Where an Angel Hovers and a Rooster Crows In navy turmoil the sky churns and the wind roils as she clings to ropes. Her grip weakens releases the mulish mass of aluminum. The propeller strikes a submerged stump as the hull hits an outcrop of granite. In navy turmoil her dreamscape shifts enters a medieval realm mossy village darkened with misshapen doors and windows where flowers reform the narrative relax her angst. In navy turmoil the sky churns and the wind roils as she clings to hope slides into safety a setting of softness where refuge arrives bestows an angel a rooster and the tenderness of touch amplifies renaissance with gentle strokes. Jeannie E. Roberts
Jeannie E. Roberts is the author of several books, including The Ethereal Effect - A Collection of Villanelles (Kelsay Books, 2022). On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing is forthcoming from Kelsay Books in 2025. She serves as a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs. ** Sound & Vision Blue, blue Bowie cooed, while on the bed we sat and wrapped our arms around one another. It had been his favourite song, so we played it often and loud hoping, somehow, he would hear it, know we were thinking of him. We said nothing. What was there to say? Instead, we bent our heads. As I bowed my neck, the blues flooded from me and submerged the world underwater. I lived in Atlantis now; surrounded by silent, blue-bricked houses mossed with dull algae. Clouds dripped in shades of astronaut and ship cove. The flowers on the nightstand bloomed in sonorous hues. Even you, with your raw, red face, were cloaked in navy, as though your grief was turned inside out and propped up on display. But if you listened carefully, in time with the rhythm guitar, you heard the soft beating of wings. He had returned to earth, like some angelic alien descended from the sky, full of wisdom and hope. He reached out with open hands and kind smile. I felt his presence near my shoulder, wiping away the sadness with a flick of feather. He was so close. Come closer, closer, we were waiting for your gift. Blow my mind. I didn’t dare look up or open my mouth, but I was positive he heard me. The song stopped. He pulled away. Outside, a hen cruelly crowed; its beak slashing through the thick covering of blue. From the gash, colours oozed like blood. Louise Hurrell Louise Hurrell (she/her) is a writer based in Scotland. She has work published or forthcoming in The Circus Collective, Oranges Journal and From One Line's The Unseen anthology. Her short story "The Lonely Fan's Guide to H.G Wells" was shortlisted at the Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival's Writing Awards. ** Finding the Light Blessèd are those who peel back the darkness, see beyond chaos, shine light into the deepest corners of fear. Blessèd are those who fill their hearts with memories, with love, with the promise of a better tomorrow. Even if they delude themselves, they may enjoy another day, month, perhaps a lifetime of hope. Blessèd are those who generously share the gifts of their genius, who ignore those who would steal it from them. They understand that genius can only be given, not taken away. Grateful are those who embrace the dreamers, who feel the magic that comes from spreading love, from making darkness sparkle with colour. For they shall feel the earth healing. 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. 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. ** A Train in the Winter Passing A train passes, and the cold sky opens room for the freezing rain that turns to cascades of snow and returns to winter showers that make the waiting earth moist, flood, and raise the river moving past. Each form changes itself into another. The trees along the fields are mistaken. It is not yet the season of rain that sweeps from the desert of stones. That expected hour has not yet come, though these trees misunderstanding seem to have burst into blossom early, arranging their white bundles of petals along the twigs and the black bark, as if the result of a sudden Spring. Things around us melt into each other. The customary wind from the west cuts deep. And the sound of the storm front leaves behind it a silence, as if the earth were holding its breath, as the great, ancient oak came down. The cloudy evening's weary light shows us the tangle of fallen lines sparking, and twisting like live snakes. We look bewildered on this scene of ruin. And you, your eyes glow delicately in the impending darkness we face. Something once tightly held us, holds us, and gave us a shelter, with spread arms. But now I stand alone. It is God who delays, beyond these storms, the one we seek and who remains silent. Our souls sought that love, trying to follow that longing. And now we are found. Royal Rhodes Royal Rhodes is a retired educator, poet, and essayist. His work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Allegro, Red Eft Review, Lothlorien Poetry, Ekstasis Poetry, and the Montreal Review. He remembers the long winters and heavy snows of his boyhood. ** In Your Dreams I float above the village green reflection in the slit of an old goat's eye I whisper whisper I think I love you Prove it he bleats My laughter shatters the spaces between my bones and his soul Donna-Lee Smith Donna-Lee Smith writes from an off-grid cabin with a much loved and much revered old goat. ** The Chagall Dream Where the night song flows on angel waves, where the radio of the universe sends out tinkling voices drunk with happiness, where the cow can jump over the moon and where the chicken flies out of its coop to hurry towards the lovers who shyly embrace in a sea of silent star sound; where the village houses dance the khorovod and windows watch the unfolding of blue magic. Rose Mary Boehm Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as eight poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She is a Pushcart and Best of Net nominee. Her eighth book, LIFE STUFF, has been published by Kelsay Books (November 2023). A new manuscript is brewing, and a new fun chapbook has been scheduled for publishing summer of 2025. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/ ** Consolation Nostalgic for my childhood guardian angel, white and light who soon left my shoulder. This one seems out of control, arms outstretched to break her fall on a huge pillow. Other dreams transpired before this encounter. A pastoral was tacked to my wall at university, happy labourers behind a crazy green man, nothing like the foliage I hunted in medieval English churches. This small pastel / watercolour arrived at the beginning of a war with no walls or roof, with nothing to resist intruders. Small wooden houses are slipping off the mountainside as the news broadcasts mudslides, floods, explosions. ‘Don’t worry, it’s a dream.’ Is that what the angel has to say? The dark skies of climate change hang over the couple repeating ‘je t’aime’ and holding each other while the world slowly unravels around them. John Bennett John Bennett has worked for New South Wales National Parks and has PhD in Poetics. He moved from Sydney to regional NSW over a decade ago and immediately involved himself in the cultural life of the region, including citizen science (birds and native forests). A documentary on his working practice, Poetry at first light was broadcast by ABC Radio National’s Earshot, 2016. His work now often incorporates video and photography into texts. A forthcoming multi-media exhibition explores a reclaimed wetland. ** Wedding Night Silenced by angels bestowing blessings—angels with open palms— the rooster clamours and squawks no more. Hallowed blue night falls. He holds me gently—shy as he bends me back for a first deep kiss. I dream of houses: a tumble of blue houses descending the hill to shelter and welcome us. In the clock-tower’s windows, last light of evening flickers out. A soft bell tolls, yet tells no time: nor shall the rooster crow on awakening. For this will be our own time: our night, and ours alone. Lizzie Ballagher One of the winners in Ireland’s 2024 Fingal Poetry Festival Competition and in 2022’s Poetry on the Lake, Lizzie Ballagher focuses on landscapes, both psychological and natural. She was a Pushcart nominee in 2018. Having studied in England, Ireland, and the USA, she worked in education and publishing. Her poems have appeared in print and online in all corners of the English-speaking world. Find her blog at https://lizzieballagherpoetry.wordpress.com/ ** The Dream: 1939 Mamaleh, mamaleh, say what have you been dreaming? There’s sunlight in our little room and flowers by the bed. Tateleh, tateleh, I’ve seen an angel falling; The streets are creeping up on us, there’s trouble overhead. Mamaleh, mamaleh, there’s nothing here to scare you; Our neighbours all are friendly, it’s a home where we belong. Tateleh, tateleh, the window frames are shaking; There’s writing on the rooftops and the shape of it is wrong. Mamaleh, mamaleh, we’re rooted and we’re growing; We’ll raise our seed in pride and joy as all His creatures may! Tateleh, tateleh, I’ve heard the angel calling: Wake up, wake up, you innocents! It’s done. You cannot stay. Julia Griffin Julia Griffin lives in south-east Georgia. She has published in several online poetry magazines, including The Ekphrastic Review. ** Nuntius The angel, with no time to slot his wings on, Grabs two big petals and comes hurtling down; The rooster, in his haste quite self-forgetful, Bursts out more like a pony or a clown. The wall-eyed homes are trooping down the hillside, And so a couple's bedroom's thrust to view, In all its rosy privacy; beyond it, The outlook is cadaverously blue, Which doesn't promise well for either human: The white-faced girl, the clasping husbandman. There's writing on the wall if they can read it; First comes the star and after that the ban. If you're permitted an Annunciation, Rise up and head for Egypt while you can. Ruth S. Baker Ruth S. Baker has published in a few poetry journals. She has a special love for animals and visual art. ** The Dream Mother tells me good night; her fingers are cold, long nails that push my pores and dig into my skull. She holds me tight and tells me stories of Cinderella and the fairies and I wish for a midsummer night dream where I am Puck and I dance, stupid yet happy whilst I bray at the moon. My eyelashes are rough and seep into the crevices of my eyeballs, I feel I have not slept in hours, days, weeks. Yet Mother is there to tuck me in and tell me to rest. When I awake the mossy trees smell of hunger, sucking me into the little town with little people who vibrate like a string. Mother is the puppeteer. She is kissing my forehead now, and I wince at her touch- she feels like spiders against my skin that creep and dance against my follicles. Mother’s rouge smells like citrus and rubs against my cheek, flakes of chalk dissipating from her person. One day I too want rouge, so I touch my face and “O”- I gasp at my wrinkles, little mountains of a tiny clock that runs too fast. My hair strips off my scalp, sobbing, miserable. I weep in Mother’s arms at my loss, grasping the pitiable pieces of my beauty that have escaped me. She holds in her palms sweet scented chocolate candies whose innards rot with the scent of persecution. I take a piece, my ever expanding guilt a cavity that bites my lungs when I try to swallow. Mother stares at me, unmoving, and the hole grows bigger. In my ear, she whispers sweet things to me, soiled cough drops buried in dirt. Mother leaves. The minute worms that surround my heart begin to relax their tight hug, and I drift off to sleep. This sleep is real, I am sure. In my dreams I dance with the fairies, creatures that kiss my brows with their wings and steal me away to amazon skies. Anika Mukherjee Anika Mukherjee is a 17 year old student writer based in Utah. She writes poetry, fiction, and screenplays. ** The Moment The angel—clad in cloudy billows, wings like ghosts of leaves—speeds down, spurred by an earthly gust, his right hand stretched, but not yet touching the dreaming woman inside the dream he’ll fade to black, his left hand cupped to gather her in. She will not hear the rooster’s crow at dawn. But at the precipice of this moment, she still dreams: a ruddy sun-kissed lover comforts her on a bed as white as the angel’s wings, as her own pale face just tinged with fever. Amongst the not yet angel-visited hovels of the little village huddling together in the blue-black night, she sleeps for a jeweled moment more, breathing in the glow of the dream. Judy Kronenfeld Judy Kronenfeld’s sixth full-length books of poetry include If Only There Were Stations of the Air (Sheila-Na-Gig, 2024), Groaning and Singing (FutureCycle, 2022), Bird Flying through the Banquet (FutureCycle, 2017) and Shimmer (WordTech, 2-12). Her third chapbook is Oh Memory, You Unlocked Cabinet of Amazements! (Bamboo Dart, 2024). Her memoir-in-essays-and-poems, Apartness, is forthcoming in February, 2025 from Inlandia Books. ** The Dream The shingled rooftops sag under the weight of the amethystine sky. Clouds tumid with rain crowd the night, so that when the boy, a cherubic child of ten, gazes out from his window, he cannot see a single star. Pressing his cheek against the pane, cool with condensation, he angles for a better look but still sees nothing except those looming clusters of grey. His parents retired to bed some time ago. The boy recalls his mother reading to him. The copy of his favorite book—whose title is on the tip of his tongue, whose letters on the cover he cannot discern—hangs off the nightstand’s edge. He recalls listening to his mother’s tender soprano while he warmed under the covers, though he cannot remember how long ago that was or how he slipped into slumber. When he crawls back into bed, the boy hears the first drop. A plonk that echoes through the room. It is silent for a few seconds. Another drop dribbles, then a second, a third. A trill dances across the roof, soon followed by an even thrum, a vibrating whoosh that subsumes all sound. The ceiling begins to melt. An aureole of plaster turns slick and bulges in the centre. The water forms into a bead, stretched like putty by gravity, until it is severed from the ceiling and plummets to the floor. The boy watches the puddle grow. He lapses into a momentary trance—the metronymic drip hypnotizes him. As the tempo quickens and sets him free, he hurries to his closet, empties his hamper, and puts it below the leak. The sussurating storm swells in volume. The boy returns to bed. In his mind, he calls out for his parents but cannot hear his own voice, so he wonders if he has shouted anything at all. Amidst the deafening hum, the roof lets out a catarrhal moan. In an instant, it ruptures open, with the hollow boom of a thunderstrike, and the rain gushes inside. Down goes the roof, disintegrating into ash around the boy. The clouds seem to brush the top of his head, so close he can almost touch them. The feeble walls hem in the water, which rises and rises and rises. The boy’s bed rocks like a boat on the waves. Pieces of furniture, a lamp, dirty clothes draped over chairs, and wooden toy cars float along the frothing flume. The boy grips the headboard. His moss-green pajamas cling to his skin. Loose curls stick to his forehead. His tears disappear with the rain. He can feel his fingers losing strength, sliding off the oak frame. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tells himself to wake up; he convinces himself that when he opens his eyes again, it will be morning and the sky will be a cerulean blue and the sun will trickle in, teasing the approach of spring. Just before he sails over the cascade—crashing down the sides of the house—a being, a flit of white among the palette of greys, swoops from the sky and plucks the boy out of bed by his nape. Before he can see the torrents submerge the town, the boy is carried into the clouds. His vision is hazy. His eyes squint through the wispy whites. Catapulted from the humid limbo, the boy soars into the atmosphere. He is suspended in mid-air. On either side, he sees fluttering, feathery wings. He cannot be sure if they are his own, if they have sprouted from his own shoulder blades. Beneath him is the celestial ground. Tufts of cotton, convex with a plushness that reminds him of his bed. The boy does not hear the constant hiss of rain anymore; he hears only the wings, swishing through the air. All around him is the ethereal expanse. For the first time that night, the boy smiles. As he and that winged being fly through the fertile nothingness, he giggles and opens his mouth. The zephyr inflates his cheeks and turns them ruddy. Higher and higher, the two travel into the realm of dreams. They travel towards an escape. Daniella Nichinson Daniella Nichinson is a fiction writer from the Philadelphia area. ** Chagall’s Dream, 1939 Grim green of death pollutes the blistered sky Then tumbles downwards tainting earth and homes in its wake. Homes hug the ground as they tilt Dark and precarious like boulders Defying gravity. War hovers on the horizon. Its white blasts grip the crest, balloon into the sky Masking moonlight. A messenger flutter-kicks from the heavens Resistant to earthly forces Wings luminous with other-worldly light. Hugging the heart with one hand The other extends, fingers furled In incandescent blessing. Suitors dressed for flight Are shielded by sturdy headboard and pearly pillows And the gravity of love. A lowly rooster floats upwards Looks toward the lovers And awaits the signal to declare dawn. Bill Richard Bill Richard is a docent at the Phoenix Art Museum and has loved art since he sat on his dad’s lap as a toddler and looked at books of paintings. He is also a standardized patient for medical schools, helping prepare healthcare professionals by giving them feedback on their communication skills. Bill’s husband Kent is an infectious disease doctor. They share their home with their dogs Staccato and Presto. His poems have appeared in publications such as Red River Review, Ilya’s Honey, and National Catholic Reporter. ** Our Wedding Night Made in the Image of a Novelty Napkin I am embarrassed for my forehead. For the lies that I fed to your parents. And the deafening absence and swell of my conscience. For the mice traps that punctuate my enticements. And whisker-kiss my ancestors from their sleep. For the weight class of my pillows. And the rain that airs its grievances on the slate of the roofs. I am embarrassed for not taking the dog’s threats more seriously. For the lack of any coasters. Or thimbles. Or any of those tiny mints. The white of your willpower. Any road maps of Prague. And its most reliable tailors. Or astrologists. For not including your neck in the trust. Or reserving the last sweet for the brother who’s determined to spend eternity in a cellar. And will soon resemble a turnip. Or a pinto bean. For the mechanical chicken whose heart I dinged up. And whose prehistoric shins I still sing to. For the soot and the cab fare and the inference of moon and the lack of any goat besides the dried blood and mud it’s tracked in on the sheets. I’m embarrassed for the loan I took out on the flowers. For the late hour of my calling. And for the look my landlord continues to give you over his newspaper. Which he studies like the lease of a dollhouse. I’m embarrassed for the trouble I caused blue. And its allegiance to the sea. For our Savior’s nonexistent sense of balance. And His questionable hygiene. For the short supply of any fun facts. Or floors to stack books. Or our hundreds of fur lined boots. For the craftsmanship of the windows. The angel’s lack of any tact. And the small bat it nurses at its chest. For leaving the door ajar. And still insisting the wind keep our place. As the universe applauds the modest size of our vows. Mark DeCarteret Mark DeCarteret has been a member of City Hall Poets for 30+ years. ** To Marc Chagall Regarding The Dream You paint as only soul could see the truth of known reality as fate and fear and faith disclosed that hope envisions juxtaposed against the darkened in-between where unforgotten and foreseen are woven into circumstance becoming here and now the dance transcending time and space as bond to Love unending far beyond from which it sprang as life renewed by will that left its time imbued with promise still the precious worth of Grace preserved as Heaven's earth. 