 An Urban Tree, by Suzy King (Australia) contemporary Only Connect So caught up in this web of wires, though spiderbeam maintaining all, in ether’s where the power lies - with no escape from ties that bind. Once mycorrhiza at its root, now route held as its canopy, this tree of life, its bark now byte, was current totem of this tribe. Like pylons marching cross the vale - this outlook not for outback too - but crossing for the local train of eyes surveying what’s below. See shoots break, twigs, from seasoned wood; despite its urban work, urbane, humility in bearing loads - another tree cross comes to mind. With clasps, gripped clips, pole dancing would bring gasp when grasp what voltage streamed; vein lifeblood coursing city lines, this ruby flow with barbs, bolts, knots. ’Mongst light, string shadows, looking up, with tackle found round junction box, both bands and blocks by column shaft, some curvature of curlicues. Connections found in detail oiled, these interactions of the scape, the labours of those engineers who grounded means, communicate. Here’s infrastructure, history, with birds and bees, community; how good it is to celebrate the vision of true artistry. 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 ** A Silent Buzz As current flows through the wires That almost inaudible buzz inspires Waking up each intended recipient A poke in their brain, yet innocent Conveying that critical information For some subsequent dissemination Whether as a secret or even shared Or for an announcement prepared At a distance, that buzz is the same Never knowing from whom it came But wires almost seem to never end From pole to pole ‘til they descend Where a buzz is converted to sound And its clearer meanings are found But even then, it might still not die As it’s likely that there’ll be a reply Howard Osborne Howard is a UK citizen, retired. Published author of non-fiction reference book, scientific papers and poetry. Interests mainly creative writing (poetry, novel, short stories, songs and scripts), music and travel. ** The Telephone Pole My big brother propelled my small body towards the wooden pole that had all those cables crossing high up in the sky. He pressed my ear to the wood and we stood silent while I listened to the little people that lived inside the pole, murmuring in the old language. 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 (and rejected) widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was several times nominated for a Pushcart’and Best of Net. Her eighth book Life Stuff was published by Kelsay Books (November 2023). A new chapbook, The Matter Of Words, Kelsay Books (June 2025) is now on Amazon, and she just finished a new, full-length manuscript. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/ ** Hangs in Balance Almost Always Precariously At any juncture, the world might change... A message sent, another delayed Nothing's ever guaranteed to remain the same... Whatever interlinks us all We call fate and destiny Hangs in balance almost always precariously Almost always precariously One heart might swim while another might drown... The proof is in living out your dreams... And realizing all that you can become And realizing all that you can become And realizing all that you can imagine Without subtraction, subtraction, subtraction. At any juncture, the world might change... A message sent, another delayed A fallen angel no longer descends... But is gratefully rescued from any more turmoil And equally an innocent is saved... from being enslaved to a darkness uncaged, nocturnal that wants to see you drown without hope while another wants to see you flourish unscathed While even now another wants to see a prince The prince has been transformed. Turned into a toad. Turned into a toad. One that’s disfigured on the journey home On the road. On the journey home. One heart might swim while another might drown... The proof is in living out your dreams... And realizing all that you can become And realizing all that you can become And realizing all that you can imagine Without subtraction, subtraction, subtraction. That is the only way to avoid dissatisfaction. Dissatisfaction, dissatisfaction And find some real traction. Mark Andrew Heathcote Mark Andrew Heathcote is an adult learning difficulties support worker. His poems have been published in journals, magazines, and anthologies online and in print. He is from Manchester and resides in the UK. Mark is the author of In Perpetuity and Back on Earth, two books of poems published by Creative Talents Unleashed. ** Urban Tree: a Stobie Pole Reverie When I dream, I look up. I see realness and rot Texture and termites Topped with glorious Jumbles of wire. But I am steel and concrete Tie-bolted and flanged Smooth and bare Without crevice or crack. Then I look down And see you on the ground With stencils and paint Making me beautiful, Making me art. Lara Dolphin A descendant of immigrants, Lara Dolphin lives with her family among the Allegheny Mountains of Central Pennsylvania on the ancestral land of the Susquehannock/Iroquois people. She has written three chapbooks In Search of the Wondrous Whole, Chronicle of Lost Moments, and At Last a Valley. She, like countless others, hopes for a world filled with greater peace. ** Night Call Over Broken Wires The phone rings that way after midnight, when the first deep cycle of sleep is almost complete, when dreams are raw and the throat thickens. In one, the one that keeps threading itself on a spool to be projected on closed eyelids, ravens roost on urban trees within my head, there is a gray road and bare wires roped from bent electrical poles anointed with pitch. These stretch over the edge of a flat horizon. We walk