​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 Gemälde "Schleudern" , by Michael Schoenholtz. Deadline is February 13, 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  SCHOENHOLTZ 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, FEBRUARY 13, 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!
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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.
​​

​Eve at Dawn

Recycled from discarded parts,
deserted wastes, thought inert,
to craft a mediation’s start.

Reconstituted from the past,
collective memory at last,
identity in wholesome heart.
the art of healing on our part

This meeting, collage on the frame,
rings out our charming, chiming bells,
tells of whom, what, why we are.

Preformed in stature, dignity,
whatever disability
assigned, thought signifying all,
but outperformed in being soul.

As norm in this collective noun
we people, persons earthed in clay,
may find ourselves, bound in collage.
Enhanced in status, being found,
ephemera, that written off,
we trust, spell out respect for all.
For therein lies our healing call.
 
Stephen Kingsnorth
 
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com
 
**

Only Human
 
Blueness of my soul,
transitioning into beauty.
We’re only human.
  
Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
 
Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher has been writing since 2010 and has had many micro-flash fiction stories published. In 2018 her book Shorts for the Short Story Enthusiasts, was published, The Importance of Being Short, in 2019 and In A Flash in 2022. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna.
 
**
 
Destiny
 
The body, with a destiny that marked the beginning
A proud torso, with breasts in a dark metallic sheen
Hidden arms and hands holding up an angel’s wings
As if wrenched away, and displayed as some trophy
A sad predictable outcome, that was now not to be
The neck reaching up toward the head, now missing
Replaced by a representation of the sun and its rays
A jewelled symbol, strategically placed on the navel
And almost completes the message to be considered
It was never just this one body image, all are special
 
Howard Osborne
 
Howard is a UK citizen, retired. Published author of non-fiction reference book, scientific papers and poetry. Interests mainly creative writing (poetry, novel, short stories, songs and scripts), music and travel.
 
**
 
The Invention of Violence
 
That’s all that’s left of her.
She was found in this tree.
A guy with a rigged-up radio says
he picked up a violet signal,
whatever that is, and suddenly
in a burst of static, lit up the sky.
 
And now this.
 
Police report says she’s from outer space,
but a farmer not a mile from here says 
he saw her in his apple orchard last week
trying to get a ripe one, but since it’s December, 
there ain’t no apples.
 
Octavio, artist from the island of dolls,
says he fashioned her out of chicken feathers
and coins from the bottom of a well.
Put a headdress on her made of cedar intended
for metronomes and fire.
 
All I know is somebody took her out of this tree 
like a bird of prey in the wrong hemisphere. 
Set her down here, just outside this garden
that somehow appeared out of thin air.
Beautiful and terrible angel from the clouds 
come to offer balm to conjurers who’ve lost their way 
with magic.
 
This tree was never any good. 
Farmer says he posted a sign once
warning folks not to eat anything from it.
 
Lenny DellaRocca
 
Lenny DellaRocca’s latest collection, Pandemonium, recently won the 2025 Slipstream Chapbook Competition. He’s been nominated twice for a Pushcart and once for Best of Net. His latest work can be found in Tupelo Quarterly, Denver Quarterly, I-70 Review, and Blazevox. DellaRocca has poems forthcoming in Chiron Review and Rawhead. In 2016, Lenny founded South Florida Poetry Journal where he served as publisher and editor. He is curator and a co-editor of Chameleon Chimera, An Anthology of Florida Poets. His other chapbook Things I See in the Fire won the 12th annual Yellowjacket chapbook contest. His other books include Festival of Dangerous Ideas.
 
**

Staying With The Trouble 
(a rensaku)
 
in our loneliness
across the Eremocene
she tempts us again
 
to fly away on 
wings of mulberry paper
far from not-Eden
 
but we must remain
wedded to the Chthulucene
on the eve of hope
 
Lara Dolphin
 
A descendant of immigrants, Lara Dolphin lives with her family among the Allegheny Mountains of Central Pennsylvania on the ancestral land of the Susquehannock/Iroquois people. She has written three chapbooks In Search Of The Wondrous Whole, Chronicle Of Lost Moments, and At Last a Valley. She, like countless others, hopes for a world filled with greater peace.
 
**
 
Weaving Out of Eve's Unending Mystery Scene
 
If I'm honest, I’m not sure which one is me
The layers overlap blurring out memory
Bolster bulges and press form reliefs
Where sounds seep from dry keys
Gather belly button bruise rings
Into bottled suspicious things
Around mirror rigged wings
 
But, through these flings
Peirce identity themes
Passing long springs
A circuitous stream
Clinging to strings
And, yet believe
On my dreams
 
This means
I will sing
Still free
To be
Me
 
Brendan Dawson 
 
Brendan Dawson is an American born writer based in Italy. He writes from his observations and experiences while living, working, and travelling abroad. Currently, he is compiling a collection of poetry and short stories from his time in the military and journey as an expat.
 
**
 
Code Blue
                                    
                      "...the persistent impact of invisible struggles while fostering      
                      space for vulnerability, healing and connection."
                      Monica Marks website (on her art)
 
                      "Turn to the right, there's a little white light
                      Will lead you to my blue heaven."
                      "My Blue Heaven,"  Walter Donaldson & George R. Whiting
 
 
Was it love or writing that had been her armour?     She had a passion
for words -- cerulean, indigo, cobalt --     lines layered in sapphirine fabric
 
painted on her blue torso.     Did she look like the sky had fallen
in blue notes? Or in an ocean where the white-capped waves were clouds,
 
wing-feathers for an unidentified angel?     She hadn't been able
to find herself in time to be both arial and earthly --   an alchemical queen 
 
on canvas with pearl epaulets, her crown      created with paint- 
brushes sprouting from her hair like sun rays.    Was she, by night, a source
 
of cosmic entertainment?     Blue Moon, you saw me standing alone --   
without a dream in my heart — without a love of my own... Why was it always
 
the avian male      who caught his lady's eye with azurite feathers?  
She was lacklustre today (drab, she was drab)    unable to build a new nest
 
hidden in a green-leafed garden.     Eden was a biblical memory,
and she'd never found The Garden of Earthly Delights     her white dress
 
trimmed with rain-washed gold     as if the sun had given her details
of an American Indian legend     where the firstborn son of the Sun is a bird--
 
Blue Bird--    and didn't Uncle Remus have a blue bird on his shoulder?
It's the truth  --  it's actual -- everything is satisfactual!     When the band quit
 
before Gene Austin crooned "My Blue Heaven"       with the boys 
at The Friars Club, someone found an old guy       with a cello for backup
 
along with a song plugger     who was pretty good with piano, 
plus a guy who could whistle bird calls.     It was music from her mama's 
 
time, maybe when a singer     who called herself Midnight Sugar
wore a flapper dress trimmed with fringe --     did Midnight feel the blues
 
like I do, with that special touch of words & music      before time
takes time, a lifeline
                                              with scrawls & squalls at rest
 
when God calls out Code Blue
                                                            to the whip-poor-wills
                                                                  & a blue bird I call happiness.
 
Laurie Newendorp
 
Laurie Newendorp lives and writes in Houston. Honoured many times by The Ekphrastic Review's Challenge, she finds that age is making her sentimental. Her mother, who always played “Blue Moon,”taught her that happiness can be translated as music: “When whip-poor-wills call” is the first line of “My Blue Heaven.”
 
 
**
 
To Monica Marks Regarding We Are All Eve
 
Yes, we too are bodies we possess.
Yes, we too are tempted who transgress.
Yes, we too are minds that serpents mold,
helpless while they have us in their hold,
 
making night the shelter where we hide
hope in which our healing can reside,
learning we are destiny we dare,
grace that we can choose to live and share,
 
pieced together as eternal whole,
joyful, rising, thus transcendent soul
praised for what its faith in time became  --
servitude to cherish blessed in name
 
of Mary, who from Eve begot,
enshrined the strength to trouble not.
 
Portly Bard
 
Portly Bard: Prefers to craft with sole intent...
of verse becoming complement...
...and by such homage being lent...
ideally also compliment.
 
Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise
for words but from returning gaze
far more aware of fortune art
becomes to eyes that fathom heart.
 
**
 
Mother of All Who Live and the Adamah
 
Look what I plucked from the golden tree.
      Please, please, put it down.
My love, my love, please take a bite.            
      For God’s sake, do not take a bite!
A whispered voice said it will set us free,
      Return it to the sacred ground.
give us knowledge and inner sight.
      This snake-oil salesman only invites ─
 
My love, my love, please take a bite.     For God’s sake, do not take a bite!
Do not fear what you cannot perceive.
      Do not fall into Satan’s debt.
Let us embrace this hallowed light.
      He’s using you as a vessel of spite
This voice, no Satan ready to deceive.
      against the one who gave you breath.
 
Do not fear what your cannot perceive.     Do not fall into Satan’s debt.
Death? I know nothing of death.
      Is his seduction more intense than mine?
I do not mourn, I do not grieve.
      The cost of your passion is death
I will love you through my every breath.      
      for me, for you, for all your beloved thines.
 
Melissa Wold
 
Melissa Wold lives on the coast of Alabama surrounded by bays, rivers and the Gulf of Mexico. Her poems explore historic and current events, people, injustices and regenerations. She is happiest with her feet in the water and her face turned to the sun.
 
**


These Wings 
 
I'll take it and fly with it then
blue skies and angel wings
falling cherry blossom
 
while deep in my belly
memories etched in acid
pin me down in place
 
star-headed I fight
the contradictions
to soar and fall
 
soar and fall again
every time
a new beginning.
 
Juliet Wilson 
 
Juliet Wilson is an adult education tutor, wildlife surveyor and conservation volunteer based in Edinburgh, Scotland. She can be found in various places online as Crafty Green Poet. 

**
 
Matrix
 
This matrix works:
hides, snubs, grabs
reminds, strives
but mostly – blows
trivial choices;
13 different chopsticks
perched on her head means
she can stir at least
13 different meals at once,
in between flying to oversee
the kids in the pool
so, keeping her wings open full,
yet, ensuring her plexus hub
is lit and ready to admit
the magic jug waiting its turn
to let out its charms
at the bottom
of this frantic matrix
multitasking
as holy flexing.
 
This is Eve –
the second sex
as by the existentialists
and by the genesis
so, the question is:
which is the better matter –
the mud or the rib?
-of course – the bone,
so, man-kind, accept
the prime shine
of the second in line
and meet her facial grid -
with the sun tagged
the moon engraved
shooting stars still seen
undaunted 
metallically bonded
exposed not to impress
but to express,
despite the muddy
muscular vagaries,
the shrewd bony stamp
of love at first sight.
 
