll ever know: running away from somewhere. Alice is seeing double, or is that Tweedledum or Tweedledee? The dog with brush for a tail keeps licking her. She thinks if it erases her legs and stomach, she won't have to deal with the behemoth. Alice hears moaning. Is it hers? She slowly unfurls from all of the sleeps, like the caterpillar's teasing smoke. Groggily, she awakens from slumber: the natural, the opioid, and alcohol induced, to find Lewis Carroll in her bed. Again. Bayveen O'Connell Bayveen O'Connell is an Irish writer of flash fiction, creative non-fiction, academic essays, and news articles. She takes inspiration from art, history, and myth. ** No Ordinary Milliner The invitation read Come to tea! Dress to please! Alice smiled as she remembered the handsome man wearing the black and red suit and top-hat. She sat on a bench under her favourite elm tree. He walked up to her and took her hand; Preciosa, he said, and kissed her hand Ven conmigo al país de las maravillas. He described a wonderland painted in vibrant colours, delicacies and teas served by rabbit butlers and skies that never darken with despair. Alice watched him saunter down the sidewalk; his red boots glinting in the waning sunlight. She held her invitation and followed him into the forest every now and then catching a glimpse of red behind the trees. She found the passage through the knot in the tree, followed it down to paradise. He was waiting for her on a picnic blanket. Bienvenida, Preciosa Alicia, he sang. She felt euphoric, she felt alive, she felt a little wild with glee. All afternoon at that mad, mad tea party they danced, they sang She was Alicia and would never be an ordinary milliner again. 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 a workshop presenter at VIPF in the Rio Grande Valley, Tx. and People's Literary Festival in Corpus Christi, Tx.. Laura writes ekphrastic poetry and has many pieces published in The Ekphrastic Review. She has also been published in Equinox, Boundless, Synkroniciti, Point Clear Press, Voices, and Four Tulips. ** Dear Zelda, We Accept Your Invitation You were much maligned for having a good time, for dancing, singing, painting despite the travels, the trials of life as the wife of a man struggling to write his way into history while you remained a mystery. Some say you were mad but you were glad to invite us to tea in the garden of your mind among castles in the sky, striding forward in red boots, lounging in pink slippers, posing in pomegranate pumps, welcoming us to your garden on a sunny summer afternoon. 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 ** Dear Zelda Did you, like Alice, yearn for swirls of colour rather than a drone of endless words? When the caterpillar quizzed, who are you, did you say with your bobbed head high—the original flapper or were your cells still buzzing from the shocks and drips, pretending to be two people shutting up the real you like a telescope with drink me bottles and eat me cakes. She is she, and I am I. The endless nights in the hospitals changing you into someone, Ada or Mabel or Dinah, enough left to construct one respectable person who ached to be a prima ballerina, playwright, author who rode on the hoods of taxi cabs who beat an opponent with a tennis racket who slept in a dog kennel who painted the pictures etched in your mind, with dreamy ruby and grassy watercolors, that were misunderstood and you spiraled in Central Park, digging a grave or a tunnel to Wonderland, unearthing solace. Did you, unlike Alice, resign to Cheshire-Cat’s declaration We are all mad here—I’m mad—You’re mad which was the same conclusion your doctors made when you collapsed on the kitchen floor entranced with sand, beaten from the hourglass so Time suspended as it did for the Mad Hatter. Do you know why a raven is like a writing desk? Were your glittering parties out of wine, crumbs in the butter abandoning one spot for the next in the midst of the night? You should have been able to recount your own adventure, what you remembered of the south, then New York, Paris but Alice wisely, naively announced that the past you was a different person there was no reviving. Towards the end, were you on trial with a jurors writing down stupid things on their slates for the world to judge? unimportant—important—unimportant—important the pencil squeaked—sentence then verdict off with your head—what a long sleep you’ve had. They found your slipper, charred black, still smoking. Such a curious dream. 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. ** Clipt Wild girl - Id sin in time: It zips, it zings, it wings - Wisps, shining in pink; Prism glitz - twilight blitz Hiding in crisp silks - bliss. Minx jilts, lilts, singing in Flight, risking jinx. Cliffside, firth swirls - Fizz in ink kiss twirls. Finch hiss: finis Binds girl. Robin White Robin is a lifelong creative: poet, writer, painter, collagist, and mixed media artist. She was born and raised in a small gown in Georgia, USA and can drive on a wet red clay road without going in the ditch. She loves music from gospel to hair metal. Going thrifting and antiquing followed by good food and good company is a perfect day. Her dream is to live on the beach at her favourite place in the world, Jekyll Island, GA. **
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 Utopian Buildings, by Wenzel Hablik (Czechia) 1922 Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential writers working today, and we also welcome emerging or first time writers and those who simply want to experience art in a deeper way or try something creative. The prompt this time is Utopian Buildings, by Wenzel Hablik. Deadline is June 5, 2026. You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way. Scroll down to donate $5CAD (about $3.75 USD). 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to [email protected]. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry. 5.Include HABLIK CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, JUNE 5, 2026. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 15. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly.  Evolution, No. 13, Group VI, by Hilma af Klint (Sweden) 1908 Evolution Hilma, I found your canvas an hour before the deadline, and so this Einstein-Rosen bridge is my last chance… In English your kärlek and ondska become words embedded in “evolution”-- love and evil inside cosmic constraints, the notorious Ouroboros gnawing on his tail. Yet, that’s not the point. I like your faded milky pinks & sepias soothing the conflict of primary colours, and spirals that could lead to a temple of the future, but alas—look at us, headless receivers of dramaturgy. A single tweak of an amino acid in a neuronal protein, and a mouse starts “talking”—coherently, tenderly. Even hums. In the beginning was the Word. What’s to be at the end? Elena Petrova Elina Petrova lived in Ukraine until 2007, where she worked in engineering management. Her debut book was in Russian. In the U.S., she published poetry books Aching Miracle (2015) and Desert Candles (2019), and a contest-winning chapbook A Bird from Ukraine (2026). Her poems appeared in Chicago Quarterly Review, Notre Dame Review, Passages North, North Dakota Quarterly, Texas Review, Porter House Review, Sequestrum, Southwestern American Literature, Another Chicago Magazine, ANTAE, Pedestal, Ocotillo Review, Global City Review, and FreeFall. A short film featuring her poem won Best Cinematic Poetry at the 2023 Miami Chroma Film Festival, www.elinapetrova.com. ** What the Serpent Holds I didn't expect her to be warm. I could have said no — Howard wouldn't have pushed. I didn't. My heart was already at the door. Howard studied ants—slave-makers, fire ants, the architecture of coercion-- but my mentor knew when a student needed a snake. In Portal, Arizona, in a lab that smelled of concrete and control, he handed me a milk snake and said it was time. She came to me in loops and muscle, her pulse finding mine, sinuous, unhurried, warm as something that had always lived in the cup of my hands. I had spent a week lassoing lizards, catch and release, learning that wildness survives being held if you hold it right. She left green everywhere. Laughter. Relief. Disgust. The sublime tipping into the ridiculous the way it does when something true has just occurred. Now I stand before af Klint’s serpent -- that black coil holding the mandala, the wheel of pink and blue and geometry -- and I understand what it means to hold something beautiful without crushing it. She pooped on me as a parting gift, which I choose to call respect. Lynne Kemen Lynne Kemen is the author of Shoes for Lucy (SCE Press, 2023) and More Than a Handful (Woodland Arts Editions, 2020). Her work has appeared in One Art, The Ekphrastic Review, MacQueen's Quinterly, and elsewhere. She received a 2024 Pushcart Prize nomination and serves as Editor/Interviewer for The Blue Mountain Review. She lives and writes in an 1830s farmhouse in rural Delaware County, New York, where she shares her property with a murder of crows, one of whom she has named Edgar Allen Crow. ** Realizing Potential From chemistry, the human form struggles to emerge Reaching back to seeds, and even slithering serpents Winged creatures hover over an ever changing world A circuitous route, step by step, over many millennia In its wake, lie a myriad of intermediate forms of life And still a mystery, whether there was an initial spark The wondrous DNA double spiral, replete with genes That in so many permutations, do identify all species At the heart of the matter, beyond substantive form Is the question, as to whether this is actually the end Who are we to have decided and assumed superiority But A.I may yet have something to say on evolution Flowers nod and wave Content with their destiny As they know their place Howard Osborne Howard Osborne has written poetry and short stories, also a novel and several scripts. With poems published online and in print, he is a published author of a non-fiction reference book and several scientific papers many years ago. He is a UK citizen, retired, with interests in writing, music, and travel. ** Kaleidoscope Stressing, and anxious, kaleidoscope of the mind, confusing ideas. Mind Challenging, confused, mind spinning in different thoughts, imbalanced thinking. Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher has been writing since 2010 and has had many micro-flash fiction stories published as well as haiku poetry. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and two adorable dogs. ** To Hilma af Klint Regarding Evolution, No. 13, Group VI You came to such abstraction first inspired believing you conversed with those before that you became and those to follow not by name but as the spirit given trust of clay remade from fallen dust as vessel to contain the soul, embracing chaos and its toll, evolving the improved command of more and more to understand in realm to know though not to sense but reason from profound pretense of symmetry to be exposed in worlds conjoined to you disclosed. 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. ** it is all so transient so symmetrical this whole affair of evolution to come to the centre as if by chance the whole world whirls around and around a circle consumed upon itself weary of an endless journey it turns and churns rolls and stretches will the heart ever be drawn whole? can things be certain in the geometry of life? a constant gaze scrutinizes every line mind empties what is consumed how can we breathe the stench of death and keep on living? all treasures hide in the mouth of the serpent yet we are not the same when we grab them our flesh burns to leave traces of pink youthful skin disappearing in a time fleeting expanding limiting of our own divinity Katia Aoun Hage Katia Aoun Hage, Lebanese American multidisciplinary artist and musician, lives in a world where everyone is welcomed, stories are heard, and voices find their places in the fabric of life. Art is an expression of her inner life which guides her creative process by fueling it with dreams, spiritual longing, and a drive to experience the different realities of our world. ** Mystery I dream of new friends. Of wings under my soul and angels guiding me on. Of confused thoughts and men with overgrown moustaches. Of the love of snakes masquerading as allies. Of You, in the days before wisdom. Of squandered heats and those without meaning. Of misplaced memories and unloved flowers. Of life waiting to be acknowledged. Sandy Rochelle Sandy Rochelle -poet, filmmaker, narrator. Grammy and Emmy nominated. Producer and narrator of the Documentary film ARTWATCH. About renowned artist and historian, James Beck. Publications include Dissident Voice, One Art, Verse Virtual, Wild Word, Poetry Super Highway, Haiku Universe, Amethyst Review, and others. ** Utveckling Sun and moon and dark and light, revolving in the common sphere, contend a time, and then unite. The snake of death is far and near; she wheels in a tenebrous coil around the track of life’s frontier. Dark is the soul in human toil, an unhatched egg within a shell where elemental atoms roil, but fledgling wings bear up the cell to still a higher wreath of strife, and there it is content to dwell, learn, go to school, be husband, wife, partake of wondrous things and vain-- the shining dew, the paring knife, the touch of every drop of rain. Fulfill the flower, become the bloom blossoming into another plane; the serpent’s maw’s an anteroom: soul passes, orbits, then returns a yolk again in other womb. Ramya Yandava Ramya Yandava lives in Boston. Her poems have previously appeared or are forthcoming in The Oxonian Review, The Society of Classical Poets, The Classical Outlook, and Merion West. She writes the newsletter Soul-Making at soulmaking.xyz. ** Symposium Pruned scalp or brainpan offsetting trunk tray at whim-- serpent cul-de-sac Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning. Her poems have often been honoured by The Ekphrastic Review and its challenges. Her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europa Edizioni, 2021. ** Eve Sews She threads her needle with sinews and veins and embroiders on linen the contents of her heart-- soft, layered secrets and cloudy dreams, thick tears that fall like painted blood. Her creating hands are godlike, whether grasping her cloth or winding a spool. As she lays down shapes and lines her mind is busy with future designs. She stitches a pair of ovaries in the colours of sea and sand, and the feathery womb that nurtured her sons, her beautiful boys now grown into men. But men have no place in her realm today, because embroidery, traditionally, is women’s work. She allows just one faithful friend to draw near-- the serpent that coils around her hoop. (Readers of the myth never stopped to think that the serpent might be female too.) 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. ** Ouroboros I leave my body under the sweet gum with the wood thrush's song. My skin remembers your hand upon my back, how blood expanded my heart. My pelvis felt you, all the way to its fallopian spirals. I am made holy within this cathedral of trees, light singing green notes. I grip the mulchy earth, clutch the gum's spiky orb of seed. There is no pain. Vanessa Zimmer-Powell Vanessa Zimmer-Powell's poetry has appeared on the radio and in numerous journals and anthologies. Awards include first place winner of the 2017 and 2016 Houston Poetry Fest ekphrastic competitions, top honours in the 2017, 2019, and 2021 Friendswood Library ekphrastic poetry competitions, honourable mention in the 2023 ReelPoetry film festival, and finalist in the 2024 Mutabilis Press chapbook competition. Her chapbook, Woman Looks into an Eye is published by Dancing Girl Press. ** When You Discover Divine Wisdom, the Essential One-ness of All That Is and Want to Tell the World When your heart is full of the discovery that everything, but EVERYTHING is divine—even you—what do you do if you can’t sing? If you can’t dance? Can’t write it into tomes telling the world about divine wisdom? When you just know it, when it was revealed to you, when you want to share the beauty of your truth: that there is no distinction of class, race, sexual orientation, colour of skins, that all beings: plant, animal, mineral are part of the one divine reality? And that everything we consider "unique," "individual" is nothing more than sacred, divine drops trying to find their way back to the ONE, the ocean, the all? Swedish artist Hilma af Klint actively searched for life’s meaning from a very young age. Her younger sister’s death cut her deeply, and Hilma wanted to understand and reach out into the world of spirit. She explored the mystical, and she and four friends—as a group—began to hold séances and practice automatic writing/drawing. Soon, Hilma dived into Theosophy (theos = God, sophia = wisdom = divine wisdom) and a little later Anthroposophy anthropos = human, sophia (wisdom) = human wisdom. The esoteric teachings of Helena Blavatsky and Rudolf Steiner influenced her artistic expression, and she used her art to explore her spiritual journey. Hilma was convinced that spirit held her hand while she created her otherworldly works, and that her paintings were messages to humanity—if humanity could only decipher them. And wouldn’t you know: just over 100 years later, a significant new theoretical framework suggests that “consciousness is a fundamental field underlying all of reality.” Is it just a coincidence that this theory is being proposed by Professor Maria Strømme (a nanotechnology expert at Uppsala University)? Let spirit guide you In your search For the light 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 Best of Net nominee. All her 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/ ** What Lies at the Centre of the Universe? 1 We are both too large and too small to fit. Have not even the stars already forgotten us? Our thoughts are like stones skipping across the waves of the void. 2 We have drifted outside the equations. What remains besides the things we will never see? Life passes through us like an unanchored vessel of surging tides. 