 Reimagining Hwy 1 Optimized for Public Transit, by Taylor Seamount (USA) contemporary. Click image for artist site. Another Day The highway jamming. Horns honking, people cursing, just another day. 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. ** night blind we could wake up one day and see fewer cars that we don’t need to breathe all day ok Mike Sluchinski ** we hold these i remember it was maybe ford dodge or chrysler well they said that an open road was air to breathe Mike Sluchinski Mike Sluchinski loves Canadian fiction, especially pieces by politicians. El Shaddai made the crooked places straight and got him published in Pulpmag, The Literary Review of Canada,The Coachella Review, Inlandia, Welter, Poemeleon, Lit Shark, Proud To Be Vol. 13, The Ekphrastic Review, MMPP (Meow Meow Pow Pow), Kelp Journal, ‘the fib review’, Eternal Haunted Summer, Syncopation Lit. Journal, South Florida Poetry Journal (SOFLOPOJO), Freefall, and more coming! ** Highways Department If all those in charge of highways Were real drivers, and more aware Not mere eco-sensitive city cyclists Then we’d see a different solution Dispelling their firmly held illusion Seeing images of those raised fists Not in triumph, but more despair But that is how local politics plays Yet no matter what experience says Poor commissioning of road repair Selecting only the suppliers on lists As they say, it avoids any confusion Benefits are modest, often Lilliputian With no incentive to slap any wrists Just a shrug to say, C’est la guerre Claiming it was only an initial phase Machinery left in the coned off bays No workers present, no activity there Few stuck in traffic would be optimists That it will ever reach any conclusion And that it is progress, mere delusion Aware that there will be no apologists It’ll be yet further long delays to bear Three blocked lanes feels like a maze Clouds of exhaust fumes is now a haze Using up fuel that few can really spare No saving the planet as the world insists Keep heat on and damn the pollution There’s no argument about attribution And traffic jams are no place for trysts Working from home may be more fair But some roadworks will attract praise Howard Osborne Howard has written poetry and short stories, also a novel and several scripts. With poems published online and in print, he is a published author of a non-fiction reference book and several scientific papers many years ago. He is a UK citizen, retired, with interests in writing, music and travel. ** After Frost Main stage way – bottleneck. I took the least travelled turn – lush, tangs, skies – soul mates. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas, MA in Philology and Philosophy, has studied and taught at Universities of Sofia, Delhi and London and authored a book on mediaeval manuscript art for The British Library. She writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europa Edizioni, 2021. ** Faster I cannot come to you any faster. Although my heart beats in preparation for the journey. I see what you created. Strange beings of acceleration without names. Without hearts or souls. This is not the way to heaven as I had thought. The graveyard awaits. Dreams of power and forced ownership. Dressed as an innocent being with an untold history. Parading as a family member. It will guide you to unknown and unkind destinations. Its facade will change to confuse you. It contains the engine of mystery within. It will flash and wink its lights and confuse your senses. it is not a friend and has no name. It shows its true face once adopted. Its uniform smile mimicking a loved one. A whirl wind that will confuse you with its speed. Do not be conned or misguided by its power. It is deadly. Sandy Rochelle Sandy Rochelle is a widely published poet, actress and filmmaker. A member of the Acting Company of Lincoln Center. And voting member of the Recording Academy. She wrote, produced, narrated, and directed her award winning documentary film Silent Journey. Streaming on Culture Unplugged. Publications include, Dissident Voice, Wild Word, Connecticut River Review, One Art, and others. ** Misfortune As I arrived at work, I realized I had forgotten my backpack. The backpack that carries my computer. My computer holds a variety of things; the missing assignments that are well overdue, my science project that I have been working on for well over a year, and the important documents I need for other business. And most importantly, I had forgotten a comfortable shirt. The work shirt feels like it choking me, and I cannot work with it on. Quickly, I sent my mom a message at seven thirteen a.m. “imma be going back home one i get out, cuz i forgot my backpack.” “You want me to take it to you?” she responded at seven thirty-four a.m. “i don’t have my stuff in there. i’ll stop by quickly. i also forgot my shirt.” I said as I told her about my