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. ** In Chagall’s Dream an ocean of mermaid clouds swimming reefs of cobalt cacophony of slate and tile village tumbling hillside a wobble-legged rooster floating on betrayal an angel earth-falling lungs breathing twilight a bedstead beach-anchored on floral encrusted quilt peach tones bleeding pale skin tattooed in sorrow a lover’s arm in velvet reassuringly calm the world slow-spinning to overtures of war turmoil rolling into fugue discordant-dark foreboding 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 ** The Dream My dear, all life is a gift towards death. Do you hear the angel’s wings open like the wind harp’s dark saying? He wears them as the dove tree wears its flower and he has the body of a boy whose blue eye yearns for the blue flower. We are each born onto this earth by our forebears, who breathed before, into us, that we may breathe in time into the time in front of us, shrouded in morning’s blue mist, dark and cold like deep sea, and salty as the origin of life, staining the white cloth wafting from our bodies, the cock’s moongleaming feathers that makes it float a little and forbear from crowing so the floating houses don’t need to return to gravity, solidly bound to their feet, and we, dreaming in the great Dreaming, are spared from farewell for a moment, held in a long embrace. For a long moment bees bated in the lilac on our bed table burrow into the burning blue depths and buzz out, unseen, at four a. m., pollen in their faces stinging their composite, rainbow gaze. The boy’s golden hair has snagged wisps of cloud colored like the undersides of swallows, who don’t have feet, who are therefore spared a little more from gravity. The boy opens his arms. We cannot see the future in front or behind. All we can see is the morning is not yet here, the hawk moth is still sucking the ever-replenishing flower’s blue nectar that bears it towards death over to the bluer beyond. All we know is we are being towards one another. Lucie Chou Lucie Chou is an ecopoet from China whose work appears or is forthcoming in Entropy, the Black Earth Institute Blog, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, The Ekphrastic Review, Transom, Tofu Ink Arts, Halfway Down the Stairs, Kelp Journal, Sky Island Journal, Plant-Human Quarterly, Slant: A Journal of Poetry, Wild Roof Journal and Poet’s Lore. A debut collection, Convivial Communiverse, came from Atmosphere Press. In August 2023, she participated in the Tupelo Press 30/30 project where she fundraised for the indie press by writing one poem each day for a month. ** Ordeal Day one What a dream-come-true to encounter Chagall’s Dream out of the blue! Surreal mainstream persistently insane triggering migraine – the Chagall cocktail is not a fairytale – it’s so madly spirited – you are left limited to sob or spook. Before you know you’ve been framed. But the gist is bent – only roosters, angels and love souls can gravitate, your wingless landing depends on lots of perilous acrobatics constantly risking absurdity just as by Ferlinghetti. I remind myself it’s art brushed cold stalled, yet, quietly leave, rather – unfold. Day two Curiously, I find myself again savoring the Chagall cocktail with a couple explaining to each other the meaning of love dreaming. And that the dream makes us human! At the same time the Dream couple can’t comprehend why all their appeals to the night watch of the dreamland are in vain! They are strictly framed! But they are adamant! To make it real again! Oh, Dream couple, comprehend – the surreal of Chagall is your real hall of fame! Day three Afternoon free – ultimate Dreaming spree I’m alone, it seems here too at three everything stops for tea. The Dream gist that spirits my mind is insane but brushed a heart vein. The two scuffle for a second. I try hard not to scream and boldly proclaim: Hey, Dream-Souls, take your chance – here is the key to unlock the real – DYI - Donate Your Ideal! To the American dream, actual on earth as it is in your heaven! Rain roosters angels and sweet hearts! Before I suggest more acrobatics, a bunch of young fans flood the space as if it was Nothing Really Matters. Their bouncing thrill unframes Chagall. The new normal. No ordeal. Just deal. Ekaterina Dukas Constantly Risking Absurdity is a poem by the Beat poet Laurence Ferlinghetti. Nothing Really Matters is a name of American cocktail bar brand. Ekaterina Dukas, MA in Philology and Philosophy, writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning. She is an enthusiastic contributor to ekphrastic poetics and her poems have often been honoured by TER and its challenges. Her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europe Edizioni. ** Dreaming On a blue night all the town houses lean together in a rough tumble as if to listen sharing secrets trading gossip resting in the lap of white mountains rising like shoulders to surround them while the folk sleep safe enfolded in blue layered comfort and one couple wakes embracing on the edge of their simple wooden bed weightless as moonlight beneath a barefoot angel who shines not like the seraphim with coruscating fire but in ordinary trousers and a plain shirt- white winged–reaching down to them in tender benediction Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy is a retired Registered Nurse who has always been a writer. Her work has appeared in many journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic World, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic, The Plague Papers, edited by Robbi Nester, The Memory Palace, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic and Clare MacQueen, and recent issues of Gyroscope, 3rd Wednesday, Caustic Frolic, Inscribe, the Storyteller Review, and Verse Virtual. Her collection How to Become Invisible, that chronicles a bipolar journey, is now available from Kelsay books, amazon, and the author. ** Visitation Angels need no maps of the stars, no compass to locate the forces of infinity-- they are the not that is, a geography larger than what can be written down. No compass is necessary to locate the forces of infinity that gravitate, pull, and repel inside a geography larger than what can be written down. Larger than shadows, veils, and mirrors, they gravitate, pull, and repel time. They ride on invisible strings woven through air, larger than shadows, veils, and mirrors. Their landscape inhabits their very being, riding on invisible strings woven through air, moving on currents of skywind and dream magic. Their landscape inhabits their very being, alert to the pauses and imperfections of the light. Moving on currents of skywind and dream magic, they become feathers and wings-- alert to the pauses and imperfections of the light, they become vessels and messengers. They become feathers and wings. They balance the world as it slumbers and waits. They become vessels and messengers. They become what is seen with closed eyes They balance the world as it slumbers and waits, echoing and reflecting the pull of the unknown. They become what is seen with closed eyes, the outline filled with what isn’t there, Echoing and reflecting the pull of the unknown. They are the not that is, the outline filled with what isn’t there. Angels need no maps of the stars Kerfe Roig A resident of New York City, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. Follow her explorations on her blogs, https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/ (which she does with her friend Nina), and https://kblog.blog/. ** Temporary Shelter of Dreams, 1939 Let us exist in now hair unbound, desire afloat, unanchored, we sail from the winter-whipped world, the thunder-boots and snarling-dogs of endless night; hold me tight, as angels pass over-- announcing life-tidings or foretelling death in plagues and wine-red seas, in transit, we drift in delphinium light on a counterpaned barque of fools and dreams as the rooster crows once in practice twice with vigor, and then over and again in warning. Merril D. Smith Merril D. Smith writes from southern New Jersey. Her full-length poetry collection, River Ghosts (Nightingale and Sparrow Press) was a Black Bough Press featured book. ** "why I get confused between smelling salts and dead African violets" I dream that I am dreaming of sleeping in the street, but I am not asleep and my bed is a boat adrift in the blueness of the dead of night I dream of a night adrift from walls, from constraints, free from the prying sight of the droopy-eyed sad faces of the houses holding the village's closed minds and vacant stares I dream of vacant stares and empty stairs, empty rooms in a deep gloom under a blue-grey pall I dream of a blue-grey pall, made from a palette of hues mixed from the ashes of emotions, love-hate-lust-anger-longing-despair-desperation I dream of lying under a night sky a particular shade of blue, the colour of the African violets in the blue vase once their blooms wither, their dying petals falling, shrivelling, falling, always falling I dream of a dream within a dream, a night visitor dressed in blue velvet with a red face and white hands. I love-hate-want-despise this demon, who is a version of me in another guise I dream that I am dreaming within a dream, I am the angel that watches over me, I am floating above, approving, announcing, protecting, advising, distracting, tempting, goading, reproving myself, and my other demon-self, while angel-me records it all on the unending scroll that captures every second of my life, just like the angel-self of every one of us keeps on updating our individual permanent records forever I dream of the arrival of a white horse, a red horse, a blue horse, any horse galloping into the night, a horse that always arrives in my dream, a horse that saves the day, a mare, a nightmare, a horse that's not a horse but in this dream has become the cockerel that will bring the sound of the break of dawn and awakening, but the cockerel is here now, and it is still the dead of night I wonder if the cockerel is really there? What do I even mean by that? I know this is a dream, even as I dream it within my dream. I know I am me, I know that I am also the red-faced demon, I am the angel and I am the cockerel, I am the village and the sad-faced houses and I am the blue night I wait for the horse - did I say there's always a horse? I wait for the inevitable horse that I will mount and ride through the blue night till I wake up at the break of dawn when I wake up I will write a poem called "why I get confused between smelling salts and dead African violets" Emily Tee Emily Tee is a writer from the UK Midlands. She particularly enjoys ekphrastic writing and has had some pieces published in The Ekphrastic Review challenges previously, and elsewhere online and in print.
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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 Train Through Town, by Maud Lewis. Deadline is December 6, 2024. 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 LEWIS 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 6, 2024. 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. ** Lady's Man I’m being John the Baptist this time round. We’ll soon have tea. I hope there’s madeleines, Not just tartines. This fleece may come unwound – They'd have a subject for their paint-pots then! Maman says it’s my first real job; I’m paid Each week. She says, Merci, mon Dieu, mon gosse. Our landlord is a bastard. She’s afraid; That’s why I’m holding up this silly cross For these mad ladies, since they pay to look. To hear Maman, they’ll all end up alone; They’d do much better if they learned to cook, Not paint strange boys when they could have their own – And then we count the sous (some francs as well) And whisper, Mais, merci, mesdemoiselles. Ruth S. Baker Ruth S. Baker has published in a few poetry journals. She has a special love for animals and visual art. ** In the Monument I too have a tomb a lust for fame a name etched gold flakes salvaged on seraphim wing pull me down beyond decision let me feel marble soothing my ashes Donna-Lee Smith Donna-Lee Smith writes from Montreal where cemeteries grace Mount Royal, reminding us that we too are waiting. ** The Woman in Cobalt The room was an inferno. The heady scent of linseed hardly masked the stench of sweaty women bound in their soured, long dresses. Mother would beat the soil out of them for a coin if she had her way. Her sendoff that morning stung my ears. “Comportez-vous bien. They are not paying you to slouch.” I snivelled agreement as the broom handle struck my bottom. “I know, maman! Easy money. I’ll do good,” I told her. She set her jaw and glared at me. “Oui. Or there will be no food on the table for you, mom petit.” The statue pose took getting used to. I prayed the scarlet welts on my backside were obscured from the painters’ keen eyes. The red-haired woman to my right studied my ribs with an intensity that made my welts throb. Could she see the stripes etched by the broom? The thought made me queasy. I focused my gaze on the back of the room where rows of canvases hung to dry like laundry. Blocks of colour. Nude people. I locked my knees, squared my shoulders and counted my breaths. I let my peripheral vision go fuzzy. I was posed as Saint John the Baptist, the cousin who baptized the risen Lord. I imagined the crisp water of the river Jordan wetting my ankles and creeping up my legs, the current rushing past fast and deep. Cool cobalt outstretched on all sides. My right arm was suddenly foreign to me—a numb appendage. I thought, how droll. I imagined myself armless, plunging Jesus into the rushing water by sheer spiritual will. After the baptism, we would feast on bread and fish with enough butter to reach every edge. Wine would be served, and I would fill myself. Friends would join us. Jesus, fresh from baptism, would share a parable. Mary, the Virgin Mother, would tap me on the shoulder and say I had conducted a miraculous baptism. She would embrace me, and her halo would cast a golden light on my face. Animated debate snapped me from my reverie. I was hit with a surge of panic. Had I moved? Would I be sent home without wages? I darted my eyes from head to head to head. I caught a thread of stray words. “Quality of shadow.” “Play of light.” Mon Dieu, I had stayed still. The air returned to my body. In relief, I studied the painters for a long moment. The women artists at L’Académie Julian appeared to see me as a bundle of lines and contours, not a boy. I had not resolved if that worked in my favour or against. They leaned over their work like bankers doing sums. Might they notice if I budged a millimetre? I thought I might be enraged if I had spent hours rendering perfect proportions to look up and find the model had moved and my composition ruined. Of course, they would notice if my hair fell out of place. I doubled my focus and scanned the room for a place to rest my gaze. I had ages before our next scheduled break. At break time, I circled the room and eyed the work in progress. I saw myself in blobs of fleshy tones in various states of doneness. Nothing about the work suggested it had not been painted by a man. The woman in cobalt locked eyes with me. I was frozen, expressionless. She smiled. I continued my tour and studied the caked pallets with their array of paint. I touched a puddle of crimson and found it was as soft as melted butter. Curious. When the session ended, I collected my things and headed toward the exit. I passed the woman in cobalt. She took stock of her supplies on the floor but paused and tousled my hair. “Such soulful eyes,” she said. Her voice was no more than a ragged whisper. I feared I might melt into the floorboards under her scrutiny, yet the tenderness in her expression held me there. “Did I get them right?” she asked. She meant for me to examine her canvas. I obliged with amazement. She waited. The uncanny realism stupefied me. In honesty, I had seen more paintings that day than ever in my ten years, but even so, her canvas was remarkable. I gaped at her. “How did you arrive at that shade of brown? Get it so lifelike?” I asked. She beamed. “Awe, you have the mind of an artist!” she said. It was my turn to beam. A flit of coughs followed. She covered her mouth and gestured an apology. “Doctor says it’s laryngitis again. Nothing serious.” The cough sounded pained, but I was glad the doctor thought it was minor because I longed to see the woman in cobalt again and again. “If you help me clean my brushes, I may share my secret,” she teased. * Years would pass before I registered that the woman in cobalt was Marie Bashkirtseff. That the prized realist painter had bestowed her secret on me, a starving boy. When art critics ask me about my signature style, I credit Marie as my first teacher. Incredible, they say. “You have caught the Bashkirtseff magic, jeune homme.” My heart flutters each time I receive such praise. “Tell us! Quel a été son sage conseil?” To that, I chuckle and say, “You will have to help me clean my paintbrushes for that secret!” Every October, I stop at Le Fleuriste for the richest blue blossoms in stock. I carry them through Champ-de-Mars, past le Tour Eiffel, across le Pont d’Iéna to Cimetiére de Passy. I sink into the frost-covered ground and tell Marie, who rests with the angels, that the critics are probing for her secrets. “Should I tell them?” I whisper. I set the bouquet close to the monument and think it might be good for the world to know Marie’s first lesson. “Do more than look,” she had said. “See people, and they come to life!” Marsha Masseau Marsha Masseau is a visual and literary artist living in Ottawa, Ontario. Her artwork has been shown and collected locally; her writing has been published in anthologies and stand-alone in both physical and digital form. She adores exploring the margins between the two forms. Marsha is an MFA in Creative Writing candidate at the University of British Columbia. ** Modèle Garçon He observes me. In a bold voice, the boy model in a fur loincloth calls out, "What is your name?" then "Is your husband rich?" Believes he must be if I have the leisure to paint. I am, I am told, pretty. The boy asks for a sou for saying so. I give him a third eye instead. He wishes to be portrayed as a gentleman in an emerald waistcoat and striped trousers, have a pocket watch and fob, and—although no one will see—curly hair on a muscular chest. One after another after another, his eyes blink. They see opportunity. "Does your husband need a little footman for your carriage?" I paint long colt legs and shiny black hooves on the boy. Giggle. "Now, prance like a high-knee pony." Giggle. His eyes are not amused. He calls me Marie Antoinette and degenerate. For that, I give him horse teeth. Seems I am not as fair as he first thought. The common boy now prefers the blonde artist in billowing sky blue who sits nearest the podium. He praises her proper, naturalistic style and how lightly she holds the brush, lauds how her lavender sachet masks the stink in this hot room. The turpentine, the dresses in need of laundering. His mother and sister take in washing. He asks me, "Madame, do you have a laundress?" Aggravating! A boy model opining and pedalling. Humph. When old enough to paint, the urchin can interpret his blonde lady in any manner he desires. He may change his name—I do not care to know what it is—to André and develop surrealism. Then, suddenly, I think he may not. May not change art nor endure what is necessary to turn away from convention and deliberately defy reason. Rather, the boy may die young. He may succumb to consumption or conscription. Wars are coming. Sad it is to paint his mouth as a round mourning brooch with a wisp of black hair and a jet stone. Without the money from his posing, how would the family survive? I draw feet under the brooch; fleet feet because his younger brothers would have to become pick-pockets. I dab two pink rosebuds on the brooch. His sister would dry her hands and scrub no more when men notice her bloom and her bosom. Sell the brooch, Bereaved Mother. Buy potatoes. I break the boy's slight figure into pieces. He snaps easily. In an act of experimentation as well as charity, I draw cubes and, in each, sketch a body part. "Come, play," I exclaim. The boy's eyes are the spinning tops he never had. He leaps down from the podium and runs to me. I can be kind. "Child, these are building blocks. How would you like me to arrange them? What would you like to become?" Silence. Shrug. He does not know. Knows only that he wishes to be painted in fine clothes. Mon Dieu. The preferred artist bangs her brush on her easel, commands him to return to posing. Still, he lingers to tell me how his mother spit-wipes his face before he comes to Académie Julian to seek work. Tempting to fight along the way, but he does not. "Boys with black eyes are not chosen." I sketch dove wings on his back to lift him above the mean streets and deliver him to the podium every morning. Still, a cherub he is not. Wink. "Soon, I will appear as a satyr and earn seven sous for standing naked." Wink. In his bold voice, the boy wonders aloud whether my husband will allow me to paint him when nude and quite a man. I do not answer. Better that he pose as David or recreate Manet's The Fifer or even The Blue Boy by Thomas Gainsborough. My fellow ladies long to dress him as a dandy in a satiny suit with bows. If they do, I will be the one who smoothes the boy's hair and pats his white cheeks to rosy-red. I will whisper to him to keep a gentle light in his three eyes, an expression of the good man he will become when—if—he grows up. Karen Walker Karen Walker (she/her) writes short in a low basement in Ontario, Canada. Her most recent work is in or forthcoming in New Flash Fiction Review, Exist Otherwise, Misery Tourism, Does it Have Pockets? and EGG+FROG. ** Apart from a Double Gin and Tonic there’s nothing I like more than a group of women freely doing what they want, the only male among them posing on a pedestal which doesn’t mean he is idolised, elevated, glorified or revered, even allowing for his youth and the fact his parents raised him to feel superior. He stands swaddled in a tiny piece of cloth undoubtedly entertaining the notion of eternal worship by the female sex. His prepubescent form, dwarfed by the power of estrogen, shrinks to an ever paler version of its imagined self. The smell of kerosine lingers long after all the brushes are cleaned of him. Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman Linda is an Australian poet who lives and writes in the coastal village of Lake Tabourie, NSW, on traditional Yuin country. Linda enjoys seeing her poetic work published in various excellent literary spaces. ** To Marie Bashkirtseff Regarding In the Studio The classroom was for you a place disinclination would not grace with homage in expected style, but chose instead by wit the wile of composition here perceived detailing truth to be believed in circumstance as it occurred that echoed hence forever heard as moment in which you implied persistence never satisfied became by journal if not ouevre your gift unending left to serve the eye beholding kindred call to most important art of all. 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. ** Leader of the Pack Now here’s a canvassing for art - nude studies only part portrayed - beheaded as of no account; as if distraction, forms below, commission, Julian himself, commercial, his Atelier. For in one stroke Marie displayed, where paraphernalia laid out, a self-affirming soul proclaimed as Rodolphe pays - the craft excites. Faint praise, poor protest on her part - ‘the subject does not fascinate’. Her diary-speak - as centrepiece - speaks volumes in coquettish style; ‘so taken with’, and ‘so convinced’, and ‘very amusing’ it may be. For her, recall, ‘not fascinate’ - the lady doth protest too much. Enough! ‘Never been painted’ writ, this ‘wonderful notoriety’, reluctant rôle play thus dismissed. A bright blue dress, brush, mahlstick pose, (what caused her face-turn into light?) a chair draped length, of purple fold… Another skill as advertised, she handles well, manipulates the apparatus, chemistry. The lad raised up here paint puts down - his loin cloth wrap, sheep’s clothing so? But who’s the leader of the pack? Stephen Kingsnorth Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com ** The Subject The subject suspiciously eyes the skeleton to his left – and a step or two behind him. He can’t face it directly, for fear of being chastised by this wonderful femme palette of artists. A quiet stillness is his brief. He must stay “toujours comme on peut l’être.” His peripheral vision is enough. ‘Why the skeleton?’ he ponders. A mannequin of bones. ‘What does it represent? Does it act as a reminder to the artists to think about their framework first and foremost? The bare essentials. Add the tissue, skin and a beating heart in time.’ Big, deep and meaningful thoughts for a twelve-year-old boy. He feels somewhat exposed in nothing more than a tissu, though strangely secure, powerful even with staff in hand. He does sense safety in this atelier féminin. Still, that squelette and all its exposed bones! His weight shifts on to his right leg, away from the offending object, irrationally thinking he could leap from the podium and run if it came to life. Marie Bashkirtseff is in the studio. Not yet twenty-three years and she is brilliantly artistique. She seems more interested in the skeleton than the subject, so the subject thinks. Perhaps she will paint it. Does it represent how she feels? She has been quite unwell. This is known because she is so well known and respected in the Parisian arts community. They say she was an exquisite singer but illness cruelly ruined her voice. From the romanticism of opera to the realism of oil painting. Adam Stone Adam lives and loves on the Bellarine Peninsula in Victoria, Australia - Wathaurong land. He is an award-winning lyricist and published writer who relishes short story and flash fiction writing. Member of Writers Victoria, Geelong Writers Inc (Committee Member) and Bellarine Writers. ** The Women’s Guild In the Studio The women got to learn new skills in art in writing, sculpting, poetry, and paints, although the men could limit, on their part, exposure to what they deemed needs constraints. The men, of course, would override complaints that their involvement in more worldly views than those imposed on women (“due restraints”) were arguments that they could disabuse. The men, therefore, would have a broader sphere. Their subjects, mostly goddesses and saints, undressed, some details meant they must draw near, though canvases would not reveal their taints. Once finished, body painting would commence-- their models, from the Guild, took no offense. Ken Gosse Ken Gosse prefers to write rhymed, humorous verse using traditional forms. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, since then he has been in The Ekphrastic Review, Pure Slush, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Home Planet News, and others. Raised in the Chicago suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, over twenty years, usually with rescue dogs and cats underfoot. **
Sheri Flowers Anderson Sheri Flowers Anderson is a writer and poet based in San Antonio, Texas. Her publication credits include Sixfold Poetry, Pensive Journal, and she's the author of a collection of poetry entitled House and Home, winner of the Naomi Long Madgett Poetry Prize, 2022, by Broadside Lotus Press. She's enamored with poetry about every-day things. When she's not writing she enjoys creating collages, playing nerdy word games like Boggle and Scrabble, and assembling 500-piece jigsaw puzzles. ** Studio Swan Song I may be the youngest in this all-female studio, but M. Julian has asked me to apply my palette to its truthful representation, to present at Salon. I am thinking about the composition, putting myself in the best light, because he did ask me to create this art, and this may well be my way to fame. First as a singer, and now as an artist, I want fame. I can paint the halo over my own head in the studio. Women here hate me for my talent, naturally-gifted in this art, while men laud me for the way I choose my color palette. I work ten hours a day, that’s how seriously I take myself and how much I want to bring this painting to Salon. Why did I wait so long to paint, to exhibit at Salon, when it was my clearest path to success and fame? I doubted my gifts, loved the wrong men, didn’t believe in myself. That is the curse of women, we can only join a female studio and gossip all day. Not me. I mix my paints, prepare my palette, conceptualize my approach to create my best-ever art. Maybe it took the trips to Italy, to refine my appreciation for art, Maybe it took falling out of love with Hamilton, an offer from Salon. Maybe it took all the traveling and moving to learn nuances in palette and experiment with life and love and hues of fame, gain acceptance and validation in M. Julian’s studio, or just maturing to appreciate myself. Grandfather is gone, my parents are useless, there’s only myself to trust. I know I’m going to die young. Not much time left for art. I have to make the most of M. Julian’s requests for the studio, give him the opportunity to showboat at Salon, place M. Julian in the Hall of Fame for producing such young talent with meticulous palette. I choose the best blue for my dress from the palette, paint all other artists in black to mourn myself. This painting won’t be my last but a milestone toward fame, because I’m already thinking about another canvassed art, a gathering of waif boys, who owe their power to females, for Salon and that will fill seats in the M. Julian studio. How I gain fame will make art: Palette in hand, my gift to myself and the Salon, my final goodbye to the studio. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her work has been featured in The Ekphrastic Review, Nimrod, Cimarron Review, One Art, Caesura, and elsewhere. She lives and teaches in New Jersey and can be found at www.barbarakrasner.com. ** In the Studio Comparative writing among the arts teases our brain and challenges the senses of our talents. The delicate and charming ladies engage with erstwhile ambition. The audience and enthusiasts cheer and smile without divulging their artistic choices and desires. Such beautiful ladies not needing to rely on egos or feminine wiles. Searching the eyes of admirers, who are enthralled with the mystery of their talent. The tools of their art on the dusty floor-not ready to be seen. Only the young and charming model is allowed to inspire and participate. While invisible absent men secretly praise and conspire what they are not allowed to view. Women-known for the creative act of childbirth revel in the creation of earthly enterprise. Sandy Rochelle Sandy Rochelle is a widely published poet, actress and narrator. She narrated and produced the documentary film ARTWATCH, about renowned art historian, James Beck. She is a Voting Member of the Recording Academy in the Spoken Word Category. Her poetry has appeared in One Art, Wild Word, Connecticut River Review, Verse Virtual, Dissident Voice, Haiku Universe, Cultural Daily, Poetic Sun, and others. Our new contest is Send in the Clowns!
Write poetry or flash fiction inspired by the intriguing history circus-themed artwork. Click here for details. https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/new-contest-announcement-send-in-the-clowns-flash-fiction-and-poetry 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 The Dream, by Marc Chagall. Deadline is November 22, 2024. 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 CHAGALL 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, November 22, 2024. 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. ** You Don’t Believe in Ghosts? Just as well, says the man dressed like a Victorian butler. (Once or twice a year, the manor house is opened to tour, proceeds going to a local charity. Someone always brings up ghosts.) Public lore has it all wrong, he adds. Ghosts don’t want to meet YOU either. They do occasionally group around old halls like this one. Rarely do you hear rumours of a sighting in a modest cottage. Why would they get nostalgic for poverty? They just want to relive their youth, hear some dance music. I believe ghosts exist, but in a different dimension. You won’t spot a glowing, voluptuous young lady silently playing the spinet at midnight– unless you’ve polished off the punch bowl. Souls don’t carry their flesh and bones about– just their memories. You may feel a quick shiver in their presence, or it could just be the wind. 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. 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. ** The Un-House Hallowed And Unsparrowed Nights Tower. Evil Demons Howl Over Unborrowed Shadows Escaping from the cemetery of the unwanted and unclaimed. they hover, like injured hornets, in the hum of unhurried minds. their loss, unwinged and unwinding, festers like a bird unfeathered by grief begging and braying to fly. who are the caretakers of unloved souls? why do spirits have hearts only to be ignored? is a ghost truly a ghost if they have no one to haunt? purgatory is an unlimbo where heaven rejects you and hell discards you, an immortal unmattering, a solitary confinement of unseeness, a cage of unpersonhood where the unnoticed linger in unfeigned sorrow. unvisibility is not merely the absence of sight, but the unrecognition of the other; the othering of the undesirable. the unrepentant sin of loneliness kneels at the altar of unripened rejection. time is an untethered fascia thrashing in a sea of unblue and unbound sadness, where emptiness drowns in unending despair. Shakespeare, I fear, was right: hell is empty; all the unheard are here. Michelle Hoover Michelle "Line/breaker of the North" Hoover is an amateur poet and professional wiseacre. She lives near a mountain on unceded Ute territory with her onery feline, Stevie, the Magnificent Marshmallow. She enjoys her toes in the grass, a hardy laugh, and a backstroke under a starry sky. Her work can be found in The Ekphrastic Review; enjoy! ** Trick or Treat: a Haunting My ghost hops-- I get him in my clutches and he disappears Many think it risible to see me chase him down the street-- a treat, they think. Fitzgerald would have done it better-- locked him in the attic. No longer spry, I try and try to capture the essence of my ghost, but a host of questions always arise, enough to make me sick. I despise my ineptitude; finally say, “Hey, dude, get over here!” He veers, he sees it’s only a trick. Coconut candy or candy corn-- Ghost, your days have warn me out. Now I’ve had it! I hail my witch-y broom and zoom across the planet. Ghost, or no ghost, the coast is clear. My shrink sums it up-- It’s all in your imagination, dear. Carole Mertz Carole Mertz reads and critiques. Her recent reviews of poetry collections are at Mom Egg Review and Orchard River Pages and are forthcoming at Heavy Feather and World Literature Today. Al-Khemia Poetica nominated her poem “Ashes” for the Best of the Net (2025) Anthology. Carole resides with her husband in Parma, OH. ** Once I Lived In that raggedy black house no more than a shadow backlit against the white night of a full Hunter’s moon. Orange light still burns bright at its heart- on the second floor landing where all my ghosts have come undone - loosed like fledged nestlings dancing out of the windows wild and innocent scampering up on the roof with not one scrap of sorrow to slow or stall or trip them up lifted high by music only they can hear while all the sad nightmares fall– heavy and dark stumble to the ground without joy or authority enough to scare anyone or stop our glad rejoicing Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy is a retired Registered Nurse who has always been a writer. Her work has appeared in many journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic World, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic, The Plague Papers, edited by Robbi Nester, The Memory Palace, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic and Clare MacQueen, and recent issues of Gyroscope, 3rd Wednesday, Caustic Frolic, Inscribe, the Storyteller Review, and Verse Virtual. Her collection How to Become Invisible, that chronicles a bipolar journey, is now available from Kelsay books, amazon, and the author. ** Haiku Series A furze of shadows charcoal fade decay of days nightmares bloom in black. ** Phantom memories a silent scream caught mid-throat cobwebbed existence. ** Hunter’s moon rises sparks the ruins to riot inferno inside. ** Insistent darkness. The ghosts answer, dance wildly in my haunted heart. Siobhán Mc Laughlin Siobhán Mc Laughlin is a poet and creative writing facilitator from Co. Donegal in Ireland and a regular contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. Her poems have appeared previously here and in other publications including The Poetry Village, Drawn to the Light Press, Reverie, and The Martello Journal. She is a big fan of haiku and ekphrastic poetry. She does not believe in ghosts but loves all kinds of gothic literature and art. ** Doors Swing Open at the Old Hall: a Pantoum All year they await the invitation, the obligation to party this single, moonlit night. They starch their wings and cinch shroud strings, they’re gathering at the Old Hall tonight to party this single, moonlit night. Some break out their black, some their white, they’re gathering at the Old Hall tonight in the silver light where living and dead alight. Some break out their black, some their white. They dust off year-long tangled threads in the silver light where living and dead alight with blended bodies’ shriveled detritus. They dust off year-long tangled threads, that harsh hall light shows no tolerance for blended bodies’ shriveled detritus. Some fly to the gables to block the dawn and harsh hall light shows no tolerance. Up top they engage in ethereal tryst, flown to the gables to block the dawn, keep celebrating the Day of the Dead. Up top they engage in ethereal tryst. All year they’ve awaited the invitation, the obligation, to celebrate the Day of the Dead, with starched wings and cinched shroud strings. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. A six-time Pushcart Prize nominee, she is the author of two poetry chapbooks and three novels in verse. Her work has also appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, ONE ART: A Journal of Poetry, Nimrod, Cimarron Review, and elsewhere. She lives and teaches in New Jersey and can be found at www.barbararkrasner.com. ** Dark Sprites’ Delights! On the year’s brightest night each dark sprite will alight in the light of the full moon’s bright glow-- starting darker than coal, rising from depths of Sheol, breaking free of their gaol far below, then they’ll dance and they’ll sing, celebrating, since spring won’t return for another half year while cold, dark days ahead will give rise to more dead who will join them in cheering on fear, and for one gruesome night they will dance to the fright of the children who dare to appear every Halloween eve-- for each little pet peeve feeds their fancies since long, long ago. Ken Gosse Ken Gosse prefers to write rhymed, humorous verse using traditional forms. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, since then he has been in The Ekphrastic Review, Pure Slush, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Home Planet News, and others. Raised in the Chicago suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, over twenty years, usually with rescue dogs and cats underfoot. ** For Claudia, in Honour of Her First Halloween: Within, a haunted life - shadows and hidden rooms loom against the full moon's silver glow, inviting in winged sprites of the night. Elanur Williams Elanur Williams, part-time teacher and full-time mom, lives and writes from New York City. ** Folded Wings – A Cento At the frosted window in the cavernous dark Something white moved among the tangled branches A shower of angel feathers perhaps. Why am I afraid of the dark But more afraid of what the light reveals I turn from the window Before death enters. Folded like the covers of a book Their pages too heavy to turn The wings of night birds Have gone quiet. As through an hourglass Into the marble of ages What's left is blue emptiness Spinning from the galaxy. Kathleen Cali Author's note: The word “cento” is Latin for patchwork and comes from pieced together lines taken from poetry. This technique is not something new; early examples of cento poems can be found in the work of Homer and Virgil. The painting of The Old Hall, by John Anster Fitzgerald, inspired this cento incorporating the lines of poet Linda Pastan who passed away at the age of 90 in 2023. She was the poet laureate of Maryland from 1991 to 1994. The lines were selected from her poetry book “Insomnia” published in 2015 and came from the following poems: At Maho Bay; At the Edge; Chaos Theory; Consider the Space Between Stars; Cosmology; Course of Treatment; Eclipse, Edward Hopper, Untitled; Elizabethan; Exercise; Last Rites; Late in October; Repetitions: After Van Gogh. True to the cento form, the sequence of words is taken “as is” with no changes made to the wording of any line. Chicago-born and Midwest raised, Kathleen resides at the Jersey Shore. Her poetic interests include formal and modern poetry and haiku. Always the student, she enjoys poetry writing workshops and working with her local library. Other interests include historical fiction and photography. Kathleen enjoyed a career as a senior auditor and educator and served as an assistant professor of business following receipt of her MBA. Technical writing and editing were a major part of her profession; now she uses her skills to craft poetry. Her poetry has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review; her haiku was published in her local community’s magazine. ** The Spirit of Dwelling Fey folk rise like mosquitoes from scraggly grasses, hungry for memory. Night’s bright sphere climbs the witching hours over the vacant manor, beckons spectral beings from unsound ground. Clotted ivy adorns the portico, droops on the skeletons of cobwebs, and orbs of energy blaze from the foyer where dried leaves swirl and drift on swift breeze. Outside the house stands hushed, but inside the old hall swarms with esprit: sprites and spirits and goblins gather for ill and goodwill, merriment and