3 Zero begins and ends in the same place. Why compare nothing with nothing? What can you do with nothing? The snake holds its tail, yearning to reply to what has not yet been asked. Kerfe Roig A resident of New York City, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. In both work and life, she tends to ask questions. The work of Hilma af Klint is full of questions. Follow her explorations at https://kblog.blog/. ** There Was a Girl in Class Who Told a Story I don't remember all of it. Just that it was about being young and doing something small and wrong and being caught inside that wrongness. And something in the telling unlocked a door I had forgotten was even a door. I was seven. There was a backyard. A fence we crossed because crossing it was exactly the kind of thing being seven feels compelled to do, not out of malice, just out of that pure animal curiosity that hasn't learned yet what belongs to it and what doesn't. My friends ran when the door opened. I stood there. Not brave. Just already somewhere else inside myself, already folded inward, already rotating around the hot fixed point of having been seen. That is what this painting knows. Not guilt, guilt is a straight line, it walks toward something, confession, consequence. This is the other thing. The circle that doesn't open. The pink interior held inside the black ring, turning, folding back on itself, soft and unresolved. Someone else's grass under my feet. A neighbour's eyes. Summer air that had changed its quality entirely and would not change back. The girl in class just told her story. She didn't know it would open mine. Isaac Marks ** … break every norm … bold primary contrast choice plucked from painter’s pastel palette it’s the beginnings of a juxtaposition where, from sky and earth and night, the original ovoid emerges bounded by temptation’s serpent-- inside Ovid’s metamorphosis is rested beside how Darwin evolved in thought all centered on what might be an egg a symbol of nature mothered by Eileithyia the goddess of birth a heart at the centre a quartered vessel filled to its brim with empathy equality evolution emotion life pods carry the genetics of the future in patches of DNA: nature’s astronauts orbit this globe-- a crystal ball with its predictive messages-- like eavesdroppers on what is to come orchestrating challenging change wings sling their curving dreams angelic in their flourish and poise springing life to the turning world embryonic, fluid yet full-formed expected, yet in birth, breaks every norm Peter R Longden Peter R Longden grew up in Rotherham, South Yorkshire before moving to Coventry in 1981 for a long career working with young people. Now retired, poetry is a significant part of his life, both writing and reading. He is still looking to publish a first chapbook, having had individual poems published by 9th O’Bheal Five Words Competition (2022); two poems published by The Ekphrastic Review in 2024 and April 2026; and three ekphrastic poems in the Wee Sparrow Poetry Press Newsletters in 2024 and 2025. Other poems have been published in local anthologies. Writing poetry began over 25 years ago, recording how to see the world and what makes it the way it is. Peter is married to Sally with two grown-up boys (and a two-year-old granddaughter). ** Perhaps I See More Whimsy Perhaps I see more whimsy than intended in Hilma’s painting. The animal at bottom I take for an impish owl, wings spread, striving for balance. I see a ghoulish figure hovering along the righthand side of a hoop snake. What does the clinging figure at left hold in her other hand? At first, I think it’s a cap. Then, an oval sack with blue lining. The snake outlines a quartered pie chart of cumulous shapes halved. Black square, blue circle, split in two. And those triangles, they point, don’t they? to that black square. Hilma would find me facile, or sacrilegious— unenlightened by messages channeled from her High Masters. Yet I’m invigorated by energy, those wondrous shapes and lines. And colour. I give thanks for that. The ouroboros implies we come full circle and then will ascend. I descend those curlicues for her brilliant egg-shaped gems! Margo Davis Margo Davis loves the interplay of visual art and poetry. A number of her poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, as well as Synkroniciti, Equinox, The Mackinaw and Deep South. Forthcoming poems are to appear in The MacGuffin and Arkansas Review. Originally from Louisiana, she lives in Houston. Her recent collection is Uncoupling. ** My Myth Is Writing Itself I emerge from the serpent’s womb fully formed minus my head which I left within the boundaries of mouth to tail. I float inside these four realms, spending decades in each one; love and all its intricacies from the eros I feel for you bordering on mania to the agape in times of need; from there I move through perfection and symmetry and the constant pressure to appear calm though a storm rages within me; into the chambers of myth making and magic and remembering the sadness I felt when I was told magic wasn’t real; finally finding firm footing in me and what I choose to believe. I will not disappear into old age and frailty. I will devour my own tail in delight constantly evolving into better versions of myself. My body on the outside holds my world in place and my mind and spirit on the inside hold my truths. My soul’s journey through chaos and surviving the everyday things that tried to destroy it is the real magic. Laura Peña Laura Peña is an award-winning poet born and raised in Houston, Texas. 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. She has been a featured poet at Valley International Poetry Festival, Inprint First Fridays, and Public Poetry. She has been a workshop presenter at VIPF in the Rio Grande Valley, Texas, and People's Literary Festival in Corpus Christi, Texas. She writes ekphrastic poetry and has many pieces published on The Ekphrastic Review. She has also been published in Equinox, Boundless, Synkroniciti, Point Clear Press, Voices, and Four Tulips. ** Temple It can be no surprise that snakes are always present, circling our bodies-- eating the eggs of our stories. So we hold our silences, our silencing. When he came to see my paintings he ate them, one by one, declared them inedible. It is so much easier to walk across an island, and leave brushes, still, in their jars. We see women, voiceless, all the time. What have I learned? To close this circle. No one will see this painting until I die. Then, with that soft click, I pick up a brush, and paint my palms, my belly, my uterus. The flourish of a fallopian tube. Sister, you see it. They asked me to paint a temple, and after one hundred tries, what did my brush lift out of the weave of silence? The place where we pray. The place where we sing the yolks of our songs. Emily Wall Emily Wall’s poems are published across the US and Canada and have been nominated for Pushcart prizes and Best of the Net. She has published six books: Fig, Fist, Flame, Breaking into Air, Liveaboard and Freshly Rooted. She lives in Douglas, Alaska and can be found online at www.emily-wall.com. ** When Privilege, Convention Paid Sense esoteric ironies, as privileged on holydays, an island where remained perhaps, surrounded, social seas, indeed. Vacating scene where most were found, effected through this stranger life, an isolate, connection claim, hid legacy, revealed; declined. Academy, Society, disputing which direction guide; with chime of Sherlock’s Conan Doyle, The Five sought out High Mastership. Mixed séance with conventional-- wherein she found her income stream-- did sister’s spirit haunt her hope, dead, know rejection of her will? In mathematics, botany her roots and route, symbolic search; in vogue, espoused theosophy, but little canvassed then on earth? 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 ** What Does It Look Like? It looks like Ganesha. It looks like Ouroboros. It looks like yin yang and yolks swirling in a centrifuge. It looks like the echoes of a forgotten past shaking hands with a forgotten future. It looks like the neon remnants of my ancestors reaching from the shell of a bitter fruit petrified underground. It looks like radio waves of distortion and loss. It looks like ovaries and testicles. It looks like sacs of angels burning with questions from within. It looks like The Lorax squatting to suck on a hookah. It looks like monks of Sikkim praying in a circle. It looks like star-crossed lovers sizzling in orthogonal dreams. Truth hidden in polygons, revealed in curved pigments of lies. It looks like life. Sowmya Krishnamurthy Sowmya is a writer, artist, and an educator. Her work appears in 3Moon Magazine, The Birdseed, The Hooghly Reviewand more. Her story was once shortlisted for the Alpine Fellowship Writing Prize. She likes to brew Kombucha and spends afternoons wondering which reality she lives in. ** The Evolution of S Sometimes Simone saw a sunflower, snapdragon, or safflower. Sometimes she spotted sputtering seeds, shattered shapes of shame. Still, a snake slithered along the sides, serving as security sentinel. On Sunday, Simone spied six silhouettes. Statues? Spirits? Escaping, slipping past the sleeping serpent, springing like Slinkies onto the surface. Stretch. Stretch to be strong, Simone surmised. Smug with spunk, she switched on her transistor. Hiss. Hiss. Hiss. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner's ekphrastic work has appeared in numerous literary journals, including The Ekphrastic Review, Main Street Rag, and Flare. Her latest ekphrastic collection is the forthcoming The Wanderers (Shanti Arts, June 2026). She hosts the Ekphrastic Book Club and regrets missing the Hilma af Klint exhibition at New York's Museum of Modern Art in 2025. She lives in New Jersey. ** Embroidery Kit DIY Cross Stitch Set No. 13 Ships in ONE business day! Please note: Read listing carefully. This is a KIT. Photograph depicts finished embroidery, but you will receive a KIT!!! Each KIT includes: 1 Pre-printed Evolution Pattern 8 x Color Embroidery Floss 1 Needle 1 Set of Instructions Display Stand: 1 Bulb Garlic 3 Mustaches (White depicted, but color may vary depending upon mustache availability) IMPORTANT: Due to recent changes in postal service shipping policies, KIT no longer includes Serpent Embroidery Hoop!!! I cannot ship snakes anymore, so please don’t ask. In order to complete embroidery, you will need to find your own snake. Detailed Snake Catching Instructions included. Tracy Royce Tracy Royce is a poet and writer with recent work in Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, Heavy Feather Review, Hot Flash Literary, and forthcoming in Best Microfiction (2026). Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions. She lives in Southern California, but you can find her on Bluesky. ** The Vigil I will not leave you comfortless; I will come to you. John 14:18 In the bluish haze of dusk when swallows rise from the tree and shadows mirage my wall you come to visit me after long months of despair. Your spirit looks the same as you did in mortal form; but now when I call your name white lilies shimmer in your grasp, wallpaper sags from winter's chill and I begin to understand as vines spiral on the window sill why you've come to comfort me. The moon shows her crescent wing, a sliver of angelic light to which dust and memories cling inspiring us to think of what we had and have yet to share, your breath falls on cold skin and the dark current of my hair as you kiss my forehead making us both glimmer in the glass of a mirror thinly cracked waiting for dawn and my soul to pass. Wendy Howe Wendy Howe is an English teacher who lives in California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, women in conflict and history. She has been published in the following journals: The Poetry Salzburg Review, The Interpreter's House, The Orchards Journal, Songs of Eretz, The Peacock Journal, Indelible Magazine, Eye To The Telescope and many others. Her latest work will be forthcoming in the spring issues of The Otherworld Magazine and Flowers Of The Field. ** Divine Order The hem of black seaweed thrown up from the ocean wobbled and warped through my tears and so I couldn’t make out the dark blob that tottered on and off the line—a sick dog, maybe, angling just clear of the surf. No. Something about the shape steadied me, gentled my pace, as though my body had a read a thing my stinging, sleep-addled brain could not. The gentle lapping of the Pacific at dawn felt suddenly ominous for reasons having to do with the form, which tottered up and away from the ocean, before tilting and weaving back toward it. When this happened, electricity shot through my chest. Below that, my sturdy legs began to run. Oh, I understood, oh, child. Alone. Ocean. I’d seen the child the morning we’d arrived: it was a toddler, latched to the hand of a waif in a crocheted bikini on the beach in front of the backpacker hostel. That morning, child had chortled with delight as the young mother pointed out sandpipers and gliding, diving pelicans. With its lavish curls and dark, oblong eyes, it was an apparition of the baby I’d foolishly imagined having with B. The old story: Man, Woman, Child. The natural order of things. Run, was the word that tore through me, churned my legs in the loose sand, cleared my vision so that I could see that the waves were building, each one crashing and fizzing farther up the beach than the last. Closer, I saw that the child had crouched, back to the water, to dig at something in the sand. B hadn’t spoken to me on the overnight bus out of the mountains. The silence had continued the next day, as the road dropped into verdant scenery and softened into sand under the tires of the 24-hour bus. The tang of highly oxygenated sea air permeated the bus and made me want to take his familiar hand and squeeze it for happiness but he’d pulled away. Even on the purple-black sand of the beach, where the vast ocean lapped and murmured an old truth—the story of the land and the sea holding each other in give and take – I was more preoccupied with the crack between the two of us than with whatever bits of the universe might seep in. I did not want to admit that B’s silence had to do with my half-supporting, half-carrying him down from the mountain. It had been his idea to climb that first day at altitude. I’d worried when he bounded ahead. An hour in, he’d slumped against a boulder, delirious with altitude sickness. Instinct threaded my body under his arm, turned me back toward the little guest house, hidden behind the mountain’s flank. The way my skeleton is, the way I know to push through pain, the way energy addles me when I am still: I didn’t choose these traits to make asses out of men. I did fit in the natural order of things. Later, in the little thatch bed under the skylight, B took the steaming tea I’d brought him and snarled at me, saying I had made him climb, made him run. Lying next to his silence that first night at the beach, I hadn’t slept, had gone out to the beach at first light. As I closed in on the child, it plucked what it had been digging at from the sand and turned toward me. I fell into a crouch, gasping, mopping sweat out of my eyes with the corner of my t-shirt. The waves had receded, as if to point out that I was insane. The child—a girl, I could now see—lifted fixed me with a solemn gaze, took me in. She held out her treasure—a sand dollar— and began to speak with the clarity and delight of a being new to her language. It was a tonal language, with rolled r’s and soft clicks. I understood nothing. As she spoke, she lifted my hand and placed the sand dollar inside of it. One at a time, from thumb to pinky, she closed my fingers around the white disc. Nodding at the correctness of this, she clucked, sighed with satisfaction, turned and shambled back to the hostel, the air crackling and whirring with a gentle light in her wake. Zoe Alsop Zoe Alsop is a writer living in Maryland.  A Mad Tea Party, by Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald (USA) c. 1934? Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential writers working today, and we also welcome emerging or first time writers and those who simply want to experience art in a deeper way or try something creative. The prompt this time is A Mad Tea Party, by Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald. Deadline is May 22, 2026. You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way. Scroll down to donate $5CAD (about $3.75 USD). 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to [email protected]. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry. 5.Include FITZGERALD CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, MAY 22, 2026. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 15. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly.  Coffee House Kirkgate Market, Bradford, by Laura Mate (England) 2025  Kae Bohannan Kae Bohannan is a queer mixed-Indigenous fiction writer who hails from a small town just outside of Island County, Washington. Their writing focuses on out-of-genre stories that follow themes of grief and identity, often blending poetic prose with speculative fiction tones. ** The Crime of Writing in the Coffee House The literary life rarely identifies the unapologetic thieves who use the plundered words and almost forgotten meters found in the open grave of the unknown poet. Some keep vigil outside the unlit homes of tortured writers or fill handy notebooks with stories of imagined lives that no one remembers living. And these are claimed as true. Following second or third hand reports, words claim to be transcripts, of the journals of a literary prisoner in solitary confinement who moved the words to the prison of the printed page, the one that was never there. Or the words are recited on open-mic night in a fabled coffee house, closed that singular night when what happened everyone already knows, but forgot, as the writer would rather not read their own words, but what was said about them. The poet's hope was that some reader would carry those second-hand words up to heaven, since we know how poetry inflicts incredible harm — when it was done correctly and leaves a trace of fresh blood on our hands in midnight parking lots. Royal Rhodes Royal Rhodes is a poet whose writing was often conducted in a coffee house in the Village where he lives. Coffee houses in Boston, New York, London, and Vienna have given him treasured memories of finely-brewed coffee and the ensuing conversations with friends. ** Sleeping Bruty “It's just that time has made you different,” they said Given you brutal shoulders and boxy hips Grey rain-stained your concrete remains Smothered the fire inside you, when the economy dipped They said, “It's not because you’re unsightly or absent of architectural flair.” Instead, they cited the times you won awards And entangled Andale in your fresh trimmed hair Like when there were wishing wells and candy shops Frenzied by the fashion of the day When flat tops and coffee spots Were exactly what we needed, all handmade It's difficult now to imagine what they saw at the time Looking through the lens of commercial stakes We should wonder if it’s too late to revitalize Or if this is the way of Brutalism’s' impending fate The windows are now closed, unclean Enshrined displays in metal shielded slats Merchants voted out by the historical committee Packed into cardboard, then cast onto house steps And although you outlasted your prime As a memorial of endurance after the war While we once admired your stiff-lipped foreverness We now want our beauty to be something more But this seems to be our trend, how we depart with our pasts We put to bed what strikes us as mundane We chase tastes and blame divisions of class When, in fact, it was never you, rather it was we who changed Brendan Dawson Brendan Dawson is an American born writer based in Italy. He writes from his observations and experiences while living, working, and traveling abroad. Currently, he is compiling a collection of poetry and short stories from his time in the military and journey as an expat. ** Maggie’s Coffeehouse As the light failed on that last trading day for the coffeehouse at the derelict market he stood just inside the door, keys in hand, ready to shut down and lock up. Something, less than a presence, more of a luminance, faint at that, a flicker just outside the field of vision, a shimmer, the shadow of a flash as though the gossamer of trade passed by, an ectoplasmic puff of hope, the residual trace of a chocolate éclair, its spectral choix pastry, collapsed the vital force that fell from his chest and sank, never to rise again. He turned to survey the empty chairs against the tables and the Laminex of the service counter. In the sheen, he remembered standing with Maggie, hand in hand, smiling into the light of their retirement dream, somehow conceived in the brutal womb of an architectural eyesore. How happy they were, before hope soured during lockdown when the latest book-keeping software could not account for the loss of custom, and his laptop’s antivirus software proved no barrier to the pathogen that took Maggie. Andrew Leggett Andrew Leggett is an Australian author of poetry, fiction, interdisciplinary academic papers, reviews and songs. His three published collections of poetry are Old Time Religion and Other Poems (Interactive Press 1998), Dark Husk of Beauty (Interactive Press 2006) and Losing Touch (Ginninderra Press 2022). His latest book In Dreams and Other Stories was published by Ginninderra Press in 2026. He is an Associate Professor with the