misfortune. “I saw it open, I figured you were missing stuff, so, I just left it.” She replied, closing the discussion. After working for six hours straight, I sat patiently waiting for my car to warm up as the car never fails to show its age. It cannot run smoothly in the cold, or in the heat. At times, it’ll stutter before it starts, luckily, today it didn’t do that. It’s going to be a great day, I remember thinking to myself. I head home, to collect my missing belongings. Once arrived, I argue with my dog, as he does not let me get inside. And I am embarrassed he watched me fumbling with my keys for a short minute. I calm down and I gather the missing pieces; my shirt, my computer, and some deodorant, I had forgotten to put some on that morning. After freshening up, I set my sight on the road and headed towards my next destination. The list of things that need to be accomplished, roam freely in my mind. All aimlessly, without an end goal. Before I got lost in thought once more, I approached an intersection, where the light was freshly yellow. With just enough time, I was able to come to an ungraceful stop. I check my surroundings for safety, and see a blue Dodge Ram rapidly approaching, going thirty to forty miles. It gets closer and closer, no sign of slowing down or stopping. As I get ready to grind my teeth, It happens. It happened. I am forcefully jerked backwards, all the way to the back seat, where my backpack sat right behind me. Panic sits in as I realize my seat is no longer resting in my preferred spot. My car was brutally flung ten feet into the middle of the intersection. What do I do? This has never happened to me before. I had seen it happen to others, and knew it could happen, but I never thought it would. I scrambled to find my phone, and opened it up to dial 911. The keypad is open, waiting for its buttons to be pressed, but my fingers will not follow the pattern I was forced to remember. I thought it was a joke. This didn’t really happen. I wonder if this really was an emergency. “Siri, call 911.” I blurt out. She responds in her robotic voice, “Calling emergency services.” The lady on the other end answers my panicked call, and asks the basic questions. “Where is your emergency located?” “What is your name?” “What is your emergency?" After answering her questions, it was time to get mine out. “Do I pull over to the side of the road? I do not want to cause another accident.” “Yes.” She said. After promptly clearing the intersection, I called my mom to tell her what happened. She answered her phone within three rings and said, “Hello?” “Mom, where are you?” I said, “At Walmart, why?” “I was just in a car accident,” I revealed as the gate for my tears, had finally broken loose. The pain in my back was making itself known. No matter how I moved, the dull pain stabbed me in my midback. I can see the man in the blue Dodge Ram hop out of his truck, and inspect his truck, and then the back end of my Jeep. This time, he cautiously approaches my driver window, and asks if I have insurance. The answer will always be yes. Before I knew it, EMT arrived at the scene and asked if I was in any pain. My response, “No, I don’t think so.” What I really wanted to say was, “I was just rear-ended, what do you think?’’ But I stayed as collected as I could. EMTs had checked my vitals, and my blood pressure was at an all time high. While all the events had finally unfolded in my head, I was rushed to the emergency room. Idania Konna ** Hope and Oxygen In the video on her website, from the top of an overpass, We can see the artist Taylor Seamount looking through a small rectangle. She is painting a herd of cars driving towards her. She is immortalizing her counter-current vision of the future. In this video, she says that “The future is not set in stone”. More trees, more colors, more space. She brings hope and oxygen. I live in Montreal where we have to slalom every day between an army of orange traffic cones. I imagine Taylor Seamount coming to Montreal and painting those cones. She would reimagine them as pretty trees. If this dream is realized, with her exceptional brushwork, Every traffic cone in the city will be metamorphosed into a tree in the warm orange colors of autumn. A delight for our eyes and a big breath of fresh air. Nevertheless, after my encounter with Taylor Seamount‘s Painting Art, thanks to Ekphrastic, I will never see those horrible cones as they are. In my mind they will be an enchanted forest. Jean Bourque Jean is retired from Special Education. Even if is not a writer, this is his tenth participation in The Ekphrastic Challenge. He is learning English as a second language. The Ekphrastic Challenge offers him this opportunity. Language can be a handicap, but it shouldn't prevent anyone from communicating. ** Headlights and Taillights Headlights and taillights But how much we blazed