Ekaterina Dukas
 
Ekaterina Dukas writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and her poems are often honoured by TER and its challenges selection, her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europe Edizioni, 2021.
 
**
 
The Other Face of Goddess
 
She spreads
her navel-gazing self
across sky and plane. Airborne
 
she is elixir
gestating, carnival 
of magenta, seascape
 
and uproarious
femmescape. Come,
she says, Suckle
 
and be nourished
with my goddess milk.
I am the starry lunatic
 
of your yearning
forbidden and correct.
Prowl and lose yourself
 
this uncoiled night
as I enfold you
with all you hold dear,
 
know fear, become 
supernature. Focus –
you cannot cling to air.
 
Sharpen your sights.
Transpose desire –> elevate.
My turbulence 
 
unfetters you,
hurries you on
to a Fool’s discovery.
 
Nina Nazir
 
Nina Nazir (she/her) is a neurodiverse British Pakistani poet, writer and fine artist based in Birmingham, UK. She has been widely published online and in print, most recently with Sunday Mornings at the River and Under the Radar magazine. She is also a Room 204 writing cohort with Writing West Midlands. You can usually find her surrounded by books, writing, or making art, which she sometimes shares on Instagram: @nina.s.nazir. She blogs regularly at www.sunrarainz.wordpress.com
 
**
 
Eve
 
Oh, my god
with your wings 
of pink feathers
and breasts of blue
crown me in gold
make me like you.
 
Lynn White
 
Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries ofdream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for Pushcarts, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Magazine, Firewords, Vagabond Press, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes Journal. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com///www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/
 
**
 
Eve Takes Stock of Another New Year
 
How did it come to be, this blueing? It started with the skin over the heart, over the ribs, then a rapid spread across the thorax and upwards to the throat. Cyanotic now; enamelled by life to a shiny lapis lazuliluminescence. A face, once mysterious and compelling as a dark orchid, is now a clock showing every hour, every month and all the years passed. The sparse shock of hair? Each strand is imbued with fierce power, enough to crown this queen. Saggy arm skin falls into folds, from untold stretching, carrying, bearing the weight of womanhood and all it entails. I am Eve, I am ageless, yet I wear all the years. Somewhere deep inside, below the blue ocean of my body and the papery wings wide enough to embrace the world, a small sun glows, incipient, ready to smoulder. This is the source of my hidden depths, hidden power. I am Eve - daughter, lover, mother, doula, nun, witch, priestess, sibyl and crone. I am ready for this year. I will overcome.  
 
Emily Tee
 
Emily Tee lives in the UK Midlands and when she's not walking or volunteering she's writing. She has a mini poetry pamphlet due out at the end of 2026 with Atomic Bohemian.
 
**

I Wish I Could Be Eve
 
Eve like a braveheart Knight
Emerges from the night
With her blue steel belly
As a protective shield
Teutonic knight's helmet
To preserve her integrity
Her white feathered wings
To fly away from men’s harassment
Their judgment and violence
Eve rehabilitated and free
You Are All Eve
I wish I could be Eve
 
Jean Bourque
 
Jean lives in Montreal.
 
**
 
Dichotomy
 
We are All-Mother,
childless or not,
carrying our names
Madonna and Whore 
even among ourselves.
 
Lilith was a snake charmer.
She had no choice. Those who
don’t learn to tame the beast
will be consumed by it.
 
Eve was charmed by the snake. 
He claims she learned lessons of seduction
and felt shame, and so she was cursed.
And all ensuing generations of women
have been caught in a double-bind.
 
We, who must weaponize 
against our vulnerabilities,
hold our tired wings aloft;
pendant and potion suspended
above the place that brings forth
life. Our sadness is worn
on our skin like a shield,
blue as cold steel armor.
Golden brown spikes
radiate from our intelligence.
And we ready ourselves 
to join Lilith’s ranks. 
 
Kaila Schwartz 
 
Kaila Schwartz runs an award-winning high school theatre program in the San Francisco Bay Area where she lives with her spouse and kitty overlords. Her work can be seen in The Ekphrastic Review, Moss Piglet, Boudin, Metphrastics, and Still Point Arts Quarterly, among others. 
 
**
 
Split Mask
 
It feels like another Sunday morning.
This fetish rising, ghost branching out.
Witness to my own decline – Sometimes,
I don't think…
 
 
“I will return disguised as Socrates!”
 
Excellent plan, Sir’ 
 
*(stet)  – My Lady’
 
Healers of old say: 
She speaks in riddles,
laden with charm, spirits, and spells.
Beauty – If witnessed fully in her glory –
 
well then…expression itself becomes real,
and she will answer you.
 
“When?”
 
When the truth can become breathable.
 
“Sometimes, when I don’t think.”
 
MWPiercy
 
Michael W. Piercy: At the intersection of Art, Poetry and Contradiction, you will find my work, you will find me. Observing memories and the present moment , thinking with an eye that shadows the natural world. Philosophy, Theology, and Science are core of my writing - I have found that I am a synthesizer. Managing ideas which do not always cohere. A manipulator of ideas –
 
**
 
Genesis
 
I have visited the deep dark womb
where the seeds of flesh are hidden
and I have taken them and grown my own roots.
I refuse the names you called me.
 
The seeds of flesh are hidden
inside the bones of our Mother the Earth.
I have refused the names you called me
and entwined myself with cosmic dust.
 
Inside the bones of our Mother the Earth
there is no shame --
we are all entwined with cosmic dust
from the same endings, the same beginnings.
 
There is no shame in being a woman.
Why did you invent deities who abuse and destroy,
who end every beginning with a curse
when they could be singing songs of life?
 
Why do you worship deities who abuse and destroy?
I fill myself with the winged spirits of birds,
singing the songs of The Tree of Life, that rise,
lifting me towards the light, naked and unafraid.
 
I fill myself with the winged spirits of birds
and I have taken them and grown my own roots --
they lift me towards the light, naked and unafraid,
one with the deep dark womb.
 
Kerfe Roig
 
A resident of New York City, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. Her poetry and art have been featured online by Silver Birch Press, Feral, Pure Haiku, Zen Space, Visual Verse, Collaborature, The Chaos Section Poetry Project, and The Ekphrastic Review, and published in Ella@100, Incandescent Mind, The Raw Art Review, The Anthropocene Hymnal, and The Polaris Trilogy. Follow her explorations on her blog, https://kblog.blog/.
 
**


Where is Eve?
 
Everyone asked who Eve was at the party.
As glasses dipped into punch, and gin turned blue,
when was she going to appear? This illusion
this memory of what we pretended to be.
I dropped my tumbler, shattering into teeth
on the parquet floor, they called for Eve,
no-one came, instead a small non-descript robot
rolled in, drank the spirit from the room, and
swayed out; still we waited, small talk filling
the gaps, until she was announced; and that
was when my memory faded--
I woke the next day in someone else’s bed.
I wondered what it was that Eve said to me. 
 
Zachary Thraves
 
Zachary Thraves is a writer and performer from the UK, based in East Sussex. His poems have been accepted by Broken Sleep Books and Juste Millieu to name but two, and his plays have been performed locally and at international competitions. He performed a one-man fringe show in 2023 exploring his bi-polar and the mental health industry, and in the same year won best actor for portraying Charles Dickens. He lives with his partner and has two children.
 
**
 
Always Eve
 
Our wings unfurled, disguised as shoulders,
do not reveal that we can fly.
 
Our voices melodious, disguised as instruments,
are not silenced for we shall sing.
 
Our lips buttoned, our visages hidden, our bodies draped
do not constrain us; our magic is strong.
 
Our names are Eve, always Eve,
always mirrored, always mysterious, always powerful.
 
Donna Reiss
 
Writer, editor, teacher, bookmaker, and mixed media/paper artist, Donna lives in Greenville, South Carolina, where she is a member of the Greenville Center for Creative Arts, the Guild of American Papercutters, and the Poetry Society of South Carolina. Follow her on Instagram @dreissart
 
**
 
I Will Never Be Your Dream Girl
 
You gave me wings
flightless and ornamental
as a dancer’s feather fan
a showgirl’s fancy boa -
Without arms I have no hands
Without legs I cannot walk away
Without a face I must speak
Without a tongue
words unshaped by lips
words no one can hear -
In the bowl of my body
the engine of generation
refuses to lie quiet -
Shining neon blue-green
as the beetle’s hard armor
come to rest in the rose
it devours -
I am the thorn in your side
the sting in your flesh
the poison
in the serpent’s kiss
waiting for you
here in the heart
of your garden.
 
Mary McCarthy
 
Mary McCarthy is a retired Registered Nurse who has always been a writer. Her work has appeared in many anthologies and journals, including The Plague Papers, edited by Robbi Nester, The Ekphrastic World, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic, The Memory Palace, edited by Clare MacQueen and Lorette C. Luzajic, and issues of Verse Virtual, Third Wednesday, Earth’s Daughters, and Caustic Frolic, as well as others. She has been a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. Her collection, How to Become Invisible, an exploration of experience with bi-polar disorder, is available from Kelsay Books and on Amazon.
 
**
 
I Am Eve
You Are Eve
We All Are Eve
 
Drape me in your memories
    amid the darkly blues
Kiss my scalloped bosom
    with the painting of your hues
Gainsay my demise 
    with the union of our muse
 
Donna-Lee Smith
 
DLS writes from La Ville de Montreal where an old saying lives on: This is a city where you can’t toss a baseball without breaking a church window. Twain (of said saying) tossed a brick, but you get the gist.
 
**
 
Eve Reimagined 
 
Ears of wisdom feathers,
white and softly flecked 
with pink,
layered and grown large
by folds of experience --
 
We fly with angels
 
We listen as the child speaks,
knowing the importance 
of her words,
 
Follow ME into eternity
 
Our third eye,
brightly crowned,
sees what man can not
 
We are not ribs --
broken pieces of him
 
We are born 
of our own 
stunning seed pearls,
perfect and glistening 
through centuries 
of oppression…
 
We rise above them all!
 
Our small mouths
whisper,
their small ears 
listen
 
We offer pomegranates…
full and sweet and juicy,
not to make the serpent rise --
 
But to feed the world.
 
Susan Mayer Brumel
 
Susan Mayer Brumel has been writing poetry since retiring from a thirty-five year career in hospice social work and bereavement counseling. Her poems are inspired by her patients’ spiritual journeys, the compelling beauty of nature, and the human condition.  She has been published in several online journals and in print, and had the great honor of having one of her poems nominated for the Pushcart Prize, 2024. When not writing, she enjoys spending time with her grandchildren, taking voice lessons, and playing pickleball - very cautiously. She lives in central New Jersey, near the seashore.
 