James Cook University College of Medicine and Dentistry. ** Haiku even with good bones it required a facelift retirement dreams 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, Sparks of Calliope, Sheila-Na-Gig, Poetry Porch, The Ekphrastic Review, and Haikuniverse. ** Coffee House After you told me it was no longer me and that I should go away somewhere I thought I hope like me you end up somewhere alone forgive me I hate you this is a photo of me just after I left John L. Stanizzi John L. Stanizzi author of 15 collections, including Chants, POND, Feathers & Bones, Entra La Notte.His poems and CNF have appeared in Cortland, Rattle, Prairie Schooner, New York Quarterly, Paterson Literary Review, Potomac Review, Blue Mountain Review. Johnnie is a former New England Poet of the Year, Wesleyan University Etherington Scholar, and has just been inducted as Coventry Connecticut's inaugural Poet Laureate. He taught 26 years at both high school and college levels, and directed theater for 16 years. Johnnie lives with wife Carol, in Coventry, CT. ** Sweet Morning Light Sweet morning light pours in through the large windows, the upholstered interrupting its flow and causing it to pool in soft geometric shapes around the cafe. The sparkling appliances are still waking up, their metallic bodies beginning to gleam in the newly arrived light. In a few moments, when the billowy clouds change positions, the sharp wooden countertop will be seized by the sun's golden fingers. The linoleum, made dingy by years of spilled espresso, over-boiled kettles, and exploding stand mixers, is bathed in soft gray light. Splashes of sunshine bob up and down as the wind ruffles the left tree in front of the window. The thin branches gently scratch against the ribbed, almost clapboard wall at the front of the cafe. The ancient white paint has begun to peel off in the places with the most prevalent branches, falling into small clusters that stick to the bottom of shoes. Tiny clusters of shadow hide under tables, in the crevices between chair legs, in the corners between the wooden beams of the ceiling. In a few minutes, the delicate morning silence will be broken, and no one will notice the pockets of golden light or shy shadows. Molly Klump Molly is a senior at The Gregory School in Tucson, AZ. ** The Local Java Joint Quick, cozy, quiet, clean, a neighbourhood cafe with a familiar vibe and servers who remember you. A regular stop to and from work, an easy place for lunch, a space devoid of the stress of the world. The chain coffee shop opened across the street with a minimum of fanfare, no pomp or circumstance. Slowly, surely, lower prices and speed, convenience, draws customers away, leaving tables empty. Prices are raised to maintain salaries, further driving loyalty away from local comfort into corporate monotony. Size and scale are rarely threatened by Mom and Pop, leaving the impersonal in place of authentic human connection. The chairs sit empty and the tables bare; community has been lost. Brydon Caldwell Brydon is a long time teacher and emerging writer from the western edge of the Canadian Shield. His writing can be found in The Ekphrastic Review and The Fib Review. ** Where Are My Friends? Lucie came to the Coffee House To chat with her friends She was looking forward to seeing them again She hasn’t been there for two months She missed her last get-togethers She was undergoing cancer treatments There is no one at her meeting place You are mistaken Lucie Your friends are all there They are inconsolable and they miss you You can’t see them Lucie You died last night You didn’t survive your cancer Jean Bourque Jean lives in Montreal. These words are dedicated to the memory of his cousin, who passed away a few years ago from cancer. She was 48 years old. ** Four Minutes You have been standing here since the morning Diane hadn't come in, and then the next morning, when her daughter called—the younger one, not the one she always talked about—you simply kept showing up because no one told you not to and the counter needed someone and you were the kind of person the counter welcomed, people come through and speak to you either looking down at the plastic menu card or looking down at their phones, they do not look at you, this is fine, this is the whole arrangement, and there is a window where light arrives in the afternoon at an angle that for approximately four minutes makes the Formica and pastel and vinyl and wood trim look like something that was once loved, and you recall how Diane used to stop mid-sentence whenever the light happened, she'd just…stop…hold her coffee, watch the light, and you never asked her what she was thinking about during those four minutes, you were going to, there was always going to be time, and you understand now that this is what the dead take with them, not the years, not even the days, just the four minutes, the thing you were always about to say but never did, and now you notice the light is coming, so you stop wiping the counter, put down the cloth, and you wait. Renuka Raghavan Renuka Raghavan is the author of three prose and poetry collections. Her most recent is Nothing Resplendent Lives Here (Červená Barva Press, 2022). Her previous work has appeared in Boston Literary Magazine, Bending Genres, The American Journal of Poetry, Blood+Honey, and Mom Egg Review, among many others. A Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions nominee, she lives and writes in California. ** The Things In Thingness Theory objects become discarded objects in a room where nothing moves sun-bleached lines on chairs align with faded table legs shadows sway like moving creatures shaped from steamed foam & espresso baristas voices once reverbed off tiles two shots lovey & cream’s organic dear now unheard in a post pandemic sweep while shadows catch that lost dance in moving light & dwindled hours piled rubbish from tossed masks & takeout cups who can say where any single unused human object will land my father’s kayak & mother’s balls of yarn for sale at Danny’s Deals now I once entered an abandoned Sushi restaurant the bowls & cups for tea or miso soy sauce & sake piled along the bar where silverfish ruled in rice & on a shelf above a corner booth the white for luck Maneki Neko sits its right paw raised to beckon Yvonne Blomer Yvonne Blomer was the 4th poet laureate for the City of Victoria and has published a cycling memoir and six books of poetry, most recently Death of Persephone: A Murder (Caitlin Press). She lives on the territories of the Lək̓ʷəŋən (Lekwungen) speaking people in Victoria, BC. She has edited three water-focused, eco-poetry anthologies, Sublime: Poems for Vanishing Ice is the latest. ** To Laura Mate Regarding Coffee House Kirkgate Market, Bradford Implicit echoes heard are those in mist of minds that must compose farewells to where so long they shared their silence with delights they dared, or lent their ear and voice to hum as tales evolving, crumb by crumb, became a feast forever hence -- the place for soul that heart could sense as home to faith that being from means owning changes when they come like softened dusk on shadowed wall of eve that will but once befall and leave the gleaming wood to fate as glisten wishful eyes await recalling scent of roasted brew pervading what begins anew, not felt as mourning of demise but dawn, unyielding, of reprise. 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 Empty World The sunless days linger on. The beauty of the world hidden. Chairs and tables our only landscape. Empty of souls, even the lost ones. Left to make our way alone. Scavenging what is available. Visions of love untenable. Sandy Rochelle Sandy Rochelle is an award winning poet, accomplished actress, filmmaker, and narrator. Publications include, One Art, Dissident Voice, Verse Virtual, Wild Word Impspired, Haiku Universe, Amethyst Review, Poetic Sun, Spillwords Press, Every Day Writer, Indelible, and others. ** Falling for a Meteorologist I look up from wiping tables and I see him. Not walking across the parking lot not in a bird, or a butterfly, or a flower, But a thunderous cloud. Its high green wall moves slowly, showing its might. Not letting out a small drizzle, not a soft breeze or a cool breath or restorative rain But a funnel reaching down. I reach into my pocket and I grab my phone. Not to call the weather station, not to call 911, but to text him a picture. And I can’t help but smile, knowing he’d love what I’ve seen. Kate Speak Kate Speak is a graduate student at Truman State University, and she does her best to find time to write between school and work. ** as the gates yawn open do they wait for us there? well their echoes do, carried along trays, gossip so piping hot the steam billows and seeps into the grout more coffee? someone asks amidst the chatter, an elderly couple mugs clink softly, yes-pleases waterfalling forth, and just like that they're gone a certain kind of quiet lives among the thin veils of dust, between the windowsills and the rafters, where the gray morning above doesn't feel as lonely and when the keeper's bell rings, may the breeze that palms the shoulder, as the doors thrown wide, remind us that the clouds above, are just as kind as the warmth that resides within. Ty Ty is an undergraduate student from Western Washington University, studying for a BA in Creative Writing. All throughout their life, they've harbored a deep appreciation for stories of all forms and genres, especially those that aren't afraid to be odd or experimental. They hope with their writing that others may experience that same spark of emotion that drives them to keep being creative. ** It Used to Be The coffee house sleeps indefinitely, pale blue velvet bistro chairs are stacked, the baristas are not in, customers have gone elsewhere. Shadows grow where light cannot reach. I look through the window at emptiness, can't ignore the shapes, the repetition of squares––a wall of clean beige tiles, nine square panes of a window, the bar's rectangular blue panels-- a void so clean and precise. Rings from coffee mugs are non-existent. Crumbs from the walnut cake are swept away. But I know I was here with cream on my lips, holding your hand, reading a book, licking a tear when you left me. Vanessa Zimmer-Powell Vanessa Zimmer-Powell's poetry has appeared on the radio and in numerous journals and anthologies. Awards include first place winner of the 2017 and 2016 Houston Poetry Fest ekphrastic competitions, top honors in the 2017, 2019, and 2021 Friendswood Library ekphrastic poetry competitions, honorable mention in the 2023 ReelPoetry film festival, and finalist in the 2024 Mutabilis Press chapbook competition. Her chapbook, Woman Looks into an Eye, is published by Dancing Girl Press. Her cine-poems have been shown at Gulf Coast Film Festival, ReelPoetry Film Festival, and the Copenhagen Nature & Culture International Film Festival. Her poem, Hole in the Sky, was part of the 2025 Ars Poetica II Juried Exhibition at the Blowing Rock Art & History Museum. ** The Chrononauting Adventures of the Brontë Sisters found Anne, Charlotte, and Emily at a brutalist café inside Kirkgate Market just before close where they ordered spam fritters with mash and pints of stale beer that smelled of tuberculosis. The women recalled the handsome boy who was visiting his aunt for the summer and how he sat perfectly straight in the pew at St Michael and All Angels until he died suddenly last week. Then talk turned to birds, beautiful books by Bewick, and the latest Swarovski bins, but the splendor of skylarks and geese gave way to cuckoos’ deceit and the lekking and madness of grouse. When Charlotte’s fingers began to thrum her copy of the Leeds Intelligencer, Anne knew that the mood would soon turn political and with a deft hand motioned for the check. As they rose to depart, leaving behind cigarette smoke and modernity, they could not help but wonder what would happen next. Then, in the flipping of an hourglass, the time travellers were gone like swifts on the wing to who knows where. Reader, I followed them. 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. ** Decaffeinated Narratives caught in the interior of a process that ends on the horizon at the missing door - an endless exit into fading memories - what else should I expect? And here is Crow again, having his say before sunrise for some strange reason. Is he trying to coax the day to open early? Is there a line of people waiting to get in? I doubt it. Instead I feel crowds at the edges of my weary synapses, cursing at the interruption, turning over, pulling the covers up restlessly, looking for a way to escape time. Kerfe Roig This photo reminded me very much of the atmosphere of most of my dreams. ** Honey I remember the way you tripped down my front steps when we went on our first coffee date all that time ago. I tried not to laugh, but a nervous chuckle dripped from my lips and it felt like the first day of the rest of my life. We walked to the quaint and quiet coffee shop in the town square and sat at the only available table. My chair wobbled and you offered—no, begged to trade me. I refused, teetering and waiting for the balance to shift so that I’d maybe topple over. Surely it was eons ago or maybe in a dream as we sipped coffee from paper cups and made promises we never intended on keeping. They were the nice kind of promises, beautiful lies that felt like kisses down my neck and your hand in mine. Lies you swore you’d never tell. Lies that felt like being tucked into your side on a Sunday morning, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and drowning in your caffeinated compliments. You’re like the teaspoon of honey that I started putting in my coffee. Sure, life’s okay without, but when it’s gone I know something is missing. And maybe that is when I should have known, and maybe I did but I didn’t really know better. I just listened to you talk and heard “you’re special” and forgot the part that screamed “I don’t need you.” A backhanded compliment because you take your coffee black and I sit there superfluous. Just a body to warm your bed and a teaspoon of something sweet that your life is just alright without. And sometimes I wish that I could shout through the void and ask simply, “Do you miss me?” I sometimes sit at coffee shops wondering if somehow, the universe will glitch and I’ll get to watch us walk through the door. I have forgotten the way that happiness looks on my face—it breaks me to see it again. I’ll scald my tongue on hot tea to the point of silence, and I will not warn this past version of myself that I’ve eclipsed with in the quiet of a Sunday morning. I will watch the sun dip in the sky and light up your bright blue eyes. And for a moment, the universe will be as it should. You pitch your voice up as you tell a joke. I laugh. I watch as my chair shifts and I wonder if I fall if you will be there to catch me. I know you won’t be, and that’s okay. I’ve learned how to fall in love, but I can’t seem to fall out of it. I drown in the sound of my naive, sickeningly sweet laughter and I turn to the woman working at the counter. We share a knowing glance. We both know some love is not built to last. We pity me and I hate the way it feels. She puts on another pot of coffee. I sit in the quiet coffee shop and I sip my tea and try to decide whether to drown out or cling to your voice. I disappear into the background of the beige walls and neutral carpet because I’m just a teaspoon of honey. Something sweet but superfluous. I watch the way it drips from your spoon onto the table. You wipe it away quickly, and the mess is gone. Lucy McCormick Lucy McCormick is a current graduate student at Truman State University. She has done editorial work for the Missouri Folklore Society Journal and when she isn't writing, she enjoys stargazing, crocheting, and wishing on dandelions, ladybugs, eyelashes, and fireflies. ** In the Midst of It This is the story of a hiatus, Of silence, Of stillness, Of space, Of a certain signature. The elements in it Stay within their contours: There are no spillages and overlappings About that storyline To dazzle the aspect: In its idiom is constancy, Of every mote and every moment. And, Why should one be bothered About the beginnings and endings of stories? Substance is in the here and now, In the midst of it. G.I. Sheriff Besides a substantial contribution over the years of poems, essays and stories to various literary journals and anthologies, G. I. Sheriff has published two books of poems, The Dew Between The Petals And Other Poems and One Hundred Poems Of Aesthesia. His poetry videos are featured on his YouTube channel @ghalibiqbalsheriff8314. He lives in Bengaluru, India. ** Tell Me What You See Good gravy — an empty coffee shop, closed for the evening. Chairs carefully stacked so the floor can be mopped. The smell of bleach fights with the coffee bean oil, and the bleach is losing. All the sounds and smells of the day are still in the space — you can’t mop those out. My grandfather knew this. He’d point at something — a flower, a bird, something with a Latin name — and I’d be watching his nose instead, the one with no cartilage, moving in ways that noses don’t. He’d scratch it. Whatever he was pointing at, gone. This is how I learned: sideways, catching the wrong thing. Pam and I meet every other Wednesday. Her family, my family, books, politics, heartbreaks, great deals this week on avocados. Bradford keeps its own counsel the same way — working-class, weathered, not making a fuss about what it’s held. Tomorrow the shutter lifts. Fresh coffee, new conversations, old ones continued. Dreams, news, old news. The pots and mugs are washed and waiting. Lynne Kemen Lynne Kemen is the author of Shoes for Lucy (SCE Press, 2023) and More Than a Handful (Woodland Arts Editions, 2020). Her work has appeared in One Art, The Ekphrastic Review, MacQueen's Quinterly, and elsewhere. She received a 2024 Pushcart Prize nomination and serves as Editor/Interviewer for The Blue Mountain Review. She lives in rural Delaware County, New York. ** The Coffee Shop Before returning home to our innocent partners, we’d meet here, greeted by the hiss of the steaming machine and a dim wink of lights. The faded blue chairs, the pink tiled walls showing their age, the wooden tables that wobbled weakly even then, furnished a haven for our secret enjoyment. Wordless with want, we sipped creamy foam and drained cupfuls of sweet darkness. Our place abandoned now, awaiting demolition. Ruth Holzer Ruth Holzer is the author of ten chapbooks, most recently, On the Way to Man in Moon Passage (dancing girl press) and Float (Kelsay Books). Her poems have appeared in Blue Unicorn, California Quarterly, Freshwater, POEM, Slant and elsewhere. A multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, she has won the Edgar Allan Poe Memorial Prize, the Tanka Splendor Award and the Ito En Art of Haiku Contest Grand Prize. ** I Am Not Sitting in the Fifth Chair What the hell, you guys. We agreed to sit at that booth with the view of the parking lot and whatnot, and then while I’m taking a leak you sneak over to this table. Oh. Over at the booth, Billy’s legs stuck to the vinyl cushion. Maybe if you covered up those getaway sticks for once they wouldn’t get stuck to stuff, Billy. Just jam a jacket under there and everything’ll be fine. Well, I can tell you one thing, I’m not sitting here. Not in the fifth chair. No way. Check it out. Over at the counter, that guy gumming his pie to death. Within minutes either he’ll dribble the rest down his shirt, or he’ll shovel it in a box to go. Then the five of us can sit at the counter, two on one side and three on the other. What do you mean, “What’s the difference?” Those aren’t chairs at the counter, that’s the difference. Those are stools. Totally different than chairs. Look, I’m not sitting here, period. Because I don’t need no fifth chair problems. See that little family at the four-top in the back? Two kids and done. I bet Ma and Pa knew about the fifth chair. If they’d had a third kid, they’d have signed on for a lifetime of trouble. What’s with the fifth chair? I can’t believe you guys don’t know this stuff. You know who loves to sit in the fifth chair? Ghosts, that’s who. You sit down in the fifth chair, you’re not alone for long. I don’t know why. It’s some kind of pentagram thing or something. I just know those stains may look like ketchup, but they don’t come out in the wash. And it’s not just stains. You sit in the fifth chair, something lingers. All right, fine. You four enjoy your fries. I’m gonna go across the street and get a beer. And if you still don’t believe me, call up Timbo, tell him to come down and join you. Tell him to sit right there. Timbo’s a lonely guy. Maybe he won’t mind a little company. Tracy Royce Tracy Royce is a poet and writer with work appearing or forthcoming in Heavy Feather Review, The Mackinaw, MacQueen’s Quinterly, ONE ART, and Best Microfiction (2026). Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions. She lives in Southern California, but you can find her on Bluesky. ** Leaving it all In glances, in jingles of coins, In folds of tablecloths -- In thoughts of times When these are past. Crafted napkins, water lines, Leaving it all Like a lone palm Tilting A little away From its morning shadow. 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. She has also contributed to several anthologies, Pixie Dust & All Things Magical and Soul Spaces: Poems on Cities, Towns & Villages, among others. ** Urban Renewal Inside, you could not see the brutalist outside already embracing this coffee house and you. Inside, you could just sit, pretend the world outside had paused, and time eddied around you and your friends. Inside, you watched the mall empty as you talked, sighed when it was closing time, cried as you went outside. Inside, only echoes still fill the hollow, wait until the wrecking ball lets the outside in, turns history to rubble. Gary S. Rosin Author's Note: The Kirkgate Shopping Centre (Kirkgate Market) was closed to the public in 2025, and is to be demolished in 2026. “Shoppers sentimental as end of era for historic centre nears,” by Steve Jones (BBC March 2, 2025). https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/cwy9nd3e79no (last visited April 13, 2026) Gary S. Rosin’s work has been nominated for Pushcart Prizes and “Best of the Net,” and has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Concho River Review, Friendswood Ekphrastic Poetry Anthology, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Notes of Light and Dark: Southwestern Nocturnes and Aubades (Dos Gatos Press), and elsewhere. He is a Contributing Editor of MacQueen’s Quinterly. He has two chapbooks, Standing Inside the Web (Bear House Publishing, 1990), and Fire and Shadows (Legal Studies Forum, 2008, offprint). ** The Espresso Machine Confesses I stand alone on the counter top like I own this hour of first light-spill, chrome spine and metal ribs hold my breath waiting to be filled with beans, bubbles and heated expressions of my goal. Before footsteps load the room, chairs scrape, cups clink, sugar scatters, voices shout, you’ll proffer your daily offering – a small measured hope of roasted beans, ground fine and tamped flat, which I’ll lock in and swallow. Built for pressure, I know how to move water through resistance and force beans to speak in dark grumbles, rising, like a cobra, to a hiss. You lean on my steam like it’s prayer, a bitter shot that can truly shake and wake you. But I’ve seen your mornings – how you hover half-lit, eyes searching through screens, even as you raise the cup, like you’re waiting for new life to flow. You will press me again tomorrow, regular as rectangular tiles, and I’ll answer as I always do. But listen – my promise is hampered – I can not pull the day from shadow. Helen Freeman Helen Freeman started writing poetry and flash fiction whilst recovering from a car crash in Oman and got hooked. Although she knows that coffee is not the answer to everything, she loves her morning brew. She enjoys trying her hand at some of the challenges presented on The Ekphrastic Review and reading the different interpretations chosen by editors. She currently lives in Edinburgh and her instagram is @chemchemi.hf ** Kirkgate Market Closes I remember when it opened and we met at Athenium for the first time. Young, impressionable, a little lost, and wary of starting something new. I said getting a cat was easier than dating because at the end of the day there was a warm, furry, creature to come home to; not the emptiness of solitary rooms and sad meals cooked for one person. You said “Let’s get a cat and share it.” I thought you were crazy. You insisted. Let’s leave, then, to fill the emptiness! The first ten years were filled with drama, volatility, excitement travel, tears, and traditions started, careers, more travel, the children taking root, growing up alongside the cats. The next ten years were filled with losses, careers ended, new ventures started, moving, children branching out on their own, coming home, leaving again. We would still meet at that coffee house at least once a week to rekindle what we had when we first got those two cats so like us. Let’s leave, then, to fill the emptiness! I admit the next ten years inched by, a slow drip like molasses seeping through a maple tree spigot, my little trees all grown up and firmly planted in their own lives. The cats are long gone too. We’re left here staring at each other across the table in an empty coffee house with nothing more to say and I think we’ve reached the end of our cycle just like this market. Let’s leave, then, to fill the emptiness! 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 a workshop presenter at VIPF in the Rio Grande Valley, TXand People's Literary Festival in Corpus Christi, TX. Laura writes ekphrastic poetry and has many pieces published on The Ekphrastic Review. She has also been published in Equinox, Boundless, Synkroniciti, Point Clear Press, and Voices. ** Hopper Could Have Sat Here I wish she were sitting here. The woman in the yellow cloche drinking a cup of Joe. Hopper knew the value of the automat for an extended stay at the table. At midnight or at dawn, with or without someone to share a quip or take a sip to jolt one out of depression. The haze of abandonment sits here. Or is that sun percolating early morning before opening? But where are the baristas bustling in preparation? It looks as though lonely may be served here. Closing time before its time. Lease lost when the cost of coffee is more than elation from writing a poem, searching the phone with head down, or waiting for a lover to arrive on the bus. Will they open? The doors to the blue chairs waiting for customers, offering a swig of lingering for entertainment? Cynthia Dorfman When she saw Laura Mate's Coffee House image, Cynthia Dorfman thought of Edward Hopper's painting of the woman sitting in the automat with a cup of coffee. You might say this is a double ekphrastic poem. Cynthia wrote this piece from Maryland, US. Her latest work appears in the Maryland Bards Poetry Review 2026 anthology. ** Echo I cover this place with attention. Where they laid gravel over the mossy train tracks. Where the burned-out warehouse sprouted into an apartment complex. As Janey and I walk to the cafe, the creaky white morning holds us down. There used to be bells on the door. We would tear into the booths. I liked to yank on your hood and you would choke, then slug me. Beat me. You always hogged the wallside seat. Janey said we were both deranged but if you kicked her under the table, she would pin your arms behind your back. We ate more syrup than a human being is really meant to. Knock ourselves out. We would be nodding, foreheads sticky beside our plates. They close at 12 PM. They would have to kick us out. We paid with ones and big smiles. Now, Janey and I both drink coffee. We split a plate. Her fingertips are cool on my palm. Once, we lived on sugar, like hummingbirds. Food never got the chance to make us taller, lost to the whir of our bouncing legs. We were perpetuum mobiles with secret thumb-sucking hitches. Rattling on the early bus, we spat venom. We laughed as the janitor mopped bloody fights off the linoleum. Unphased, we ate unwrapped cookies out of each others’ pockets. Skinning our knees still made our eyes water. We faced the wall to cry. In the empty gym, we danced our white socks gray. After school, we laid like a tangle of puppies on the rug, resting our heads on piles of cleanish laundry. We used any light but the overhead. We glowed in the brightness of spliffs, of summer Christmas lights, of star showers, midnight streetlamps, little fires set for fun. We introduced hairspray to a match then jumped back, hollering. We fit three teenagers in a bed made for one little kid. At 1 AM, sleep was nowhere to be found. Our ribs were sore from laughing. Our hair got dirty fast, no matter what we tried. Death smiles at teenagers with a cocked head. You act like you’re just getting started. Like you could go any minute. We liked to play in the warehouse. Scale the walls and hang from the rafters. Straddle the beam. You white knuckled every move. You were always the worst with heights. We would drop empty bottles down and watch them explode into glitter. The last time I saw you, you had that misty look all over your skin. Lips and hair suddenly too dark, mouth forced closed. The second to the last time I saw you, you had a misty look in your eyes. Not crying, just far away. Why didn’t you tell me? We always went to the warehouse together. Is that what you were thinking about when you would get so quiet? Who said you have to haunt the place you died? You were always the first one in the room but the last to leave. This morning, I am heavy. My back is sore and I give into the slouch. In the corner of my eye, I see you with your head on the table. You’re facing me, eyes closed. Like your dad did, I think you would have gone bald. Do you still recognize me with this silver beard? Once you make someplace your bed, you’ll be waking up there for the rest of your life. In sleep, we fall through time. Spirits run for cover in the light. Sometimes it takes a second to remember when you are. In the bleary dawn, you could be anywhere. I saw you blinking like this on my bedroom floor, upside down on my pillow I see it now. You’re quizzing me with your eyebrows. In the kitchen, someone drops a plate but it doesn’t shatter. From another table, a man murmurs, “It smells like smoke, not coffee.” At 11:42 PM, Janey and I pay with a card. She agrees to meet me back at the car. I just need to wait a little on the sidewalk for you. From out the dim diner, your spark is glowing. I decide to leave before I have to see you never come out. The real relief comes when the forks are still, but the clinking continues. As I walk away, a bell jingles behind me. Holly Lola Peterson ** Sustenance Haibun Thirsty, hungry, longing for respite, wandering the market, searching. “Are you sure,” you ask, “there’s a place to rest our feet, refresh ourselves?" “Oh, yes,” I assure you, “just around the corner.” We look in every window at empty seats, empty counters, bereft at the loss of that special place where everyone paused...to chat with servers, eat fresh baked pastries, drink fresh brewed coffee. As time takes its toll on the places we cherished, so we must adjust. 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  Evolution, No. 13, Group VI, by Hilma af Klint (Sweden) 1908 Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential writers working today, and we also welcome emerging or first time writers and those who simply want to experience art in a deeper way or try something creative. The prompt this time is Evolution, No. 13, Group VI, by Hilma af Klint. Deadline is May 8, 2026. You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way. Scroll down to donate $5CAD (about $3.75 USD). 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to [email protected]. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry. 5.Include KLINT CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, Friday, May 8, 2026. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 15. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly. Sign up for some inspiring workshops on art history, ekphrastic craft, and more with The Ekphrastic Academy! We offer affordable, interactive live workshops that foster creative growth, conversation, and community. Click the image below to see what's coming up.   Glass Sculpture, by Belinda Scott (England) 2021 Dear Ekphrastic Writers, A huge thanks to all of you for your magical, moving, masterly writings to Belinda Scott's sculpture. Below you will find a fair selection, but it goes without saying that everyone who submitted their work is part of this ekphrasis celebration! And as such, please, do read Belinda Scott's appreciative words here: Thank you so much for sending me these overwhelmingly beautiful, thoughtful, provoking writings. There have been tears. Of appreciation and wonder. If there is a way to thank your contributors for their insightful and interesting work then please pass on my appreciation for their art, it has made me think about my work in different ways and I couldn’t be more happy. Thank you all, and congratulations! Looking forward to your future writings! Kate Copeland ** Blue Gems and Beauty Calm beach, blue water, an unidentified stone, blue gems and beauty. 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 two dogs. ** Blue I thought I knew blue when I looked into your eyes the real blue, true blue sapphire blue with a view of the sea but honest blue stands on a pebbled beach, a crinkled strand a monolith of many eyes the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen like a crooked splintered tree a sentinel, lonely by the sea Caroline Misner Caroline Misner: “My poetry, fiction and non-fiction have appeared in several journals throughout the USA, Canada, India and the UK, too numerous to mention here. I have also had work published in several anthologies and webzines. I am the author of four novels The Daughters of Eldox: Book I: The Alicorn, The Daughters of Eldox, Book II: The Other, The Spoon Asylum and most recently, SEEDs of the Inside Straight, published in April 2024 by Austin Macauley.” ** Reincarnation Here’s colour, light, yet certified, responsible, ekphrastic search, in freedom found accountable, responsible, community, corroded strut with history. Where pebbledash in tidal reach, of marine, even navy hue, on shingle beach, unmoved Canute - though should be sand upon the strand awaiting fired grains to reflect. This lunar, periodic scape, glass pillar ’gainst both neap and spring, old order giving way to new - brined timber standing, despite mare, night terrors giving way to hope. No bobbing bottle, current scene, kids’ spadework, castles in the air, but message for those in despair - memorial from wooden wreck, a wavy staining post recall. Transformed, as write off, now viewed art, though thus combined, poetic craft; do not dismiss all worn down past which may be rescued, second berth, safe harbour for re-righting earth. 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 Line of Blue The muddled lapis with sea green The waves of admiral mixed with clear glass, almost salty from the air Azure and teal rippled with bumps Peacock still as the wood around it A slice of cobalt slicing through like a gull seeking prey Maroon stick out like a bruised thumb Sky portrayed against sky A little pebble of slate, maybe a mistake maybe not Sapphire so thick it blocks the sky Driftwood acts as binder Every colour, together Hewitt Meier ** After the Storm sturdy faith reclaimed holds frail hope memory-stained upward toward the light 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. ** My Glass Soul The depth of aloneness and grief that is with me always in the fibre of my solid being. is nullified by the nakedness and purity of your love. You stand in a tribute to love. Tall and slim and permanent. The color wheel of transcendence is the wisdom that holds and bonds us together. never to be parted. Your are the beauty that inspires my darkness by seeing through a glass darkly. There is never a step I take that you are not with me. You are the kindness in the blacksmiths hand. The water that nourishes the waiting earth. The third voice in a prayer. The unseen power within me. Sandy Rochelle Sandy is a notable poet, actress, filmmaker and voice-over artist, Grammy and Emmy nominated.Publications include: Impspired, One Art, Dissident Voice, Verse Virtual, Amethyst Review, Wild Word, Haiku Universe, Cultural Daily, Poetry Super Highway, and others. ** I Live in Three States of Grace You will find me at the horizons where land, sea, and sky converge. The material world - I sift beach pebbles and sand through my fingers gathering objects to me such as sea shells; creating tiny homes for abandoned poems so they won’t feel rejected. The emotional world - where words inked on blank paper are spoken aloud, grow bold, leave home; take up permanent residence in someone’s consciousness. The spiritual world - The grey area between sleep and wakefulness where souls of the dead whisper their secrets to me and I fuse them onto the pillar with its blue-glass eyes that stands as sentinel guarding the doorways of the ocean as soul and me as its vessel. 