away the hours And travelled through the night To reach the sunlight To see how much has changed Without noticing how much is still just the same When it's dusk or sunrise We all have sentimental leanings For the roads we've left behind The bedsheets that we haven't creased The pillows we haven't cried on Since we drove far away To reach or make some better dreams. It's like the world is on the road with us It's a deluge to depart and find an empty lane Midnight truckers have all the road They departed earliest to find a lay-by A tarmac with a gentle hum a primordial Om Listening to some dolly bird, a hitchhiker Calling herself Beatrix or Beatrice The traveller or the voyager Promising she's lost all her inner demons, isolated rage And finally, it seems she's found some shining hope In a glove compartment that won't close As she peels off a shot, and then all her clothes Dries her tears and blows her nose Watching a million cars go by, honking into the night. No new destinations reached tonight. 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. ** Stuck You try faster but it only makes your heart beat through your chest You try narrower but you can’t squeeze by or through You try to escape but you only become more entrapped You try not to think but nothing can stop your mind from disappearing inside of falling apart 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/. ** Tracked Changes (a villanelle for Reimagining Hwy 1) The road we are on cannot be sustained And who knows how long it will last When will we reimagine a change? Even though we have tried to maintain The congestion of cars will cause a collapse The road we are on cannot be sustained The original plans never could have contained Because this road was formed from conditions of the past When will we reimagine a change? Traffic and fuel prices add to our pains As exhaust and smog raise greenhouse gas The road we are on cannot be sustained Our way of thinking must be retrained A better solution is well within our grasp When will we reimagine a change? Who will stand and break from the chains? And help us get on a better track The road we are on cannot be sustained When will we reimagine a change? 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. ** Farm Hands "And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home... Time let me play and be Golden in the mercy of his means --" Dylan Thomas, Fern Hill "Sometimes things fall apart and come together better." Marilyn Monroe Austin, I-10 West, 1950 1. Why did they pave the roadway that curved upward toward mountains that looked like winter? Ice was an illusion, wasn't it? The dry earth could have been anywhere as long as it was summer and the horses came to the kitchen window when my grandmother cut up carrots. I never asked why I was innocent; glad I was, translating erotica to exotica; why the moths spun silk, infatuated with light like the irrepressible need of a child's hands to gather the messages of fossils. 2. When the creek bed was dry with drought and the willows on the farm wept on back acreage; when the horse at the window had huge brown eyes -- a distinctive face with a knife-blade shape -- my grand- mother named him Dagger. I'd ride, in those days, happy on a horse on that farm by a farm road destined to become a highway; happy as the day was long in a poem* -- so heaven can't reveal what heritage conceals. 3. It was a question of life without a father. My answer was to be a wild child daring danger, determined to ride bareback. My grandfather nicknamed me Tonto his Scout, meant to be his Kemo Sabe, a collector of creek stones that weighed down my pockets when everything I wanted to believe in was hopeful anyway -- like dreams conceived in visionary moments; glimpses of a clear, quartz center, a full moon's magic mirror inside an earth-stone's plain exterior like love's hand-print -- the way you kissed 4. my palm your lips caressing lines that bring to mind the wrinkled indentations on the ram's horn of a favorite sheep, saved when he died and so became a mythic memory of music like the shape of an instrument I'd seen in a picture in a Greek god's hand -- perhaps Apollo's -- his horn played in the centuries before rock bands... before sound stopped for my filly -- I'd named her Easter for the day in springtime -- Easter when she was born. 5. Where was she going? All I could know (what I was told) she'd jumped the cattle guard to reach the road I-10 West, Optimized -- Easter killed by an ambulance speeding toward Austin's City Limits to save someone that sunny day an accident that made death both tragic and ironic... & all the while, I was young and unaware my farm hands busy on the farm, lost that day in a field of wildflowers enchanted by seductive blooms 6. bursting into life that sad summer, one I choose to remember by dents-de-lions, the Lion's Teeth -- as if Austin were a French-speaking town in a Texas jungle with a field of dandelions a weed becoming make a wish and blow, when flower- heads grow old their "hair" like threads -- sepal filaments on a white corolla -- scattered when the winds of wildflower wantonness mingle with the roots of Black-Eyed Susans -- that abandon! 