** 

New Contours 
 
We will keep the flow
breaking into your body
low--
What was I thinking
when the outlines grew
wilting my skin--
hard lump drew new contours.
 
What was I thinking--
when I resolved to walk
the half marathon.
 
Are you ok?
asked the nurse adjusting the knobs--
We are all eve
marching with the dripping chemo
defying the lashes of time.
 
The sun is slanting
on my roof, flapping shadows
of mynas randomly cut my path,
preparing to roost, to return here often,
to let go of no one.
 
Abha Das Sarma
 
Abha Das Sarma lives in Bangalore, India. An engineer and management consultant by profession, writing is what makes her happy and fulfilled. Her poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, Blue Heron Review, Poetry X Hunger, here and elsewhere.
 
**
 
You Were the First
 
The mother of all living, keeper of keys,
the bearer of being, ancestral lines,
you were the first. We are all Eve.
 
The usher of kinship, circle of ease,  
you are the cradle, feminine shrine,
mother of all living, keeper of keys.
 
The planter of roots, bosom of seeds,
the grower of branches, coequal vines,
you were the first. We are all Eve.
 
The holder of starlight, mirror of peace,
you are the luster, subsequent shine,
mother of all living, keeper of keys.
 
The giver of gusto, wings of release,
the guider of spirit, creative minds,
you were the first. We are all Eve.
 
The decanter of depth, color of seas,
you are the water, life-giving brine.
The mother of all living, keeper of keys,
you were the first. We are all Eve.
 
Jeannie E. Roberts
 
Jeannie E. Roberts is the daughter of a Swedish immigrant mother and the author of nine books, including her latest full-length poetry collection On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing (Kelsay Books, 2025). She writes poetry and prose influenced by memory, the human experience, and the natural world. Her work appears in books, online magazines, print journals and anthologies. In 2007, her poem, La Luz, won first place in the Green Bay Symphony Orchestra’s statewide poetry contest. Musical composer Daniel Kellogg set her poem to music via an orchestral score with choir. Since 2018, she has served as a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs. She is an Eric Hoffer and a two-time Best of the Net award nominee, and finds joy spending time outdoors and with loved ones.
 
**
 
Free Will
 
I embrace a truth subordinate to the story
I’ve been told. Looking forward to a future full of days
 
when I have beaten my swords
into bookmarks. When I will follow my free will
 
until the city where I live
seems suddenly more solitary,
 
knowing I will be seen but never understood.
 
So I have always been in love with Eve
from the moment I realized she instigated our life of longing.
 
If she’s not a saint,
no saint could exist without her.
 
If only Adam had been so bold.
 
Lou Ventura
 
Lou Ventura lives in Olean, NY. His poetry and prose have appeared in several publications including The Ekphrastic Review, The Worcester Review, English Journal, and The Calendula Review:  A Journal of Narrative Medicine. His poetry collection, Bones So Close to Telling, is published by Foothill Publishing.
 
**
 
In the Composition of Wings

Grandmother Eva, you offer translucent wings to welcome me into your past. Your face, a dial into the Eva women who came before you. Your body, blue with the misery of the Khurbn, the loss of young ones before their time, grieving for parents, whose deaths always jolt.

Grandmother Eva, you descend from the original Eve, that Chava of Life. Your head-spoke metronome jabs into collective memory. It clocks me as it once clocked you. But when crossed, those spokes become spears, instruments of impalement. I come from your javelin of boldness. To say what we think, to be blunt, even acerbic. I come from Eves who calculated in their heads when men had to write down numbers. 

Grandmother Eva, your face turns to the future, pointing toward the danger ahead. You know its signs. Wrap me in your wings, protect me as only you can. Let me hide between your breasts. Let me slide between the interstices of your remiges. 

Let me fly with you above the earth.

Barbara Krasner
 
Barbara Krasner is a New Jersey-based poet of ten poetry books, including Poems of the Winter Palace (Bottlecap Press, 2025), The Night Watch (Kelsay Books, 2025), Insomnia: Poems after Lee Krasner (Dancing Girl Press, 2026), and the forthcoming The Wanderers (Shanti Arts, 2026), and Memory Collector (Kelsay Books, 2027). She sees her paternal grandmother, Eva, the one she never knew, everywhere.
 
**
 
The Chanteuse
 
Despite the blue glamour
of her sequined gown
with sapphire earrings
dripping radiance down — the curve
of her face and neck,
she feels the poignancy
dragging in this dusk-lit haze
and wraps it around herself
like a stole of feathers — softly
the blended grays
of scenery from her past.
Nights spent on the pier
with bistro smoke and jazz,
the lean saxophonist
in his loose shirt and jeans
matching the muted black
of sea lit by the moon. Its tide
rolling in like a slow
song on the tongue, cocktail
bitters, flavoured heartache
belonging to neither
the old nor the young.
Just those deeply in love
with a dream they can never keep.
She shadows her ashen hair
and collagen lips
with saudade, yearning
that unravels from its subconscious sleep.
 
Wendy A Howe
 
Wendy Howe is an English teacher who lives in California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, women in conflict and history. Landscapes that influence her writing include the seacoast and high desert where she has formed a poetic kinship with the Joshua trees, hills and wild life spanning ravens, lizards and coyotes. She has been published in the following journals: The Poetry Salzburg Review, The Interpreter's House, Corvid Queen, Strange Horizons, The Acropolis Journal and many others.
 
**
 
The Serpent Aboard
(a Sonnet)
                          
We are all Eve, in a garden so lush,
The aroma of nectar in the breeze.
Lovely, the colors, the stroke of a brush,
Candy cane fruit hangs upon the great tree.
 
Gathered here together we stare in awe,
Golden warm rays of light caress the skin.
The only perfection we ever saw, 
A valley of gold where none wish nor sin.
 
Nothing to want yet we held out our hands
Crimson red apple so juicy and sweet,
Cursed the people of a once great land.
Ripe and ready but forbidden to eat...
 
          A serpent slithered aboard the great arc,
          For we are all Eve, alone in the dark.
 
John Ford 
 
John Ford is a father of three, devoted spouse, blue collar, horticulturalist, with a passion for poetry. John lives in Colorado Springs, Colorado, USA where he has published numerous poems, flash fiction, and a one act play, in the college funded academic journal Parley. His poetry has also previously appeared in The Ekphrastic Review.
 

We are so honoured to have Barbara Krasner as our guest editor and curator for this challenge! Barbara is a historian and teacher who loves art, ekphrasis, and art history, and has numerous ekphrastic books and an active ekphrastic practice, including many poems and stories published in the challenges and in the main journal pages. 

**
​
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 Gloomy Day (January), by Pieter Bruegel the Elder. Deadline is January 30, 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 BRUEGEL 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, JANUARY 30, 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.
​

Happy New Year to our wonderful ekphrastic family, every reader and writer in this community. We wish you an amazing year ahead, filled with creativity, beauty, love, health, prosperity, and joy.

Remedios Varo strikes many chords for writers. It was very difficult to choose, and even though we stuffed this response selection full to the gills, many fine works were left out. We continue to marvel at the variety of ways a single painting can inspire your words. Keep writing and bringing your voice into the world. There will continue to be new challenges every other week. We also have two anthology opportunities ahead- an ekphrastic poetry anthology and a collection of dark flash fiction. In other news, we are thrilled to have an Ekphrastic Book Club with the incredible Barbara Krasner- join us for a quarterly discussion of books about art. And check out our Ekphrastic Academy page- we have an ekphrastic scavenger hunt coming up, a zoom session on Picasso, one on pop art, and the new monthly Ekphrasis Anonymous, a generative writing session with a diverse curated selection of artworks.

It's going to be a chock-full year.

Thank you for making this journal and community so wonderful.

love, Lorette

​**

Angela Segredaki

Angela Segredaki is a Greek poet who lives in the Netherlands. She holds a Creative Writing degree from Oxford University and loves poetry and people. "Thanatophoenix" reflects how adversity shapes endurance and fosters renewal, imagining death and winter not as enemies but as necessary teachers guiding life toward rebirth. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Blue Unicorn, New Lyre, Mouthful of Salt, The Adelaide Literary Magazine, Lighten Up Online, The Dawntreader, Snakeskin and elsewhere.

**

Stagehands

Gina, from high in the theatre rafters, sprinkled rice, styrofoam, and petals as rain, sleet, and confetti. Lucas swept them up at the change of set, at the interval, and after curtains closed from down below. She liked to watch him give closure to scenes; she thought he'd be as thorough with the brush of his lips. He wondered who was summoning the weather, playing the atmosphere: the one to whom he owed his labour. With all the weight of expection, and the Shakespeare season, Gina and Lucas were the Romeo and Juliet who spun invisible lines, missing each other at her break-neck balcony. Comedy or tragedy, they were the glue. And that was enough. 

​Bayveen O'Connell

​Bayveen O'Connell is an Irish writer who loves flash fiction, creative non-fiction, and poetry. She is inspired by art, myth, travel, and history. Bayveen has recently published a creative non-fiction chapbook called Out of the Woods.

**

Varo
 
Who ever sees the consequences of their actions?
Flying apparitions – a sprinkle of this and that.
A reminder of distinction, winking at my littleness.
An imposter spread the logos upon the earth,
a cold snap, refreshing as early dawn.
 
Sparkles of light fell on the sleeping town,
without the knowing of anyone below. 
These quiet times–
a hand gifting particles,
inviting a seeded wisdom rooted deep
within this town, this community… lives
        
…and then we died
 
Silence noticed a stir in the darkness, wildly alive.
 
…wildly alive
 
Silence, unnoticed, offered Herself–
 
A new beginning…
an emergence waiting for completion.
 
MWPiercy
 
Michael W. Piercy: “At the intersection of Art, Poetry and Contradiction, you will find my work, you will find me. Observing memories and the present moment , thinking with an eye that shadows the natural world. Philosophy, Theology, and Science are core of my writing - I have found that I am a synthesizer. Managing ideas which do not always cohere. A manipulator of ideas-“

**

Anqa عنقاء 

In another realm, the need for revival is blistering. A setting sun overthrows darkness. Bareness glows with a glare of courage; the dead ascend and the living survive a foodless sky. When doors in oceans open up caves of wisdom and mountains tear through roaring winds of ancestral echoes, it means the realm has shapeshifted its need for need. She arrives to the abandoned cold, dwells in the trees — no branch is childless, or bent from bearing phantom weight. Here, she seeds morality; watering from rainless stars. A false dawn in her reins is rays of sunlight no longer allowing the moon to call the light solely its own. She wears a collar of centuries, eating out of mercy, her voice spanning a lyrical elixir calming bellies that birth and decay in tranced tandem. She is complicit in witnessing, but through a whiteness of vision where she knows to distinguish pearls from stones. In the depths of dark-locked ages, she opens her wings, appearing at the whisper of every need to drown sunsets, and at the rise of true dusk as carmine exposure, every seed judged for karmic erasure— There will precede justice in the rubble of (dis)order when a throne will emerge from the shadows of cyclical ignorance, then when which side to turn will no longer be a matter of choice. There she will wait with flowers in her wings, telling her legion to hold still until the soft footsteps of sheerness tread nearer. There she will take flight, grinding her heels in a sky full of water--

Sheikha A.

Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. Her poetry appears in a variety of literary venues, both print and online, including several anthologies by different presses. Her poetry has been translated into nine language so far. More about her can be found at sheikha82.wordpress.com 

**

Departure 

The trees
as a sign of surrender
have raised
their thin hands
above their heads.

The houses,
so as not to be seen,
have bowed their necks.

The bird of death,
with a glass cloak,
flies in the sky
and pours
a bucket of snow
over the city.

The clouds,
with contracted bodies,
have closed their eyes.

The first snowflake that
reaches the ground,
no one
will recognize
anyone else.

Marjan Khoshbazan 

Marjan Khoshbazan is an Iranian poet and writer based in Tehran. "One of my poems was selected in a recent challenge for The Ekphrastic Review, and I have also had work published recently in The Light Ekphrastic. My writing is largely image-driven and often engages with ekphrasis as a way of exploring silence, memory, and collective experience. After years of trying to write poetry in Persian, I tried to create a new language with the help of images that is not bound by geography, time, or culture, but speaks the language of humanity."

**

​Cold

From here, aloft, I pour the corn, scatter the black oil sunflower seeds.
My pale hands tip the fluted urn. The plowed driveway
shows the offering.

The wind slaps at my face, the snow coats my lashes, melts.
My shadow falls light against the snow, mirroring my pallor.
Below, bare trees spread like bird tracks.

No one is here right now, but I know they are watching, wary.
The cold. It's twenty-two degrees with wind, it feels like ten.
More snow is expected, at least two inches.

I settle onto the crystalline structure, take up my roost by the window.
Less than a minute later, a chickadee lands below, then another.
Blue jays follow soon after. Once four jays eat, one flies off,
returns with others.

The window is old glass, wavy. I try not to move.
I don't want to startle them.
Here, I am sheltered. They remain exposed.
Tomorrow, I'll scatter again. Twice. The new snow will cover what I've left.
Winter isn't just one event but many.

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, MacQueen's Quinterly, and elsewhere. She received a 2024 Pushcart Prize nomination and serves as editor/interviewer for Blue Mountain Review. She lives in rural Delaware County, New York.

**

 
Wintering
 
Cold enters my bones,
spreads her skeletal pain
through joints and limbs
leaving flaked skin in her wake.
 
I watch her, cranium queen
eagled on an iceberg,
pale embryo form
scaling a north-easterly.
 
She controls me,
throws mood splinters into bruised sky
and I cry
for the brittleness of winter.
 
Look up, I hear you say,
see how her chiffon wings
drift into moonshine
softening the edges of darkness.
 
I lift my chin,
focus on forest glade
where snow is back-sucked
into iron, melts into light.
 
My world stills.
At the peak of pine
feathered hope skims the sky,
and rises. Keep rising, you say.

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

**
​
Tree-Lined Winter

What creature seeded clouds
with diamonds to encourage snow?
The frost parched the earth
that remembers rain on a meadow.
Here the cover of virgin white
is everywhere level and smooth,
and time, monotonous, static,
is not sequential at all
but all in the present and now.
A crackling of ice on the door glass
looks like arctic runes or maps
to sacred ice caves, hidden.
Through the large, double-thick panes
the great trees look distorted,
no longer linear, but in fact
each one is bending exactly
as they appear in the clear window.
The winter moon, like one in a poem,
sets diffuse light, not a single
tense line broken on water.
At the crossroads each path is blank.
What is there to see? A birch
and several small pine to the side,
tipped by the wind towards the road.
And if I could see their invisible essence?
I would see a single birch
and pines bent over an icy river..
But the river, crystal with ghostly water,
ceaselessly freezes our sorrows,
waiting to unleash them in Spring.

Royal Rhodes

Royal Rhodes lives in a small village in central Ohio, near to a nature conservancy, green cemetery, and Amish farms. He rejoices that the long-term forecast predicts a milder winter.

**

To Remedios Varos Regarding Cold

Jubilant seem trees as choir,
spared the role of warming fire,
where beneath the tolling spire
spirits mourn your monster dire

who would chill to bone the soul
living fear of lost control
dreading unforgiving troll
winter seems as devil's dole

hearts forever must embrace
healing where they can by grace
those dismissive kept in place
frigid as endangered space

never seeing spring renew
growing they have yet to do.

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.

**

​Snowbird

Scrapped his wings, fashioned
a cape instead
On his ice-crystal steed
he skates through bleak clouds
scooping buckets of flakes
to shroud our wintry world

Infants feeling his force,
howl in the night
shattering whole households
But as soon as he passes
they snuggle in their blankies
suck on their binkies
drift back to sleep
and wake to crystal-white

Amrita Skye Blaine

Amrita Skye Blaine develops themes of impermanence, aging, disability, and awakening. In 2003, she received an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University, and in 2024, a PocketMFA in poetry. Two collections came out this spring. She has been published in fourteen poetry anthologies, numerous literary magazines, and is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Anthology nominee.

**

Snowbringer

Whoever thought that snow was a natural phenomenon
When the ghost of winter skies considers that it is time
Sensing that any village, already shivering with the cold
Might appreciate the silent beauty of some falling snow
It swoops down from those threatening dark grey skies
And from a bronze bucket, gripped by skeletal fingers
Snowflakes like a white curtain, cascading gently down
Bare black trees appear unbothered, and almost shrug
Whilst all house red roofs await the delicate sprinkling
Then the ghost sweeps by on its diamond-cut ice ride
With its almost infinite supply of snow, to be let loose
On to more homes, fields, and a few looking upwards
Beyond and above snowflakes, to the ghost in the sky

Howard Osborne

Howard is a UK citizen, retired. Published author of non-fiction reference book, scientific papers and poetry. Interests mainly creative writing (poetry, novel, short stories, songs and scripts), music and travel.

**

Clairvoyance Runs in My Cherokee Veins
 
We rarely mention it, unless only to each other.
The news, good or bad, is transferred through our X 
chromosome. Whether it’s a gift or a worry, I’d rather
not know what I can’t control.
 
Unlike me, Mama and Grandma were proud to get warnings 
from the other side. I wanted no part of the fear.
When my college roommate and I moved out of our dorm,
our dreams danced just two feet from each other’s head.
I’d report a crazy dream to her, only to learn it had been
HER dream. 
 
Maybe my Cherokee heritage had nothing to do with my fears 
and everything to say about how women communicate. 
I try to turn off what my dreams tell me and use them to inspire
poetry. What one viewer may see as cold and fearful, another may
see as delight. Barren trees, a skeletal creature shaking snow
upon our village, how wonderful we each can decide what may 
happen next!

Alarie Tennille
 
Alarie Tennille was a pioneer coed at the University of Virginia, where she earned her degree in English, Phi Beta Kappa key, and black belt in Feminism. She has now lived more than half her life in Kansas City, MO. Alarie received the first Editor’s Choice Fantastic Ekphrastic Award from The Ekphrastic Review, and in 2022, her latest book, Three A.M. at the Museum, was named Director’s Pick for the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art gift shop. In April, Alarie was proud to be named the 2025 Muse of The Writers Place.
 
**
 
Engineered Anarchy?

Bone pointy nose of bird-like skull,
is this herself on zephyr’s cloud,
much-travelled, exiled, with no home,
explorer in the search for health;
strange fingers’ work, that touched so much,
spill, spinning crystals in a whirl,
for cold, however warm the clime?

Anarchic, like her lovers’ ways -
unpublished or unfinished plays -
precise, yet, engineering plans,
mosquitoes laid beneath her lens;
objects of magic by her bed,
her life and times tumultuous,
those teen dreams now seen surreal.

She forged in destitution’s days -
with odd jobs, made survival wage -
from France and Spain escaped régimes;
though welcome found in Mexico,
with birds, her cat familiars,
Which was her soul-mate through these tides;
incongruent geometry?

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

**

​Winter Comes

No bright angel
but a bone bare twig
goblin body with a pointed
plague mask face
fleshless and starved
freighted on a raft of ice
dumping snow like refusal
from a smudge dark sack
no blessing but a stingy curse
fine and dry as salt falling
to smother the roofs and walls
of houses too small to keep
the last heat of harvest
rattling like a wet cough
caught in your throat
as snow covers all the colours
of a world lost to hunger’s
aching white

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.

**

Waiting Out the Cold
 
it comes in on the wind
dumped out of buckets
as confetti from trumpets
collected on roofs trimmed
 
with sharp angled religion
and stripped tree services
for shivering sermons
radiating heat from sin
 
this is where it lives
at the corner of cures
with the year's clouded curves
seeking to begin within
 
we cover the ground till when
the sunlight clears and swerves
cuts with knives and carves swirls
for a remedy to win
 
but, the cold will leave again
fly on as it always does
bandaged in capes and coffins
we will warm, this cold will end

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.

**

Feathers

Our village: 
Black triangles reaching up,
Red triangles reaching down.

Wind whistles
Through branches
Where feathers fall like snowflakes,
Float shivering and shimmering
From a frosty diamond, 
Blanketing our village with starbursts
As soft and cold as snow.

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

**
​
Humanoid
 
I wait to be received as I enter the world with gifts in my hand and a pretend smile.
I   enter on a blanket of tears.
A half  made up incomplete humanoid
I was never one of you with my smile -  pointed grin and grasping hands.
I  arrive on a condemned cloud.
With a gift, a false story, and  diamonds to win your favour.
A being of no consequence.
Once revered.
Once loved.
No longer a being of honour.
My face now revealed for what it is.
A disgraced angel.
No longer accepted by the Kingdom from which I came.
I come seeking entrance and absolution.
To enter again the world of acceptance, peace and love.
To be clean-to be whole, to be one.
 
Sandy Rochelle
 
Sandy is a widely published poet, accomplished actress, and filmmaker. Sandy appeared both on Broadway and off-Broadway. On PBS -hosting and narrating several series. And conducting poetry readings and performances nation wide.

