 Spirits of Prisoners, by Charles Altamont Doyle (England) 1885 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 Spirits of Prisoners, by Charles Altamont Doyle. Deadline is July 4, 2025. You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way. Scroll down to donate $5CAD (about $3.75 USD). 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to [email protected]. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry. 5.Include DOYLE 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, JULY 4, 2025. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 15. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly.
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 After the Storm, by Sarah Bernhardt (France) 1876 ٹنکا سارہ برن ہارٹ (فرانس) کی تصویر "طوفان کے بعد" کی طرز پر گنیش کے نام ہلدی رنگ پُتلا اُما کی گود میں بے جان-- شیو کی خلاصی: ہاتھی کا سر بچاؤ کو؛ دانا گنیش کا جنم! سعد علی ۳۱ مئی ۵ ۲۰۲ء ** Tanka for Ganesha turmeric golem inert in Parvati's lap-- Shiva’s redemption: elephant’s head to rescue; birth o’ Ganesha, The Wise! Saad Ali Saad Ali (b. 1980 CE) is a poet-philosopher & literary translator from the UK and Pakistan. He holds a BSc and an MSc in Management. His new collection of poems is Owl Of Pines: Sunyata. He has translated Lorette C. Luzajic’s ekphrases into Urdu. His work appears in The Ekphrastic Review, The Mackinaw, Synchronized Chaos, Lothlorien, Lotus-eater, BRAWL Lit., Pandemonium Journal, Immagine e Poesia, and Poetry in English from Pakistan by Ilona Yusuf & Shafiq Naz (eds.). He has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and Best Microfiction. To know more: www.facebook.com/owlofpines ** After the Storms, the Surface Uncertain The boy pretends to stumble, then flops across my lap, tongue lolling. He is poking fun at me for needing to stop and rest. “I’m simply ex-hausted!” he croaks in an old-lady voice, then shuts his eyes, feigning sleep. I’m glad he still thinks this journey is an adventure. He never heard the late-night grumbling. Never suspected that some of the others are no longer content to dine on bats or whatever we can catch in the nets we made after retreating underground. Now the boy is having trouble keeping a straight face—he clasps my cloak to keep from cracking up. I still think of him as the boy, even though I call him something else, this waif I found after we all fled the storms on the surface. He is mine now, and I bend over him, “Blech! What’s that smell? I must have snared something rotten in my net.” He laughs, then says, “Tell me again what my name means,” and I reply, “Well, you are my sunbeam. You look like a Ray.” His smile is luminous as he stands, and we resume our upward climb. Together, we approach a world he cannot recall, and I cannot fathom. Tracy Royce Tracy Royce is a writer and poet whose words appear in / are forthcoming in Bending Genres, Does It Have Pockets?, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Scrawl Place, Villain Era, and elsewhere. She lives in Southern California where she enjoys hiking, playing board games, and obsessing over Richard Widmark movies. Find her on Bluesky. ** Sioulder Bras ar re-mañ a davas, hag e voe ur sioulder bras Luke 8:24, Breton version (and the storm came to an end and there was a great calm) Look at the catch: my little sea-star, Per, Just as I’ve dreamed. He always was too quick. No flesh on him, but see his hair: so thick, A man might fish with it. His mother’s hair. They caught him in the nets tonight. She’s gone Long since, my daughter, in another storm, Thank God. His hand’s curled up, but it’s not warm; He used to glow like fire. The sea goes on. I dreamed once of Our Lady: she looked young, Although her boy was grown. For near a week I’ve seen it coming and I’ve held my tongue. We nodded, in my dream. We did not speak. We understood each other, and we sat, Minding our words. Good night, Perig. Noz vat. Julia Griffin Julia Griffin lives in south-east Georgia. ** Pieta Mary, the Blessed Mother, the Theotokos, the God-bearer, holds her son, Jesus, the Paschal Sacrifice, the Word made Flesh, Lamb slain from the beginning of the world. But it could be any mother and her son A mother whose son washed ashore after a storm A mother whose son did not come home from war A mother whose son was on the plane aboard A mother whose son did not wake up one morn A mother whose son, happy and healthy for the first twelve years of life, only to give way to slurred speech and neurological decline. Mothers offering up their sons on the altar of life’s painful circumstances. A sword pierces her heart. For he became sin who knew no sin that we might become the righteousness of God. He left his throne in heaven and humbled himself, taking the form of a servant, esteeming not equality with God a thing to be grasped. And we do not have a Great High Priest who is incapable of empathizing with us in our weakness. We serve a God who suffers with us. Lila Feldman Lila lives in Upstate New York with her husband. She currently works as a