7. living side-by-side with the delicate grace of Queen Anne's Lace -- like trim on a christening dress for floral infancy worn by nature waiting for an Indian Summer a field on canvas created with Indian Paint Brushes that reveal the inevitability of death, the fragility of life, my Easter and the pale pink buttercups dropping paper-thin petals when the sturdy Bluebonnets like Texas pioneers stand tall beside the traffic -- a painting of new age roadways -- the burgeoning strife of highway life. Laurie Newendorp Author's notes: *"Fern Hill," by Dylan Thomas; animal horns and conch shells were used as musical instruments.) Laurie Newendorp lives and writes in Houston. A graduate of The Creative Writing Department,The University of Houston, she has been honored many times by The Ekphrastic Review's Challenge. Influenced by her maternal grandmother, who received a Pioneer Teaching Degree -- recognition that she taught before teaching standards were established in early 20th century Texas, she went on in the 1950's, to get a Master's Degree in Education from The University of Texas. Newendorp was raised in Austin. The setting of her poem (her paternal grandparent's farm on what became I-10 West) is one in which she sees a farm's field of wildflowers as a floral connection between worlds, historic and contemporary. Her book, When Dreams Were Poems, explores the relationships between life, art and poetry -- the nature of ekphrasis. ** Arcology Marcus Greenbaum leaned back into his Prius driver’s seat. He should have known better than to leave his architectural firm at rush hour. But he had promised his son to come to his Warriors basketball game, 4 and 0, at the high school. As power forward, his son contributed to that for sure. Marcus sighed. If only there were another route besides Highway 1 to get him there. Normally, this would be the fastest way versus the backroads with a stoplight on every corner. If he hadn’t given up smoking last month, he would have lit up. Such a waste of time to sit here, bumper to bumper, headlight to headlight. Everyone inching up when the opportunity allowed, as if that maneuver would get them anywhere faster. He rolled down his window but all he could smell was car exhaust. Fossil fuel emission. He rolled the window back up and turned up the volume on his satellite radio. Maybe contemporary jazz on Watercolors could ease his tension, make him forget about how late he was going to be. If only there were a better, more efficient way. If only, like during the early pre-COVID days when working at home or remotely was called telecommuting. “Save on gas, time, and pollution,” companies told their employees. If only mass transit offered solutions to go from Point A to Point B. But this city had meager funds to put any public transportation alternatives in place. Any recommendations Marcus’s firm made to the city’s Planning Council were rejected. “Great idea,” they said. “But where’s the money going to come from?” Architects and urban planners had no response to that. What buses there were, huffing and puffing along Main Street, exhaled nightmares of black fog. And who wanted to be behind a bus that stopped at every corner, passengers boarding and unboarding? COVID changed everything. Individual, energy-vampire vehicles clogged the roads. No one wanted to wear masks anymore. No one wanted to carpool. Sure, more people worked from home nowadays, but they still needed to get on Highway 1 to run errands, pick up kids, and go to the mall. If only. Marcus stared at the landscape. He could envision eco-friendly buses stopping at a transfer station where commuters could pile into a high-speed, energy efficient monorail to and from the city, a way to reduce the strain of traffic bottlenecks in the city itself. Such a solution would certainly cut down on commutation time and possibly expense, not to mention frustration and stress. Luscious trees could bound the transfer station and the highway. A real green belt. Let everyone breathe. Let the highway breathe without this pulmonary blood clot of vehicles. If only. Traffic began to move. Marcus sat upright. After the game, after the kids went to bed, he planned to plant himself in front of his drafting table in his home office, and draw what he’d seen in his mind’s eye. An arcology master plan. If his son was a warrior power forward, he could be, too. Regeneration was possible. Reuse would be possible. He would make them possible. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner earned a World Art History certificate from Smithsonian Associates as she grappled with the confluence of chronic illnesses. Writing in response to art, including Taylor Seamount's diptych, helps her heal. Her work has been featured in The Ekphrastic Review, MacQueen's Quinterly, and elsewhere. Her first ekphrastic poetry collection is forthcoming from Kelsay Books. Visit Barbara's website at www.barbarakrasner.com. ** To Taylor Seamount Regarding Reimagining Hwy 1 Optimized for Public Transit Beware the ways we need to find requiring we rewire the mind. — PB You juxtapose these views you chose -- reality and re-suppose -- to drive the eye to dream again regarding what so long has been the asphalt river engineered as altar to the faith revered in place to work unfit to stay and graceful living far away -- the style of life, despite its toll transparent to the transient soul, that harkens spirit bravely free to call of all it dares to be. In better dream, should art persist, our work and life would co-exist, apart but barely by the space that each must spare the other's place to serve the spirit made to soar by will the self will dare explore in venture shared becoming mind of future built to leave behind. 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. ** Imagine What if our log-jammed roadways had evolved from gentler influences and shared solutions were the main modes of transport and everything. Would a gentler influence engender more caring and kindness? Would sharing, generate appreciation and more sharing? What if it were human nature to remember that “but for the grace of god, go I”. Wouldn’t it follow that it would be a calmer and less grasping, more livable world? What if everyone had the basics; food, water, shelter, clothing, safety and could start living, really living. What if the world's richest contributed just 5% of their wealth to lift billions out of poverty, fund humanitarian efforts, and address other global challenges. What could be elevated with the trapped, untapped potential? What if we could see where the opinions of the other lies. There will still be haves and have-nots, majorities and minorities. If we engaged in honest dialogue and kindness, the world could be a different place. Each of our worlds could be a different place. Imagine that. Kaz Ogino Kaz Ogino is a sansei, Japanese Canadian living in Toronto. Her practice is all about curiosity and wonders of the process, in making art and crafting poems. Kaz’s art and visual poetry can be seen on her Instagram accounts: @artbykaz.ca and @artbykaz.play ** rush hour vs transit dream cars press against cars in the slow-moving grind of routine and resignation time is measured in the inches to the next lane a multihued muraled bus breathes color into the greying asphalt shaded by green trees time is softened by the purposeful sharing of space a yellow line splits these two lanes the funeral march of cars the harsh reality brushstrokes and blooms a reimagined future although both sides move ahead only one leads to the future 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. Her profile was recently published in Lifestyle Magazine. ** Ode to Youth My septarian brain remains stuck in the ashes while our house burns baby burns My ilk and I we lit the match creating this inferno Now we gaze at our graves we shrug we say alas and alack there's nothing we can do come for a ride in my cadillac Then out of the smog float beads of hope strung like future wishes to fill my soul And yet and yet again I shrug and twiddle my fiddle Donna-Lee Smith Donna-Lee Smith lives in Montreal, Canada with a message for fellow urbanites: Please don't drive your car to the corner store--it's bad for your health and the health of the planet. Please don't pig out on meat and cheese--it's bad for your health and the health of the planet. As you may have guessed, DLS is a sanctimonious vegan, who buys local produce, walks miles and miles, and doesn't drive.... ** Thumbing Highway One A crowd at every on-ramp. Summer 1968. I saw a teen girl stop her VW beetle for one guy and cry “Stop! Stop!” as 3 more guys piled in somehow and two rode the back bumper—all surfers, teens—up the Capitola onramp, 7 clowns riding a bug. My ride was a canning factory inspector, chatted a foreman in Watsonville while truckloads of artichokes waited in line to dump at a conveyor belt leading into huge metal machinery like coal factories in West Virginia only green, not black. Dropped me at Moss Landing where a one-armed man in a Porsche demonstrated four-on-the-floor shifting with his left arm while steering with his belly, said he gave one arm to Korea in exchange for a woman and she’s his faithful sidekick, his right-hand man. Left me at Carmel where a converted school bus pulled up with peace signs in the window, sweet smell within, down Big Sur to Palo Colorado where a bighearted woman hosted half