without a word, familiar strangers, facing orange clouds that rise ahead. And when it starts to rain, I fall awake. The voice at that early hour breaks with grief, as I try to picture a face and form the words to stop this crying, pretending my motive is love. Royal Rhodes Royal Rhodes is a poet who lives in rural Ohio, surrounded by a nature conservancy and Amish farms. He enjoys the birds, deer, and other creatures who are his neighbours. ** Wood Wide Web We, humans, live in a bandwidth of mimicry Grow within a mainframe of intimacy Taking protocols from nature and translating them into Java and C++ And as urbanized, buzz-tree beings We work within thresholds; often not seeing The web of networked, electrical architecture feeding us To the deep dark below, we route our data In value shaped brackets coding <banana banana banana> With cabled server braids in an exchange of resource packages Reaching the cloud above, we scale Jenga’s fragile tower While the MPS are increasing, we are slowing to trickle charge power A missing markup beyond reality 101 fails and fractures But there is agility in our development Secrets the trees give us in their operating system We have no more to do but rise beyond our screens Search bar the sky in GPS synced time Right click the UX of natural whys And appreciate the forests’ beauty lining our streets Brendan Dawson Brendan Dawson is an American born writer based in Italy. He writes from his observations and experiences while living, working, and traveling abroad. Currently, he is compiling a collection of poetry and short stories from his time in the military and experiences as an expat. ** Bodies in Place Even a hint of a shape or form awaken memories long thought to be extinct: There were trees there are trees no more but they do in fact every so often undergo resurrection as phantom images, fata morganas, and holograms carefully piled between day and night where I have lost myself But why? Just to remind me and tell me again as if I never heard that they live on in fragments of remembrance sometimes they even attain fragrances carried by the wind Now I remember! They spoke in languages beyond words voices so timid they weren’t often heard in the street Now I remember! Trees had faces Trees had faces whose fleeting glances helped hold bodies firmly in place in the world Jakob Brønnum Jakob Brønnum has published poetry and other work in his native Danish and in English. His latest books are the partly ekphrastic A Poetry Encyclopedia of Dreams (Cyberwit, 2025) and Dreamscape Journeys (Cyberwit, 2025). He lives in Sweden. ** Progress In the fields the pylons march like futuristic giants their wires bristling and ready to spark with power and domination offering no haven. In the streets the poles stand, bees buzzing in the shelter of their wires. Their trunks stand still wooden, statuesque, hoping to stay unnoticed as their wires rust with flakes falling like autumn leaves. Soon both will have to go underground. Lynn White Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries ofdream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for Pushcarts, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Magazine, Firewords, Vagabond Press, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes Journal. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com. ** Connections The sky weaves and unweaves distances into a tree of messages. The criss-crossing signals branch to connect, to communicate the right notes of green. Coherent fragments of syllables are held by nuts, clasped by bolts – the rustle of breath and the whispers of voice. The meter holds the readings of time like a nest of imperceptible decisions - left or right, which way to go. The bees are apparitions dispatched to faraway lands at the speed of an electron. The wrinkled wooden pole holds it all together, like an ancient bark of strength The wires wake up in a constellation of crackles like a hundred birdsongs. Preeth Ganapathy Preeth Ganapathy is from Bengaluru, India. Her works have been published in several magazines, more recently, in Pensive, Braided Way, The Orchard Poetry Journal and elsewhere. Her microchaps A Single Moment, Purple and Birds of the Sky have been published by Origami Poems Project. Her work has been nominated for Best Spiritual Literature. ** The Loom Here I stand in the centre of this swirl of clicks and messages. I have no say in where they come from or where they go. Voiceless voices stroke endearments from the air. Anger heats the wires, but rain cools its ardour. All I do is help them shuttle on their way. They have no meaning, only the sky has meaning. These little flirts of knowledge pass and fade. Life is for talking and the warp is only there to keep it company. I know how tall I stand to carry my loom up to the sky, high above the mundane scuttling down below Whatever tapestries the words may weave, mine is the loom from which the patterns flow. Edward Alport Edward Alport is a retired teacher and international business executive living in the UK. He occupies his time as a poet, gardener and writer. He has had poetry, articles and stories published in various webzines and magazines and performed on BBC Radio and Edinburgh Fringe. His Bluesky handle is @crossmouse.bsky.social. His website is crossmouse.wordpress.com ** A Telephone Pole in Cincinnati: Ring ring, ring ring, ring- “Honey I have something to tell you..” “After she left me, I have been feeling blue.” “I can’t wait for her to say the words, ‘I do’” “Hey can you help me? I tried my dad but the call won’t go through.” “Hello, you've reached the Judge's answering service”, “Dude she's coming over in a half hour and I'm totally nervous” “Hey, do you want