**

Cold Haiku II

Coldness and goosebumps
Terrifying death’s shadow  
My home my refuge

Jean Bourque
 
Jean lives in Montreal. Happy New Year to the entire Ekphrastic team and to all readers and authors. Bonne et Heureuse Année à toute l’équipe d’Ekphrastic, ainsi qu’aux lecteurs, lectrices, auteurs et autrices.

​**

​Divine Reminder by Winter

The withering land warns of his
Approach. Permission given to him
By the Creator to keep the life mortal. 

Skeletal limbs, creaking.
The monochromatic, barren earth.
The bloodless skies covered with the mist of his breath. 

This land in sync with 
His own appearance;
Starving, bleak, empty. 

Reminding them all that what they need 
Does indeed come from the land
They attempted to conquer. 

He returns year after year, swiftly bringing 
about the cold that buries and hibernates within
The bones of the red roofed village.

Red roofs being
The only reminder of the life
That struggles to persevere.

The swiftness and
Urgency he brings to dull
Them brought down in the breeze. 

With what intensity he comes, they are 
Never sure yet they are always
Full of dread and unprepared. 

On the north wind he flies,
Dropping beautiful and pure white
damnation on all.

Not even the holy ground, 
A fortress they’re were so sure of,
Can keep his presence out.

Mary Elizabeth Bruner 

Mary Elizabeth Bruner is a graduate of Wofford College and lives in Greenville, SC. 

**

What Falls Your Way 
 
Look how the snow falls so softly 
from the heavens as when the voice 
of a loved one floods your body, settles, 
saves you. If only these fragile flakes 
meant granted wishes, answers to prayers, 
pleas for mercy that turn true when caught 
in your palm, absorbed through your arms, 
hair, skin, your yearning heart. If only
we all had saviors who swooped down, 
balanced on a glowing throne of crystallized 
quartz. This is not your guardian angel, 
fairy godmother, but a feathered wonder, 
a mammoth long-necked hen, with wise, 
almighty eyes, barbed beak, angular limbs, 
appalling claws. See how she clutches, 
upends the brass bucket, releases what wafts
down to you through a sky the purple of bruises.

Karen George

Karen George is author of the poetry collections Swim Your Way Back (2014), A Map and One Year (2018), Where Wind Tastes Like Pears (2021), Caught in the Trembling Net (2024), and the collaborative Delight Is a Field (2025).  She won Slippery Elm’s 2022 Poetry Contest, and her award-winning short story collection, How We Fracture, was released by Minerva Rising Press in 2024. Her poetry appears in The Mackinaw, Sheila-Na-Gig Online, Luna Luna, Lily Poetry Review, and Poet Lore. Her website is https://karenlgeorge.blogspot.com/.

**

Los Exiliados
  
West to southwest, I retrace your escape
over your father’s Andalusia, 
the pueblos blancos, picture how you break
free, your flight to that port, Casablanca--
in transition, from an imperial 
to golden eagle. Sea change, surreal,
the language; the critics muse, your journey
of isolation and fragility, 
your head high, emaciated remains
balanced on a cloud, one crystalline mass.
                 We rendezvous in cold, liminal states.
Call it metaphysical existence--
ethereal beast, material nymph.
We turn. Inside out. To feel. For this, warmth.

Robert E. Ray

Robert E. Ray's poetry has been published by Rattle, The Ekphrastic Review, The Wee Sparrow Poetry Press, Wild Roof Journal, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, and in multiple anthologies. He has published five poetry collections. Robert is a graduate of Eastern Kentucky University. He lives in rural southeast Georgia.

**

Cast the Skies
 
Darkness, cast the skies, on the fate of all days…
No one took notice, for they believed they were safe.
Yes, the innocent lay in slumber, within whitewashed walls, 
When, over the red tile roofs, the first barrage came to fall. 
 
Citizens, with their rosy cheeked faces, who thought none would dare,
They sit huddled on frozen ground shaking, clutching their knees in despair. 
The enchanted oak giants sit stripped of their waxy, green, summer leaves.  
Half frozen corpses, left posed as ornaments, sway in the breeze. 
 
Ropes creak, straining beneath the unmeasurable weight
Of the poor harmless souls who’d been doomed with such fate. 
When indifference was born, atop a prism of light,
A sorcerer came riding, streaking across the cloudy night skies.
 
Peering down through crazed and merciless eyes, 
Undeterred by the desperate, blood curdling, screams and cries.
Cloaked is this phantom, soaring overhead with no wings,
Who, from a worn burlap sack, unleashes the most terrible things.
 
Mounted upon a chariot of a thousand cracked mirrors
To reflect in their petrified eyes, the worst of their fears…
Terrified they worship bowing their heads toward the sand
Beseeching all Gods, for the creature, laying claim to their lands.
 
Yes, wickedness came calling in the dead of the night
People, once blessed, turned their backs to the light. 
Suddenly their sullen eyes burst open, but far too late to see, 
They’d succumbed to the madness the crow had unleashed.
 

John Ford

John Ford is a father of three, devoted spouse, blue collar, horticulturalist, with a passion for poetry. John has published numerous poems, flash fiction, and a one act play, in the college funded academic journal Parley.  His poetry has previously appeared in the Ekphrastic Review.  

**

Recycling Yeats' Words at Year's End*

The Old Year streaks across a leaden sky,
riding a meteor of disaster toward the horizon.
It passes through bruised clouds that turn and turn
in a widening storm that obscures the gyre of heaven.

Its gray and skeletal form, a chimera.
Beaked plague mask with spare and pitiless gaze.
Feathers cling to a frail human body, but its wings are gone.
Both hands and feet bear pale claws that grasp at nothing.

Trees in the bleak landscape below, their skeletal forms
black and scraping the sky. Not a light in any window.
The populace sleeps. Or huddles, vexed to nightmare
by passionate misdirection loosed upon the world.

As it departs, the Old Year opens a wrinkled sack,
and in a ceremony of corruption, dumps the ashes 
of the people’s hopes like dirty snow to cover 
the world’s sins—insufficient for the task. 

But somewhere in the shadowed east the New Year
slouches in a rocky aerie. A ghastly new-feathered beast,
its hour come round, screams and flaps rough wings
against the darkness, prepares to fledge.

Janet Ruth
 
*This poem repurposes Yeats’ words from “The Second Coming”

Janet Ruth is an NM ornithologist and poet. Her writing focuses on connections to the natural world. Poems recently or soon-to-be published in The Nature of Our Times, Unlost: Journal of Found Poetry and Art, and Unbroken: Prose Poems. Her winning sonnet, “A World That Shimmers,” was set to music and performed by True Concord Voices in 2023. See more at redstartsandravens.com/janets-poetry/.

**

The Arrival of Angst

Winter, you are
doldrums of the sleepy mind,
plucked and weary connoisseur

bearing din on gnarled limbs,
your conceit conveys static
like so much snow; how curious

the way decay uproots
a strange & delightful riddle
with no echo.

Heather Brown Barrett

Heather Brown Barrett is an award-winning poet in southeastern Virginia. She’s the Membership Chair of The Poetry Society of Virginia, a member of The Muse Writers Center, and a former board member of Hampton Roads Writers. Her work has appeared in Literary Mama, The Ekphrastic Review, Yellow Arrow Journal, formidable Woman sanctuary, Black Bough Poetry, OyeDrum Magazine, and elsewhere, and has been nominated for Best of the Net. She’s the author of Water in Every Room (Kelsay Books, 2025). Website: https://heatherbrownbarrett.com/.

**

Special Delivery
 
I hear Rod’s heavy tread on the stairs and switch off my flashlight, bury my book in the bed, slow my breathing. Maybe Mom’s boyfriend will think I’m asleep and leave me alone. As if I could possibly sleep with the racket he and his buddies are making. In the yard below, laughter crackles and music thunders. And then Rod storms through my door, a dark cloud hovering over my bed. 

“Gettup. We’re outta ice.” 

It’s not the liquor. He always talks like this, like he’s trying to conserve syllables. He chucks a couple of crumpled bills at me, then heads back downstairs. I hear him slam the door and there’s a fresh gust of masculine laughter as he rejoins the party. Another not-so-New Year’s Eve. 
 
*
 
Chondra looks at my pitiful two dollars and says, “Keep it. I’ll put it on your mom’s account.” Chondra is cool like that. My mom’s best friend knows our ice box is broken, knows Mom will probably never pay off her tab at Sip & Chips. Not with Rod around. But she dislikes my mom’s boyfriend more than she likes keeping her books in the black. 

“Where’s your mom tonight, honey? She driving the wagon, scraping up fools?” She doesn’t say “drunken fools like Rod.”

“Yep.” Most of the EMTs have to work on New Year’s Eve. Mom will return tomorrow morning, weary from a night of booze-fueled smashups only to find the post-party yard carnage and a half dozen guys sprawled in our living room. 

Chondra peers out the storefront window. “I don’t think you’re going to be able to haul all this back in your bike basket. Why don’t you let me send it on over? Be there before you know it, better if it’s delivered, you’ll see.”

My eyebrows are sky-high, because I know full well the Sip & Chips doesn’t have a delivery person. But if I don’t need to pedal home balancing a giant bag of ice on my bike, I’m not going to argue.

“Okay, thanks. Happy New Year.”

Chondra smiles and waves as I head outside. I’m gazing at her through the window as I unlock my bike, thinking how lucky Mom is to have a friend like her, when I see Chondra make a phone call. I’m not great at reading lips, but it looks like she’s saying, “a favour.”

*
 
Rod’s brow furrows when he sees me return with an empty basket and no ice in sight. 

“It’s gonna be delivered. Any minute,” I say and I’m through the door and upstairs before he can object. I slide into bed fully clothed, shoes and all, just in case. Steeling myself for the sound of boots pummeling the stairs. But all I hear is clinking bottles and guffaws and the steady pulse of the music.

Until a metallic clunk and the music dies. One of the guys says, “Tha hell?” A yelp of pain. Sounds of shattering glass. I’m out of bed and at the window and all I see is ice. Not sleet, not hail, but a torrent of ice cubes, huge, falling, pounding down. Somehow, it’s not striking the roof above me, it’s almost as though it’s targeting the yard. And now I watch Rod’s friends running and covering their heads. I think they’re going to come piling into the house but then a sound from above, almost like a helicopter (like wings, gigantic wings beating), and I crane my neck to see. Below the guys are scrambling for their cars, driving off. Except Rod is running for our door and just before he makes the step he is nabbed by titanic talons. Then he’s aloft, his screams weaker and more distant. 