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. Laura has written many ekphrastic poems which can be viewed on The Ekphrastic Review. She has been published in Equinox, Boundless, Synkroniciti, Point Clear Press, and Voices. ** Sea Glasses I went to the eye doctor the other day She said that at my age she'd like to check my vision As it's been a few years since we updated my prescription She said, “Now listen to me, stand right here and read the smallest line that you can see while covering your left eye; try not to cheat.” I stepped up to the line, and all I saw Was a fuzzy mess of mixed-up letters on the wall And if I’m honest, a couple of times I guessed “X, H, and E, then maybe the capital letter G. Yeah, that one's an F. No wait,” I said. “Now it’s a P!” She then told me to switch eyes and tell her what I could read I did like she said but nothing changed “Doc! All these letters are starting to look the same.” She responded, “This is normal,” then went on to explain She spouted out a stream of optometry terms Bigger words than I’ve ever heard before Like oculus dexter, astigmatism, presbyopia, and diopters Then she scribbled down something in her notes And handed over to me what she wrote In big block letters it read, SEA GLASSES She smiled and said, “Your prescription is just fine. But the sort of correction you need is of another kind, and the view finder you should look through waits at the beach.” She continued, “You should plant yourself in a low folding seat. Get some sand on your feet, and stare out at the sea through this special type of light refracting spectacles. This type is made with worn and weathered frames. Reclaimed borders and lead-line shapes. Inside it contains prism tinted lenses all custom made.” Lowering her voice, “While these glasses won’t make clear the K from the B, they will surely calm your soul, and set your eyes free, and reduce the blurry distance you mentioned.” She shook my hand and wished me goodbye Told me to send her some pictures of the sky as it passes And to enjoy fresh perspectives through my new sea glasses Brendan Dawson Brendan Dawson is an American born writer based in Italy. He writes from his observations and experiences while living, working, and traveling abroad. Currently, he is compiling a collection of poetry and short stories from his time in the military and journey as an expat. ** through the seaside glass a haiku triptych I glass beads capture layers low beach through calm sea to sky picked up by driftwood II multi-pastel blues see through kaleidoscope eyes waveless sea cloud sky III many lines of light sharp horizon crossed by wood a totem to view Peter R Longden Peter R Longden grew up in Rotherham, South Yorkshire before moving to Coventry in 1981 for a long career working with young people. Now retired, poetry is a significant part of his life, both writing and reading. He is still looking to publish a first chapbook, having had individual poems published by 9th O’Bheal Five Words Competition (2022) and three ekphrastic poems in the Wee Sparrow Poetry Press Newsletters in 2024 and 2025. Other poems have been published in local anthologies. Writing poetry began over 25 years ago, recording how to see the world and what makes it the way it is. Peter is married to Sally with two grown-up boys (and a two-year-old granddaughter). ** The Sculpture on the Beach Near the end of my walk I come upon a hollowed railroad tie set firmly in the sand. It frames blue swirls of stained glass—aquamarine, cyan, cobalt, azure and indigo—complementing the colours of the ocean’s different depths. Pieces of palest blue blend with the cloud-streaming sky. Toward sundown, its translucence changes into opacity and that’s when I notice a small triangle of black set among the blue, like the speck of a ship barely visible on the horizon. Brighton Beach Father holds my hand as I wade deeper Ruth Holzer Ruth Holzer is the author of ten chapbooks, most recently, On the Way to Man in Moon Passage (dancing girl press) and Float (Kelsay Books). Her poems have appeared in Blue Unicorn, California Quarterly, Freshwater, POEM, Slant and elsewhere. A multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, she has won the Edgar Allan Poe Memorial Prize, the Tanka Splendor Award and the Ito En Art of Haiku Contest Grand Prize. ** Or Not I wedge it where the tide gets in, wood soft, denting, clutching. Glass slips, too thin or bites. I force it. It catches, then sets wrong in the wood. The sea hauls through the stones again, a rasping drag, worrying it loose underneath. Light locks in the glass-- cold blue stormlight held a second longer than it should. I force the root to hold sky. It lists. I set it back. My hands split along old cuts, salt working in. I stay, longer than I should, until the wind comes off the water hard, laughing in it, or tearing-- through it and me. Tomorrow I come back to it and set it again, or not. Awen Fenwick Awen Fenwick is a poet based in Ohio. Her work explores ritual, lineage, queerness, and survivorship through myth, material, and embodied memory. She writes to hold what resists naming and to listen for what endures. ** Sea Glass and Driftwood I see them everywhere on the beach, sea glass and driftwood. Pieces of Art now strewn like a shipwreck drowned and sculpted by the sea. I see the sea in every piece of glass. In it, not through it. I can’t see through it, though I know once it was clear. I remember the film ‘Sea Wife’ as I gather up the shiny sea glass and arrange it with the driftwood. The driftwood will be my ‘Biscuit’ trying desperately to see through, searching for her face washed up broken and stained in glass. Searching in vain beyond that beach, her face well hidden as a nun in her habit. I view my collection, see exotic creations made by the sea and long to make one of my own to pay homage to the beach, the sea and an old movie. 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 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: lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com andwww.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/. ** To Belinda Scott Regarding Glass Sculpture I Will Recall Often As Bulwark Still Unfailing You craft the ocean seen as soul from glass to gleam as bounding roll so long withstood to hallow grace of rigor that became embrace in hollowed stalwart timber's past as weathered pier work standing fast against the swirl of gritty swell so pitting its resistant shell now testament to roughened hands of humbleness that understands the ebb and flow of light in time the sun and moon of sea sublime, your bulwark slows to sculpt the sense of rugged love as self-defense. 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. ** Glass Sculpture Glass sculpture's hues of azure, cobalt blue, Light sky blue, lapis lazuli, teal, bice And other shades of blue entice you to Sail over placid seas to paradise, Serenely undisturbed by hints of squalls Seen faintly in far clouds. A shipwrecked mast Cocoons the glass in umber, but recalls Unfinished journeys from a stormy past. Low tide reveals their flotsam: shades of brown-- Pecan, bone, russet, tan--are in array To caution you that sailors sometimes drown ... Until time ends, to sail away or stay Remains a tug-of-war between two sides Eternally opposing, like the tides. Mike Mesterton-Gibbons Mike Mesterton-Gibbons is a Professor Emeritus at Florida State University who has returned to live in his native England. His poems have appeared in Current Conservation, The Ekphrastic Review, Light, Lighten Up Online, the New Verse News, Oddball Magazine, WestWard Quarterly and other journals. In 2025 he won the Children's Unpublished category of the Eyelands Book Awards with Flora’s Flock and Other Stories to Read Aloud. ** The Northern Oregon Coast Memory is the lens. Twenty-five years living on the northern Oregon coast. On one MLK holiday, the south wind blew so hard the waves came in perpendicular to the sand and headland. In May a dead horse bobbed legs-up in lime-green surf. I put my index finger in a glass-clear tidepool to urge the anemone’s squirt. When Mt. St. Helens erupted, blowing ash scoured my eyebrows as I ran my five miles. After attaching little limpets onto my fingernails, a mermaid’s hand reached from the fervent sea. Deep blues, glassy greens, silver fogs, and winter grays, I know them all. Playing with driftwood dragons. I walked away, shaking sand from my shoes for the last time. Sand that runs in the overturned hourglass, a scrying that reminds me what home can be. Tricia Knoll Tricia Knoll is a Vermont poet who spent twenty-five years roaming the beach at Manzanita, Oregon. Her poetry book Ocean's Laughter records environmental and social change in that small town over time. Wild Apples tells of downsizing to leave Oregon and travel 3,000 miles to live in Vermont. Knoll now is writing prose poetry. Website: triciaknoll.com ** Alone Standing alone on a beach Many years have been piled up inside me Each year is as fragile as a piece of glass The horizon is now my target What will I discover beyond it Hopelessness or Hope I hope for Hope Jean Bourque Jean lives in Montreal. He is 75 years old, three-quarters of a century. Grandfather. ** Untitled Staring at this piece of artwork on the scenic beach shore, coarse sand beneath my feet, I am reminded that life imitates art. It is a beautiful, jagged, imperfect culmination of its surroundings, much like each of us. Brandon Obin Brandon Obin is a resident of Warwick, Rhode Island. He is a father, United States Army veteran, and avid powerlifter. ** The Tempered Looking Glass The tempered looking glass, supported by the growth of erosion, from which I view the world. The enduring ability to take, but even a short pause to enjoy a moment of peace amongst the chaos of creation. The very same chaos that has crafts all things surrounded by calming tranquility. Embracing that which allows me to appreciate the sounds of serenity. The unstable sand, the crashing waves, the raging storm creating, shaping, and developing me into the refined state in which I find myself. Growth forged not in the calm, but amid the frequent disarray of continuance, where fortitude is test and true harmony is born through resilience. Craig Chmielewski Craig Chmielewski was born and raised in Attleboro, Massachusetts. After high school he moved all around the states of Massachusetts and Rhode Island. He has spent years of his life in foreign places such as Mexico, Thailand, Afghanistan, Iraq, and Kuwait. He enjoys spending his free time exercising, traveling around the United States, and with his family. ** What Do We Need to Do to Preserve Your Blue? The sky is happy. The sea is still happy. Shining waves follow, happy. The sands, shifting, sigh contentedly. The mangroves release green, breathing. The grasses murmur praise. One patch of grass, scorched. There are infinite happies, light broken into color. Stained glass, held in weathered wood, remembering, in conversation with the sea: What do we need to preserve: your blue, your green? clean astonishment? your hard-won, thinning purity? perfection? or beauty? even your darkest nights, less dark now? StevieB. StevieB. (Stephen McDonnell) writes lyric poems shaped by mystical and erotic experience, where queer eros opens onto the divine. A late-blooming poet, he began in his sixties, apprenticing himself to Rumi, Whitman, O’Hara, Ginsberg, and Anne Carson. He lives as an erotic mystic anchorite among the farmlands of eastern Long Island, NY, watching what reveals itself. ** Shades of Blue Strolling through peacock beach feeling the blues hopeful the waves will wash them away The ocean-- bearer of sorrows a blend of shades each taken from different hollows Cerulean from the recently divorced Cobalt from the misunderstood teenager Sapphire from the unemployed Indigo from losing a mother Peacock air knotting my hair releasing my despair my midnight blue turned powder blue Not all the blue will drift away some chooses quietly to stay the sea keeps secrets I release-- and trades my heaviness for peace Isabella Arenas Isabella Arenas is a native of Guatemala, residing in Providence, Rhode Island where she pursues her interests in live entertainment. Her other hobbies include reading historical fiction novels, playing board games with her siblings, spending time fostering friendships, and traveling to new places. ** Untitled I walked down the beach alone this time. Rough sand under my feet, salty air filled my nose, seagulls and calm waves were the only things that reached my ears. My legs began to grow tired while walking, in search of the sculpture we once created together. We made the sea glass sculpture different shades of blue to match the sea. For three years, every time we needed peace or an escape, we looked for our landmark buried beneath the sand. As I walked further down the shore, I saw a tall piece of wood, the shades of blue, and the memories came flooding. I no longer felt that same peace. This time, I was overcome with loneliness and the reminder of why we stopped visiting the landmark. As I looked closer, the shades of blue that were once bright are now dull, the sand was uncomfortable under my feet, and the seagulls were far too loud. This will be my last time visiting our landmark. Madisen Berard Madisen Berard resides in Connecticut where she enjoys finding new books, spending the day at the beach, and travelling to new places. She loves listening to good music, napping with her cat, and spending quality time with her family and friends. Madisen discovered her passion for writing at a young age when she was gifted her first diary. She continues to write in her free time in hopes to be published. ** Sea Glass Moods It is unexpected. They pause to ponder the structure’s jut perpendicular to shingle beach. A wooden frame, shards of coloured glass like eyes observing North Sea haze. The father hones in on slate-waves, feels the drag of greyness on cold skin. The mother blinks in sapphire swell, pebble-thoughts riding horizon. The first child dives in, swims through azure, emerges with dolphins soft-surfing. A toddler paddles, toes touching teal, on the cusp of colour, tide turning. Kate Young Kate Young lives in England and enjoys writing poetry, painting and playing the guitar, ukulele and mandolin. Her poems have appeared in various webzines, magazines, and chapbooks. Her work has also featured in the anthologies Places of Poetry and Write Out Loud. Her pamphlets A Spark in the Darkness and Beyond the School Gate have been published by Hedgehog Press. Find her on Twitter@Kateyoung12poet or on her website kateyoungpoet.co.uk ** Untitled The blue structure stood alone at the edge of the beach, its faded paint worn down by years of sun and salt. The colour had softened into uneven shades that almost blended into the horizon, like a quiet but persistent memory. Its wooden boards creaked and shifted whenever the wind pushed through, creating a low, hollow sound that mixed with the steady hush of waves rolling onto the shore. Seagulls called somewhere overhead, their sharp squawks cutting through the softer background noise. The breeze carried the strong, briny smell of the ocean, mixed with the earthy scent of seaweed and the damp sweetness of old wood. Shadows stretched across the floor where sand had drifted into small piles. With every gust of wind, the structure seemed to breathe and hum, as if it were holding onto echoes from another time, waiting, listening, and quietly enduring while the sea continued its endless rhythm beside it. Isabelle Rizza Isabelle Rizza was born and raised in Jamesburg, NJ. She has traveled to many places including the Dominican Republic, California, Colorado, Mexico, different parts of Florida, the Carolinas, many states on the East Coast, and Aruba. She enjoys the beach, walking her dog, and traveling to new places. ** The Ocean Trapped Inside Someone trapped the ocean in glass, but I think I know all too well how it got there. My day starts at 2 am before the sky remembers its colour, before the world decides to wake up. By 3, I’m already moving, pouring coffee, forcing my body to keep up with hours that stretch longer than they should. The day doesn’t really end until 8, sometimes 10 pm, and by then, I’m already counting down to doing it all over again. From the outside, I probably look like that wood-steady, worn, holding it together. But inside, it’s different Inside, there’s an ocean Not calm, not quite-restless. Waves of exhaustion and determination crash into each other with nowhere to go. I carry it through every early shift, every heavy step, every moment I choose to keep going instead of stopping. That sculpture makes it look beautiful-like something worth keeping. But I know what it feels like to hold an ocean inside you It’s heavy. And still, I don’t let it spill. Rhiana Thomas Rhiana Thomas is passionate about creativity, community and making a positive impact. She has worked on projects that mix art, fashion and education, including teaching and hosting events focused on sustainable practices. Rhiana values compassion, determination, kindness and leaving a positive mark wherever she goes, always striving to uplift those around her. ** Untitled I have traveled all around the world. Everything serves some sort of purpose in its life, maybe even multiple things. There was once a time I was a part of the earth, a huge tree towering over everything around me. But, there eventually came a time where I was cut down, where people had other plans for me. Along with other trees, we were turned into planks, and were pieced together to create a foundation for a boat. For years I traveled across the sea, transporting people from one place to another. After a tragic collision one night, our ship sank, and I was separated from the boat. Ever since then, I have been floating around the ocean, waiting for what life has planned for me next. For a while, I thought this was it, and the rest of my time was going to be spent traveling in the sea. That was until I was washed up on the shore. I didn’t think much of it at first. This had happened many times before, and it wouldn’t take long for me to get swept up again. But this time, I was collected by an individual. They introduced these beautiful pieces of glass. Now, I hang on a wall, in a lit room, admired by people who walk by. I lay here, and for once, I don’t mind settling down. Emilie Barter Emilie Barter grew up in the Kennebunks, living her whole life in Southern Maine. Growing up in a creative household, Emilie was drawn to many different forms of the arts, such as playing the flute, creating works of art, and overall becoming a creative individual. ** Stele You are pillar of bark and blue, planted in sand. You bark at me when I get too close to your sand ocean, afraid I’ll crawl inside your bark and nestle in your blue shade. But there’s an ocean between your inside blue and your outer bark, between my inner bark and outer blue and so I sing the blues, because my ocean waves crash against that bark pillar, eroding nothing. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner appreciates the challenge of writing in response to contemporary art. She is the author of ten poetry collections, including the ekphrastic The Night Watch (Kelsay Books, 2025), Poems of the Winter Palace (Bottlecap Press, 2025), Insomnia: Poems after Lee Krasner (dancing girl press, 2026), and the forthcoming The Wanderers (Shanti Arts, 2026). She lives and teaches in New Jersey. Visit her at www.barbarakrasner.com. ** Time Tides The clock face stands rigid, stuck in the trap of waves as the tide fleshes out the evening, sending sparks of light into an otherwise inglorious fading of life; she sits and carefully plots her next move, while the sea speaks to her in rushes, as if impatient for observations and she gapes with wonder, at the lines, the hues, the way the sky is able to dye itself into a fresco; she asks if nature can do the impossible, and responds in the only way she knows, with a cry of joyful illusion Zachary Thraves Zachary Thraves is a writer and performer. His poems have been published by Broken Sleep Books, Juste Millieu, Nitrogen House and at Poetry Worth Hearing, as well as contributing to The Ekphrastic Review. His plays have been performed internationally; in 2023 he created a one-man fringe show exploring his experience with bi-polar, and in the same year won best actor for portraying Charles Dickens. Zac also co-hosts a podcast. A student of Surrealism and Chaos, he lives with his partner in East Sussex. Find him on Bluesky @28hary. ** The Circle of Change It once reached upward Embracing the sunlight and sky Alive with the winds and the leaves Silently rooted in the earth's quiet soil A tree now fallen was met with the ocean Broken into hundreds of pieces Pulled into new directions, its surface now smoothed What was once whole and alive Is now forever changed It now stands again Living as something new It holds beautiful shards of blue From memories of the sea It now reaches upward Once again embracing the sunlight and sky Light trickles through softly Silently rooted in earth's quiet memory Where life once grew ever so vividly Looks different now But the beauty remains Kasey Allin Kasey Allin is a lifelong resident of Clinton, Connecticut, a small shoreline town on the east coast. Always inspired by music and nature, Kasey enjoys showcasing her love through all things creative. She is passionate about singing, writing, and creating art. When not writing, Kasey can often be found spending time at the beach, travelling, or at a local record shop. ** since you are the ocean bring it in with you when the creeping tide arrives drag it uphill through the sand because the ocean is you though you contain less freedoms you are the ocean hair of seaweed skull of shells soldered veins brimming with foam encased in skin of driftwood remember the ocean has inherited your temper but lacks your liver to remove shared poisons look beyond your narrow horizon peer into the communal depths reflected in the stained-glass discover murky mysteries salty truths bodies of alive things surviving in the coral like your own vulnerable shades finding refuge in your