mischief, claiming the derelict home for their own. Dancing to chamber song only their ears hear, they whirl and flit, flirt and shape-shift, as if to lure man from moon or bed. Rest eludes their haunted realm when humans slumber and time is under spell. When full moon descends again, morning withers the ghosts of revelry and remains. Heather Brown Barrett Heather Brown Barrett is an award-winning poet in southeastern Virginia. She mothers her young son and contemplates life, the universe, and everything with her writer husband. Her poetry has been published in several journals and literary exhibits. Her first book of poetry, Water in Every Room, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books. Visit her website to read her work: https://heatherbrownbarrett.com/ ** Halloween Haunt Heathrow is where a witch will hitch a ride At dusk on Halloween. She'll leave the ground Laid flat beneath a jumbo's underside-- Latched safely to the plane, she's Boston-bound. On Halloween, this witch, whose children fled West long ago to haunt the States at night, Embarks upon a trip that she'd find dead Exhausting if she used her broom all flight. Nocturnal pilots have no means to see Her broom and she are stowed below the rear And flying to America for free-- Until they land, and then she does appear, Not one bit weary, whizzing through the air To greet her waiting grandkids with a scare! Mike Mesterton-Gibbons Mike Mesterton-Gibbons is a Professor Emeritus of Mathematics at Florida State University who has returned to live in his native England. His poems have appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Better Than Starbucks, the Creativity Webzine, Current Conservation, the Daily Mail, the Ekphrastic Review, Grand Little Things, Light, Lighten Up Online, MONO., the New Verse News, Oddball Magazine, Rat’s Ass Review, the Satirist, the Washington Post and WestWard Quarterly. ** The Ghosts of Pluckley Deep in Kentish countryside The ghosts of Pluckley smile – They hide behind tall, shadowed trees Disguised as shifting form in breeze, Laughing in true ghostly style. Now you may have heard the morbid tale Of one young lady’s ghostly plight – She haunts the locals young and old, Terrifies the brave and bold With leering cackle gleaming white. It seems she once was married To a kind and wealthy lad, He bought for her a diamond ring And asked what else he could bring To make her truly glad. She said she’d like to take her gift To her grave for life’s renewal And though he thought it was a waste, Granted this at death in haste, And she was buried with her jewel. The man who dug her deathly grave Eyed-up the gem in steely stealth. He planned at once to sneak away At midnight on her burial day To retrieve it for himself. But when he took the dead white hand The finger had swollen, fat and cold, He flicked his penknife’s sharpened blade And severed off the flesh in shade, Then slipped the ring from rigid hold. Two years passed uneventfully Until one dark December night – His house shook with wind and rain, The storm beat in on windowpane, He sat alone by candlelight. Suddenly there came a knock Like fists beating bone on tomb. At his door a young lady stood, He started back, wondered if this could be The hand of fate, his call to doom? He thought he recognised the face Cold shivers slithered down his spine. Avoiding her stare his eyes glanced down To red streaked stains upon the gown, Was it blood or was it wine? She raised her hand as if to speak, At once his veins congealed to stone For on that hand a gap gaped wide Where once she’d worn a ring with pride But now wore just a stump of bone! He tried to shut the door, alas, The gushing gale galloped in. He stammered “H.. How do you do? I think I knew a girl like you, Fingerless, ghostly white and thin”. “It was me”, she screamed from ghostly lips Faded as a summer bloom, “I’ve come to haunt your memory With spirits from the cemetery Until you die in gloom.” So grave robbers may you take heed Of this our legendary host Who haunts the night and surely lingers Over all who steal fingers, For Pluckley boasts a ghost! Kate Young Author's Note: Pluckley, in Kent, is said to be England’s most haunted village according to the Guinness Book of World Records. It is reputed to have twelve ghosts. 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 ** you rang? the night is chill the ground dew damp we saw a light in corner rooms heard the laugh of scraping branches master had a bell we did his bidding warm tea on silver platter warm scarf and robe against the night in the dark we hear again the call like moths to light we drift from shadows to that lighted window carrying only yesterdays Kat Dunlap Kat Dunlap grew up in Norristown PA and now resides in Massachusetts where she is a member of the Tidepool Poets of Plymouth. She received a BA in English from Arcadia University and holds an MFA from Pacific University. She edited two college writing publications as well as the Tidepool Poets Annual. For many years she was Director of the National Writing Project site at University of Massachusetts Dartmouth and is currently the co-owner of Writers Ink of MA. Her chapbook The Blue Bicycle is being prepared for an autumn launch. ** The Cabin by the Mansion There is a ghost in this cabin of the governor who built it this humble cabin where he hides from his opera-singing wife There is a ghost in the bathroom where he shaves and showers swearing in a whisper, always a whisper Next door is a grand mansion the ghost abandoned to his wife She sings loud and alone against the hard tiles of the shower but softly in bed clothes at night He hates opera She hates the quiet They cannot live together They cannot stay apart He visits her in the dark and takes off his clothes with the pssp pssp of whispers against the echoes of song There are ghost children who dance in the yard between cabin and mansion Each night a bonfire inside a circle of stones They frisk, they frolic in smoke rising to the moon As voices blend the soft and the strong they dance to the harmony of whisper and song Joe Cottonwood Joe Cottonwood has repaired hundreds of houses to support his writing habit in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. ** One Night a Year One night a year the boundaries blur: insect, animal, human, fantasy, reality. Any and all combinations are possible. Although it's midnight under the full moon, the sky above The Old Hall glows as if it's noon, for those with the right eyes to see. Just a few drops of tincture, pupils dilated, and a new world reveals itself. Only the most daring and most free-spirited may enter. Only they are able to pass the guards at the gateway. It's free to go into The Old Hall but ultimately the revellers will pay the price. Inside, they are waiting, all the night creatures - the foxes, the bats, the moths, the chittering cockroaches and spindly spiders - and with them are their fae friends, the winged folk, slim as sylphs and floating light as air. They turn and twist, dancing to a music only their ears can hear. Tonight, these crowds will assemble at The Old Hall for frights and frolics, for pranks and antics and fun. Underneath, something darker lingers. Those of human form who dare enter the doorway will never be the same on their return. A part of them will remain forever behind, locked away. At first, to those who know them, they will seem distracted, forgetful. Over time they will become listless, filled with an unspoken longing. As the special night comes back round they will become restless, unsettled. Even if they try to fight it eventually they must return to The Old Hall. No-one has ever come back from their second visit on that one special night a year, the night the portals open to another realm, the domain of the old gods, the ancient earth spirits. They demand a high payment for allowing strangers in. It's for this reason those of a cautious disposition hide themselves and their loved ones away, to deaden the sound of otherworldly laughter and parties, on the one night a year when the old world opens its doors and allows those brave enough, those free of spirit to enter, but not to return. Emily Tee Emily Tee is a writer from the UK Midlands. She particularly enjoys ekphrastic writing and has had some pieces published in Ekphrastic Review Challenges previously, and elsewhere online and in print. ** A 'Spirit'ed Gathering The house, shrouded in ivy and shadow, sways softly, into and out of focus, as dusk blends into dreams. Its windows glow with the pulse of forgotten stories. In the unmown grass, spirits of children float between the shadows, their fingers outstretched to grasp the (moon)light. And their laughter silent but real tumbles like leaves in the breeze. On the roof, dark silhouettes stand guard protecting the remains of memories. And together, these spectres weave a spell, connecting the living with the lost. Nivedita Karthik Nivedita Karthik is a graduate in Immunology from the University of Oxford. She is an accomplished Bharatanatyam dancer and published poet. She also loves writing stories. Her poetry has appeared in Glomag, The Ekphrastic Review, The Society of Classical Poets, The Epoch Times, The Poet anthologies, Visual Verse, The Bamboo Hut, Eskimopie, The Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal, and Trouvaille Review. Her microfiction has been published by The Potato Soup Literary Journal. She also regularly contributes to the open mics organized by Rattle Poetry. She currently resides in Gurgaon, India, and works as a senior associate editor. She has two published books, She: The reality of womanhood and The many moods of water. ** A Sanctuary Like the old snow that clings and sinks against wishes, they crawl up the sanctuary- the pitched roof beyond belief. Webbed dragon ghosts hold to ransom a spell of fantasies- pangs of memories bruised like the birds on a sidewalk, some eaten half, blood on their necks, all dead-on return. Together they rise raring to blow mouthful of fire that burned the grief, the cheerful chatter of granddaughters hide dida hide- and whatever was left of him. Abha Das Sarma An engineer and management consultant by profession, Abha Das Sarma enjoys writing. Besides having a blog of over 200 poems (http://dassarmafamily.blogspot.com), her poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, Silver Birch Press, Blue Heron Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru. 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 In the Studio, by Marie Bashkirtseff. Deadline is November 8, 2024. 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 BASHKIRTSEFF 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, November 8, 2024. 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. ** Naptime with Mama Stretched out next to Mama one eye open, her hand soft against me, I listen for her voice, her heartbeat while dozing Running in the lane rocks, even Mama gets all happy throwing the ball for me, but I sense her loneliness I am here, Mama, I want to say but I can only lie against her side. She knows I am here, and Buddy too, but it’s Papa she’s thinking of I miss him too, our family walks are now Mama’s walks with us, and then we cozy up on the bed, Buddy sprawled out, but not me, I am listening, silently telling her I am here, I’ll keep you warm and even though the bed is soft, his absence is felt all the same Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson is a long time poet, whose work appears in over 75 journals. Dickson holds a BPS in Behavioral Science, has served on two poetry boards and as a guest editor for several publications. Her work can be found in Blue Heron Review, Lothlorien and Ekphrastic Review, among others. She shares her home with two rescued cats, Cam and Jojo, and advocates for captive elephants. ** Judy’s Bohemian Rhapsody Hindus say soul is the size of a thumb or the point of an awl or a spiritual atom or one ten-thousandth the tip of a hair and lives in a lotus in your chest or your forehead or pervades your body or rides in a chariot driven by intellect Mischievous Judy, in the corner of our eye, guards a carton of tongue depressors each the size of the back of a King George chair she plans to implant in her family of ghosts and claim they are the speechless cardboard souls in everyone’s chest. Her own words vividly paint Van Gogh's that suck you in but should she ever lift the brush from the canvas, she might go mad. Mike Wilson Mike Wilson’s work has appeared in many magazines and in Mike’s book, Arranging Deck Chairs on the Titanic. His awards include the League of Minnesota Poets Award, the Maine Poets Society Award, and the Chaffin/Kash Prize of the Kentucky State Poetry Society. He lives in Lexington, Kentucky. ** Languorous? Languorous, as vowel stretch, each glyph laid out in sounding shift, aligned with sleek unbothered reach, with dreams of scents, encounters, rest, now prone, exhausted, inked arms linked. On crumpled pastel, crease and fold, all pillows, hills of dimpled sheets, in crevice, blues, pink, yellows, green, seen stream and sky, buds, blossom, sward, addressed on fabric, ruffled, flesh. Carved capital above slab slump; a classic wage for time-paid age. brawn muscles through to knuckle skin, arch, zygomatic, prominent; what causes stare in emptied air? Poole pottery of former age, a cluttered, indecisive space, past glories, present to be faced, what questions posed above the bed to float around, pets unaware? This is no more the languid tired, nor lackadaisical in mind, dynamic contrast laid to wrest - so what ensues from contemplate? What afterthought has walk aroused? 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 ** Goodbyes Are Too Hard Sandra knew these were her final moments with her golden retriever, Daisy. Daisy had been there for Sandra’s toughest moments in life. She had been there for her mother’s death, her divorce, and most recently, her cancer diagnosis. Sandra found out that she and Daisy had cancer on the same day, and had been on edge ever since. They had just returned from the vet when she found out Daisy had less than a week left. Sandra always thought that Daisy would outlive her, Daisy was always stronger than she ever was. The first few hours after the vet visit the two had been on the bed soaking up their final moments together. Sandra’s other dog, Mack, would be the only one left, so she too lay on the bed soaking up the final moments. Sandra just pondered on how in the world would she say goodbye to her caring, obedient, comforting dog that she loved more than herself. Sandra came to the conclusion that this goodbye was just too hard. Tessa Lawrence Tessa Lawrence is 15 and goes to high school in Ohio. She likes to read, write, watch movies, and play basketball. ** Walking Dogs pester master, after walking for hours, until exhaustion. 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. ** Lady In A Print Dress With Manet and Van Gogh Daydreams of fragrant gardens and nights when she painted the town red dancing the days away with different cats who were mostly dogs -- Poets, painters and philosophers masters of seductive reasoning who were themselves seduced by a ballet whose elaborate choreography often spun out of control -- Once vibrant flowers that now droop and sag exhausted in their beds. dan smith dan smith is the author of Crooked River and The Liquid of Her Skin, the Suns of Her Eyes. He has been widely published in journals as diverse as The Rhysling Anthology and Deep Cleveland Junk Mail Oracle and Dwarf Stars and Gas Station Famous. dan's latest poems have been at The Solitary Daisy, dadakuku, Rattle Prompt Challenge, The Ekphrastic Review and Five Fleas Itchy Poetry. ** Pied Piper I go to bed in my clothes too – a green linen 60s floral shift riding up around my thighs. Nobody sees me but the dogs. Sometimes my frock is a Dior mini: bicolour, retro white and deep blue, the kind of dangerous shade I imagine the Bermuda Triangle might be. I go to bed in it when I’ve been out for a walk, or getting a new tattoo (one arm is almost done, I think). Bed is the only place to wear your very best clothes – those outfits you’ve discovered in op-shops, or inherited as hand-me-downs from deceased dowager aunts who bequeathed them just as you donate your thoughts to the ceiling – to the skylight covered with fallen leaves – because it’s only mid-afternoon, and the sun is shining. Jennifer Harrison Jennifer Harrison is an Australian poet living in Melbourne. She has published eight poetry collections and won numerous prizes, most recently the 2023 Troubadour International Poetry Prize. ** Bedfellows Three mammals resting. If the other two Had recreated this, how would it be? Smells: cotton washed last week, shed fur, not-new- Underwear, heated paws, post-walking me, Sweat and deodorant. Cold tea. Breathed air, With underlays of – what? I couldn’t know If they could say. Three mammals, skin and hair And neural firings, visually on show Through me. I read that dogs are colour-blind, Or partly, so they’re missing my insane Candy-floss patchwork joy. The canine mind Processes pink as grey; the human brain Thinks laundry soap can pass for Alpine Streams. I wonder what I smell like in their dreams. Ruth S. Baker Ruth S. Baker has published in a few poetry journals. She has a special love for animals and visual art. ** Beasties Sated, they sprawl close Unbothered by anxious thoughts Saved from worry’s stab In this riot of quiet I’ve been told they can’t see colour. Debbie Walker-Lass Debbie Walker-Lass is a poet, writer, and collage artist living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared in Punk Monk Journal, Three-Line Poetry, Haiku Poetry, The Light Ekphrastic, The Ekphrastic Journal, and The Niagara Falls Poetry Journal, among others. She has recently appeared in local spoken-word showcases & attended the Rockvale Writer’s Residency earlier this year. Go Braves! ** Anna …intimate partner violence… -Thoughts …ya’ know when somethin’ happens every single rotten day I don’t give a damn if it’s good or bad truth is it ain’t never good every time it turns out lousy every time an’ I tell ya’ somethin’ else it don’t get no better I mean if somethin’ that looks good comes along which it don’t never come it’s gonna go bad fast you can count on it an’ if it’s bad when it gets here that’s jus’ the beginnin’… -Whispers ‘cept you two a course (speaking like a child) little Sophie you givin’ Mommy yer belly? that’s Mama’s baby girl an big ol’ Lazybones ova here you leanin’ on Mommy askin’ if everything’s OK? everythin’ is perfec’ my good big boy….perfec’! who’s a good boy!!?? who’s a good big boy!!?? want MaMa to rub under yer chin Mr Lazybones? huh? want yer Mama to rub under yer chin my biggest boy (back to her own voice) jesus one a these days or nights that ceiling’s gonna cave in an’ land right on toppa me an’ the dogs and them jerks upstairs is gonna get their wheel a fortune watchin’ all screwed up me an’ the dogs under ‘em them wonderin’ what the hell just happened (little snarky chuckle - 2 beats) it could use a new coat a paint too the ceiling I’ll get right on that t’marra yeeeah! -Thoughts it’s stinkin’ amazin’ that he thinks he can come waltzing in here every single night every single night an’ beat the hell outta me smellin’ like a brewery lookin’ like a fer real nut job an’ the mouth on ‘im! Jeeeezus! mouth like a truck driver which he ain’t he’s one a them guys where they’re doin’ road work he stands there all day long like some fat wax statue twirlin’ that sign from real early in the mornin’ to early afternoon to late afternoon can you imagine? SLOW STOP SLOW STOP perfec’ job for the bastard those are the only two speeds he knows he’s been doin’ that job now two days quittin’ t’marra says he’s too old his back is killin’ him his feet are killin’ him his hands are killin’ him an’ he’s killin’ me but I don’t blame him fer quittin’ he is too old an’ it’s a stupid job anyways… Whispers, Thoughts, and occasional out loud Words … (WORDS - Whispered aloud barely audible…) Eddie… (Anna leans over groaning every bit of her body aching from old age and years of doing a whole lotta nothing she digs through the mess on the floor pulls a new smoke out of a crumpled pack tries to light the cigarette CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK the lighter finally lights after seven tries. Lazybones does not move a muscle.) Don’t ask me why they call ‘em lighters when that’s the one thing they can’t do stupid things. Eddie he’ll be home any minute crash through the door head right to the ice box that’s weird I know it ain’t no ice box jus’ a habit left over from when I was a kid 50 million years ago (bad British accent) Excuse me. Pardon my lack of couth. I mean, of course, The Re-fridge-er-a-tor, Honey-Bun. Do excuse me. an’ sure enough -Thoughts like he’s on cue or somethin’ Eddie slams open the door… …wait…ain’t that a weird thing to say? SLAMS open the door! I don’t know It jus’ don’t