to go this weekend with me to the circus?” “Yes I would love to have that two o'clock appointment, that would be perfect.” “Hi Grandma, I wanted to call to wish you a happy birthday..” “Susan, why did you leave the cat with me you jerk? She can’t stay..” “Gretchen, I need your help with the homework, I don’t understand Feng shui..” “No red icing, I only want green on the cake” “Yeah dad, I’m at the museum and I’m calling you on a phone from 1942!” “Hi Mr. Davenport, I’m looking to speak with Mary-Lou” “And then I told him, oh no, A-choo!” “Hi, yes you have the wrong number, the previous owners have moved” A telephone pole, something to wrap yourself to during a storm. A steadfast of the time. Remember when placing a call cost only a dime? When’s the last time you called the Cincinnati Weather Line? 514-241-1010, dial the number and call them again. Ryan Steremberg Ryan Steremberg is a recent graduate of Muhlenberg College, having spent half of the past two years studying in Copenhagen, Denmark. Writing since 2018, his work comprises of poetry, short plays, and short fiction. His work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, and has been accepted to appear in an upcoming Wingless Dreamer publication. ** Urban Trees The pole stands tall and holds lines that connect to all around. Routing power like a heartbeat, constant source to life below. At some distant power station generators constant thrum pour their output down these lines to poles like this across the land. We take for granted the role poles play, who route all power to those connected, each home or business web crisscrossings from the wellspring source unceasing Soldiers standing guard and holding lines essential to our needs, perches for some birds all baffled by these leafless urban trees. Bill Hudson Bill is retired and lives in Davenport Iowa. He is a member of the Quint Cities Poets and has had a number of poems published in The Lyrical Iowa, The Dubuque Gallery and The Rockford Review. He enjoys ekphrastic writing challenges and is looking forward to further images on this site. ** conversation where did you grow up I asked the utility pole I cannot decipher your birthplate its numbers and letters meaningless were you born in a forest of Douglas firs or Southern Yellow Pines your birth date is unknown but the year you were harvested stripped of bark and branches perhaps festooned with surge arresters like giant bees in disguise metal bands and lashings your open crossarm welcomes wires and insulators an invitation to scampering squirrels a gathering place for birds I wish you roots to again drink sweet water I wish you still dressed in needles and cones did you just speak or was that the wind shaking your guy-wire a sort of buzzing or contented humming you answer me in light that pools on the street and fills my window Kat Dunlap Kat Dunlap grew up in Pennsylvania and now resides in Massachusetts where she is a member of the Tidepool Poets of Plymouth. She holds an M.Ed. from UMass Boston and an MFA from Pacific University. She edited two college writing publications as well as the Tidepool Poets Annuals. She was Director of the National Writing Project site at University of Massachusetts Dartmouth and currently conducts writing retreats on Cape Cod. Her chapbook The Blue Bicycle is being prepared for a spring launch. ** Rational Animals This weathered wood Powering on Its restless branches Rusting forth Since 1850 This wild wood Shooting stars beneath its bark Nature, human viewed Observant, but Intrusive Since staying put Would nomads not Carry a message across On the pulse of their heart Stien Pijp ** It / The Sentinel Abiding in peace, it perches near the commuter train, Bulwark of silent oversight, sexless, nameless, it sits, tight, upright- Conduit of many communications, birds, bees, and humans, too Doing all of the business that birds, bees, and humans do- Earth-bound, in the ground, a souvenir, a shell- Fasted to wires and forced against its will- Green, green it used to be, a lively home, an abundant tree, Home for some, still, still and ungreen, ungrowing, it simply stands- Ignored until needed, by Arthropod, Chordate, and Human- Jubilant noise scatters when the Chick-A-Dees monopolize the wire- Kvetching, and singing of bird things and bees hum with the choir- Latching onto the glinting orange clips, used to attach various wires to It- Meanwhile the humans hum through the heavy lines, all abuzz, Nothing buzzes like a human with not much to say, and all day Open to talk anyway- and so The Sentinel feels needed during the day- Present and happy in its former-tree way. Quietly, It dreads nightfall, when Bees and Birds and men go to their Restoration, deep in the night- it remains alone until Sunlight returns to lessen its plight- Trees can stretch out while the winds shake off leaves, Under the canopy, lilting with the breeze, connected underneath by roots- Vexed that it can no longer feel its own shoots, It, the former tree Waxes and wanes with the hum of the trains, and some feeling remains- Xenial hospitality, welcoming guests-it Zig zags with electric life, nevertheless. Debbie Walker-Lass Debbie Walker-Lass, (she/her) is a poet, collage artist, and writer living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared in Collaborature, The Rockvale Review, Green Ink Poetry, The Ekphrastic Journal, Punk Monk, Poetry Quarterly, The Light Ekphrastic, and The Niagara Poetry Journal, among others. Debbie was proud to be nominated by TER for the Best Small Fictions, 2024 anthology. Debbie is an avid Tybee Island beachcomber and lover of all things nature. She also enjoys collaborating with Jahzara Wood, they write poetry together as “The 1965.” ** Early