soft wrinkles stand tall with one another enjoy floating on the surface dazed by the clouded sun cradled into the churning expanse 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. ** Through the Looking Glass If it’s blue for me, is it blue for you? When you put on your glasses, is it as pretty as you thought to be true? The rose was simple, non monumental Made it easy to sit in the middle When you look through the glass What do you see? The same toned ocean as me? Or a warm hue Where it doesn’t need to matter to you? Live in your pink Don’t see the ocean, just see the beach Find your reflection in the shells underneath No need to worry The sand will make do What I say from the other side In your rose-colored glasses, Go and stay true-blue. Paige Gouin Paige Gouin is a poet and fiction writer based in Rhode Island. Her experience starts with writing fan-fiction as a preteen, to more melancholic and nostalgic work today. Paige’s literary motivations come from nature, personal experiences, and media she often views. Many of her works contain prose about the ocean, the sky, and time. When writing short fiction, Paige is more inclined to sci-fi. She’s influenced by the world around her, drawing inspiration from what she objectively sees, to write how she subjectively feels. ** Ocean Shades Early Tuesday morning when I arrived on Scarborough Beach, the tide had receded leaving varied shapes of driftwood and numerous empty shells nestled in a clump of seaweed shaped like the flowing hair of a mermaid. Even gray herring gulls were asleep as I savored these sacred moments on cold sand mesmerized by a tranquil sea and a sculpture grasping jagged pieces of blue sea glass staring breathless toward Paris Hill Island, when she and I patiently anticipated what the morning tide brings to shore. Jim Brosnan A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Long Distance Driving (2024) and Nameless Roads (2019). His poems have appeared in The Aurorean (US) Crossways Literary Magazine (Ireland), Eunoia Review (Singapore), Naugatuck River Review (US), Nine Muses (Wales), Scarlet Leaf Review (Canada), Strand (India), The Madrigal (Ireland), The Wild Word (West Germany), and Voices of the Poppies (UK). He is a professor at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, RI. ** traces the sea knows my name, how to call me, surrender me to windswept breath-- skipping me like a stone across the waves, to be recovered by tides, my edges smooth and complete—to be tossed, strewn over the sand with seaweed, shells, and magic-- not stranded but full, suffused with ocean songs, clear night sky-cast stars—completely open, inside out-- quietly, I do nothing-- over and over again Kerfe Roig The ocean has always felt like home to me. ** Seeing It had been years since we walked this beach, years since I received my diagnosis - Macular degeneration, two words that would pull me down, heavy like an anchor. Now you hold my hand as we walk the shore, rounded pebbles press into the arches of my feet, sea smelling of faraway ships. A small gasp from your breath, your hand tightens in mine. You stop. A structure like no other you whisper, guide my hand as you describe: a tall weathered log, once full of life, with an eye that holds segments of glass that curve like a woman's hip, greens and blues that only the ocean knows. I feel the strength of the once tree, feel the gentle waves as my fingers rock, back and forth on textured glass. Feel the pieces being put back together. Christina Siemering ** Anticipation To be gifted new life-- one so pure and simple as a blue glass sculpture on a beach somewhere-- would be a perfect ending to my bittersweet existence. Such triumph I’d feel to be so smooth, non-confrontational, perhaps even admirable. Maybe I’d glimmer, aquamarine to cerulean to turquoise, in shifting sunlight. I could meditate on the waters before me, no longer fear the violent ocean. Maybe my blues would darken with night, become teal and sapphire. Maybe this beach will flood someday, and those waters will reach us, capture my blue sisters and me. Taylor Scott Taylor Scott is originally from California, but currently resides in Providence, Rhode Island with her partner and fifty houseplants. She writes as a coping mechanism, inspired by her experiences with and criticisms of human nature. ** totem to the wild seas within us swirling turbulence from which we emerged our roiling ups our sinking downs the constant flux of land sea sky smoothing the edges painting each stone each piece of glass each one of us. dan smith dan smith is a poet and erstwhile painter who has been widely published in such diverse journals as The Rhysling Anthology, Deep Cleveland Junk Mail Oracle, Gas Station Famous, Jerry Jazz Musician, Scifaikuest, and Dwarf Stars. Nominated for the Pushcart Prize, the Touchstone Award and the Red Moon Anthology in 2025, his most recent poems have been at Five Fleas Itchy Poetry, dadakuku and The Ekphrastic Review. ** Beachcombers “Hal, come back here.” My voice dripping with the promise of discovery. Well, maybe more drooling at my age, but I heard dripping. He gave me a grunt as he passed and continued his old man jog up the beach. I’m sure he could walk faster, but he claimed jogging kept him alive. On his return, I tried a sexy leg pose peeking from the slit of my long skirt. The skirt I bought to hide my pasty gams. He stopped from lack of air, but I got an appreciative wink for the legwork anyway. “What’s up, Buttercup?” he gasped as he leaned on his knees, catching his breath. I instinctively touched his sweaty shoulder before turning back to my discovery. “Hal, look, it’s our sex life.” I declared, staring at the artful obelisk in the sand before us. “Our what?” he said as he pulled himself upright. “Look, it’s all there. The night in Paris when you claimed to have missed. It’s that little brown spot near the top.” I pointed it out. "And there’s no mistaking that shade of blue two-thirds of the way down. Even my boobectomy is there, near the bottom.” “You’re losing it, woman,” he said as he inched closer for a better look. “So what’s the big dark thing at the bottom, then?” “I’m guessing we’re there now, Hal.” “Where’s that, Buttercup?” “I don't think we're meant to know.” IJ Harlow ** woman determining value woman ignored harassed hurt woman yell push fight woman value determined Robin White Poet, painter, mixed media artist residing in a small middle Georgia town. ** The Cairn Perhaps, it's the nature of a place like this to condemn. A village swallowed by the isolation of mountains and The Black sea. Everyone wants to cry the news of someone else's sin. Both young and older wives have laid their words upon me like stones upon stones, A cairn that stands on the shoreline as testament to my shame while the stained glass hues of sky loom overhead, reflecting lost shades of loyalty: the blue gown of Hester, the gray fur of Anna or white apron of Emma as she dug enough space for herbs, the burial of her sins — and maybe all their affairs. So like them I wish I were a mere shadow, featureless woman falling on a flat world or seamstress of the sun who shortens or lengthens the slant of time. Even the birds sing a foul song –- forcing thistle and thicket leaves to shake. The evergreen’s scent -- a pungent rasp. Or is it my mind that hears the sparrow’s scorn, the shrub’s bane when their utterance is truly thirst? A cry for cleansing, the slow glistening mercy of rain. Wendy Howe Author's Note: The three character allusions in this poem reference Hester Prynne from The Scarlet Letter, Anna Karenina from Tolstoy's novel of the same name and Emma Bovary from Gustave Flaubert's Madame Bovary. All three heroines address the theme and complexity of adultery. 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 wildlife 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. Her most recent work will be featured in the upcoming issue of The Otherworld Magazine (on Substack), coming out in May. ** To Scott’s Pillar of Blue likely you might break but you are not fragile—like me you await what may arrive in dead of night and though you regard the sea as protector your ocean-wide eye can see the novelty of life the hurry of tides the swoosh, the rush-- all pass by in thrall Carole Mertz Carole Mertz has forthcoming poems at Friends Journal and Feed the Holy. She is the author of Color and Line (Kelsay Books, 2021) and Toward a Peeping Sunrise at Prolific Press. ** Oceanic Blues When my father died, my world felt dark. I sat with emptiness in my studio, too broken to turn on the lights. I remembered his sailboat, drifted on memories, memories. A few weeks later, the sun entered my studio -- a shifting tide. Light hit the blue glass and I knew what I needed: a fitting memorial. I drove to the ocean, walked the beach, told my father how much I loved him. Wind. The sound of the tide. A whoosh in my ears. For the first time since I lost him, I could breathe. I walked the beach, listened to the conversation, wondered if I heard my father’s voice. All day, walking, listening, grieving, thinking. Then I found a piece of driftwood, irregular, smoothed by years in the water. As it turned in my hands — I knew. Back in my studio, the split wood waited, open, ready to receive. I chose cobalt, copper, the blue-green of the sea itself -- color fired in until it cannot be removed. I did not let it fully melt -- kept the temperature low enough that the waves held their shape inside the glass. Controlled shattering held inside smoothness. That’s grief, exactly. I planted the totem on the beach. Now others bring me their grief. I know what to do with it. Lynne Kemen Lynne Kemen lives in Upstate New York. Her full-length book of poetry, Shoes for Lucy, was published by the SCE Press in 2023. Her chapbook, More Than a Handful, was published in 2020. Her work is anthologized in Seeing Things (2020) and What We See on Our Journeys (2021), The Memory Palace: an Ekphrastic Anthology (2024), and Seeing Things 2 (2024). Lynne is the President of the Board of Bright Hill Press. She is also an editor for the Blue Mountain Review and a lifetime member of The Southern Collective Experience; she is a board member of The Southern Collective Community Outreach and of The Franklin Free Library. ** The Memory of Water When the sun shines, the stained glass in the front door casts blue and green shadows across the tiles on the hall floor. As the day progresses the colours light the walls and the stairs, all the time reflecting the ebbing and flowing of identical hues on the tide that comes and goes twice a day, bubbling over the pebble beach on the other side of the coast road that runs in front of the cottage. The cold water’s ancient molecules coalesce into waves, bringing with them memories of long-dead whales, the plankton they consumed, sea horses from the South Seas and just a whisper of mermaids. They speak of biblical storms and wrecks splintered by wind and rocks, of long-forgotten men dragged to their deaths in the depths by the pull of Neptune. Twice a day this history visits and leaves this shore, sometimes as quiet fingers licking the edge of this fishing village, sometimes as breakers crashing and spitting spume up the beach, spilling over the concrete walls erected to hold them back. This community loves the water for its bountiful gifts that have brought food to their tables and fed their children for generations and loathes it for the price it has extracted from them over the years, every lost soul commemorated on the memorial on the headland above the harbour. The beautiful blues and greens carry all of that love and life and grief across the hall on sunny days and the fisherman’s wife remembers, with smiles and tears, as she takes her bag from the coat hooks and crosses the road in her dry robe and flip flops for her daily swim. Caroline Mohan Caroline Mohan is based in Ireland. She writes short stories mainly and occasionally flirts with poetry. She explores themes of belonging, fractured memory and secrets, sometimes with humour and sometimes with danger. She is currently trying out a variety of genres for fun. She enjoys writing with and learning from others in workshops. ** The Collection I wanted to build a collection of something that would interest me. After a lot of thought, I decided to collect the colour blue. Before I could begin, I had to have a means of storage for my collection. A friend who taught art helped me out. “To collect a colour,” she said, “you should place it within an object that has no colour. In this regard, I suggest you use glass.” This idea struck me as sensible, so I purchased small pieces of glass. I will put the colour between these pieces, I thought. Another friend, a meteorologist, said: “Your idea for a collection is bizarre. Why a colour? And why blue? After all, the sky is a vast continent of blue. You can view it at any time.” “No, I can’t,” I replied. “You can only see a blue sky on a cloudless day. Where I live is always cloudy.” “Go above the clouds.” “Okay, I will.” Later that day, I bought walking boots and a backpack. I put two pieces of glass in the latter and ascended a mountain. At the top, above the clouds, the colour blue surrounded me. I held a piece of glass in each hand and slowly brought one against the other. Then I sealed the edges with a strip of lead. I had collected my first blue. After this, I resolved to collect as many shades of blue as I could from the sky. I climbed mountains in numerous countries during different seasons at all times of the day. Occasionally, I collected a shade that I already had. This didn’t worry me. I put the glass aside with the intention of swapping it with another blue collector, if I ever came across such a person. One day, though, my partner lost patience with me. “You have filled our home with your collection,” she said. “Blue is everywhere. We cannot move from one room to another without squeezing past piles of blue. It’s a lovely colour but we cannot continue to live like this.” My partner had a point. I stared out of a window at the coarse green grass in front of our home and at the brown shingle beyond. As usual, grey clouds obscured the blue sky that I knew spread out above them. I’ve made a mistake, I thought. I have gathered my collection of blue from nature. It should be among nature. Over the next weeks, I took my collection out onto the shingle. Here, I used each piece of blue to create a sculpture in the form of a finger that pointed to the sky. The sculpture still stands. I clean it regularly. It is a monument of multiple hues of blue. More importantly from my partner’s viewpoint, we can move around our home more easily. Furthermore, please note that I keep, in a garden shed, the blues that I would like to swap. Do not hesitate to contact me if you wish to exchange any of yours. K. J. Watson K. J. Watson’s stories and poems have appeared on the radio; in comics, magazines and anthologies; and online. ** Glass Haiku True labor of love – gave my all for heaven’s eyes – got back all the blues… Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas, MA Philology and Philosophy, writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning. Her poems have often been honored by The Ekphrastic Review and its Challenges. Her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europe Edizioni, 2021. ** Immured in a blue jar in a blue checkered hospital gown- laid to rest in blue coffin in quest. By the ocean if I could open even if it was for a glimpse, even if it was for once. A world that was, a world to be. Dust laden evenings dying upon freshly watered lawns- sending earth upcurving. This is when my mother would open the gold rimmed blue cut glass secretly escaping the fragrance as all sat in semicircle. Hid on a mantel piece for so long in my dreams, what beheld her within of that exuberance. 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. ** marvellous circle blue light through rain rain falls from sky sky salts green seas sea foams to cliffs cliff bakes to stone stone melts to sand sand burns to liquid glass glass looks on light blue light-- Lizzie Ballagher A winner in Ireland’s 2024 Fingal Poetry Festival Competition and in 2022’s Poetry on the Lake, Ballagher focuses on landscapes, currently creating a collection of poems about Exmoor. Having studied in England, Ireland, and America, she worked in education and publishing. Her poems have appeared in print and online throughout the English-speaking world. Find her blog at https://lizzieballagherpoetry.wordpress.com/. ** Salvage Virgin scales plucked—ground-- tamed smooth—thrown to shore—found—framed in alien wood. Brennan Thomas Brennan Thomas is a Professor of English at Saint Francis University in Loretto, Pennsylvania, where she teaches creative writing and media studies. She has published short fiction and poetry in various online magazines, including engine(idling, Rue Scribe, and Right Hand Pointing. ** You Won't Get a Clear Answer If you tip over stained glass and driftwood, you’ll only need to wait a handful of years before the shards go soft and frosted. Or maybe it’s a few decades; it depends on forces outside of your understanding. Ask the ocean how it works. Ask Lake Michigan. They’ll know best. They’re the only ones who can work out how long until you can walk on the glass barefoot, sort through handfuls of grit for nuggets of blue. How long until you can bring your grandmother to find it with you. You keep telling your grandmother you’ll bring her to your favourite glasshounding spot in Chicago. But every time you think about the public transit and her bad knees and her unwillingness to tell you when she’s had enough, you fail to plan the trip. And of course she doesn’t plan it. She doesn’t want to bother you. So you bring her handfuls of pocked and polished lakeglass when you come home from up north. No one else wants to look at it with you. Your pockets overflow with greens and browns and cloudy white, the occasional morsel of blue. You do bring her to Oregon, at least. She buys you a bagel in the airport that drips butter into the cracks of your palms, you carry her suitcase and tell her not to worry about leaving home, and it turns out there’s no seaglass on Nedonna Beach. Just sand hoppers and driftwood. The hoppers throw themselves pointlessly against the trap of your hands. You call them fleas even though they don’t bite. You walk the shore alone, or you walk with your family. Your group circles itself, spinning around and around and only resting when the tide goes out. You show off your agates in the firelight. You bring her to Arkansas, that same summer, to a land of healing waters and haunted hotels. You take long walks to sunken springs, sip at a beer while a tornado warning roars, the plink-plink-plink of leaky ceiling behind the parent and child singing karaoke. You cry in the car on the way home when your grandmother says she wishes she’d protected her children better. The rolling green hills and the mist pouring by, the music turned down low. You cry because it’s taken too many decades in the surf to tumble your family smooth. But it all happens in its time. Ask the ocean. C.L. Barbieri C.L. Barbieri (they/them) is a student currently finishing a BFA in creative writing at a public university in the Midwest. When they're not drinking tea or gnawing on a new book, they can usually be found wandering outdoors, perhaps petting a nice patch of moss. Their previously published work can be found in Prime Number Magazine and Pensive. ** Remember When We Wore Speedos to the Beach? Steve, I first saw you and your brother in the admin office at Mt. Tabor High School. You had green hair and a cheap fork bent around your wrist as a bracelet. Months later we skipped school and skateboarded inside the abandoned supermarket on Robinhood Rd. You taught me how to power slide down an empty grocery aisle. My wheels