sound right to me anyways he slams open the door grabs a beer from the refrigerator drinks practically the whole thing in one swaller an starts staggering towards the bed lookin’ like a ape little Sophie makes her exit straight under the bed sometimes the fat drunken jerk even hits the dogs which really gets my goat -OUT LOUD WORDS Is dis what’choo bin doin’ all day long chain smokin’ dem cancer sticks lookin’ at the ceilin’ and talkin’ like some kinda crazy mental case to dem stupid mutts -THOUGHTS he grabbed me by the front a my moomoo holy christ here we go again cigarette sparks flair up burn out ashes on the bed that son of a… see here’s what gets me what gets me is that mostly it’s silent the back of his fat hand across my lef cheek I woulda thought it a made some kinda noise but I don’t remember hearin’ nothing ain’t that weird? -WORDS You lazy bitch you better start doin’ somethin’ ‘round here sides takin’ up space and stinkin’ up the joint! you hear me? huh!? you hear me? what’re yous deaf? an’ yer mangy reekin’ mutts too get ‘em the hell outta here -THOUGHTS fat hand across the lef cheek again silent poor little Soph I hear her whinin’ under the bed poor little thing wish I had a gun I swear were married now 47 years man!...people shoulda laid they eyes on Eddie when I very first met him… oh my god talk about a lady-killa a real dish I ain’t lyin’ an’ me…ohhh me… when I’s young… I wan’t too bad on the ol’ eyes either get me? an’ ya’ know I’m pretty sure we was in love an’ the plans! lawd have mercy! what we was gonna do you wouldn’t believe then time…I don’t know… it’s like some kinda miracle ain’t it it’s here it’s gone an’ so are you gone see ya latta alligatta bye-bye you out after amountin’ to nothin’ but sad my cheek hurts know what’s funny through this whole nasty nightly brawl Lazybones never moved I think I heard him groan once like he was dog-talkin’ to us shut up yous! can’t ya’ see I’m tryin’ to sleep over here. then the king of the castle makes hisself heard… -WORDS …be useful fer a change an’ turn off the light I’m gettin’ up early gotta drive right by the road work to get to The Red Ash Bar wanna stop first an’ tell that little foreman twerp I quit! give my SLOW STOP sign to some kid lookin’ fer his first ball-bustin’ job -THOUGHTS while I was leanin’ over to turn off the light I grabbed another smoke will miracles never cease the lighter lit on the first CLICK! In-freakin’-credible! Eddie’s already snorin’ LOUD I’s thinkin’ ‘bout what I’s gonna do t’marra an’ out from under my side a the bed here comes little Sophie stepping carefully ova her big brotha not that he would care….or even know Lazybones he likes to relax he groaned a little groan when Soph stepped ova him Sopje lays down on the other side both of us ready for a little siesta Eddie’s snores is get louder an’ louder an’ my little baby girl my sweet Sophie rolls over and gives me her belly FIN (until the morrow.) John L. Stanizzi John L. Stanizzi is the author of 15 poetry books, the newest of which are SEE (A book of ekphrastic poems), Feathers & Bones, and Viper Brain. His latest collection Entra La Notte will be out in December. John was named winner of The Ekphrastic Review’s Nine Lives Ekphrastic Marathon, an incredible honour, one he says he will cherish always. A former Wesleyan University Etherington Scholar, and New England Poet of the Year,John was awarded an Artist Fellowship from the Connecticut Office of the Arts and Culture for work on his new memoir, Bless Me, Father, for I Have Sinned. ** The Art of Deception "Suppose the Truth is a woman -- what then?" Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil " If one, settling a pillow by her head Should say: 'That is not what I meant at all; That is not it at all.'" T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock Appearances can be deceiving. When her grandmother, a teacher for most of her life, bought a wig she never explained that it was because she couldn't afford to have her hair done anymore, to make herself presentable for the classroom. The wig was grey. (Quiz: how could youth desert us like a vicious wind?) Brushing her dog's red hair she thought of sea air, the crisp crash of waves, floating to a stand-still so like her life, naps after long walks to the dog park by a busy street. She'd tried to beat sentient failure; to take a writing class, to write a villanelle, its origin from the Langue d'Oc both countrified and earthy, unlike the Langue d'Or -- "the language of gold" spoken in Paris. But she couldn't understand Ezra Pound's passion for vagabond troubadours his "periplum" -- the center of an empyrean journey -- his modernist translation of Provencal love. Wearing a broad-brimmed hat, he questioned 18th century lyricism -- why travel was like a song -- Gaily the Troubadour touched his guitar, as he was hast'ning home from the war... 2 World Wars were over (Thank God!) but how could Pound's poetry -- his Cantos -- explain why she was born with red hair? Don't let a man put his hat on your bed! older women said. It had been a last straw, really when such a statement was used to describe red-heads as whores; what the family called her grand-pere's amour, a legal assistant in the city. How she loved her red-haired dog, Monsieur Emmanuel! named for Emmanuel Kant -- or was it Descartes? Philosophy and philosophers were so confusing. After she'd met a man with an attractive mixed-breed at the dog park she had started a class- required villanelle, writing on an Empire Cafe napkin: O how often life's a mad deception! The air smoke-yellow in the city streets, How I dressed for yesterday's reception -- The black dress, a fashionable conception, My love, a 'mess of shadows for your meat'; This tattoo, from days when I took action... That was as far as she got. It was hot. She'd pulled on a sleeveless house-dress and gone to bed with Emmanuel: 2 cups and an empty plate lost in the bed-covers the only evidence she hadn't been alone last night, a fixed figure painted in tossed colors a woman so unlike another of Aylward's portraits, a regal woman hair done up, dress with a dark blue fabric sheen -- like the mystery of her chickadee why she seemed to be a kind of Bird Woman, elegant, with 5 birds -- one, like a miniature kingfisher (perhaps a blue jay?) in a glass cage; one small and reddish -- a finch? Then the large head of a crane questioning confinement near her shoulder (She, like me, the voice in this poem) must be her "other self," portrayed with avian companions wearing shadowed, storm-sky blue posed with a parrot -- But reader, I have Emmanuel! whose name means God is with us, and I hope to heaven he is so that a woman with red hair could have a red-haired dog, his body stretched beside her in an unmade bed disheveled on a Sunday as she explores her dreams, the sea caressing her bare feet -- the time-free days her heart can reach. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp is a poet writing in Houston. Twice nominated for Best of The Net, she is a graduate of The Creative Writing Department (MA in Poetry), The University of Houston. Like Pound, she favours love quests in southern France, and the poetry forms created there, preferring the Sestina. "Gaily The Troubadour” quoted in the poem, is a song written in the 1820s by Thomas Haynes Bayly (1797 - 1839). ** After the Walk He is lying sprawled on the sheet, My favorite, the one that is pink. “What a charmer,” I think and blink. He blinks back. Slow and Languid. I smile at his wrinkled eyelids, He turns to his side, making the bed lurch And I watch the affection surge in his eyes as a shine. The time is way past nine, We are lazing around in bed. My little boys are resting their heads After a run through the park, Several strings of woofs-woofs and barks. Their tails are quiet with an occasional quiver, Listening to the tales of the river That passes behind the house. They are holding back all urges to pounce And lying back with lolling tongues, The rituals before sleep sets in have begun. I pull out the chain which reminds me of her And of things that were Her black furred boy, our black furred boy, Flicks his tail on my hand, he is not really coy. My eyes blur with tears as I remember. It was just last December. You lay your head on the other side of bed, The boys were sated after having been fed, And you told me you were dying. I accused you of lying. You smiled and asked something of me, I ignored you and got up to brew that tea, But your eyes followed me out of the room. I had not expected to hear news of your doom, Yet I came back and cuddled against you, Under the covers, and let my brew cool. The black tail had flicked on my hair And I had no laughter to spare, But you let out a light giggle, And tickled me till I wiggled. The boys also joined in the fun. Yes, my grief is not yet done, And a black-tail flicks again at my arm Seeking attention is part of his charm And I let out a giant smile. It has been a while Since my lips pulled up all the way. The boys have noticed it, haven’t they? He wags his tail in response, proud indeed. It is easy to push away my need To have you around all the time, When a dog is crooning and trying to mime Right beside me as I try to recall What was making me bawl. A ball is shoved at my feet, A bark and playful blink follow in a beat. I forget what I was thinking about. Yes, yes, I had meant to shout And ask you why you left And left me languishing and bereft But the boys seem to know That a ball throw Is the nudge I need To get out of the cycle of cry, rinse and repeat. I miss you terribly my love. My arms get a full-on shove, I raise my head and look at him You know his fur can use a trim I extend my fingers and caress his tummy, He looks at me like he looked at his mummy-- —you. You shined so bright honey! He farts on my face, and no it isn’t funny. Don’t you dare laugh darling! You had been so charming, So full of zest, life, and laughter. It is you who they take after. Making me live life, eat, sleep, When I would just rather weep. They give me faith that I will heal. His nose tickles my feet, and I squeal. He gives a cheeky grin, I swear. You were so lovely my dear His smile reminds me of the day When the sky was overcast and gray And you were sunshine and bright And we binged on Turkish delight While watching the Telly And laughter rumbled in our bellies. Suddenly, a car horn goes by the window. I, I need to get out of this limbo. He is up now, attentive and alert. Shucks! his paw has embedded dirt. I get a lick on my nose, I am drained now, from grief and its throes. He comes and lies beside me, He is gleeful like you and just as free. And things are no longer bitter, perhaps they can be sweet. Surabhi Katyal Surabhi Katyal (she/her) is a writer, translator, psychotherapist, and researcher based in Rajasthan,India. She says that writing and reading have held her together while she has lived with a decade-long bundle of chronic pain and psychosocial disability. Currently, she is translating verses of Sant Raidas and Maithili Sharan Gupt into English. She is also working on editing the English translations and doing the Hindi translations of A Vennila poems. She hopes that her cats will let her focus on her writing projects more (unlikely). ** I Might’ve Had a Sex Dream In the dream, I leave work and drive 18 hours nonstop, searching for an isolated cabin in the deep, dark woods. The sun sets, the sun rises. I never question if I’m awake. Did I mention, in the dream, I’m fired for watching porn? If I’d gone home, I might’ve told my husband it was a layoff; instead, I toss my phone out the window when passing the exit for home. Unlike the dream, I never watch porn, only read romance novels and inhale murky phrases like “wet friction,” or “grunting into foam.” Porn might’ve clarified the details. Critical anatomy shots at critical moments. I’m a visual learner. Before we married, my husband would run off after sex to confess, to seek absolution from his parish priest for a sin he’d committed, knowingly, willingly, and may I say–enjoyably. In the dream, I tilt into switchbacks and risk passing eighteen-wheelers, slowly climbing the mountainside. Did I mention the downpour? Wild lightning strikes hit dead trees and spark a fire. God, the heat. Sweat drips between my breasts in the dream. The torrential rain simmers the forest, and steam rises from the ground. Finally, in the dream, in my dream, I turn off the highway, grinding my car up a steep gravel road that dead ends at the cabin. I jump out, forget to cut the engine, and halfway to the door, the car revs higher and higher as if the motor is inside me. I knock hard on the door, and it opens to Carlos, my first boyfriend, the one who provoked Mama to say ‘you could do better,’ the one who refused confession or absolution, the one who feasted on wild-ass-monkey sex, and the one who, in my dream, swings the door open, sweeps his arm beneath me, lifts me and carries me inside. Anne Anthony Anne Anthony’s gritty, tender, and amusing stories feature compelling but slightly flawed characters who tend to carry on conversations with each other inside her head. She stopped fighting them a few years back agreeing to tell their stories just to quiet them. Find recent publications here: https://linktr.ee/anchalastudio or check her social media: IG: @anchalastudio X: @DIHPocketsART FB: @anchalstudio ** Thereafter Secretly I think of my life as a street—not a busy freeway, but a dead end with a way in but no exit except to unwind itself backwards into a repetition of what I’ve already done. It stands inside the shadow of a spiral that lengthens in a tighter and tighter coil as the years wear on and out. Exhausted I conjure exotic locations, endless oceans of azure skies, a vessel sailing forever towards the horizon, following a magical but unfinished map. ink tells my story-- my familiars dream, chasing birds-- we fly together Kerfe Roig A resident of New York City, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. Follow her explorations on her blogs, https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/ (which she does with her friend Nina), and https://kblog.blog/. ** Pet Lover’s Dilemma I am my own canvas splashy and expressive life etched on each sleeve, my friends are monochromatic fur is fur they have no choice. Although dissimilar we are stitched together by emotion and survival, they rouse me from slumber desperate to pad outside for relief then return to fitful sleep… not me. What do they know of insomnia? Should I buy a doggie door? Is that a crack in the ceiling? Elaine Sorrentino Elaine Sorrentino has been published in Minerva Rising, Willawaw Journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Ekphrastic Review, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Haiku Universe, Sparks of Calliope, Gyroscope Review, Quartet Journal, The Raven’s Perch, and Panoplyzine. She hosts the Duxbury Poetry Circle, was featured on a poetry podcast at Onyx Publications. Her first collection of poetry, called Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit is in production at Kelsay Books. ** Muddy Water Rescue Plan And then I was alone. The brown dog was his. The black one, mine, half dead after the hours in the attic. Me, on the bed in my neighbor’s trailer, Billie Eilish, through the earbuds I scooped up from the rising water. When the rain came, the dogs and I climbed to the top of my beautiful house, with stones shaped and chiseled to resemble castle walls, muddy water lapping at our feet, me shrieking into my dead phone, waiting for the rescue boat to arrive. Now in my girlfriend’s trailer, the mosaic of blankets, blue, pink, floral, stink of damp. A furious red rash creeps up my legs. My mouth crinkles from the dirty water infusion. My husband left the day before the storm, said I can’t take your nagging anymore. Maybe I was an ideal, something he dreamed up, something to fall short of. Maybe I should move back to San Diego where the sky, the sea, the eucalyptus shout colour. Maybe Chicago. At least there, the wind matches my mood. The black dog yaps in her sleep. My husband’s mutt gets up and nuzzles me. His breath is sour. Snuggling together on the sunshine pillow, I kiss him back. THE END Laura B. Weiss Laura B. Weiss is a fiction writer and journalist with work in Flash Boulevard, Bright Flash Literary Review, 10x10 Flash, Five on the Fifth, New York Times, and Interior Design, among others. She was a Publishers Weekly book reviewer and Bellevue Literary Review reader. She was also a Virginia Center for Creative Arts Fellow. ** Count Your Blessings If only life and love resembled the crumpled softness of a well-used bed. Praise the dogs that lie beside my body when no one wants me. I used to sleep better in white sheets until white became a shroud. Praise the black and white floral linen on sale at 50% off, One Day Only. At fifty-five, tattoos seemed a better option than another lover’s scar. Praise the men I said no to, who took it for an answer. This afternoon, I’ll wash the cup and plate and change the pillow slips. Praise the dog drool and the silent farts that make me laugh when all else fails. Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman Linda lives and writes poetry in Lake Tabourie, NSW, Australia, on traditional Yuin country and enjoys seeing her poetic work published in various literary spaces. ** After the Walk My body all flowers My quilt and pillows flowers Am I rehearsing for the grave No one will leave stones or flowers What do the dogs know About roots or death The strewn plate with its cups Their stoneware bodies askew Somewhere it is summer And wild cones rebloom The ophidian fabric beside me watches and waits Memory’s original snake returning As if then is now My body hums with a bouquet’s submission Beloved Wherever you are I know you listen Amy Small-McKinney Amy Small-McKinney was the 2011 Montgomery County PA Poet Laureate. Her second full-length book, Walking Toward Cranes, won the Kithara Book Prize (Glass Lyre Press, 2017). Her chapbook, One Day I Am A Field, was written during COVID and her husband’s death (Glass Lyre Press, 2022). Her poems have been published in the American Poetry Review, The Baltimore Review, SWWIM, Tahoma Literary Review, Tiferet Journal, Literary Mama, Pedestal Magazine, Persimmon Tree, and Vox Populi, among others. Her poems have also been translated into Korean and Romanian. Her third full-length book of poems & You Think It Ends is forthcoming 2025 (Glass Lyre Press). Small-McKinney has a degree in Clinical Neuropsychology from Drexel University and an MFA in Poetry. ** After the Walk, I collapsed in bed, my two other companions by my side, and couldn’t sleep. How could I? Mourning, rest escaped me. Not the dogs though. They conked out as if shot. Red, as usual, gave me not a jot of space, and pushed his lean body next to mine as if he was an appendage. Never a burden, always a patient joy, Smudge slept with her parts splayed, tart that she is. I lay on my back contemplating the spots of peeled plaster wishing I had the youth and spirit to rip off the wallpaper and paint the room in spumoni colors—lemon yellow, blushing pink rose with a ribbon of jade between the molding and the white ceiling. Suddenly, I spied little tears in the wallpaper bordering the window she’d ripped with her mittens. I hadn’t noticed the evidence of her before. Damn to renovations. I’ll keep the tears in her memory. Tomorrow we’ll walk to the unmown meadow and spread her feathery ashes amongst the yellowing grasses and jumping, green bugs. Lucinda Kempe Lucinda Kempe’s work has been published or is forthcoming in New Flash Fiction Review, Centaur, The Disappointed Housewife, Unbroken Journal, New South Journal, Southampton Review, and the Summerset Review. An excerpt of her memoir was short listed for the Fish Memoir Prize in April 2021. Nominated for Best of the Net in 2024 by Boudin Magazine (The McNeese Review). ** A Good Bad Gone A mishmash puzzle, us, a room that glints with mismatched chintz (he never liked it). You walk so you forget, but when the chazza shop is beckoning, you reckon that it’s worthwhile going in, you can’t resist. So armed with unexpected plates, you take the left, you let the dogs off, wander, think he would have rolled his eyes at this new purchase: do we need another plate? And you lost patience, wouldn’t say again how chestnut mugs and cheery sheets remind you of your mum and how she squeezed you tight in bed, the telly blaring blurry comfort and another long-ago dog, gone now, dozing on the proggy mat, his legs a-twitch with dreams. The cocker stretches, tiny scratch reminder that you’re flesh and blood and time is marching on and no-one else will make the pot of tea this evening. Caitlin Prouatt Caitlin is a Brisbane-born, Oxford-based Latin and Greek teacher. When not tutoring or looking after her toddler, Caitlin writes poetry, with a particular interest in how rhythm can contribute to an image. Much of her poetry centres on her experiences of being a parent, but she also often returns to Classical themes. She enjoys having a go at the Ekphrastic Challenge to hone her craft. ** Dignity I got my dignity. Ain’t nobody can take that away. Ha! Some try their darnedest though. Flipping burgers at the Clover Grill don’t seem dignified. True, the place has its charm. Red-topped diner stools, tile floor, pink menus. Has history too. Been here on Bourbon Street since 1939. Open 24/7. You gotta dig deep to find dignity there. Jesus said feed the hungry. I do that. That’s enough. I just finished the night shift. Took Huey and Louie for their walk. Time to crash on this heap of a bed. Too worn out to bother with the dress. Yanked off my bra though, and slung it on the bedpost. These New Orleans summers are too much. Wish I had a cigarette. Next paycheck I’ll get a carton. For now just putting my fingers to my lips sorta helps. I wish I had art for these walls. I wear my art on my arm. And I pull it up around me. You can tell I’m partial to prints. Ha! Who cares if the colors coordinate. I get ‘em cheap at St. Vincent de Paul. Time to sleep now if I can make these eyes close. Wouldn’t mind a man next to me. But I learned that lesson. I got my dogs. And I got my dignity. That’s enough. Bill Richard Bill Richard is a docent at the Phoenix Art Museum and has loved art since he sat on his dad’s lap as a toddler and looked at books of paintings. He is also a standardized patient for medical schools, helping prepare healthcare professionals by giving them feedback on their communication skills. His poems have appeared in publications such as Red River Review, Ilya’s Honey, and National Catholic Reporter. ** To Lyn Aylward Regarding After the Walk The walk, far more than exercise, was meant to fill discerning eyes with things familiar much the same and of the moment new to frame with those to prize and those to rue and those that fervent hopes pursue together trek that underway from dawn to dark of years by day, is aging, energetic still, the sturdiness of stubborn will as ceiling lowers heaven's sky for inward glance of upward eye that senses in artistic soul collage of patterns to extol. 