Morning Connection I heard the ringing from the wall-mounted phone near the living room on Whittenton Street as dad jumped out of bed to answer it before the third ring woke the entire family. A desk sergeant relaying The message that the store alarm had been set off. At 2 am, I accompanied dad in the blue 50 Desoto coupe the three and a half miles to Taunton Green where A cruiser was parked in front of Foster’s Men’s Clothing. As we approached the officer, he instructed dad to unlock the front door and proceed into the store. Unable to contain myself I indicated to him that he had a gun, and if this If there was a break-in, he should take the lead. Jim Brosnan A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Long Distance Driving (2024) and Nameless Roads (2019), copies available at [email protected]. His poems have appeared inthe 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. ** When Birds are Gone from the Wire the air will be absent chirp song, feeders, pregnant with untouched seed, trees, shelters for abandoned hideaways. When spring arrives without chickadees, wood frogs, butterflies, and bumblebees, the promise of a fresh green start will fade like patience in an instant world, loons will no longer wail to their mates, sunrises will lose their soundtrack. When dandelions and hibiscus fail to bloom there’ll be no reason to run barefoot or catch fireflies in an open field; engaging with an ecosystem out of whack will feel as meaningless as skipping the perfect stone over a lifeless sea. When birds are gone from the wire we’ll wake to realize there’s no turning back. Elaine Sorrentino Elaine Sorrentino, author of Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit (Kelsay Books, 2025) has been published in journals such as Minerva Rising, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Gyroscope Review, Ekphrastic Review, Quartet Journal, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Cool Beans Lit, and Haikuniverse. A fan of ekphrastic poetry, she is facilitator of the Duxbury Poetry Circle. ** Suburban Trees It is said in suburbia, you knew your curfew was up when the streetlights came on Summer days were spent running, biking, playing street hockey and basketball, Exploring the woods and frogging by the creek The world was safe, and kids roamed free in the shade of suburban trees They served as a perching spot for an assortment of birds, Robins, sparrows, crows, and an occasional hawk Morning doves cooed in the cool mist of dawn, While children walked to the bus stop and dads started their cars They were interspersed with other trees, like maple, pine and birch, With rhododendrons and azaleas next to everyone’s front porch. In the wintertime, big icicles hung from these trees, While children built snowmen and snow forts beneath Snowball fights provided hours of fun, While we waited for the storm to pass and everything thawed The newer neighbourhoods across town didn’t have suburban trees, But rather fiber optic cables run through the ground underneath. New houses built three times the size of ours, Over old farms and forests that had been torn down But though nuclear families each had their own homes The neighbourhood still had a life of its own Through whispers of gossip and the hum of lawn mowers Dads exchanging lawn care advice and snowblowers Through Fourth of July picnics and block parties Friendships were forged and life lessons learned in the shade of suburban trees. Lila Feldman Lila lives in Upstate New York with her husband and works in healthcare. She enjoys creative writing in her spare time, mostly prose and memoir. This is her second time submitting to The Ekphrastic Review. ** Urban Tree hire wire bees on trapeze world communications buzzing toward power stations rising rising through cloudless skies a living hive crackling criss-crossing intersections of high wire 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 ** Leaving the Nest A bright orange painted the horizon, the sun woke up with a smile giving breath to the green pastures that waved back, the dusk of the city streets and the blue birds who cheerfully sung their song. Many say that a bluebird’s song is the heartbeat of hope and the echo of dreams yet to come. Dreams are wings we borrow from tomorrow, yet there is no dream like that of animal born to fly. High above the busy road, empty sidewalks and pavement marked with cracks stood a wooden power pole, its splintered body acting as a bridge for the many wires that clung to it and stretched out in in many directions. The wires carried a slight humming sound, like the string of an instrument, vibrating with every blow of wind that passed. They not only held the electricity but the weight of a family of blue birds with feathers so blue, they mocked the sky and waters. This small flock of birds chose this unlikely place to call home. Their nest was forged together with straw, forgotten scraps of paper and twigs, an architecture of chance bound against the metal brace of the pole. Every morning that God blessed these birds with, they would line themselves along the powerline. Their small feet wrapped around the metal, balancing on the electrical line The power line functioned as a bridge, a connection between many worlds, They stood high above the busy two-way street watching over all the vehicles that zoomed by like flying fish in the open waters. They appreciated the time they spent here as they were in preparation for leaving the nest. One by One, the blue-feathered sky-dwellers began to leave. The eldest of the flock spread her wings first towards the Northeastern wire, leaving with such haste, eager to explore more of the world and leaving the place she called home. Her