kept getting caught on the cracks of the linoleum. We had multiple escape routes in case the cops came. But no one ever did. Somehow, we graduated. I went to the local college and you got a job at a stained glass shop. You taught me how to mark the glass, roll a diamond wheel cutter along the line, squeeze rubber coated pliers and break the glass (hopefully) where we scored it. We wrapped the smaller pieces in foil and soldered them together. The larger pieces, the Jesus windows, were held together with lead. I collected Steve stories. Driving all night to the beach and sleeping under a pier. Shooting South Carolina fireworks in a homemade PVC launcher. Zapping one another with Donald’s stun gun. Hitching rides to punk shows. Pool hopping in the rich neighbourhoods. Nothing made us laugh more than trouble. I moved to California and your stories continued without me. You broke your neck in Florida diving off a fishing boat. It was the middle of the night and you didn’t know you were in shallow water. You walked to the hospital in the morning. Your spine barely hanging on to itself. You showed me the surgical scar when you came to visit me in LA. I was drinking a lot then, crashing on our friend Diana’s couch. One night, we caught a ride to some party and caused a stir. We hitchhiked back to my truck and drove to Diana’s place clinking a Miller High Life on the 101 as a cop passed us. Years went by without seeing each other. I calmed down around 30. We talked on the phone sometimes. You were making abstract windows for rich tobacco lawyers and painting large murals with paint filled fire extinguishers. You were living with a new girlfriend in Ardmore. I had quit my job at the bar and was selling classified ads to sex workers in the back of a free weekly newspaper. It didn’t pay much. You said I could come home, that I could work for you. You and your brother were the only ones from North Carolina that came to my wedding. I picked you up from Union Station. You were missing two teeth and your small duffle was half filled with a few cartons of Dorals. Don’t worry, you said, Diana has a suit for me to borrow. Then someone hit my car from behind and drove off. You took monthly blood tests when you worked for the stained glass company. They wanted to make sure you didn’t have too much lead in your system. You found ways to cheat it. Borrowing blood from girlfriends, your brother, and me when I still lived there. You brought your own whiskey to the wedding and were slurring your words before the sun went down. You told my wife that if she needed anybody killed, you’d do it. No questions asked. You said worse stuff than that to her bridesmaids. I apologized for you a lot. He’s changed, I whispered. So sorry. We talked on a bench outside, while the wedding danced to Whitney Houston. You smoked a Doral and I had a lozenge. We reminisced about when we wore speedos to the beach. We threw a frisbee and caught odd looks from the beachgoers. Our thighs, that had never seen the sun, were badly burnt for two weeks after. You pulled a long drag of your Doral and said you were proud of me. That my wife seemed like good people and I had done a pretty good job convincing her I wasn’t a scumbag. I told you I loved you and begged you not to talk to any of my wife’s friends. You said sure. I think you meant it. I thought the next time I’d see you, you’d be dead. But you died two years ago and I didn’t know til now. Brian Sutherin ** Untitled The water leans into the shore, a quiet whisper on grains of gold, then slips away not gone, just waiting. The sand stays, holding the memory of every touch, every soft goodbye That feels like a promise. They are never truly apart one returns, one remains, and between them lives a rhythm that only love can understand. Rob Casilla Rob Casilla, a Dominican citizen residing in Rhode Island, is a passionate artist who, through dance, drawing, painting, and singing, finds in waves of creativity the medium for self-expression. ** Untitled I journey down to the beach and expect familiarity: the salty smell, sandy shoes, sunlit skies. Instead, I find woeful weather, weary waves, and weathered wood. Curiosity stirs, and I find myself wondering: Why would someone put this structure here? I look around in disappointment at the weather. Despite the melancholy, the structure glistens in my sight. It stands beautifully against the bleak, buffeted background. I see now. The glistening glass structure shines a light in the dark, dreary weather. But it is not the structure itself that provides light; It is finding something unexpected when the expected does not meet expectations. Natalie Medina Natalie Medina is an admirer of the language arts, often spending her days reading and writing. She enjoys living life to the fullest surrounded by friends and family. ** Shingle Eye Half-way between not-sea and sea, How would my driftwood drift? Through this wood knot, would you not see How sea's soft vistas sift? Where the wind blew my eye went blue, Green where the sand blew grain As falling dew was falling due, I waned as white as rain. My seer eyes resize the air; I see what my sea saw; A rainy rune, I sheerly share My see-cells on the shore. Ruth S Baker Ruth S Baker has published in a few poetry journals. She has a special love for animals and visual art. **  Tracy Royce
This is an erasure of artist Belinda Scott’s “About Me” page found on her website, where you can see more of her lovely stained glass and reclaimed wood sculptures. As usual, my interpretation of this visual prompt says something “About Me”: https://theartglassstudio.co.uk/about/ Tracy Royce is a poet and writer with work appearing or forthcoming in Heavy Feather Review, The Mackinaw, MacQueen’s Quinterly, ONE ART, and Best Microfiction (2026). Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, and a Touchstone Award. She lives in Southern California, but you can find her on Bluesky.  Coffee House Kirkgate Market, Bradford, by Laura Mate (England) 2025 Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential writers working today, and we also welcome emerging or first time writers and those who simply want to experience art in a deeper way or try something creative. The prompt this time is Coffee House Kirkgate Market, Bradford, by Laura Mate. Deadline is April 24, 2026. You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. 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Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, April 24, 2025. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 15. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly.  Garden of Earthly Delights, by Hieronymus Bosch (Netherlands) 1490-1510  Outer Panels. Triptych Tip-Trick Eye-tracking glasses show viewers of Bosch triptych are drawn to hell […] The researchers discovered that the pupils of female visitors swelled from 5.2mm when contemplating the Eden panel to 5.4mm when observing the delights panel and 5.8mm when looking at the hell panel. Male pupils, in contrast, were most dilated (8.6mm) when beholding the delights panel, followed by the hell panel (6.8mm) and the Eden panel (6.4mm). The Guardian 21st June 2023 Boys, come ride a giant rodent, Flaunt an apple on your head, Climb inside a pink explodent, Use a mussel for a bed; You could hug enormous owls, Chase a fish to wondrous heights, Lounge on elephantine fowls: It’s the Garden of Delights! Girls, perhaps you would be gladder In a darker sort of place, With the chance to climb a ladder To an eggshell with a face; Launch a blade between two ears, Kiss a pig who’s nun as well, Or be stretched apart like shears On a harp: and this is Hell. But there’s something else, verschieden (Or verschillend, to be Dutch): An uncrowded sort of Eden – Nothing strange, or nothing much – Just one smiley, spiky sprayer With a bird’s nest (not that odd); But in this one, dear surveyor, You will have to deal with God. Julia Griffin Julia Griffin has published in several online poetry journals, including Light, Lighten Up Online, Classical Outlook, and The Ekphrastic Review. ** Upon Peering at The Garden of Earthly Delights How should one regard you? Should one study as if poring through a worn manuscript until a climactic punctus? Or trifle with musings up to denouement, up to acceptance, acquiescence? Circumflex or breve? Igniferous interrobang?! Mayhap. Presently, the eye is drawn to the foreground, shocked at the contrast the ossiferous cluster evokes. And then the orb expands its gaze. Berry blue apparatus, thaumaturgic flask of a fecund alchemy, oracular to natators among the cosmic chitinous structures, beings undraped by aeromancy, fallen mortals, silver mermaids and mermen (look, one bestrides a fish across the azure sea), the trees of this perfidious dreamworld shedding fruit willy-nilly. And close by, riders of all sorts atop oxen, horses, bears, griffins, and…tarrying rascal, prithee, tell, do we behold a unicorn otter strolling among bathing avians of startling mass? Ah, the impulse to cap that as finality, the terminal bow to a bacchic shebang. Natheless, there is a scene to the left, near the dragon tree, a setting more austere to the optic than preceding bacchanalia, a pulse of paradise by a pool of gloom, taken out of psychic conjurings from bestiaries of olden wayfarers, and the owl, astute, resting in its rosy spire, centre of the artwork’s west side, does the construction double as an aspersorium, could the night bird be soulfully aware of mortal designs? And so, the eye fares towards the caliginous gloam, millions of needles, piercings, visions that many fear have appeared to them on lucent scrolls of latterly days, when tidings can be acquired posthaste, humans as vessels for monstrous imagery, perpetually afore screens, laden with information endeleas, have not the ravagings of ugsome malefactions penetrated people’s minds through media in this day and age? And art, metaphorical mirror where nothing is spared, not even lutes or harps strummed by contorted bodies, the background of a Tartarean mise en scène of brutality, bastions, edifices, and dwellings vanquished to wreckage. A painter gazes blankly from the ruins. Could feathers of a triptych’s grisaille wingspread, which depicts a planet spawned through utterance, assuage stray witnesses, condoning to countenance the flux unbound by emergence and creation? Efren Laya Cruzad Efren Laya Cruzada is a writer who was born in the Philippines and raised in Texas. He studied literature, philosophy, and creative writing at New York University. He was shortlisted for the La Piccioletta Barca Prize, a finalist for a contest at The Ekphrastic Review, and a semifinalist for a Driftwood Press Short Story Contest. The author of Grand Flood: a poem, his poetry has appeared in many venues. He also enjoys traveling, practicing boxing moves, and playing video games in a foreign language. Currently, he is editing his first novel and making steady progress on developing his own little video game. ** The World in a Hollow Glass Shell Not at the pinnacle of Purgatory where the poet Virgil guided had positioned it, but serenely floating, round and flat, within a sheltering and fragile egg, an orb that we observe holding gathering cloud clusters over a castled, dun-coloured terrain, mid-hemisphere, in barely visible atmosphere, like a transparent gas balloon we see rise against a starless backdrop from a viewpoint no human eye was made to see. The exterior panel wings hide the triptych's tale that has progressed from paradise to sin to our predestined punishment, prefigured in a lion's kill, for all our fallen race. This odd, disturbing panorama was lost in our unknowing and we can not decipher all these symbols we misunderstood, until we see with Easter eyes a truer handiwork that shows a God who keeps on growing curiouser and curiouser. Royal Rhodes Royal Rhodes is a retired educator who studied the Classics and global religions. The enigmatic religious outlook of Bosch has long been an interest of his. The art on the folded wings, enclosing this triptych, especially fascinates him. ** No Sweet Pleasance Flanked on either side by visions of Eden and Hell, the center panel of the triptych swarms with human figures, all naked, smooth and oddly asexual, thick as larva on too- ripe fruit, eyed by oversized birds whose sharp beaks could easily pluck them up, though none of the bare and unarmed mannikins seem aware of any threat. Pitiful creatures, here in a world where only God is clothed, where in the Garden of Earthly Delights throngs of solemn people crowd, engaged in a strange environment where luscious fruits, too big to hold and carry away, swallow them instead, where their heads may be embedded in a huge berry, their bodies enclosed in a transparent bubble, or curled up in hollowed out giant drupes, trapped in a closing clam shell, or dancing under an owl. In the middle ground the naked homunculi ride bareback on horses, goats and boars, circling a lake, surmounted by ornate structures, bulbous, pink, elaborately spiked, neither castles nor cathedrals, offering neither shelter nor inspiration. In all of this fantastic garden, there is nothing that speaks simple comfort, and not one of all these busy figures looks even vaguely amused, much less delighted. Maybe they know there will be no mercy, maybe they are haunted by the promise of hell, waiting for them, dark and pitiless, just past the hinges, in the next panel. 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. ** opening my kitchen cabinet doors i turned the knobs on my cabinets and opened the doors to the picture inside and it must have been the cheap wine that hazelled my aura and i heard angels bloom and there was no william blake smile there no perception nothing opening up much more than doors no little tie dyed whites of my eyes filled with wrath or tears that bend to sloth the victims of a greasy countertop no excuses just the ghost of the last loaf of greed crumbs now and a small bag of pride sitting next to a new can of lust sealed in tin or steel and no dents no rusty edges just 100% pure it said on the can and a half full cup of envy lost on the wicked but spent by those good ones almost there ready to win the race or in the race the cans they stared back and the twinkle from my 88 olympics glasses free ones i got in a cardboard box filled with empty cd cases sitting on a lawn and i recited kipling twice just for protection just out of protection from gluttony my third empty glass of cheap wine and the bulk bag of chocolate covered almonds whispering and hissing soothing sweet sirens calling me from the second shelf and a little knowledge and an empty glass is a terrible thing to close the doors on mike sluchinski mike sluchinski is a recent pushcart prize nominee and adds dadaist, ekphrastic, stream of consciousness, and pop art elements to his punk and post punk collages, poetry, fiction, and non. ** A World Under a Dome Indescribable; indecipherable; an exercise in madness. Nevertheless, the traveler walks through this verdant landscape meeting barely created humans as they speak to their maker. He tells them all these animals are yours; the vegetation and waters are yours. Then the traveler sees more humans arrive bringing with them knowledge of flesh, lust, pleasure, and domination. Less space for gardens to flourish; more behavior to control; voices in circles drowned out by demands upon their minds and bodies. The traveler becomes lost in this bizarre lexicon of thousands of voices wanting to be heard. He stumbles, falls, and is swept up in a current of blackness and smoke. Awakens on a different shore, dark, twisted, filled with screams. Knowledge of death, decay, and suffering. Music of heaven no longer fills hearts with comfort. The traveler is led away into an empty shell to live out his final days contemplating where in the garden he can plant the seed that will restart paradise. 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 13 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. ** Garden of Earthly Delights “I never asked for a soul.” —Dean Young It might be the garden and really seem to matter that the title’s just the fifth part of the triptych, if you count the zipped-closed cabinet’s cosmos door décor. Contrails fizz and drift mascara’d lashes, brush this screen glass, which means I’ve seen about as much as I’m going to look. Time of light the sun makes hazard of anything upright, which rules me down and out. Even indebted to Delight like this, that blue rutabaga juice lower left can’t be good, not on your knees with the squeezer standing, both of you sea monkey nightmare, shreds of my own pruned thumb panning through the delirium serum of this image. Today I can’t even see Q-tips, the family pack, and not think tank tracks, think Tehran. Scream face boils and howls from the soap foam down louder and louder. Upper-right corner of the picture plane, a Hormuz blue mine floats the Strait of the Seen. Now out here in our multi-tych, off the State Road shoulder vinyl picket fencing persists as memory in melted fallen liquid shadows someone lost of their controlled burn back, and for a little closer home you taste it. James D'Agostino James D'Agostino is the author of Nude with Anything, The Goldfinch Caution Tapes, and Build Your Castle Out of Sugar Cubes All Your Enemies Have Tongues (forthcoming). He teaches at Truman State University, where he just tries to keep up with his students. ** The Garden of Earthly Delights Lay and bathe in the clean air, Tongues untainted and fresh bodies bare, His place safe haven, well-made. We walk with Him, never threadbare, Liquid gold draws a veil– We failed. Taste, Sweet twang, Our full world of Revel, Conquer, and play. This place we’ve made with dripping lips, Shameless bare hips, Expect here no true day. We judge to our desire, So taste and stay. Upon dark music we wade, Famine, the green decay. It’s all the same. Our place betrays. After all we’ve made, we are bare once more— deep in old shame, Four trampling mares, we see them everywhere. Labour and war. Our only light, white embers in a reddened night. Melissa Beasley Melissa Beasley is a college student who aspires to write fiction and be a lifelong student of literature. In her spare time, she enjoys tea, drawing, and spending time with her people. ** Theme Park Surprise! I have a surprise trip for you! Said the father to his children. Is it Disney? No, but it has mountains. A state park? No, though there are lakes and animals. A zoo? Well, the animals are not in cages — we are going to The Garden of Earthly Delights. That settled it. They assumed they were going to some kind of a candy factory near a zoo. But, surprise indeed, they saw when they arrived at a new Sculpture Garden. They had been to the one created by Seward Johnson. The one with sculptures of real paintings. And the Metropolitan, with its Greek and Roman statues. But this looked different. This one was modern. It was filled with hundreds. Yes, it had marbles of naked men and woman, sure. Just like any big museum. But this one had robotics inserted in each statue, so they could move as if they were alive. And there were so many! They looked like real naked people running, sitting, riding horses, or hanging out. The kids first noticed a parade of the statues on horses, donkeys, elks, goats, and who knows what else, circling around the spa. The bathers were standing up to enjoy the spectacle. The kids wanted to join in! And they could. Right after the ticket booth, each child was handed a remote. Of course they experimented. Janis made birds with red splotches grow bigger than the statues and walk into water, even though they were not ducks. (She hoped they would not drown.) Matthew decided he wanted something more like Disney, more like a video game. He experimented with the remote’s buttons, and found he could make things grow into a new shape. So