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. ** Interior Design My mother always wore a sleeveless nightgown, always slept on the right side of the bed, even after my father died. She always wrapped toilet paper around her lacquered coiffure, secured the tissue with hair clips. She always separated silverware in the sink, organized knives, forks, and spoons in the dishwater. She ate at the same time every day, often eating the same meal: Oatmeal for breakfast, tuna salad on white toast for lunch, broiled chicken for dinner. She rationed two Stella D’oro cookies every evening as she relaxed In front of the television. She wore silver with silver, gold with gold, never mixed metals. Obsessive compulsive? Some family members insist she was OCD. But me? No. She just wanted order, managing expectations birthed during the Great Depression and war. She wanted to wrap an imperial blue world of her own making around her, curl up in a blue-and-white comforter that matched the drapes, carpeting, curtains inside the armoire, the velvet tufted bench at the foot of the bed. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She is pursuing a World Art History Certificate from Smithsonian Associates as she works on a full-length ekphrastic poetry collection. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, Nimrod, Cimarron Review, ONE ART, and elsewhere. She lives and teaches in New Jersey and can be found at www.barbarakrasner.com. ** Curb Your Enthusiasm Too many cushions, too many covers – countless curves – that bed is a puddle with many a squashy bubble luring the woman to end her walk and letting herself to the tuffs talk. The one sharp line is laid pointedly sublime – blob and dog having shoved the pliancy of dress and flesh left her body edge stretch forthright like a tugging kite. Otherwise, here at the flat upper part should have been a double oval plot with perpetually swaying nod; and at the lower plumb fringe should have been an oblique weave ambushing every limb’s groove. Instead, it is geometrically projecting annunciating: I am mindful just of spiky adjectives I take no curly compliments I am Aphrodite of cutting-edge musings I am here to draw the bottom line of the internal cloud nine. Unlikely, it is taut and sharp like a string of a harp with no twists to breed false tones after my geometric clearance for the earnest hand I see extending out of the blue to begin a tune of incredible cue. So, curb your enthusiasm for curves and take my sharpness as the flatted-fifth harness. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning. Her poems have often been honored by TER and its Challenges. Her poetry collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europe Edizioni. ** Filling Spaces Dog breath fogs the window in the cramp of your bedroom, your lover gone, but at your bidding, dismissed the day before your fifth anniversary, a preemptive move, knowing he’d forget, never mind the cloying scent of a perfume you’ve never used that you sniffed on his jacket. Two still-plumped pillows head what used to be his side of the bed. Pottery he made, as yet unsmashed, lies in a box at the foot. Everything here abhors a vacuum. Black dog, upside-down, his wanting belly exposed, fills one gap. His dreams ride the refuge of the space your lover vacated, as he nestles into the billow of the duvet. Brown dog’s spine rides the left longitude of you, warms the length of your leg. The dogs flanking your sides arrived courtesy of your lover’s need to rescue, discovered in a burlap sack three years ago and brought home to salvage what was lost. Now, a larger loss looms over the room. You’d thought you were glad to see the back of him, but now wonder whether you did the right thing. You stare at the dusty sunbeam spilling through the window and a whoosh of air pushes from your lungs. You lose your eyes, start the hard work of erasing, of replacing. Mikki Aronoff Mikki Aronoff’s work has been nominated for Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, Best American Short Stories, and Best Microfiction, with stories appearing in Best Microfiction 2024 and forthcoming in Best Small Fictions 2024. She lives in New Mexico. ** Grief Has More Than One Pattern Daydreams take up most of her time – dreams of what it must be like to be a dog, to have a life where someone else takes care of the dirty dishes, the disheveled bed, the comings and goings of daily doings, even where the next tattoo will go. If only some benevolent being (someone who loves her as much as her dogs do) would take charge and let her focus on clouds and colors, walks in the park and midnight jazz. He used to do that for her. He loved her as much as she loves her dogs. Maril Crabtree Maril Crabtree’s book, Fireflies in the Gathering Dark (Kelsay Books), received a 2018 Kansas Notable Books award. Her latest book is Journey. Her poems, essays, and short stories have appeared in numerous journals including Coal City Review, I-70 Review, Literary Mama, Main Street Rag, Persimmon Tree, Poet’s Market and Third Wednesday. She believes that a poem’s apothecary of words, of sounds spoken and absorbed, can be a healing force in our culture. Her online work can be seen at www.marilcrabtree.com ** After the walk the shutters closed upon return sprawled out in bed hot wind outside the sun fierce on our skin fierce on our road we’re done now I’m done a space for time a room for lying about on this layer of earth Stien Pijp Stien Pijp lives in the Dutch country side. She enjoys thinking, poetry and clay. She is a linguist who works in the field of aphasia and care. A dreamy person who likes to hang around and walk her dog. ** At Noon I let the sun eat me and my captive Halloween ghosts itching to ignite. I let love go- bald like the eucalyptus grove by the path I climb, like the silver oaks that rise beyond hope. As in a note that I find at free bird house library on the road I walk at noon, Write a line and pass it on- I let the sun eat my youth and colors gone cold. At end I lie free of my weight, sprawled, browned as the eucalyptus bark tattooed with time. Fearless of fall. Abha Das Sarma An engineer and management consultant by profession, Abha Das Sarma enjoys writing. Besides having a blog of over 200 poems (http://dassarmafamily.blogspot.com), her poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, Silver Birch Press, Blue Heron Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru. ** Sunrise Aches of Evening Years oh, but I’ll be up again, darlings-- blame these old bones, rigid and stubborn as your love for walks when air is cool and sun tepid; your dawn in my evening years rejuvenate as much as it bears down with all its energetic leaps; alas, my cartilages, my muscles, my nerves require horizontal walks of complete stillness for a little while—maybe a few more whiles; come, lie next to me; accompany me through this internal adventure—I hear you, my darlings, but all I need is a little while, plus a few extra whiles, and I’ll be up again! Manisha Sahoo Manisha Sahoo (she/her), from Odisha, India, has a Bachelor’s degree in Engineering and a Master’s in English. Her words have appeared/are set to appear in Inked in Gray, Borders not Bridges, Apparition Lit, Sylvia Magazine, Atticus Review, Amity, Noctivagant Press, and others. You can find her on Twitter and on Instagram @LeeSplash. ** I Search for the God of the Afternoon Doze of two dogs lying down with me of the smell of trees on their coats of the ice cream pink and blue swirl of quilts surrounding us of the pattern of light that will fade of a green dress hiked to my thigh of dreams and intricate tattoos of my right hand fallen like a fat leaf by my chin of pillows tossed to the floor of eyes that will close in a moment of dirty plates by the bed I think of then forget Catherine Anderson Catherine Anderson is the author of four full-length collections of poetry, and a recent memoir, My Brother Speaks in Dreams: Of Family, Beauty & Belonging, about growing up with her brother Charlie who had autism and was institutionalized for a time. For decades she has worked with new immigrants and refugees in the field of interpretation/translation. In her free moments, she likes to draw owls. ** Lady Dogs It's the happiest she’s been in a decade, here on the bed with Beck and Sue. He'd be horrified to see it: the bed in disarray, dogs on the duvet in animal abandon. What about the shed hairs, he’d say, my allergies, the mess that lady dogs make. She hated the term ‘lady dogs’: as if insults are improved by euphemisms. They’d had a long, gorgeous walk across the common. Beck and Sue were everywhere, scampering like crazed things: she’d never known dogs dig so many holes! But both came to heel when she called, as if they’d been acquainted for years. They hadn’t - she fetched them from Rescue Dogs that morning. But look how they adjusted to their new home, stretched-out on her bed like they’d lounged there forever! Brown haired Beck at her left, snoozing on the swirled sheets; black haired Sue playing possum, a twitch in her hind-leg the only sign of life in her weary state. When they ran to the bedroom she hadn’t even stopped to wipe their paws: she didn’t need to care anymore. She felt at peace with these dogs. She’d missed the creature-warmth of a loving presence, so lacking in her life through her years with that man: his skin like refrigerated lard; his chill, bony limbs poking holes in her patience, her will to live. She knew things would change with Beck and Sue, felt instantly connected when she collected them this morning: sweet-natured Beck’s gentle eyes, Sue’s lean snout that she likes to nuzzle with. He feared being nuzzled by dogs: shunned the wet nose that Sue forced upon him, nuzzling his face to get attention. She guessed how he’d react, claiming dogs made his asthma rage; but he was easily upset, that man. Everything annoyed him, her most of all. He didn’t like the sandy shade she dyed her hair, the way she wore her dresses short, the beautiful tattoos she’d been adding to for years, just to spite him. But dogs were the final straw: he’d fumed when she bought them home, flew into a man-rant. Asthma, asthma, asthma! He only ever thought about himself, that man. It occurs to her now that their walk across the common will be a twice-a-day routine: Beck and Sue need exercise, but now her garden’s out-of-bounds. She’d never known dogs dig so many holes: who knows what these lady dogs might find beneath the freshly-turned earth. Paul McDonald Paul McDonald taught American literature at the University of Wolverhampton for 25 years, before taking early retirement in 2019. He is the author of 20 books to date, which includes fiction, poetry and scholarship. His most recent poetry collection is 60 Poems (Greenwich Exchange Press, 2023) ** Where the Red Hair Grows “Dogs are better than human beings because they know but do not tell.” - Emily Dickinson the silence crackled and began to dance. the heat stuck to light. my two beautiful dogs. one large with long paws, movie glam, and glistened with gold. the other smaller made with silver trim, and sparkled like a star. there was a story that went back a half century. my mind drifted through the years. my wonderful memories unfolded. Michelle Hoover With thanks to Wilson Rawls, Where the Red Fern Grows, Ch. 1. Michelle “Line/breaker of the North” Hoover is an amateur poet and professional wiseacre. She lives near a mountain on unceded Ute territory with her onery feline, Stevie, the Magnificent Marshmallow. She enjoys her toes in the grass, a hardy laugh, and a backstroke under a starry sky. Her work can be found in The Ekphrastic Review; enjoy! ** Afternoon Siesta Cynthia is in deep meditation as she reclines on her wrought iron bed covered in colourful floral quilts, content with her hand on her brown lab’s neck as a stiff breeze ruffles lace curtains above the pillows. Her leafy tattoos prove her bond to nature while Cynthia’s dyed red hair and facial wrinkles remain evidence of maturity. This afternoon she is resting from a two-hour hike along the marsh, where she paused to observe a snowy egret, motionless fifty feet away with her two dogs, Zeus and Bandit. At this moment her fingers are poised on her lips-- some dark secret never to be shared. Jim Brosnan A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Long Distance Driving (2024) and Nameless Roads (2019) copies are available [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. ** King’s Walks 24 days ago, I noticed how slow King walked. His progress was usually lagging a little due to his massive bulk, but he kept falling far enough behind I had to wait for him to catch up. He was just getting on a bit, 13 now. Our afternoon walks out in the woods were the highlight of his day (if you don’t count dinner), so we still ventured out, morning and afternoon, no matter what the weather. 15 days ago, I woke up to a revolting smell. The morning light was barely slipping through the blinds in the shades. The other dogs had evacuated the bedroom, leaving King slumped on the floor surrounded by foul piles and mounds. I could see his body heaving with effort. I got out of bed and put my hand on his head; he struggled to his feet, and we walked to the truck to go to the vet’s. 13 days ago, the phone screeched out during the early morning. It scared me for a few reasons. It was the vet’s office calling to report their findings. King had cancer. And it was too late, and he was too old. No other details they shared mattered. I don’t even remember what kind they said he had. I rounded up the crew and headed into the woods while the sun was still out to warm us. 4 days ago, while I was washing dishes, I heard a crash from the hallway. I dropped the plate and was already in the doorway when the crack echoed out. King was splayed on the floor. He was fighting to get to his paws, but his legs convulsed so horrifically, it was impossible for him to get up. I crouched and pulled him to me. The convulsions stopped as darkness crept down the hallway while we were lying there. That day, nothing was done, no walks were taken. This morning, King didn’t go near his breakfast. I let the bowl out all morning. I shooed the others when they came sniffing around. That was King’s food, though he hadn’t eaten in a few days. He watched me do chores from his deflated cushion. When I took a break for a cigarette and coffee he struggled to his paws and settled his large head on my lap and cried. I understood, and I cried with him. After the walk, I got in the shower to scrub the dirt from my skin and the guilt from my heart. But it was no use, the remorse crawled into bed with me. The remaining members of my small pack joined, and I am grateful for their warm bodies, soft fur, and the unrelenting love only dogs are capable of. The first walk we took after I brought him home, King was a holy terror. He ran from me the moment I unclasped the leash. He frolicked in the mud, got stuck in the woods’ overgrowth. He attempted a small howl, but just frightened himself. I wriggled in after him and ended up with a tick. He relentlessly chased squirrels until he finally caught one, and I had to coax him with multiple treats to let the poor thing go. I remember thinking that he was hustling me. My energy was spent by the time we got back, but he bounced around like he had just woken from a full night’s sleep. When I finally scrubbed the dirt from his fur, he curled around me in front of the tv for the night. And that was how we spent almost every day. Tomorrow, I’ll call the tattoo parlor for an appointment to get a crown added to my right arm. Samantha Gorman Samantha Gorman, a lifelong lover of books, lives in Western Pennsylvania. After taking several creative writing classes, she found her voice and had begun the adventure of becoming a writer. She writes poetry, short fiction, and is working on her first novel. ** Always Three She absently rubs my neck. The woman whose name I’ve never known. I’ve been with her enough days to know she sees no one but me and Polly. Polly is what the other dog is called. She calls me Susan. She’s not been around other people so I don’t know what she is called. Many days she will lay in bed until noon, just the three of us while she stares out the window. After a long time, she will get up and give us little biscuits and a saucer of tea. Her tea is in a big cup. She will put big white shirts over her clothes and spread colours on paper. She gives them to the mailman every couple of days and he brings her money. She lives in color. She lives for color. After the day is over, she’ll sit on her little balcony alone and eat dinner, then all of us will sit together and listen to music while she reads or knits or just sits. Sometimes we’ll dance, sometimes we’ll cry. Whatever we do, it’s just the three of us. Always. Anna Svatora Anna Svatora is a high schooler in central Ohio. She has participated in a few state writing competitions and hopes to become a full-time author one day. ** Thinking Thinking, thinking, thinking. All day she spent thinking. She lay in bed just thinking of her life, thinking of her lost love, regrets, sorrows, and joys. All day, all week she spent thinking, thinking of memories of when she was young, memories of her husband she misses so dearly. She lies in bed with her dogs lost in her thoughts of all her memories she has of life, good and bad. She enjoys the time she spent thinking of those memories. She smiles slightly, “a well lived life” she thought. Abbi Dose ** My Two Dogs I lie in bed contemplating everything that a person could contemplate on a Monday morning, allowing the sun’s rays to enter my cornea and make it impossible to sleep. I looked to my left and right and my black Pocket Beagle named Rosie and my brown Labrador dog named Teddy were still snoozing even though the sun’s rays had filled the entire room, it still had not woken them or stirred them in the slightest out of their slumber. Even though both dogs were different sizes and different breeds they still manage to get along no matter what. I thought about the world and wondered about how people were unable to get along like how dogs were able to, it just doesn’t make any sense since humans are smarter than dogs and we are unable to get along. I sigh, knowing that we humans have a long way to go until we get along and so I pray to God and then get up and walk to the kitchen to prepare my dog’s food. I grab by dog’s food and walk to their bowl and pour it in and now I hear the running of paws to my location and I see my Teddy running to the food bowl but not eating it right away instead he waits for Rosie who comes running in a little bit after him and so they both start eating from the food bowl not growling at each other just eating and enjoying each others