The yard is blanketed in ice. But all is silent. Until the phone rings and I pick up, saying, “Happy New Year, Chondra.”

Tracy Royce

Tracy Royce's words appear in The Mackinaw, MacQueen's Quinterly, ONE ART, and elsewhere. Her work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions, a Touchstone Award, and a Pushcart. She lives in Southern California, where she enjoys hiking and bird watching. You can find her on Bluesky. 

**

​The Year I Went Without This

getting old was centuries ago. When the sun was still gold. And the stars would log in as “My Muse.” In the boldest of summer prints. When, all of one’s memories could fit, inside of one’s pocket. And talk you down from where tomorrow’s sorrows had peaked. Luck, calling you, by your first ever name. While one’s last ever name would go blameless. As it sat for its portrait. Or traipsed down to where the river. Once lived up to the village’s reveries. O how, snow, stuck to itself. And the swans, once the answer to everything. Were now only able to size up the world with their wings. Aw yes, the rest, is a blur. More topic points for the rubble. And it’s there, where I’ve been told, to cut to the “Cold.” Where one’s doubles will no longer be clouding one’s innocence. Or unleashing more doubts. On our ceiling’s so-called lapse of half decent judgment. When winter, silver-tined, when not wraith-white, threw its one voice towards the spring. And our appetites, tuned themselves, to the wind. Our shadows, went by light-fortresses, dash, still-will-take-flight-for-profit. And snow returned for its mittens, wool hats. And crows shat, on those wool hats, and the wool hats of our children. Do I see those trees, worshipping the gowns, they’ve slipped out from under. Or showing off their scars to the ice-silenced, thunder. Caring less for the messes we’ve made. The spells we’ve fallen under. Still convinced that we acted alone. When we dreamt up not only this madness. But the dark it called home.

Mark DeCarteret

Mark DeCarteret's eightth book Stop Motion Poets and Live Action Lit-Figures will be published by Bee Monk Press this Spring.

​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 We Are All Eve, by Monica Marks. Deadline is January 16, 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 MARKS 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, JANUARY 16, 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.
​

​
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 Cold, by Remedios Varo. Deadline is January 2, 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 VARO 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, JANUARY 2, 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.
​

 
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 Wisconsin Ice Cave, by Drossas P. Skyllas. Deadline is December 19, 2025. 

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 SKYLLAS 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, DECEMBER 19, 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.
​

Dear Readers and Writers,

What a treat to feature this stunning artwork by Glenn Harrington, an award-winning contemporary oil painter whose work has graced the walls of important museums and galleries and has appeared in prominent publications like the New York Times, New Art International, and American Art Collector. Glenn is also a poet whose work appeared recently in TER (https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/french-ultramarine-by-glenn-harrington) and he responded to this challenge as well. His poem leads the selected literary works below. 

It has been some time since I wrote myself to one of the challenges, but I thought it would be interesting for the artist and journal editor to both write a poem this time. It is fun to occasionally participate along with our amazing writers. My effort follows Glenn's poem.

The ekphrastic community continues to grow, connect, and create in so many different ways. We continue to have biweekly challenges to a diverse range of artwork inspirations, and this feature remains one of the most beloved projects of The Ekphrastic Review. I am continually moved by your imagination, creativity, and what you find in the artworks. Ten years of ekphrasis and one thing is clear as day: we are just getting started!

love,
Lorette

**

Setting the Stage

Pulling vest and table cloths taut 
a courtyard waiter is singing
an aria to the little birds
hopping under the tables
in and out of spots of sunlight
sifting through the magnolia leaves
clapping in the breeze.
Soon his theatre will echo 
clinks of silverware and porcelain
and the collective hum of diners 
sharing their scripts of day. 
But for now he rehearses solo
in the candor solitude inspires
famous among his audience 
of sparrows and empty chairs. 

Glenn Harrington ​

Glenn Harrington is a painter and writer living in Bucks County Pennsylvania, where his poems and articles have been published in magazines and journals. He is at work on two books of poetry, Trysting Trees, and, Friku, a decade of weekly haiku exchanges with his brother, Mark, a writer for NY Newsday. Glenn’s paintings have been exhibited internationally and featured in numerous publications including American Arts Quarterly, American Art Collector, and American Artist Magazine. His portraiture was awarded the Portrait Society of America’s Draper Grand Prize and he has been a frequent recipient of awards from the Oil Painters of America’s Annual Exhibitions

**

Sfumato

There was a secret in the painting at the Blackbird Café.  You said so while we decided on a time and date for meeting, and I’ve always longed to be the kind of person whom the hidden things did not elude. The waiter has not quite opened the room when I arrive to wait for you. I bide my time while he sets up the tables, contemplating the field of sea aster blooms, searching for symbols and entendres that might mean something to you. After awhile, I lean in to examine the brushstrokes, realizing something of their hesitancy, sensing their soft uncertainty. I think about a meadow, I think about a day far away.  Overcast, but the gray was lavender and the salty air tasted like rain. When the doors are propped open. I choose a table.  We’re near the ocean, I tell you later, as you pour me a refill of robust Mourvedre from the carafe. We don’t see the water, though; our attention is on the wildflowers. But we can hear it behind us, rolling against the twilight, heavy and slow. I watch your mouth as you tease the pit from a round green olive. I wonder where those lips might take me again. Flickers of Friday and pale blue satin. There’s a tenderness there, I continue, following your eyes to the flickering candle. As if the painter was lost in something he’d forgotten. You have on that maddening smile, warm and generous, and when you tear off the baguette and press it into my hand, I understand what it means to break bread with someone. You tell me the earl gray flowers and sky are sfumato, a smoky technique of imperceptible boundaries born in Italy. We finish the wine and then espressos. What was it? I ask finally. The big secret. I look at my coffee dregs, think how some people read what’s there, too, for clues. Your laughter fills the room. You already told me everything, you say. I can feel the breeze from the ocean between us. There’s no big secret, you say, and I think you are saying something about life. It was an invitation, for you to look closer. 

Lorette C. Luzajic

Lorette C. Luzajic is the founding editor of The Ekphrastic Review. Her poems, essays, and short stories have been widely published, with appearances in Cleaver, The Disappointed Housewife, Litro Magazine, Bending Genres, and more. She is also an award-winning collage and mixed media artist. Both her writing and her visual art practice are often fuelled by art history, a lifelong passion.

**

Restraint

Tables and chairs
Like the help 
Don uniforms 
For the cause: 
Submission. 
He knows better
Than to look up, 
She to look back. 

But O, where sunlight
Strikes the red
Centre. The night
After closing, with
Tables and chairs 
Bared and every-
One gone, he looks 
Up; she consents
With shining eyes, 
Right where sun
Strikes—that exact 
Spot—stained even
Now with their white
Red thrashing.

Mark Harrington

Mark Harrington is a Long Island-based journalist who has secretly spent the past forty years as a poet and author of short stories and novels, forms he has studied since childhood. He has a degree in journalism from San Diego State University, where he also studied creative writing, and he did course work for a master of fine arts from Stony Brook University, where he briefly taught journalism. His work often explores crash sites where man’s aspirational vessels collide with the freight trucks of circumstance—a journalist at the scene of a poet’s attempt at hang gliding above the interstate. He has spent the past 25 years as a reporter for Newsday on Long Island, his birthplace.

**

To Glenn Harrington Regarding Courtyard Tables

The ambience of open air,
an elegance already there,
you paint as weight that columns bear
of architecture's brazen dare

defying time to stabilize
the portico that greets the eyes
protecting passage to and from
the sky lit peace where sun has come

as narrow slice to herald feast
of broader glimmer farther east 
that craving trunk of shading tree
so long has bent to better see

in dawn as hands adept prepare
to be the joy of local fare.

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.

**

Covers

The empty stage, ’fore setting play,
blank canvasses, chef’s works of art,
proscenium, and apron tied,
though unscene flaps behind the wings.
There stirrings, mash, splash, pour and more,
with hiss from pots, clash, stash of pans;
yet calm serene just through the door,
where tables tipped but not the floor.

What stands behind that smoothy hand,
which soothing words to be deployed;
does cost of courtesies mount up,
revenge on menu for tonight?
Is he thought dishy, steaming plate,
his leg pulled when the tart is served?
The court is sitting, session start,
character actor playing part.
How many covers come to light,
as tables figured, multiplied;
and then reviews in chat, online,
delighted stars on a good night?
But what’s behind the waiting stance -
a chance for ale drunk by the yard
as house red topped, left glassy wine,
and wasted swill, some other pigs?

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

**

Wait Staff Tips
 
What you might not think about
Is that we've been here for days
Preparing tables and placing plates
Then disappearing into the background
 
And while we enjoy the quick wit
The banter between each course
We’re not so fond of the snide remarks
And could do without the negative quips
 
Of course, we know this job is a choice
But at $2.13 an hour it’s hard to enjoy
The buffet of insults spread among the employs
Who are calming nerves, quelling voices
 
Biting tongues and grinding their teeth
But not so hard as to need a dentist
Because this gig doesn't come with health insurances
Nor does it offer a 401K safety net beneath
 
So, please be courteous or at least be kind
We are all working here to pay our own ways 
For gas, for food, for rent, and for our kids' better days
These are some things to keep in mind
 
The next time you order one too many drinks
And forget how the wait staff are people too
Scraping by to put themselves through school
Remember that even a small tip goes farther than you might think

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.

**

Before the Hordes Invade
 
As I prepare the last table
before the evening rush,
I delight in the warm evening air,
the last slant rays of the evening sun.
We’ll soon have to turn on the lights.
 
This is the place where I was born,
and it’s my moment of perfection,
my moment of contemplation,
my moment of pride.
Our chef’s special tonight
is Seafood Paella with Saffron Foam.
He’s been teaching it to the sous chefs
and commis chefs all week.
 
A slightly salty whiff of oleander and yasmin,
the heady scent of sea and bloom, 
secrets of Mediterranean nights.
 
I can hear voices. 
The night shift begins.

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/

**

First Evening

Smoothing the cloth, he worries--
first dinner, new venture
Mediterranean cuisine in
Chicago     no customers    
where are they?

Do they not know
the joys of dolmas, paella,
moussaka, shakshuka,
baba ghanoush, ratatouille?

Will they finally come, dazed
begging for menus
stumbling over dish names
fumbling for their wallets?

He opens kitchen doors
waving a white towel
encouraging the scent
of his mother’s recipes
to bewitch his neighbours    

Amrita Skye Blaine

Amrita Skye Blaine develops themes of impermanence, social justice, disability, and awakening. In 2003, she received an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University, and in 2024, a PocketMFA in poetry. Two collections came out this spring. She has been published in fourteen poetry anthologies, numerous literary magazines, and is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. 