at the river he made fanciful castles from blue and pink flowers. He decided they needed weapons (not real ones) to act out a kind of video-game war. In a pink castle he created little rockets. He made one castle into a giant ball with spikes. But he made the other pink and blue castle hide their weapons to ensure surprise once his war started. To make it all the more complicated, he added a floating lighthouse in the water between the castles. It took a while to find the buttons and make sure all the robotics worked. Now the game could begin! Janis, meanwhile, decided she wanted to get into this game, to mess it up. She made groups of men push giants of whelk, fish, and mollusk, and other shapes and sizes which she hoped would survive in that river water. She’d make them ram the castles to misdirect the shooting. Just for fun. She made her men work in groups and go fast so they could all reach their goal in time. But just in case, on one side, she made sure all kinds of creatures left their pond, to start walking, running, and crawling, over to the river, to interfere, to distract the players, inside the castles. And while all these fun and games were delighting his children, the tired father stepped away to hide in the shade. He fell asleep, and dreamed. He dreamed of a dagger ear, a harp playing a ukelele, of arrows shooting through people, of boats, of jelly fish, so much more — all floating in and out of sight, and somehow under water, under shooting stars over a small island. Of course, in the end, even the kids got tired, woke up their father, said they ready to go. They handed back the remotes at the exit. Then, back home, tried to explain the whole thing to their Mom. She was so confused they ended up just making a painting for her. Lavinia Kumar Lavinia Kumar’s book, Spirited American Women: Early Writers, Artists, & Activists, consists of short prose pieces of near 100 remarkable women writers, poets, publishers, painters, sculptors, abolitionists, suffragettes, and activists — primarily pre-Civil War.. Her three poetry books & four chapbooks include two about women. Her poems and flash fiction appear in a variety of poetry journals & three anthologies (most recently, Convergence: Poetry on Environmental Impacts of War, 2026). She’s received four Pushcart and one Best of the Net nominations. Media: laviniakumar.net & lasummer.substack.com ** Reversing Out of the Garden Evil isn’t the end Nor is it eternity It’s the fight worth having A battle for balancing A wreck towards recentering It breeds the middle Of delicate members Where pains and pleasures Blend seductive mixtures Into an intoxication of pictures That we remember And attribute to sinners Whose shame starts naively In long chains of deceiving Until we close doors on believing Only then do we understand This globe is guided by commands And all is written, not assumed Ipse dixit et facta sunt Ipse mandavit et creata sunt Brendan Dawson Brendan Dawson is an American born writer based in Italy. He writes from his observations and experiences while living, working, and traveling abroad. Currently, he is compiling a collection of poetry and short stories from his time in the military and journey as an expat. ** On Knowing Recall, I cannot, the grey of before just a warning: all except this Left in a beautiful bubble the lure of cool waters bare skin washed clean, again warmed by sun and touch of a man How could I have known? the depth of our longing, limitless now Ripe berries stain my mouth, sticky sweetness clinging to bodies that yearn and feast of this new knowing Feasting. Thirsting near fountains, their endless supply, Relieves and Refills insatiable, craving, taking this all in I need to know what He knows caught in defiance, my nature exposed Succumbed to the trap He left me Cast out. Evil? betrayal guised as surprise Now, somewhere else. Fated. to sour notes, forever out of attunement mauled, pursued, devoured, afraid. ladders to nowhere, splintered and broken Creation undone and undoing flesh He once cherished, sacrificed for his entertainment. Are You delighted, yet? Julia Harr Julia Harr is a narrative practitioner who lives in Queens, NY. She is happiest browsing the many art collections of NYC and writing shorts and poems in response. Professionally, you can find her practicing narrative therapy and offering narrative medicine workshops to other healthcare providers. www.story-ethic.com ** Inspired by the Final Panel of his Namesake’s Painting, Detective Harry Bosch Pens a Poem* In the dark hours, in the lost light, there is a darkness more than night. Tracy Royce *This is a cento composed of book titles in Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch series. Tracy Royce is a writer and poet with work appearing in 100 Word Story and The Ekphrastic Review, and forthcoming in Hot Flash Literary, Heavy Feather Review, and Best Microfiction (2026). Her work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions, a Touchstone Award, and a Pushcart Prize. She lives in Southern California, where she enjoys hiking and watching Richard Widmark films. You can find her on Bluesky. ** The Dome At lunchtime, Greck went to The Dome, a seaside amusement arcade. The buildings on either side had collapsed into rubble years ago, but The Dome survived, patronised by a mix of the elderly and unemployed. Most of these locals played the fruit machines; Greck, however, headed to the smell of fried food in a corner. From behind a counter, a man named Besco passed her chips in a polystyrene container and milky tea in a polystyrene cup. Greck nodded and placed the exact amount of money on the counter. She then squeezed ketchup on the chips and walked back out of The Dome to a bench. Greck chewed her chips, sipped her tea and stared at the calm sea. It had begun to recede from the stones, sand and seaweed that constituted the town’s beach. At her back, she heard two people emerge from The Dome. “I hit the jackpot, but the machine didn’t pay out,” someone said. “We don’t pay money. We give tokens.” “No tokens came out either.” “Don’t make trouble. Go home.” Silence followed this response. Another dissatisfied customer and Besco, Greck thought and finished her lunch. She dropped the container and cup into the mesh bin that stood nearby but didn't leave. A wooden crate on the beach had caught her attention. Washed ashore from where? she wondered. The crate lay on a tangle of seaweed and looked intact. Greck stood and strolled towards it. “Leave it,” came a shout. “Whatever’s in the crate, it’s mine. Everything that washes up on this beach is mine.” Greck halted and stepped to one side to avoid Besco as he hurried by her. She watched him kick the crate several times before he picked up a stone and used it as a hammer. The crate splintered and fell apart. Besco immediately pulled out cardboard boxes and ripped one open. “I hope my luck has changed,” he said to himself. The items that fell from the box, though, looked like placemats to Greck. She moved closer. Exasperated, Besco glared at her. “What are these things?” “Placemats,” Greck replied. “What? Do I need useless placemats? No, I don’t.” Greck shrugged. “You could always put them on tables, together with cutlery, for your lunchtime trade.” Besco grabbed some of the boxes and threw them at Greck’s feet. “Don’t you dare make fun of me,” he shouted. “You’re barred from The Dome, for life.” He spat and brushed past Greck. She ignored him, bent down and looked through the boxes. They all contained placemats. Each one had a laminated picture on one side and cork on the other. Greck recognised the pictures as scenes from a well-known triptych. The Garden of Earthly Delights, she thought and gathered as many placemats as she could carry. At the sea’s edge, she put them in the water, picture side up. They floated. Greck glanced back at The Dome and removed her clothes. With care, she lowered herself across the placemats and drifted away with the tide. K.J. Watson K. J. Watson’s stories and poems have appeared on the radio; in magazines, comics and anthologies; and online. ** The Demise of Bosch While The Poet Endures Every form, every style, every step toward new expression eluded him. The poem seizes the opportunity where the painter’s symbols end. “This is the crux of the matter,” cries the poet: “We saw the Event finished in the Garden before the painter laid his strokes—no one understood at what point in time.” Is this truly the style, the substance, the release the artist desired? Or does the deceased one mock the poet’s blood-red hands? Many wage artistic battles, few regard the expense. Carole Mertz (The poem, a Golden Shovel, borrows its line from Octavio Paz’s “Toward the Poem.”) Carole Mertz publishes reviews, essays, and poetry at The Ekphrastic Review, Oyster River Pages, Cleaver Magazine, The Dalhousie Review, and elsewhere. Her poetry collection Color and Line published in 2021. Carole teaches organ and piano in Parma, Ohio. ** In Praise of Hieronymus Bosch Ladies and gentlemen, Pieter Brueghel the Elder here, Master of Ceremonies. We’ve gathered at the Prado in Madrid to praise my muse, Hieronymus Bosch. We never met, but his meticulous attention to minutiae, his genius, inspired me to craft small stories within a single canvas. I’ve assembled a triptych of artists to attest to his talent. Salvador, please start us off. I. I am Dali! My wife and I thank you, Señor Bosch, for your twisted mind on which I have based the twist of my mustache. The way you take ordinary, earthly things and dement them. You are my guiding light! II. I am Miró. I used to paint like everyone else. Until I considered your winged altarpiece in the Prado. I could take individual objects and paint them the way I see them. Distorted. Dissonant. Disconnected. Dare I say diabolical? I am forever indebted. III. Leonora Carrington here. Publicly I’ve stated that The Pleasures of Dagobert is loosely based on the Merovingian king of that name. Publicly I’ve stated that my creation sprang to mind as a result of the war. But, dear Hieronymus, not one brushstroke would have been possible without Garden of Earthly Delights as phantasmagorical precedent. I scrutinized your work. Imagined little spheres of debauchery owning their own section of the canvas. My work could not exist without yours as exemplar. Bravo! My dear friends and colleagues, let us bow our heads in praise of Hieronymus Bosch. Thank you for bringing us into your garden of unearthly delights. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner is a huge fan of Brueghel and surrealist art. A self-professed art junkie, she is addicted to art museum exhibitions and has a fear of missing out. She is currently shopping a Brueghel-inspired chapbook and putting the finishing touches on a full-length poetry collection written in response to female surrealists. Visit her at www.barbarakrasner.com. ** Angel The gardens rest as loneliness fills the space unconquered, broken into palatable shapes, we argue, only to fill time, to find peace. Unsure of anything but to disrupt the scene a senseless lake, hordes of skin in salad days a preference made at the beginning of time. Now, a thousand years later, or two I remember your words, wept into stone and I try to instill them, to fill my remaining days. Zachary Thraves Zachary Thraves is a writer and performer. His poems have been published by Broken Sleep Books, Juste Millieu, Nitrogen House and at Poetry Worth Hearing. His plays have been performed internationally and in 2023 he created a one-man fringe show exploring his experience with bi-polar, in the same year won best actor for portraying Charles Dickens. Zac also co-hosts a podcast. He lives with his partner in East Sussex. Find him on Bluesky @28hary. ** A Not So Distant World Intricate palaces surrounding the lake, each different, yet still the same. Decorated in pastels. mimicking flower petals. Lively gardens, full of entertainment. It can be found in every nook. Berry floats and butterflies that rest on flowers between dances. The races have started. Animals run laps, getting distracted by each other and the nymphs in the middle. The nymphs in the pond watch and giggle at the people running laps around them. They create groups amongst themselves, distributing racers to each one. Ensuring all racers can be picked at. A world of our own. Yet, still so very distant from what we know. Angelina Carago Angelina Carago is an American writer who writes from fabricated worlds. She can often be found surrounded by books and art. ** Trying To Find Earthly Delights In Kenya The girl's hair falls soft, breezy like the palms soaked in evening's light. Air brewed with fragrant heat becomes lush tea -- tinged with clouds splintering into cinnamon. Its mood makes her drowsy along with the elephants she has come to photograph. Wise yet lethargic -- with lake and insect life stirring between their gray sculptures, they remember the ancient. Days never shadowed by the herdsman's cloak or his wand prodding the bell-shackled oxen or cattle, Days of red dust swept by wind and then clearing to trees where moonlight stretched through leaves whispering under the clear sky, blessed by the watchful eye of Opala. Yet, within the skin of the elephant, she sees the wrinkled map of a town back home, her lover seething on a leather couch, sipping time from a brown hour glass of beer somewhere between their moon and a suburb of Kansas city. The air stills. She turns and silence translucent as the powder on her face blends with the soft, sifted gold of sundown. Tusks play quarter moons to dragonflies skimming the water's edge for diversion. Her nerves caught in the shimmer of their wings. Wendy Howe Note: Opala is the goddess of the moon in Massai/Kenyan mythology. She is known to be the protector of women and nature. 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 Garden of Earthly Delight When I lived in Madrid, I used to visit The Garden of Earthly Delight weekly. The Prado and I had a date every Monday at 10.00 am, before the hordes arrived. I wanted to dive into Hieronymus Bosch’s mind, discover the myriad of images, trying to understand a surrealist masterpiece created in the Late Middle Ages. Dalí, eat your heart out. I always started to ‘read’ this wonder the way it was meant to be read: from left to right, starting at The Garden of Eden where God takes Eve’s hand to introduce her to Adam, where strange animals roam, including an elephant, a giraffe (how did Bosch know about these animals in 1500 in Den Bosch, Brabant, a province of what is now The Netherlands?), what I took to be a unicorn, a variety of birds and a cat doing its cat-thing to a big mouse, a bird swallowing a frog—perhaps a hint at darker things to come. In the middle of it all is the Fountain of Living Waters, a science-fiction fever dream from 1500. The centre panel is The Garden of Earthly Delights. I always felt that Bosch used the title of his panel to explain his phantasies: "earthly’." From giant flora and fauna to bizarre architecture to some very naked frolicking, men riding the beasts of base animal instincts. There is lust again: very suggestive play and giant fruit, in other words indulgence and the fleeting nature of pleasure. More fever-dream creatures and some disapproval by the painter, I believe, leading us to the Musical Hell, a nickname given by art historians to the Night Garden, the third and final panel of this amazing work. Here we find the nightmare of heavenly punishments for the indulgences of the centre panel: the pale man beast, wearing a flat ‘hat’ on which some creatures are dancing around a pink swollen bagpipe-like apparition, his body a cracked eggshell, this man seems to be the observer. The party is over. A bird-headed monster devours humans, shitting them out into a dark pit, instruments are torture devices: one sinner is trapped under a giant lute while musical notes are being tattooed on his backside; other sinners are falling into black water while fires are burning in the background. In the lower right-hand corner is a pig dressed as a nun stretching its snout as if to kiss a man who definitely doesn’t want to be kissed, while another watches in horror. This part of the triptych is where I thought I’d just about began to understand Bosch a wee bit: he depicted mankind's lust and hypocrisy. Bosch turned objects meant for "heavenly" harmonies into tools of agony, a reflection, I thought, of what man does onto man. In the three panels of The Garden of Earthly Delight, Bosch is turning on the warning lights. The Last Judgment will come, but for now mankind is stuck in a cycle of lust, self-indulgence, and sado-masochistic pleasures. And when you close the triptych, there is the world before man spoiled it: a world where the earth was just sky, land, water, and plants. Still innocent, pure. And Bosch knew that she was round. 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/ ** To Hieronymus Bosch Regarding Garden of Earthly Delights You circumscribe existence shown as you believe it to be known -- time seen as task of God afar begun as darkness given star for firmanent and clime of earth in stillness of its virgin birth that would entwine as measured course with beasts evolving into source of circumstance unleashing man as image God became by plan to be the consciousness aware cogniton would become by dare the conscience of eternal soul to suffer burden of conlrol awaiting everlasting fate, immortal hope or Hell to hate. By use exquisite of detail you here expose how we prevail not seeming gathered to survive, but seeking pleasure to derive, revering falsely our disdain now disregarding fact of chain whose strength is but its weakest link where disrespect is armor's chink despite this warning we discern inside the doors you have us turn. 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. ** Diversions Although I pretend otherwise, I have no illuminaton to provide, no idea how to make the future easier to deal with, anticipate, or understand. I can’t tell you what will help you, although I have plenty of ideas about what will hurt. But let me show you the nightmare of my dreams--all of the possible answers rephrased into new more irrational questions, or maybe old questions reconfigured to stray further from solution into delusion, each new detail more incoherent and incomprehensible than the one before. Merely a conduit for your wishful thinking, I am both unable and unwilling to resist the charms and chaos of human folly—the empty promises, the flattery that pretends to affirmation, that mixes fantasy with reality, that offers only fabrications grounded in a false faith of invincibility, riddles entwined with vagaries meant to distract from the truth. I cannot save you—in fact I do not care about you at all--but I can entertain you as you fall into the abyss. dreams of hereafter-- a leaf trembling in the wind on bare black branches Kerfe Roig Kerfe Roig: "I've written a few poems to this work of art. It seems always to reflect whatever world we happen to be living in." **  Glass Sculpture, by Belinda Scott (England) 2021 Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential writers working today, and we also welcome emerging or first time writers and those who simply want to experience art in a deeper way or try something creative. The prompt this time is Glass Sculpture, by Belinda Scott. Deadline is April 10, 2026. You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way. Scroll down to donate $5CAD (about $3.75 USD). 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to [email protected]. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry. 5.Include SCOTT CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, APRIL 10, 2026. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 15. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly. |
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