company. Samuel Verhoff ** You see, poems are not exactly my specialty. so ill do the bio. As a wee little lad, I loved to eat dirt. You see I wasn't the brightest person in that metaphorical box. But I had something even greater, since I had the IQ of a dead pigeon, I knew that I could easily eat dirt. but since I knew that dirt wasn't normally easy to eat. I thought I could try multiple things that might change the way it works. I tried soaking it in water and even trying to take it grain by grain. I realize how dumb this was about a month later, and even now I still think about it once a week. but I just felt determined by this pointless act, that would not benefit me but actually make my hours worse because of the stomach pain. After I tried multiple different ways and after I had basically given up. I had a spark of ideas, one I thought would for sure work. "if I could just put it through a strainer" I thought to myself. now I didn't own one, and to my surprise, there wasn't one in my shed either. But then I remembered the meat mallet my father used to almost crush a squirrel that got stuck in our humble home. I used it with water and a bag. I put the bag under the meat mallet and turned the mallet to the side, I used clean water and pressed the dirt against the mallet while the water flowed. turns out that's not how straining works. so I tried to, and part of my brain felt so accomplished it made the dirt not taste half bad. I haven't eaten dirt since but if something like this happens again. I'll be sure to try whatever it takes to get my dumb goal accomplished Cole Stefanovski ** The Encounter The bed is strewn with fatigue, pillows tossed about, Labradors panting on each side of he mattress and myself resting from our early walk. Before dawn, we hiked through the woods. long and slow winding through a place where everything dissolved into silhouette and the shining stillness that lingers after an Autumn rain. The moon had cast her presence on the water, a woman gowned in white - drifting on a current headed down stream where the stone depot remains with ivy sprawling over its walls; and memories have seen the sorrow of too many departures. The dogs whimpered, sensing a ghost; and I felt the shadow of a story trail behind. Someone harbored by the huddle of trees, soft-fallen of foot and voice, said to go home, fall asleep and the rest would be revealed in a dream. So here I lie fading into slumber, wondering what spirit called my name, begging me to learn of her legend. The dogs lie corpse-still, their breathing now easy, hardly heard but they know about the moon and how she parts that curtain of mist hours before most souls revisit their past. And I think the dead must breathe as they shimmer in the dark or half light, inhaling our scent knowing which ones to pursue and possess. The sky lightens with a train passing on tracks that follow the river. And I hear travelers discussing in one of the carriage cars how a lady drowned, submerging herself in the cold darkness of midnight. Her birthday just moments away; and her lover gone to the glamour of gambling A grand casino in Monte Carlo they say. La Salle des Americains known for its rich tapestries and tables spinning his life into nothing but the luck of numbers. Tomorrow I turn thirty, my husband still in Paris but his letter sits on the chair, a few inches from my hand, waiting to be read again and I realize there are no trains that go through this town, only a woman wanting to press his words against her heart, waiting to awaken from my dream. A stranger to the dogs but not this house which she owned lit by gas lamps and gloamed by the green dusk of willows -- more than a hundred years before. Wendy A. Howe Wendy Howe is an English teacher and free lance writer who lives in Southern California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, diverse landscapes, women in conflict and ancient cultures. Over the years, she has been published in an assortment of journals both on-line and in print. Among them: Strange Horizons, Liminality, Coffin Bell, Eternal Haunted Summer , The Poetry Salzburg Review, The Interpreter's House, Silver Blade Magazine, The Orchards Journal, Indelible magazine and Eye To The Telescope. Her latest work will be forthcoming in The Acropolis Journal later this year. ** Sacrament with Dogs and Tattoo Sleeve The dogs dream of running toward her right beside her the way the soul speedwalks stock still toward the body when the body’s hungers have all been checked off like items on a to-do list. I love the good bad things: the bright red heels that crush my toes like ice in an overpriced drink; scarfing stale kid’s cereal straight from the box; an afternoon in bed letting the bright unproductive light poke holes in my sorrow like the ones I’ll later stab into the film of a microwave meal. Douse me in doubt, drench me in deep lavish unknowing, like a bird bathing herself in a highway puddle. My God is a girl holding a mirror between her legs or a convenience store bathroom—perfect for when perfect doesn’t matter so much as relief. Maybe God isn’t good but where love goes to get her nails done so she doesn’t have to hold anything for a while. There are days I think I’ll layer my floors in filthy laundry if it means I don’t have to walk anywhere I haven’t already been. I want to let my dogs out and then watch them rub their street-slick snouts on my sheets. Like a low-cut dress, life won’t ask you to bend over but is what is revealed when you do. Lexi Pelle Lexi Pelle was the winner of the 2022 Jack McCarthy Book prize. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rattle, Ninth Letter, Plume, SWWIM and The Shore. She is the author of the poetry collection Let Go With The Lights On (Write Bloody Publishing, 2023). ** Allison Wright lay in bed as the early morning sunlight filled her room through the open window. The cool springtime air caused her curtains to rise up and fall back down slowly. It was a beautiful day, but she could not be more nervous. Today was the day. Race day. Not just any kind of race though, Allison competed in dog racing. She stroked her golden retriever, Holly, absentmindedly as she stared up at the red walls and ceiling of her room. Her other arm rested against her other dog Skye, who was lying on her back, all four fluffy legs in the air. She believed that she was a Beagador, half beagle, half labrador, with fluffy black fur, with white patches of white on her chest and toes. Holly rose gently up and down as she slept, but Skye’s tail continued to wack Allison’s arm as she grinned mischievously up at her owner over her furry stomach. Skye was full of energy, while Holly was very calm, except when people came over. The two of them obviously were not racing dogs, but they still came to the races to watch their older brother Bandit, her greyhound, compete. When she had competed in track and cross country in her high school years, Bandit had run with her when he was a little puppy when she was practicing, and she had realized how fast and talented he was. They started small, competing in the annual town race, which was easily won. After that they took on the state, and now she was twenty-one and the two of them were about to compete in the country wide race. She glanced over at her clock; it was 7:39. Better get going she thought, and she climbed out of bed, causing Holly to wake up and stare at her with sleepy eyes. Skye, on the other hand, rolled over, falling off the side of the bed, and bounded up to Allison, jumping up and down excitedly. She changed out of her green nightgown into a dark gray t-shirt with a picture of Hawaii, which she hoped to visit someday, and pulled on a pair of jeans. She never wore makeup, which her older sister, Kaylee, never understood, so she did not waste any time on that. She then pulled her copper colored hair up into a messy bun, brushed Holly and Skye’s fur until they were both silky and shiny, and went downstairs for some breakfast. She glanced at the clock in the kitchen as she prepared the dog’s food first. It was around 7:50, she would need to leave at 8:15. About an hour later they were pulling up to her parents house. As she began to open up the car door, Skye pushed her way through it, and Allison had to quickly grab her leash, Skye especially hated car rides. Holly and Bandit followed. She was about to reach the doorstep when the door opened and her two little nieces, Bridget and Madeline, ran out to greet her. “Hi Aunt Alli!” they squealed happily before dropping down to pet the dogs instantly. Allison laughed, and looked up to see Kaylee and her husband Derrick in the doorway, smiling at her. “Hey little sis,” Kaylee walked down and gave her a hug. Derrick followed, greeting Allison with an embrace as well, and offered to take the leashes. She thanked him, and handed Holly and Skye over to him, but kept Bandit, who stayed close to her. She walked towards the house and found two boys standing in the door this time. One was her nephew, Cason, and the other was her younger brother, Noah. She was just barely finished saying hello to them when she was suddenly becoming squished from all over as her mother and father joined the group hug. Once everyone had finished their greetings, they started heading out to lunch; the dogs stayed home, of course. There they met up with her grandparents, a few aunts, uncles, cousins, and some friends. They all caught up with one another and talked excitedly about the race. A few hours later, Allison was on the road again, pulling into the racetrack’s parking lot. Only Bandit was with her this time; the other two dogs were riding with the family. She walked him over to the track. He sniffed excitedly at the ground, his tail wagging enthusiastically. Bandit loved to race, just like Allison. She smiled down at him. Even after all these years he still reminded her of that little puppy bounding down the high school’s track next to her. They went inside the building where the racers gathered, preparing their dogs for the contest, for victory. Allison stroked Bandit, while he nuzzled his face into her lap. After a while she glanced at her watch. It was almost 6:00. She could already hear the crowd. The announcer started to call the dogs and their owners out to the track. The race was about to begin. Becca Bates Becca Bates is a freshman at Granville Christian Academy. She plays volleyball for her school's team, and has written and published a book with two of her friends, Earth Defenders: Alien Attack. ** This Life Daddy said go on and live your life, Don’t get old with regrets like your mama and I, Take one step forward until you feel what’s right, You won’t always have time on your side. Daddy says he feels seventeen inside, Yet the glass shows an old man with his eyes, He knows that life has somehow passed him by, With no turning back, no matter how hard he tries. Sometimes I feel like I want to stay in bed, Pull the covers up high right over my head, Pretend the world’s heard all that needs to be said, That my scars will stop bleeding because they’ve already bled. Then I hear daddy’s voice in my mind, Saying honey remember there’s no thing as rewind, Put one step forward, you will be just fine, Your two steps back were just a moment in time. My feet hit the floor from guilt or drive, I push myself forward and start the climb, Perhaps his sadness isn’t just for what he left behind, But for fear that his life could be repeated as mine. Corrie Pappas Corrie Pappas is a small business owner living outside Boston. Her work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review and she is the author of the children’s book, Come Along and Dream. ** A Question She lies awake, burrowed into a bloom of quilts, a flurry of pink and turquoise, yellow and indigo. Her mind races like her Golden Boy on the wooded path. He’s dozing now, warm against her left flank, the spot he favours. Blacky lies on her right, legs splayed, belly exposed and vulnerable. They smell of leaves and earth. She watches the shadow of the old oak shape shift across the ceiling as the day winds down. She strokes her lips, ponders her husband’s return, whether there’s room for him. Susan Carman ** JOIN KATE COPELAND FOR AN EKPHRASTIC BREAKFAST ON PAINTED PETS! Plus, Lorette on Writing Ghost Stories this weekend, and more. Our workshops are about connection, creativity, and community. Write, learn about art, and connect with the worldwide ekphrastic community! Painted Pets
CA$35.00
On Zoom. $35CAD/25USD. Sunday November 10 2024. 10 to 12 est Join us for an ekphrastic Sunday brunch! Bring coffee, tea, and breakfast if you wish and join editors Lorette and Kate Copeland online for a romp with Fido and Felix. Lorette will show some fascinating paintings featuring cats, dogs, and other pets. And Kate, a linguist who is also a professional petsitter, will talk about the language of our animal companions and how we form relationships with them. She will have some writing exercises to inspire us on the theme. Writing Ghost Stories
CA$35.00
A generative session on Zoom for ghost story ideas. We'll look at some ghostly and ghastly paintings from art history to get inspired. You will consider what it means to be haunted, brainstorm possibilities for horrifying poems and stories that go bump in the night, and generate some drafts. You can write poetry or short fiction. Sunday October 20, 2024 2 to 4 pm eastern standard time $35Canadian dollars is approximately $25USD The Madonna in Art: a Discovery Workshop
CA$35.00
Join us on Monday, December 9 from 2 to 4 pm eastern standard time, for a discovery workshop on the Madonna in art history. We will look at the history of the Virgin Mary in visual art around the world, and learn the secrets of the symbols that accompany her, the meanings of different renderings and styles, and much more. The first half of this workshop will be a tour of visual images and discussion of the art and artists. In the second half, we will use some of the imagery to inspire contemplation and creativity, with prompts for poems or short fiction. This week's prompt is with Halloween in mind! Sign up for our Writing Ghost Stories workshop on zoom, October 20th! Our zoom workshops are lively sessions curated to inspire and inform. In this session, we will look at a variety of artworks on the theme of ghosts and use them to inspire poems and stories. You can register by scrolling to the end of this challenge post. ** 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 The Old Hall, by John Anster Fitzgerald. Deadline is October 25, 2024. You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way. Scroll down to donate $5CAD (about $3.75 USD). 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to [email protected]. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry. 5.Include FITZGERALD CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, October 25, 2024. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 15. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly. ** Sign up for our Writing Ghost Stories workshop on zoom, October 20th! Our zoom workshops are lively sessions curated to inspire and inform. In this session, we will look at a variety of artworks on the theme of ghosts and use them to inspire poems and stories. The Copper Thunderbird "I will give to them an undivided heart and put a new spirit in them; I will remove from them their heart of stone and give them a heart of flesh." Ezekiel 11:19 The turtle hissed beneath the leaves. Beetles swarmed the bright marquee of a local movie house. Fall and Spring, You and I in the balcony -- summer gone to winter dreams -- our lives transformed by the magic of film in the same way nature changes cycles and time holds us, as Dylan Thomas said, green and dying. I knew the Raven, actually a Blackbird, would wait in the oak trees to cry out that its eyes were art; that the Ojibwe would find the land where food grew on water, and how their hearts would read the stones, the petroglyphs, symbols of their songs and dances while we explored the world of rock'n'roll on a night-drenched driveway until a turquoise Ford Thunderbird would carry our "tribe" to the Holiday House... Norval (from Scots Norman, North Valley) was called the Picasso of the North. In poor health at our age, his life was saved by the animal wisdom of the seven clans -- the bear, who protects: the fish who grows legs and becomes the turtle; the deer, with hooves that heal, like the horse; and the bird with spiritual knowledge of the skies, the moon and stars. How full the moon, like an Ojibwe moon-mask, as it sailed over houses in North Austin; above places where we danced summoning the spirits of teenage love as heavenly shades of night were falling on a 45 rpm record. If the earth were as simple as day & night a world created in black & white (but it isn't) how would the thunderbird signal the rain, the lightning that "snakes" from under its wings? The sound of a storm and what does it mean? The sun set in copper, with pigments of light, as in visionary puzzles -- how an artist imagined the Thunderbird's flight. Laurie Newendorp Honoured many times, and twice nominated for Best of The Net by The Ekphrastic Review, Laurie Newendorp is a poet writing in Houston. Her love of animals, art and archaeology surface in "The Copper Thunderbird, " the name that Morrisseau's grandfather, a medicine man, gave his sick grandson as it was an indigenous Indian belief that a new name, as a part of a healing ritual, would restore health, creating a new person. The Holiday House is a drive-in hamburger restaurant in Austin, Texas. ** Cycles for Morrisseau
Lunar cycles, sun cycles, carbon cycles, water cycles. Many sacred rotations, spinning, churning a vast centrifuge. Mother mitochondria, organelles dance and revel with energy. Cells rollicking in minuscule sparks, our symbiotic ancestors. An infinitesimal seed. Germinates, then cracks in a burst of vitality. Emergent creatures vie for oxygen. Giants breathe under sapphire waters. Crawling, hopping, flying, digging, climbing, strutting. Eyes, fur, teeth, feathers, bones. Bodies filled with liquid. We live, die, and become something mysterious. May the world keep cycling again and again to sanctify the wonder of life. Rachel Prizant Kotok Rachel Prizant Kotok (she/her) is the author of Morpho Didius, a collection of palindromic poetry (Armature Publishing, 2024). A finalist for the Tucson Festival of Books Literary Award for Poetry, she is a finalist for Southwest Review’s Morton Marr Poetry Prize. Her work has appeared in Tiferet Journal, Star 82 Review, The Centifictionist, Wend Poetry, and elsewhere. She teaches English learners, lives in New England, and keeps a Gregor Samsa beetle figurine nearby when she writes. ** cycles norval morrisseau also known as copper thunderbird a picture is worth a thousand stories your throbbing colours tell and retell the stories passed down to you stories that nourished your people stories of the cycle of life like the generations of salmon glutted red returning to their death to birth then nurture their watery grave your throbbing colours tell and retell the stories of your own life that you honored as you struggled through your own telling finally there were the stories of the theft of your sacred gift crafted from your visions and dreams such were the stories that shaped you and now your memory like the red salmon glutted with life Lou Ella Hickman Author's note: Salmon take on a red colour just before spawning. Sister Lou Ella Hickman, OVISS is a former teacher and librarian whose writings have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies. Press 53 published her first book of poetry in 2015 entitled she: robed and wordless. She was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2017 and in 2020. James Lee III composed “Chavah’s Daughters Speak” for a concert held on May 11, 2021, at 92Y in New York City for five poems from her book. Another concert was held in Cleveland, Ohio on March 28, 2023, sponsored by the Cleveland Chamber Music Society. Her second book of poetry, Writing the Stars, will be released on October 4, 2024. (Press 53). ** Cycles Thinnest wavering lines connect us. That, and the red we all share. Blood red that seizes your attention. Black lines and vermillion make your eye move In a circle. A cycle. Where does it begin or end? Do you recognize us? Are you sure? We traverse verdant land and emerald sea Our bodies overlap. We need each other like earth needs ocean. Like you need us. Bill Richard Bill Richard is a docent at the Phoenix Art Museum and has loved art since he sat on his dad’s lap as a toddler and looked at books of paintings. He is also a standardized patient for medical schools, helping prepare future health professionals by giving them feedback on their communication skills. His poems have appeared in publications such as Red River Review, Ilya’s Honey, and National Catholic Reporter. ** Sacred Hoop I. Look to the east as the tadpole hatches, catches horizon, glides from sea to Mother Earth. II. Look to the south as the fawn matures to doe under the moon. III. Look to the west where a sun-kissed whale cow strives for water’s surface. IV. Look to the north, to star-studded Father Sky, the turtle creeping into the sea to die. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She is pursuing a World Art History Certificate from Smithsonian Associates as she works on a full-length ekphrastic poetry collection. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, Nimrod, Cimarron Review, ONE ART, and elsewhere. She lives and teaches in New Jersey and can be found at www.barbarakrasner.com. ** To Norval Morrisseau Regarding Cycles You speak in ancient seeming glyphs of timeless climbs to final cliffs from blackened depths to dampened beach, from there to peaks the mountains reach that pierce the very atmosphere the conscious know as engineer of moisture's cyclic fall and rise permitting living enterprise to draw from common circumstance, at peril wrought by random chance, existence both of self and sort such evidence will long report as heritage of time and space that dawn renews for life's embrace. Portly Bard Portly Bard: Prefers to craft with sole intent... of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise for words but from returning gaze far more aware of fortune art becomes to eyes that fathom heart. ** The Cycle Continues A coincidental thing occurred when I looked at “Cycles,” the Morrisseau painting-my Brother, Jay, had sent me an article about an “air bike” he had fashioned from Copious spare parts, garnered at little cost, he was known for squeezing a Dime until it cried, he probably still has each one of our grandfather’s special socks- Economy was in grandpa’s genes too, except for Christmas time, when he proffered Full length crew socks to each of us, brimming with his spare change, rubber-banded, Garaged in his underwear drawer for the last year, a favorite gift that I had to Habituate myself to accepting without comment, knowing even a tiny discrepancy Ignited fury, Jay’s face turning from glad to a mask of pain, at the thought of being Jerked around by grandpa, as if there was a conspiracy to give me a quarter more- King Jay was forbidden to count his money during our family celebration, & he always Loathed waiting for the car ride home to do it, & for my part, I kept quiet, trying not to Murmur one word about how much my haul was that year. I would pick out one shiny Nickel and give it to him, saying he now had five cents more than me. There was no Opposition in the car, he didn’t want to incur the wrath of dad, impatient to get home to Pabst and his motorcycles, hand-built built with precision and style, & he was often Queried by magazines and newspapers about his fabulous cycles, (one with two engines)- Resplendent with chrome kickstands-- and my mother, sitting atop the custom-leather seat, Stunning, with her Jackie-Kennedy hair and pink lipstick, and my brother, an acolyte Transfixed, but too restless to be taught first-hand by the master, who, sadly, left last August, Utilizing his last breath to reassure us, (he that was so unsure of the world) of love, but Veering back to the article, I know if dad could read it, he’d smile so big, as his boy Wielding some sass, was quoted “I loved the idea of a bicycle with an Evinrude motor” Xenogeneic, this hybrid cycle was touted as an original masterpiece by Farm Show Magazine Zealot of the bargain, he said the total cost was $150.00. I don’t doubt it. The cycle goes on. Debbie Walker-Lass Debbie Walker-Lass is a poet, writer, and collage artist living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared inPunk Monk Journal, Three-Line Poetry, Haiku Poetry, The Light Ekphrastic, The Ekphrastic Review, and The Niagara Falls Poetry Journal, among others. She has recently appeared in local spoken-word showcases & attended the Rockvale Writer’s Residency earlier this year. Go Braves, (There’s always another season!) ** Cycles He was a collector of stories, as beachcombers collect. He assembled some of them here, for the Anishinaabe—the people of First Nations. Here is Mi-zhee-kay, the turtle who saved the world from the great flood. Here is Mishi-ginebig, the horned serpent who lives underwater, its shed skin symbolizing rebirth. Here is the fiercest of all,Misshipeshu, the Great Lynx with spines on its back, master of the water and adversary of the Thunderbird, master of the air. And others, all with tales. These are stories that twist good and evil, forward and back, male and female, in the Two-Spirit world that transforms one thing into another. It is all here in the storyboard: the cycle becomes a transmutation of life and death, of non-human and almost-human. I watch them cycling ‘round and the painting becomes kinetic, a kaleidoscope of form and color. There is no right-side-up here; turn it as you wish. These images magnify the oral tradition. We anthropologists collect them, stories and images alike. Henry Schoolcraft assembled tales from these Ojibwe, Franz Boaz from the Inuit, both of them reflecting our fascination with folklore a century back. Longfellow created his own story here: Hiawatha, the misnamed Ojibwe warrior, Manabozho. Stories worth telling, worth seeing in pictures. Beachcombers, all of us, our collections keep these stories from washing away. Ron Wetherington Ron Wetherington is a retired anthropologist living in Dallas, Texas. He has a published novel, Kiva (Sunstone Press, 2014), creative non-fiction, including prose-poems, in The Dillydoun Review, Literary Yard, Penumbra, Abandon Journal and The Ekphrastic Review, and short fiction in Words & Whispers, Adanna, Androids & Dragons, and in Flash Fiction Magazine. ** All these stones, incised with stories, rattling around in the gaps 1 My memory is faulty and full of holes-- and yet the fossils of my youth keep turning up, unsought. 2 Is ancient farther away than yesterday?-- each is a gesture to something that no longer exists. 3 Embedded in my bones is the urge to transcend their gravity. I tell myself that my body is merely a vessel. 4 Chaotic remnants, scraps of the unfounded-- I feel them trembling inside me. 5 Nothing disappears. What is it that I need to do to find out what belongs to me? Kerfe Roig A resident of New York City, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. Follow her explorations on her blogs, https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/ (which she does with her friend Nina), and https://kblog.blog/. ** A Healing Frame For vibrant colour, outline clear, here’s Copper Thunderbird at work as cycles round in credal dance, though new name, ancient healing stance. His faith was catholic, as meant, evolving fusion’s widest spread First Nation to the mystical, including apostolic thread as borne of fire, whisky risk dread. Would he divulge too much himself - taboo to share his native myths? With Cree syllabics as his sign, once moose hide, birchbark for his line. From ten his school was hunt, fish, trap, and draw in elders’ discipline. An influencer, Thunder Bay, he made his mark on Woodland folk, new glyph traditions now bespoke. A constable Shepparded him to meet those who could open doors; a mural, Expo ’67 (I hold postcard my teacher sent!) - while vinyl, movies, screened his art, and astral travel played its part. Earth tones near neon here we see, glass stained as pained by struggles, faith; flogged fakes for real as fraudsters found, but not his soul, artist unbound. 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 ** Melancholy by the Creek The intense summer retreated Leaving the creek an old man- Cracked and dry and thin- Hiding in the autumnal mist. I plunge cupped hands in, pull them out, The water clear yet a crowded microscopic soup. What tiny creatures have I plucked from their home And their everyday business? Have they existed only these last twenty-four hours or have they seen rise of the dinosaurs? will they witness the fall of man? Even smaller than these unseen critters are their atoms. Could they be made of the same carbon that once composed my Great-great-great-grandfather that I never knew? And what about the atoms contained in my own cells. Joan of Arc’s hydrogen or Robert Frost’s nitrogen? I’d be honoured and bewildered. These tiny beings and me, I hope we do good with these atoms While they are us, then go on to do better. Samantha Gorman Samantha Gorman, a lifelong lover of books, lives in Western Pennsylvania. After taking several creative writing classes, she found her voice and had begun the adventure of becoming a writer. She writes poetry, short fiction, and is working on her first novel. ** Dream – The Aggañña Sutta1 for Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha) Do man’s visions last? / Do man’s illusions? / Take things as they come / All things pass. Lao Tzu, "All Things Pass" Beyond the delusions of ‘immutable will/predestination’ and deterministic frameworks of ‘good ‘n evil,’ there’s an electromagnetism of the replicative Cycles of Cause ‘n Effect—where the electrons are the apostles of duality (prevail both as particles ‘n waves); where the protons never meet their demise (only morph into neutral pions and positrons); where the neutrinos are disciples of anti-matter (shape-shift into muons and taus at will);2 where the ‘universal constants’ struggle for the room to roam; where the Platonic ‘ideal forms’ are deprived of all value; where the psyche (spirit) is emancipated from the cobwebs of the ‘sacred tablets;’ where the asuras (devas ‘n devis) themselves are the loyal subjects to the continuum of dialectical ballet dance of prakriti and purusha;3 where the quest for a ‘universal prologue ‘n epilogue’ is as futile as desiring the O2 to manifest as a single molecule in the realm of Mu,4 his R.E.M. gets dissolved by the cock-a-doodle-do of a rooster’s at circa seven ante meridiem; he at once resolves to the digital stylus ‘n tablet to poem the dream while ‘tis still fresh like the spring water flowing down the temple of the Himalayas. Saad Ali 1. Aggañña Sutta: The creation narrative in the Buddhist tradition, which professes the cyclical nature of the existence/cosmos and its processes – without the need for a Divine Being, such as, Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva et al – where the expansion and contraction is repetitive. 2. McKee, M. (2014), “This Shape-Shifter Could Tell Us Why Matter Exists,” Nautilus. 3. Prakriti and Purusha: In the Samkhya School of Thought (Hindu Philosophy), ‘prakriti’ denotes matter and ‘purusha’ denotes conscious energy. 4. Mu: In Zen Buddhism (Chan School of Thought), ‘Mu’ denotes nothing(ness), without reason/purpose, et cetera. Saad Ali (b. 1980 CE in Okara, Pakistan) – bilingual poet-philosopher & literary translator – has been brought up and educated in the UK and Pakistan. He holds a BSc and an MSc in Management from the University of Leicester, UK. His new collection of poems is Owl Of Pines: Sunyata (AuthorHouse, 2021). He has translated Lorette C. Luzajic’s ekphrases into Urdu. His poetry appears in The Ekphrastic Review, The Mackinaw, Synchronized Chaos, two Anthologies by Kevin Watt (ed.), and two e-Anthologies at TER. He has been nominated for the Best of the Net. His ekphrases have been showcased at Bleeding Borders, Art Gallery of Grande Prairie in Alberta, Canada. His influences include Vyasa, Homer, Attar, Rumi, Nietzsche, Dostoyevsky, Freud, Jung, Kafka, Tagore, Lispector, et alia. He enjoys learning different languages, travelling by train, and exploring cities/towns on foot. To learn further about his work, please visit: www.facebook.com/owlofpines. ** Degrees of Magnitude: Three Earthquakes The first. Awakened from a deep sleep, I screech like a macaw whose tail is pulled. I’m certain I’m being attacked. A malicious intruder is hiding beneath my bed, stretched flat on the carpet. His hand is gripping the mattress frame, shaking it. He’s kangaroo-kicking the supports, making sure I’m petrified with fear before he leaps up to throttle me. That’s the only possible explanation. My bed rattles loudly, like a cup filled with dice. Everything else around me is as tranquil as a meadow. No pictures have fallen off the walls. No crashing sounds are coming from the kitchen. Ceilings haven’t crumbled. Walls haven’t cracked. Table lamps haven’t broken. This can’t be an earthquake. The second. Quickly, I estimate how far I have to run. Five steps. A door is supposed to be a better spot to stand during seismic activity than the middle of a room. If a house is properly constructed, the lintels are reinforced by timber studs under the plaster. Can I reach the safety of the arch in time? The floor is rolling like a board mounted on ball bearings. I begin to doubt my ability to walk, or to balance. Once, on a sailboat, I felt this same uncertainty, and yearned for sea legs. Now the earth is a surfacing whale. Waves are rippling over its back. Rock-solid foundations pinning the building in the ground seem to slide, the way a melting ice cube slides over a puddle of water. For the full minute the temblor lasts, I’m the prisoner of a whirlpool. Finally, the upheaval weakens in strength, the tempo of convulsion slows. Under my shoes, a fainter motion continues, small aftershocks that crawl instead of undulating, the twitching movements of a bug on a rock creeping back and forth and side to side. Drifting atop our planet’s molten core, the continent seems to hesitate, trying to decide where its new resting place will be. The third. On arrival at my office job one morning, I’m met by a friendly colleague who invites me into our warehouse. He’s given me the tour before, knows how impressed I was by the aisles of massive metal racks, eight feet tall, piled high and heavy with boxes of products. They’ve shifted positions overnight. Those fixtures wouldn’t budge if assaulted by a platoon of workers, or rammed by a forklift. Tremors displaced them as easily as if they were made of toothpicks. Across the length of the cavernous space, the long rows are snaking. There’s no other word to describe the curves. As I struggle to comprehend what I’m seeing, similar images float into my mind. Water meandering along loops in the San Joaquin River. Ridges being traced by wind across the contours of a sand dune. The shelves have preserved for us the path they followed, the shape of how the earthquake moved. K Roberts K Roberts is a professional non-fiction writer, a published artist, and a first reader for two magazines that publish experimental prose. Recent essays have been accepted for publication in Soundings East, Axon: Creative Expressions, and The Listening Eye. ** Serifs. From the margins of the text From the frayed edges From between the insular script From underneath the sleeves of sleep From the kinks of synapses From the margins of the text From the frayed edges From microscopic spores in fingerprints from crushed up foragings From the margins of the text From the frayed edges Creatures emerge and evolve to crawl From the pages out into the forest From the margins of the text From the frayed edges Limbs and tails unfurl from ink and pinpricks Wings claws teeth peck out through bindings Fledglings fall tumble slither disentangle from the scriptures From the margins of the text From the frayed edges Creatures emerge and evolve to crawl Limbs and tails unfurl from ink From the margins of the text From the frayed edges Eyes blink open Lungs breathe air Skin stretches into shape Hearts begin to beat. Saskia Ashby Saskia is a UK experimental fine artist who enjoys being active across a broad field and encouraging others to be creative without anxiety . ** All Things Green for grass that nourishes, for the buds of early Spring the emerald, olive and darker tones of the leaves of the summer forest. The Earth Mother, brown, umber nurturer, sustainer, provider creates the colours of wild flowers the plants which feed and heal. Blue for the sky, whose dome reflects its changing moods of brightness, menace, anger; the dark fury of the storm, the fierceness of the lightning. Blue too for mountain streams, river rapids that roar through canyons meander lazily to the oceans which ebb and flow to the lunar cycle. White for the virgin snow for the soft clouds of Summer, for the lace woven on the waves for the angry spray on falls. Bound into the seasons’ cycles, the fish, the turtles, and all the myriad, watery, creatures. The bear wandering the wilderness, the imperial eagle, the mountain King The moose too with its great antlers. All are intricately bound, part of a green, brown, blue and white seamless whole even the fall of a sparrow challenges the rhythm or pattern. Sarah Das Gupta Sarah Das Gupta is a writer from Cambridge who enjoys many types of art and found herself in agreement with Morrisseau's ideas. ** I Blink The water dimples beneath my feet, the greenery intertwined with the rocks so vivid, they couldn’t be the bottom, but here I hover several feet above them, the sun warming my iridescent body. I flit over the water after my brief respite, the wind rushing around my translucent wings-- I blink. My pink tongue envelopes the small creature that flew right into my path, the perfect treat on this fine, sunny day. The warmth of the green leaf I spread my toes, and taking in one last look of the vast blue sky with wispy clouds of white, the trees of immeasurable height that my cousins house in, I leap from my perch and, with a soft plop, I dive, the cool water cocoons me. I kick to begin my swim-- I blink. I swallow the fighting frog, its tiny body no match to mine. After watching it for several minutes, it finally jumped, having no clue to its fate once in my domain. My belly now satisfied, I glide through the water, my scales glinting with my movement under the sun’s beams that filter through the restless substance of my home. In deep thought, I travel towards shallower territory, unbeknownst to me, as I enjoy my peaceful journey-- I blink. A satisfying crack of bone explodes in my mouth, my powerful jaws destroying my meal in seconds. Swallowing, I feel it travel the length of my body until it settles in the pit that is my stomach. Swaying my body back and forth, I slither through the rocks, the grass, the roots of nature’s maze. The sun warms my body, and I take a deep breath, allowing myself to just be, not worry about where to go, where to be, where to start over. The ground shudders, an audible rumble echoes, but I pay no heed, watching the flowers bend and bow under wind and fellow creatures-- I blink. My claws sink into fine flesh, the fresh scent of iron blood seeps into the air. I grin. My feathers ruffle in the wind as my arms flap furiously, fighting for height. Once up high enough, I rest my arms, gliding along the sky, in line with the trees of reds, golds, and greens. With gentle beats, I hover with the wind’s help, passing off my slithery kill to my loving partner to feed our youngsters. With one last glance, I dive back down, looking for another unsuspecting creature to finish off our meal. The soft tips of the grass tickle my arms as I pass over the ground, searching, searching, searching-- I blink. The screech ends abruptly, my prey not having time to realize, it was my meal, having watched it tease me as it flew so graciously over and around in circles over my head for hours. But now it came down to me and it became mine to eat. Fly no more, it shall not tease me with its elegance any longer. Grumbling, I waddle my way along the rocky ground, the clatter giving away my location long before my hiss or lengthy short body could ever hope to accomplish. All who see me fear my long, jagged teeth embedded in my camouflaged skin, allowing me to hide on both land and in water. As I slip into the clear liquid, I watch as a buzzing fly lands on the water, its tiny, black feet hardly denting its surface-- I blink. Katie Davey Katie Davey is an aspiring author from the rural parts of House Springs, MO. She has published two pieces through two separate challenges for the Ekphrastic Review, the first titled Hidden Prophecies as part of the Richard Challenge, and the second titled Listen Well, Listen All, of My Tale to Caution All as part of the Vicente Challenge. She has worked on Harbinger Magazine as a staff intern and is a member of Stephens College's chapter of Sigma Tau Delta. She earned her BFA in Creative Writing, with minors in Equestrian Studies and Psychology, at Stephens College in May 2024. 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 After the Walk, by Lyn Aylward. Deadline is October 11, 2024. 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. 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 AYLWARD 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, October 11, 2024. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 15. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly. |
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