**

​A Portrait of Transcendence

Crimson melts in peace,
To sit, I stand
Meticulous in my craft
To be the omniscient God of the piazza

I am a diorite blur,
A phantom of punctuality 
Quiescent in my thoughts,
Alacritous on my wisps of legs 

The reflection in glass flutes before they are refilled,
Almost alone beside the trees and dangling leaves 
To blend with the arches 
In and out within two worlds

To make love to perfection
Sinking into paintings between service 
I cross between gold and gray--
Gale whispers in soft promises as I soften white cloths,

Sunlight filters into my paradise
To fulfill my desire in Eden’s languorous eyes
A ritual of servitude,
For I am the guardian of the Courtyard Tables,

A portrait of transcendence through labour

E. Joy

E. Joy (she/her) is a poetess who views the world in melancholy sweetness; finding the beauty in decay and love in tragedy. She is a young author who utilizes her creative abilities from a AuDHD perspective to evoke intense feelings from her audience. When E. Joy is not writing, she is baking, embroidering, repairing headstones, and enjoying nature; usually feeding the chipmunks in her backyard. E. Joy has been published by Moonstone Arts Center, The Reprise Magazine, Rochester New York’s Rundelania & others. In 2025 she won first place in Cardinal Sins poetry contest and selection for their winter issue of that year.

**

The Cafe

I arrived just as the restaurant opened, while the waiter in his white shirt, black vest, and pants, looking handsome, smiled as I waited patiently for my appointment to arrive. He walked toward the table with a pad in his hand and pulled a pen from behind his ear.

“Would you like some coffee while you wait?”

“Tea, with milk, please.”

He nodded and left to get my beverage.

I scrolled through my messages to make sure I had the correct place and time which I did. I sighed and put the cell phone back in my purse. I looked around and the tables were decorated with exceptionally white linen clothes, and the chairs were immaculately cleaned to a shine. It had been years since I had been here and was shocked he chose this café since this is where it ended. He did not say what he wanted to see me about in his message, he just said it was important. 

The place started to fill with people, and it became loud. The waiter who smiled at me now looked on with sympathy while I sat alone, my tea now cold.

I tried to reach him, but to no avail. 

Finally, after waiting for over an hour, I paid for my tea and left. As I walked the streets in confusion, my phone rang. 

He changed his mind. 
 
Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher ​
 
Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher has been writing since 2010 and has had many micro-flash fiction stories published. In 2018 her book Shorts for the Short Story Enthusiasts, was published, The Importance of Being Short, in 2019 and In A Flash in 2022. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna.

**

Give and Get

I hate my job,
  the lousy tips
  and pernickety customers.

Sure we can accommodate you
  but bring your own almond milk.

In fact, why don’t you just eat at home?

Showing off the latest ladies showing off,
  the restroom mirror never lies.

Take a seat, take your time,
  I am here with my insincere smile.

I love my job,
  the great tips
  and pernickety customers.

Sure we can accommodate you,
  it’s our pleasure to bring satisfaction.

Please come back again and bring a friend

Those ladies, Oh, those ladies,
  all cleavage and shining eyes.

Take a seat, take your time,
  I’m here all night.

shaun tenzenmen

shaun tenzenmen has crafted himself as a lyricist/poet over many decades, throwing words to the wind.  He publishes a daily poem at 1994ever.com.

**

The Dynamic Duo
 
i
Before the hum of conversation
rush of eggs and coffee
clatter of utensils–
forks and knives 
the stir of spoons–
waitstaff complete last-minute tasks.
Here tabletops blush crimson
await overlays of white.
Soon the scramble of servers
clamor of customers
will populate the courtyard.
Echoes of exoticism accent the canvas–
the arches
stucco
guava tree
or maybe it’s a loquat or mango.
 
ii
Evocations of the 1980s and Minnesota’s
Restaurante De Ol’ Mexico 
swept through my mind.
Our manager referred to us as his “Dynamic Duo.”
Hosts wore white shirts
black pants
and vests.
Hostesses made a splash dressed in aqua.
We worked as a team
were the stir of spoons
spoke Spanglish.
Amidst the hum of conversation
blush of crimson
oversway of white
we lived in a world not ready for a married couple 
who looked different.
It was a time of clatter
when forks and knives cut us to pieces.

Jeannie E. Roberts

Jeannie E. Roberts is the daughter of a Swedish immigrant mother and the author of nine books, including her latest full-length poetry collection On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing (Kelsay Books, 2025). She writes poetry and prose influenced by intuition, the human experience, and the natural world. Her work appears in books, online magazines, print journals and anthologies. In 2007, her poem, "La Luz," won first place in the Green Bay Symphony Orchestra’s statewide poetry contest. Musical composer Daniel Kellogg set her poem to music via an orchestral score with choir. She serves as a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs, is an Eric Hoffer and a two-time Best of the Net award nominee, and finds joy spending time outdoors and with loved ones. 

**

​​Travellers
 
Jack's wife was short of breath, so they stopped at a restaurant to see about getting an early table. She'd overdone it with the walking today. She'd been taking him around this French city where she'd once lived, and around every corner it seemed was another church or park or museum she wanted to show him. He'd been so preoccupied watching her, remembering the doctor's cautions, that he'd stepped off a curb into a puddle. 

They were seated at a tree-shaded table in the courtyard. Jack suspected that the maître-d' had noticed his dirty shoes. That's why they were taken to the back corner. To be hidden away. Jack's wife fumbled with her bottle of heart pills, refusing help with the lid. He wondered aloud if this trip had been a bad idea. 

Relax, she told him, though she was still panting a bit, her round face flushed like a peony at one of the flower stalls they'd passed earlier. "I could be feeling this way at home, too. Let's enjoy this nice place." 

"A nice place," Jack repeated dully.  There were a few oil paintings on the exterior walls and stone columns that wore their age with a sturdy, understated kind of grace. The building must have been several different things in its long history.

Jack and his wife had known each other just three years. She'd been a high-school art teacher for decades. Now she taught classes at their senior-living residence. He'd been a husband and father, and then a widower. Semi-important at a bank.  

A few minutes passed, and another couple entered the courtyard. Jack waited to see if they got seated in a better location. 

"Look at the light coming through the fig trees," said his wife. "The red glow on the tablecloths in the middle of the courtyard."

"Hmm."

"Brilliant, isn't it? Reminds me of the stained glass in that last church."

"I'm not seeing it."

"Because you're not really looking. Oh, don't be miffed, Jack." She rubbed her lipstick off the rim of her water glass. "Now come take a photo with me."

He scooted his chair next to hers, his hand shaking a bit as he held out his phone. The picture cut off his right cheek. She looked flushed, and he looked tired, but he supposed he could see some of that red she was talking about in the background. 

She studied the picture, frowning. "We do look a little cattywampus, don't we?"

Jack saw an opportunity here. "We could cancel for tomorrow," he said. They were supposed to meet up with an old friend of hers, who lived an hour away. Jack's wife had a way of scooping up all kinds of people into her social vortex. She accused him of pouting when he couldn't have her to himself. 

"Don't be silly. We can't come all this way and not see him."

The waiter came, and his wife conversed with the young man in French for quite a long time. They laughed about something Jack didn't understand. He kept waiting for her to translate the menu like she had at lunch, but now the waiter was gone.

"What was that about?" 

"I asked him to run away with me. And I ordered the escargots, because you need to try new things."

"I decide, you hear? I know what I need to eat." He knew he was being crabby and possibly unreasonable.

Jack went to the bathroom to clean up. If he could just fix his shoes, maybe he'd feel better. He wet a paper towel at the sink. He crouched down and scrubbed until the paper fell apart and the leather, if not shiny, was at least a more uniform shade of brown. Standing again, he felt dizzy. He held on to the sink until things stopped spinning.

When he came back outside, the courtyard was noisy and crowded. The waiter stood with his back to him, snapping a new white cloth over the table where he'd been sitting. 

"What's going on?" Jack asked in a panic. "Where's my wife?"

The waiter turned, and his face was all wrong. Jack didn't recognize him. 

"I do not know," he said. "But I think your daughter—maybe she waits for you?" 

Across the courtyard, a young woman waved him over. He walked carefully, as if on a moving train, toward the table where she sat. He sank into the chair opposite her.

"Your snails have arrived," she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. 

Ten striped shells nestled in the hollows of a white serving dish. The snails were tucked inside, under blankets of parsley and cognac butter.  Jack inhaled the earthy smell and started to come back to himself. He held out the little fork and the shiny tongs to his daughter.

"Just try one," he said. "Look at the light on these shells. See how the light falls on everything here."
 
Susan Frith​

Susan Frith writes from Orlando, Florida. Her fiction has appeared in The Best Mystery Stories of the Year, Cleaver, New Madrid, Sycamore Review, Zone 3, and other publications.

**

​Lunch Date
 
I’ve arrived early, a bird too eager,
and watch a waiter finishing set-up.
My get-up is an oxymoron, 
casual formal. I look torn from
 
a website with advice on how to dress
for women over 60. Nothing sexy,
of course, which is fine, unless you
are coming to meet me 
 
with something more in mind than 
a catch-up lunch. I wonder about wine,
if it will be wise to drink, especially
knowing how likely I am to spill
 
on my dress. Yes. I am still clumsy.
Awkward. Arms won’t work the way
I’d like, fingers slip, legs sometimes go 
in ways the rest of me is trying
 
to leave. The waiter is good
at his job, fast and fussy, making sure 
tablecloths all hang just so. I could
never be that precise. Already,
 
my hair looks as though I am standing 
in a storm. Maybe I am. Maybe meeting you
after so many years is a mistake, 
made as I sat nested in my life,
 
surrounded by the same-as-usual.
But maybe you will raise me 
off the ground and we will fly from
this courtyard away from the mundane.

Mary Christine Delea

Mary Christine Delea is the author of The Skeleton Holding Up the Sky and three chapbooks. A former university professor, she lives in Oregon where she volunteers for a variety of nonprofit organizations. Her website is mchristinedelea.com. 

**

​Wait in Gold
 
Ageless garçon, how long have you been there,
Grooming the tables for a perfect fête?
The smooth blued cloth awaits the first assiette;
Clients inclined to dining en plein air
Appreciate the light, the well-placed chair,
Perfect for small soirée or tête-à-tête,
The fine couverts each masterfully set,
The presence of the chic propriétaire. 
Did you, one time, wait on Degas?  Renoir?
What of Robert de Montesquiou?  Charles Swann?
You’re too discreet to say; besides, ce soir
The diner is Monsieur Glenn Harrington.
Like them, he’ll feast on what you serve and you:
Your tastefully-observed, one-quarter view.