song carried down the power line, an echoing goodbye they will all live to remember. Another leapt off the wire, but in a different direction, the same for the next one and the rest. Their goodbyes soft and brief as though they planned to return. The youngest bird, who had spots of gray marked across his wings, held the concept that it was simply a tradition, so he stayed put awaiting their arrival, knowing well that they would return to the nest filling the line with chatter. The young bird pressed his claws against the humming wire allowing the subtle vibration to run along his tiny blue feathered body. He listened to the chatter of the folks gathered on the streets below and the deafening environment of the skyscraper jungle. He watched his nest as it grew silent, the interior so hollow it chirped back like an abandoned house. The nest looked suited to a family of birds, but it felt empty, the warmth had since faded. The young blue bird had not realized their goodbyes were final, he trusted the winds would drift back to him. Our feathered friend remained on the wire for another three weeks, unsure whether he should leave. Each Day this question echoed endlessly in his mind until he accepted that his family belonged to the sky and would never return. For that reason, the gray spotted bluebird leapt from the wire with his wings slicing through the morning air like knife through butter. His head held up high, wings spread out as far as possible and a song so beautiful, nothing could compare. As the young avian took flight into the blue skies, he then realized why his lost family left the nest, the sense of freedom is for the best True discovery and exploration of yourself begins with a journey on your own horizon. Jelani Simons Jelani Simons is a young Black individual from Sandys, Bermuda. He spends his free time playing video games, watching sitcoms, anime, basketball, and listening to R/B & Christian music. He also likes playing basketball and going for nature walks. He enjoys exploring the city. ** blue sky steps standing outside on my blue sky steps i climb the walls and up the poles so you can see me up there on the ledge the edge of whatever this world wants today and the edge of a grandstand and birds they grip wires tightly and hold on we all spend so much time on high wires holding on and we connect and you see me through the window an open sky and the wires still hang there to show us the way mystify and some they say we were better off when the poles were put in and the crews came out to the country in the ‘50s and plugged us in and most of us climbing those blue sky steps put the old radio away and the batteries thrown away and there was something new to plug into and now well now we plug in and no wires needed and they don’t hum anymore and i can’t get up that high and there’s no point in climbing anything let alone a pole when i can sit on my couch unplugged with all of you around me on the edge of whatever the world wants today mike sluchinski mike sluchinski knows the perils of the high stakes cutthroat poetry game and bets it all on the ekphrastic review and a bunch of great readers and editors at failed haiku, inlandia journal, kaleidotrope, eternal haunted summer, the wave (kelp), the literary review of canada, the coachella review, welter, poemeleon, lit shark, proud to be vol. 13, the ekphrastic review, meow meow pow pow, kelp journal, the fib review, syncopation lit. journal, south florida poetry journal (soflopojo), freefall, pulpmag, and more coming! ** The Technological Tree: It was the dawn of autumn; an unpredictable date compared to June 21st and December 21st. What was an ordinary day for strolling with the dogs led to unexpected mental fabrications. All because of a freshly painted electric pole I had walked past. The fact that its rusted cables still hadn’t caused a blackout in daytime surprised me. How uncanny that an electric pole could look like a tree, right? So I will try to visualize it as a tree. It’s not a scion of Gaia, just like the trillions that drape her in various colours every year. It’s not a god’s craft, the kind they tell you in church, mythology, and books about symbolism in the arts. If anything, Man assembled this arboreal abomination of aluminum alloy. But then again, isn’t that the idea? An electric pole is the technological tree of Knowledge and Life combined. It’s not one of a kind, but one in millions within a global grove. Civilization built a civic Eden; our sapience is tethered to those trees. Lucifer’s forbidden fruit is no longer an apple… Unless you count Apple. Adam and Eve’s new temptations were Hubbell*, Hertz*, and the Bernes-Lee*. I bite into a Pink Crisp as I write my biblical perspective on Microsoft Word. Celine Krempp * Harvey Hubbell discovered electricity * Heinrich Hertz discovered radio waves * Tim Berners-Lee invented the World Wide Web Celine is a French-American with her paternal family from the Northeast side of France. Working part-time as an art museum security guard inspires Celine in her ekphrastic writing. She is new to The Ekphrastic Review, having written “Her Final Performance” and “Agwé’s Believer” for the challenges. When she’s not brainstorming her next creative project, she walks her dog VanGogh, reads books, indulges in sweet cravings, and binge-watches The Magic School Bus on Tubi out of nostalgia. Celine is constantly jotting down ideas for short form writing inspired by her emotions, personal and professional experiences. Many people, including her therapist and colleagues, have described her work as “a relatable commentary with vivid imagery.” ** The Backbone of Communication There is a telephone pole outside the track, Wires stretching like