a dozen crashers eating fruit and beans salvaged from a Safeway dumpster. Turnaround time, got a ride with a Hells Angel kicked out of art school, tight with the bikers painting their leather, took me to Oakland and then I headed east, far from the kindness of strangers, far from the One. Public transit can be whimsical, can be random, can be dangerous, can be love. Joe Cottonwood Joe Cottonwood’s poetry books include Random Saints, Foggy Dog and Son of a Poet. Long ago he wrote an underground novel called Famous Potatoes and recently the award-winning memoir 99 Jobs: Blood Sweat and Houses. His novels for younger readers take place in the fictional town of San Puerco, which bears a striking resemblance to the town of La Honda where he lives under redwoods with his high school sweetheart. He has worked most of his life in the construction trades repairing and improving houses. ** The Cry of Cockatoos I lean by the overbridge in the city of Newcastle watching the orange wall sink, line the gold dust across breadth of dark emptiness. Hurried tempers, trumpet of traffic along the highway, rush to conquer nothingness. Blinking red- Reduce speed Changed traffic conditions. A police car awaits, then races away. Row of pines on my right drooping with white feathers forebode of stalled flights. Siren of an ambulance carrying silence- the cry of cockatoos in tenderness of the moment reimaging life. 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. ** Van Gogh On The Morrissey Boulevard Overpass At Night after Sylvia Plath and inspired by the art of Taylor Seamount Stars over Santa Cruz Stars are racing quick as headlamps along the busy Corridor of traffic whose pavement is darker Than the dark of the Pacific because it is quite still. The sea is well. The stars float silently. They seem heavy, yet they float, and no space is visible. Nor do they send up splashes where they fall Or any beacon of dismay or heartache. They are swallowed at once by the waves. Where I am in Zundert, only the faintest stars Play in the gloaming, and then after much encouragement. And they are pale, toned down by such endeavoring. The lonely and unconventional ones never manifest But remain, swirling far away, in their own hot gas. They are outcasts. I cannot comprehend them. They are adrift. But tonight they have journeyed this freeway with no trouble, They are locomotor and confident as the great celestial bodies. The moon is my Indian yellow friend. I miss rain and low-slung clouds. Perhaps they are Hiding behind the mountains Like children playing in the park. Infinite space seems to be the issue up there. Or else there may be smoke from a fire. I am straining to see through the haze. Perhaps they may roll in like ocean fog. And, my dear Theo, what if they are the same, And it is my mind that has made a waking dream? Such a thrall of stellar majesty would alarm me. The sky that I am used to is grey and unforgiving; I think it would not wish for a night without black And made of ultramarine and cobalt blue. It is too solemn and solitary for that-- When it spirals and sinks closer around, A mantle like flannel on fairied ground. And where I stand now, above Highway 1, I see cloud formations in my mind, Unbothered by the flow of automobiles. There is too much sky here; these cars move me too much. From the bridge, with its view of the peaks, each engine Is accounting for its driver. I close my eyes And feel the plain winds like whispers of God. Lara Dolphin A native of Pennsylvania, Lara Dolphin is an attorney, nurse, wife and mother of four. Her chapbooks include In Search Of The Wondrous Whole (Alien Buddha Press), Chronicle Of Lost Moments (Dancing Girl Press), and At Last a Valley (Blue Jade Press). ** The Topography of Ambition It's the road that cuts through everything sparing what little it can --of grassland and woods, the personal property of farm and heart. Yet, somewhere en route, the regrets keep drifting in. Their exhalations spent like milkweed over stalk or bush. The traffic backed up with memories of what has been but never was. Yet, in one tree the conscience sings. A vocalist strumming his old guitar, A ballad about love and sacrifice, the moan of sea gulls after a storm; and a fisher girl stooping in the tide to scavenge what's ever left. Wendy A. Howe Wendy Howe is an English teacher who lives in California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, women in conflict and history. Landscapes that influence her writing include the seacoast and high desert where she has formed a poetic kinship with the Joshua trees, hills and wild life spanning ravens, lizards and coyotes. She has been published in the following journals: The Poetry Salzburg Review, The Interpreter's House, Corvid Queen, Strange Horizons, The Acropolis Journal and many others.
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