Ruth S Baker

Ruth S Baker has published in some online magazines, including The Ekphrastic Review.

**


The Courtyard Cafe
 
They live now
in the permanent world...
                   Wendell Berry
 
After dawn,  the gray lingers
(suggesting another shower)
while  the sun blooms pale
as cloth draping the courtyard tables.
 
 A  graceful tree 
umbrellas the centre. Its bark peeling
and leaves gossiping  in the wind
as if  to emulate the whispers
           of  last night's guests.
 
And one of  them
(an actress from the 'forties)
remains seated  with her dress
unfolding over the chair like a red
            morning glory.
 
Elegantly, she sits 
signing a photo of  herself  
and waits for someone to remember, to ask.
Her signature filigreed
like the rim of  a graveyard gate -- and I whisper
          Gene, Miss Tierney
           is  that you?
  
She looks past me; but the waiter nods --  assembling
linens and cutlery in the distance. He knows 
she's  here but not here with us.  So I wonder
if  she still casts a shadow
        or her reflection in the silver
        of  a bowl  or looking glass.
 
But even more, if she's buried
in the garden cemetery -- somewhere
between Edith Piaf and Oscar Wilde.
Her lovely bones resting beneath
the gaze of The Virgin who weeps
in her verdigris veil and robes --
 
while flowers spill  over the tomb
         pastelled with rain. 
 
Wendy Howe
 
Author’s note:  "The garden cemetery" in this poem, alludes to the famous Pierre Lachaise Cemetery outside of  Paris where famous writers, actors, artists, musicians and other kinds of celebrities are buried.
 
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, Corvid Queen, Strange Horizons, The Acropolis Journal and many others  Her most recent work can be found in  The Otherworld Poetry Magazine  (on Substack)  and  Crow And Cross\Keys.
 
**

The Column and The Receipt

My dearest, I saw you sitting there by yourself underneath the Roman arches, back of your head against a Tuscany column. You’re probably worried about your mother’s health and college, and if the food delivery guy can find your address. Your mahogany chair was a little wobbly and so you asked the handsome waiter for a napkin or two to wedge between its leg and terracotta tiles. You still look great, but I wish you’d smile more and spoken to that waiter. I was nervous to approach; you were always very critical of me. I hope your writing is coming along well and you finish that poem you’ve been working on. Please don't mind my scribbling on the back of this receipt. I’ll be seeing you soon.

Best wishes, your future self.

P.S. That olive tree is bigger now.

Eliza Clark
​
Eliza Clark is a poet and writer from the West Midlands, UK. Her work explores human relationships, identity, place, and our connection to myth and nature. Her poetry has appeared in Writerly Magazine and Blithe Spirit.

**

​Preparing a Table for Chekhov

If in the first scene a busser is setting a table
Apart from the glitter of the ballroom,
Then in a following scene
Someone should seek refuge there. 

If in the second scene partygoers arrive,
Musicians should start to play
While guests mill about smiling and talking,
Scarfing zakuski and sipping champagne.

If in the third scene daylight descends
And guests in fragile masks 
Get merry and drunk,
The doctor should slip into the courtyard. 

If in the fourth scene he slips past the sycamore,
Then he should find at the ready
A table set with oil lamp and chessboard.

If in the fifth scene his opponent has not yet arrived, 
He will pour himself a glass of vodka
And pass the time thinking about acids and biles.

If in the sixth scene he and his opponent 
Share many drinks and merry conversation,
It hardly matters who has the advantage in chess.

If in the final scene the dawn is breaking,
The revelers will spill into the street singing 
Vichnaya Pamyat. Memory is Eternal.

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.

**

Mum’s Birthday
 
My sister and I are watching the sun crest over
El Puente Nuevo in Ronda. The camarero
delivers two sparkling drinks
 
then preps for lunch service. It has become ritual,
each year, in a different place, we raise a glass
to the mother she barely knew. Already,
 
she is planning where we will go for Mum’s 100th.
I smile. The icy gin and tonic freezes
my throat. 
 
Lesley Rogers Hobbs

Lesley Rogers Hobbs (she/her) is an Irish poet and artist living in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and service dog. She explores relationships, nature and trauma in her work. Her poetry is published in The Ekphrastic Review, Open Door Poetry, The Hyacinth Review, Querencia Press and Cirque.

**

Lamenting Time
 
Leaves of the weeping fig
and ornate ivory columns
added to the ambiance of this
exclusive restaurant as Francois
followed the familiar pattern 
of spreading tablecloths
before smoothing the linens 
for the special event--
one that would celebrate
the engagement of a young
woman he had known 
for the past ten years.
His earliest memories 
of yesterdays were chatting 
over a cup of coffee
at Café de Fiore, his latter 
memories of whispered secrets
before the end of her study
abroad program. That friendship
continued when he moved                   
to America although she never
understood his true feelings.
Once here he took this job
as a waiter at Le Pavillon
to pay the rent. He realized
her grandparents had arrived 
early for the festive occasion
before he arranged place 
settings on the tables.
Francois had hoped not 
to be present this evening,
but two servers had called out.
As he finished setting the tables,
the musical selection piped
throughout the courtyard
seduced his memory, rekindled
images of their time together. 
It would be a difficult evening.

Jim Brosnan

A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Long Distance Driving (2024) and Nameless Roads (2019), copies available at [email protected]. His poems have appeared in the Aurorean (US), Crossways Literary Magazine (Ireland), Eunoia Review (Singapore), Nine Muses (Wales), Scarlet Leaf Review (Canada), Strand (India), The Madrigal (Ireland), The Wild Word (Germany), and Voices of the Poppies (United Kingdom). He holds the rank of full professor at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, RI.

**

Vespers
 
As the sun dips below olive groves
Pierre smooths white linen over wood,
a quiet preparation before the rush of
footfall clatters cobbled stone.
 
He considers this gentle hour
of contemplation, of light stealing
through Romanesque pillars, slowly
shadowing the courtyard in thought.
 
The bistro is old, the ground uneven
where boots, clogs or slippered feet
embroidered their ribboned paths
through needled alleyways and lanes.
 
History has left its stain on the busy
market stall, its waterfalls of fruit
and breads soft-spilling the crates,
the clang of the old bell from Église.
 
The heat of the day is cooling.
Soon, the faithful of Provence
will flock to table, dip their heads
and offer prayers of thanksgiving.

Kate Young

**

These Chairs
 
Linens with red trims
and black-vested 
waiters, serving under
the trees. 
 
Soon these chairs 
will combust guests, 
swarms of guests, 
to spring forth,
vectoring in random  
surges, in all 
directions, through 
and among the tables, 
as though they
had no commonality. 
An authentic vaudeville.
 
Wrapped in haute 
couture, spinning 
jauntily or turning 
solicitously,
riffing on the 
afterglow of a noble 
idea or curating 
sounds
fastidiously
to a ratable effect. 
The guests will be envied.
 
How will I place me?
Literally.
Somewhere in 
the middle.
Where I can hear 
the curated sounds 
and relish
the solicitations. 
Where the spew 
is edgy, and tomorrow
I may solemnly apologize.

G. L. Walters 

G. L. Walters lives with his spouse in Arlington, MA. His poems have previously been read at The Ekphrastic Review, The Wee Sparrow Poetry Press Newsletter, and Spillwords.com. Gary holds a JD from Cornell, an MMAS from the School of Advanced Military Studies, and an MA in English from SNHU.

**

​Courtyard Tables 

From hidden speakers, Al Jarreau’s yearning wafts
as the red tables are dressed with freshly laundered white tops.
Guests will bring their conversations, 
orders will be given and confirmed,
the whoosh of waiters bringing food, 
fifty forks on plates, spoons in bowls,
meals presented, removed,
dessert menus tendered, laughter.
The symphony of small sounds soften the sung words
and transform Jarreau’s honey voice to pure instrument
in the courtyard.

Marge Pellegrino

Marge Pellegrino’s youth novel Journey of Dreams was a Smithsonian Notable, and Southwest Best Book. Neon Words: 10 Brilliant Ways to Light Up Your Writing inspires. Her essays have appeared in Multilingualism Studies, Anthropology Now, Knee Brace Press and The Story Beast. Her poetry has appeared in anthologies including Amaranth Review, Blue Guitar, Long Island Journal, Writing Out of the Darkness, Arizona: 100 Years, 100 Poems, !00 Poets, and The Sculpture Speaks: A Refugee’s Story of Survival.

**

Morning at the Museum
 
Such a lovely morning, strolling subtly guarded rooms, 
Always on guard
Not to stand too near, 
Longing to see every brush stroke, every pencil line.
Oh it was hard
To keep our distance, not to get a fine
For our poor museum etiquette.
 
And yet we do lean in, we squint, 
We are bent toward this landscape, that portrait, 
An abstraction
Where an artist has painted the colour of subtraction.
 
But we, though eager to learn how they draw, how they paint,
Begin to feel a little faint. 
Hungry now for an unguarded room, we depart
The galleries. We admire a waiter, bent to his art,
Smoothing a cloth for us to dine
At a table without a wrinkled line.
 
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

**

Lunch Service
 
Their ravenous eyes course through the menu, hurdling here 
& there, their indecision asking for recommendations, their eyes lit
by sparks, anticipating something, anything, that will fill
the holes that fester deep inside them, their eyes 
pleading for the pain to stop, their exteriors calm, cool, surface-composed.
I see their hurt, they would be aghast if they knew.
I have lived that pleading.
 
David has witnessed me pleading
He longs for it, I am certain
 
Sucking saliva back into their mouths, their first plates, then their second 
arrive, they devour pyramids, fans and flowers, band-aids
for the holes in their soul, band-aids which don’t stick
as promised, yet they cling to misplaced-hope that they will somehow-one-day stop
their soul from bleeding. Find the magic potion, their desperate eyes ask of me.
I feel their fear when nothing stops the blood-let, hope slowly draining from veins.       
I have lived that desperation.
 
David desperately needs me
I convince myself, try to
 
Their alcohol-induced laughter, will they remember 
these moments? or will these blessed gaps in time fall into the abyss 
of unwitnessed joys, in a thrice fade to nothingness?
I remember when I had something that, in the end, wasn’t anything.
I have lived that loss.
 
David does not bring me flowers anymore
To whom does he deliver them?

Jennifer Gargon

Jennifer Gargon writes across multiple genres, both in English and French. She enjoys exploring the rawness of emotions, diving deep towards the essence of our human experiences, what binds us as one, what fragments us as many. She lives in Vancouver, B.C.
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