veins on my hand. They carried my voice the day I broke down, After fouling every throw, Watching my chance at states slip away. I called my mom with tears in my throat, My dreams are heavy in pieces at my feet. The line rang, then her voice arrived- Steady, warm and unshaken. She told me that I was more Than a missed mark or a scoreboard. Later, her text lit up my phone- “I’m proud of you no matter what”. Just words, simple letters, But they carried strong through the wires, That is the backbone of communication Not technology, not circuits or the steel, But the love that travels through them. A reminder that even in failure, I was not alone. Rhiana Thomas Rhiana Thomas is passionate about creativity, community and making a positive impact. She has worked on projects that mix art, fashion and education, including teaching and hosting events focused on sustainable practices. Rhiana values compassion, determination, kindness and leaving a positive mark wherever she goes, always striving to uplift those around her. ** circuits what was once but now is not -- felled and replanted, rootless, disconnected from its source -- yet still elemental, sustained by the essence of its structure surface fading quietly, barely noticed beneath appendages stripped away and replaced by wires, veins searching for a heart, currents vibrating like questions searching for an answer, rings mapping memories of leaves and wings, forgotten forests shadowed with threads of distant voices random paths crossing over each other until it’s impossible to know what was created out of what—layers of stories patched into unfinished dreams 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/. ** The Lonely Seagull It’s a sunny day in the summer. Everybody is on the beach. But there is this telephone pole with many wires going in different directions, that’s in the middle of the beach parking lot and on that pole, there is this curious looking seagull. He is all white and has grey wings. He is a lonely seagull, and he has no friends or lovers that he is interested in. Every day you will see him at nine clock sharp on that pole when everybody starts coming to the beach, and then he starts yelling for no reason at all, he just wants everybody to hear him and know that he is here. He is always watching people. He has staring contests with everybody at the beach. When he is standing on the pole, he can see everything that is going on, he also sometimes watches people and what they are doing. Today he is watching the people, on one side he is seeing kids get ice cream and another thing he is seeing is all of the food trucks in the parking lot and all of the different smells coming from them and he is watching people leave and come in to the beach, people who are here every day are starting to wonder, does he ever leave or go get something to eat? Because he has been standing there for hours on end just looking at people he doesn’t know. Then let me tell you about this very special day that happened! He was still standing on the pole at the beach when this other seagull came flew over and sat on one of the wires, he was huge and he had black wings, he had two fishes, he put them down draping over the wires, he didn’t like that he had company, but the black winged seagull gave him one of his fishes. He was being friendly, so they started talking in seagull language and all of the sudden they both flew away together!! The next day they both came back and now they both started watching the beachgoers together. Now he is no longer alone in life, and he is very happy for the first time. And now he will always be happy as a seagull with a French fry!! Addy Schonemann Her name is Addy Schonemann, She grew up in Newburyport, Massachusetts. She graduated from Newburyport High school. In college she studied Culinary Arts for four years at Johnson & Wales University. Some of her favorite foods to make are pasta dishes, and anything that looks tasty. Then in high school, she got her first job, which was at a local hospital’s kitchen, her role at work was to bring the food to the patients. She is a very crafty person; she loves to crochet and listen to music. ** Standing Tall It is not a tree, but a mirror of one, its wires, the branches, extending long, holding the weight of many voices, signals, stories. There is no need for rhyme just the truth of human need, of reaching, of connecting, of feeling less alone amid concrete and steel. In this engineered tree, life flows through unseen currents. A testament to our desire to be heard. Nivedita Karthik Nivedita Karthik is a graduate in Immunology from the University of Oxford and a professional Bharatanatyam dancer. Her poems have appeared in many national and international online and print magazines and anthologies. She has two poetry books to her credit (She: The Reality of Womanhood and Pa(i)red Poetry). Her profile showcasing her use of poetry was recently featured in Lifestyle Magazine. ** Content Warning Yes, you’re right, ma’am, some people do call it a “trigger warning.” I’m just trying to alert everyone that I’m about to show an image of...What? Oh, no, sir, you don’t need to excuse yourself, you can simply step outside or just close your eyes if you prefer. Like I was saying, I’m going to show an image of the aftermath, and people who are sensitive may wish to...Excuse me? Am I going to show the body? No, of course not. This photograph was taken after the removal, and I can tell you firsthand that was a gargantuan effort...I’m sorry, no, that wasn’t meant as a joke. I apologize if that was insensitive. If anyone understands the damage a giant on the rampage can cause, well, you know we had this problem just across the county line last year. That’s why your mayor brought me here to talk with you tonight. Because we found a way to rid ourselves of that behemoth before he ate any more...Virgins? Can you please speak up, it’s hard to hear you all the way in the back. It sounds like you asked whether we tried offering virgins to the giant? Well ma’am, that might save your livestock, but I imagine the virgins might not be too happy with that plan...Folks, the mayor has just reminded me that the giant usually awakens by dawn, so we need to move this along. I’m going to go ahead and show the image now. See, when we were under attack in Littleton, we found a way to lure the giant into the power lines...I’m afraid you’re right ma’am, those red stains aren’t rust, that’s why I issued the warning about...Did it hurt the giant when we turned the power back on? Well, I’ll admit, that wasn’t our biggest concern after that incident with the school bus...Yes, it was full of children at the time. So. We know electrocution works, and...No, I don’t think a nuclear strike would be more effective! Anyway, if you just look Tracy Royce Tracy Royce is a writer and poet whose words appear in Bending Genres, Does It Have Pockets?, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Villain Era, and elsewhere. She lives in Southern California where she enjoys hiking, playing board games, and obsessing over Richard Widmark movies. You can find her on Bluesky. ** Woman, Crow and Telephone Pole (Easter Sunday, April, 1985) The damp hush of dawn becomes a crow's voice, his silhouette bluing into raw song while his legs stay anchored to an old clock tower marking east from west parking lot from railroad track A woman feels him cry, his throat strained and stretching a prayer toward her heart and a huge pole that binds a blend of wires - soon to be plucked by wind, to carry the calls of people who still dial their beloved kin and share as if angels the risen light and good news. Joy comes in the morning. Its bright fingers loosen the draw strings of night and love for a man who shares her bread and tea, who stares at the urban tree, thankful for how it guards and insulates the sound of a soul — that like her own becomes a personal psalm Wendy Howe Wendy Howe is an English teacher and free lance writer who lives in Southern California. Her work is deeply influenced by diverse cultures, history, myth and women's issues. Over the years, she has appeared in a number of journals including: Liminality, Silver Blade, Eye To The Telescope, Strange Horizons, Carmina Magazine, Songs of Eretz, The Winged Moon, Eternal Haunted Summer and Sage Woman. Her most recent work appears in The Otherworld Magazine. ** Untitled The little boy stands there on the kitchen tile floor, looking at the phone on the wall that is just out of his reach. He runs to the kitchen table, drags over a chair, places it right under the phone, and hops up onto it. He sings out the tune of the song he made to remember his best friend's phone number. He punches in the number and hops off the chair, running to the window with the phone. The line stretches the farthest it can go as the little boy looks out onto the street. He stares at the phone poll, imagining the call traveling through the cords to the house across the street where his friend lives. The phone rings two more times before a lady picks up the phone. “Hello?” the lady says in a kind voice. “Hi! This is Christopher. Is Jake free to play?” he asks, still staring out the window. “Hello, Christopher! Yes, he will be right out! He says to bring your baseball bat!” Christopher runs and hangs the phone back on the wall. He runs to his room and grabs his baseball bat, a ball, and a glove. He runs out the door, shouting “Momma, I will be home for dinner!” and then he is gone. It is a warm sunny day in the summer. Kids are outside in the yard playing in the sprinklers, and moms are sitting on lawn chairs drinking lemonade. The boys grab their bikes and ride down the street to the park, where there is a big open field. They start to throw the ball back and forth. “Do you think every summer will be like this?” Christopher asks. “I hope so. But get this! My mom says that next summer, for my tenth birthday, I could get a phone line to my bedroom! Isn’t that so cool?” Jake says. “That is so cool! Then I can call you and not have to talk to your mom every time.” Christopher and Jake laugh. “You should ask your mom for one too!” Jake suggests. “No thanks, I’m good with the one in the kitchen.” Christopher shrugs. “What? Why?” Jake asks. “Well, I like to look at the phone wires when I call people, so I can imagine the call going through the cords to the pole and to the houses. But my room is in the back of the house, so how will I know if my calls go through if I don’t watch it?” Jake and Christopher continue to throw the ball back and forth. “Now that I think about it, my calls never go through when I try. I always have my mom call people and hand me the phone.” Jake says, throwing the ball to Christopher. “Well, do you watch the call go through the lines?” Christopher asks, throwing the ball back to Jake. “No,” Jake says, throwing the ball again. “Well then, maybe that's why.” Christopher shrugs, throwing the ball back at Jake, who gets hit with the ball because he got distracted watching a butterfly. “Ouch!” Jake shouts. “Maybe you need to watch more than the phone lines.” Christopher laughs as Jake runs to get the ball. Callie Aversano Callie Aversano is a writer/ songwriter originally from New Jersey, but found her way to Providence, Rhode Island, to pursue her passion in the Hospitality Industry. She is known for her diligence, caring for, and helping others, as well as writing her feelings down and turning them into songs. ** I Am One of Many they say we originate from the same thread, from the same roots; that we are humans, and nothing else; that we are connected, beyond species, through bodies and minds in ways science could never grasp; that we crave connections because we seek the roots we branched out of; that we separate in directions which will soon converge to that one point where we began; that the earth is round because we keep coming back; that the feet know to stand up because those who came before us did this too, to rise after a fall, to fall after a rise, to wake after sleeping, to sleep after waking; that we exist in a circle of life; that we are ones of many, connected to the same roots, the same thread; 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 in Inked in Gray, Usawa Literary Review, Bridges Not Borders, The Ekphrastic Review, Apparition Lit, Sylvia Magazine, Atticus Review, and others. You can find her on Instagram/X/Substack @LeeSplash ** Watching a Dying Planet My sister is clairvoyant. She knows that. So do I, but there’s no way we’re going to tell Mama. To Mama and almost everyone else in town, Mandy is a gifted artist who sells canvases at boardwalk art shows. Her current series of quirky utility poles is very popular. There’s not much she can do to change the future, so she turns her back on dying trees, the lack of rain, plight of bees, fireflies, and fishing industry. Staying calm is the kindest thing to do. Meteorologists alarm us enough already, and people find Mandy’s paintings whimsical. Some buyers joke that the jumbled wiring, knots, and bent arrows she adds to utility poles look like a dad’s failed handyman project. So Mandy keeps us looking up. Looking down only reminds us of what we’ve lost already. Alarie Tennille Alarie Tennille was a pioneer coed at the University of Virginia, where she earned her degree in English, Phi Beta Kappa key, and black belt in Feminism. She has now lived more than half her life in Kansas City, MO. Alarie received the first Editor’s Choice Fantastic Ekphrastic Award from The Ekphrastic Review, and in 2022, her latest book, Three A.M. at the Museum, was named Director’s Pick for the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art gift shop. In April, Alarie was proud to be named the 2025 Muse of The Writers Place. ** Along the Wires Wagtail, weary for a tree, Fairy wren and lorikeet, Strive no further. Come to me: Honey-eater, rest your feet. Fairy wren and lorikeet, Let me hold your nests, your chicks; Honey-eater, rest your feet On my kindly, rosy sticks. Let me hold your nests, your chicks: Find yourselves a living space On my kindly, rosy sticks. In the pulse of my embrace, Find yourself a living space: Take the shelter I can give; In the pulse of my embrace, Share my strength and make me live. Take the shelter I can give. Wagtail, weary for a tree, Share my strength and make me live. Strive no further. Come to me. Ruth S Baker Ruth S Baker has published in some online magazines, including The Ekphrastic Review. The birds mentioned here are all native to Australia. ** Mother Tree Transmogrified Stately Hemlock gracing my serenity & solitude 'til heathens chopped you down chopped you up ravaged your forest connections crowned you with medusa wires plastered your trunk with missing feline fliers How I panic when your wiry branches spark & sag breaking my connections with my weird, wired world Donna-Lee Smith DLS writes from Montreal, a city where there are more telephone poles than trees, a sad state of affairs as trees give us oxygen and shade. ** Join The Ekphrastic Review for some upcoming workshops... Click on image for more info or to register. The Art of Darkness: writing ekphrastic horror
CA$100.00
Join The Ekphrastic Review for a generative writing weekend, asynchronously online. Halloween is traditionally a time to contemplate the shadows lurking in the human heart and the spiritual realm. Art history repeatedly addresses disturbing and dark themes such as ghosts, witches, demons, monsters and murder. These can provide amazing fuel for dark stories and poems. This workshop includes a live zoom where we will look at the history of horror in art. Trigger warning! The session will take an unflinching look at macabre paintings on a variety of subjects, and talk about ways we can use them to inspire our own horror poems and flash fiction. We will also look at some ideas on what it means to write horror. Writers will receive the slides from the zoom along with a handout of horrifying art images to choose from, with questions to prompt their imagination. You will write three horror flashes or poems. You will receive feedback on one story or poem per day through Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Writers will work independently from wherever you are and connect and share their stories in a private Facebook group. Ekphrastic Electric: a grab-bag of art-inspired creativity
CA$35.00
This zoom session is a grab bag of creative writing exercises using art. There will be a handful of curated, diverse art prompts and writing ideas to ignite your imagination. There will be a brief introduction to each artwork, but the focus of this session is on writing. Georgia On My Mind: writing from the life and art of Georgia O'Keeffe
CA$35.00
Join us on zoom for deep dive into the life and work of Georgia O'Keeffe. One of the best loved American painters, and a pioneering woman artist, Georgia's works inspire countless poets. We will discuss Georgia's story, her work, influences, and inspirations, and we will also take inspiration from her vision with a few creative writing exercises.
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