school nurse. She enjoys creative writing in her spare time, mostly prose and memoir. This is her first submission to The Ekphrastic Review. ** The Drowned Child I told him not to go You’re only a child I told him As he left my home for the sea With his delicate hands and soft skin He said he was ready For a fisherman’s life He didn’t know the hell Salt, winds, and stormy seas Could wreck upon his face Upon his body and the heaviness Of the nets filled with the sea’s Offerings entangled him instead Poor child swept overboard Poor child caught like a fish Writhing against the currents Unforgiving sea throwing him Back ashore, I found him face down In the sand and carried him home, his tiny fists clutching my skirts, Hoping his strength remained, Then his body lay still, Frozen like marble, Frozen across my lap, Is this what Mary felt When they brought her Son down from the cross His bloody fingers furled Around her blue robes? Laura Peña Laura Peña is an award winning poet born and raised in Houston, Tx. She holds a BA in English Literature and an MA in Education. She is a primary bilingual teacher as well as a translator of poetry into Spanish. Laura has been a featured poet at Valley International Poetry Festival, Inprint First Fridays, and Public Poetry. She has been published both in print and on-line journals. She has been a workshop presenter at VIPF in the Rio Grande Valley, Tx. and People's Literary Festival in Corpus Christi, Tx.. One of Laura's annual traditions is to write a poem a day for August Postcard Poetry Festival and has participated in the fest for the last 12 years. ** Apres la Tempete On the shore a pieta, a drowning: the wet body returned, wrapped in nets. It is still a child’s, slender and broken. The sea’s a liar, it stole his warmth with cold fingers, but the heart knows no boundaries and his life lies beating in this mother’s heart, never to be taken, though green surges batter the beach and the long shoreline shakes with the pounding, in this heart the child lives, lives still. Martin Rieser Martin Rieser is both a poet and visual artist. His interactive installations based on his poetry have been shown around the world. Published: Poetry Review; Write to be Counted; The Unpredicted Spring; Magma 74; Morphrog 22, Poetry kit; Primers, Artlyst Anthology; Pendemic; Alchemy Spoon; FFF Anthology; Shortlisted: Frosted Fire; Charles Causeley Prize; Runner up Norman Nicholson; Winner of the Hastings Poetry Competition; Shortlisted Wolves Poetry Competition; The Ekphrastic Review; Steel Jackdaw; Acumen; Obsessed by Pipework; Allegro; Cerasus Magazine Anthology; Vole Spring Anthology; Ink Sweat and Tears;Brussels Review; Longlisted Erbecce Prize; Shortlisted Artemesia Arts Poetry Competition and Anthology. ** After the Storm A sculpture carved entirely from white marble, the image captures a scene of intense emotive gravity, rendered with precision in mineral permanence. The stone surface, cool and luminescent under studio lighting, exhibits an even matte finish across the bulk of the sculpture, with only isolated zones of gentle polish — the bridge of the elder’s nose, the young man’s shoulder blade, the fingertips grasping fabric — betraying a slight glossiness born from incidental contact or intentional buffing during final toolwork. The overall hue is a uniform alabaster white with subtle gradations caused by the interplay of light and concave recession: folds in drapery fall into shadow with soft gray dimming; interstitial spaces, such as beneath the boy’s outstretched arm or between the netted fabric and the elder’s thigh, exhibit deeper zones of shade, verging toward bluish tones at the farthest recession points, a phenomenon of both sculptural carving and photographic lighting artifact. The composition consists of two principal human figures: one upright, seated with an inclined forward posture, and the other supine, limp, and draped laterally across the lap of the former. The seated figure — older, clothed, turbaned — gazes downward with head slightly tilted leftward, brows knotted with chiselled concavity, upper eyelids pressed low in a gesture of somber witnessing. The turban is sculpted with parallel ridges of stone that wrap circumferentially about the cranium, each band deeply undercut at its boundary to accentuate fabric layering. The face emerges from this encirclement with a prominent nasal bridge and slightly sunken cheeks; the lips are pressed into a tight horizontal line, not parted, not sealed, with the upper lip incised more deeply than the lower to cast a shadow and define its curve. The figure's shoulders are covered by a thick mantle, carved with deep vertical pleats that fall from a loosely gathered collar region. The folds descend in diagonals across the torso and terminate over the knees, which are bent and level, serving as a platform for the boy’s collapsed body. The younger figure is positioned with an arching of the back, the left arm dangling toward the base with open fingers, the right arm stretched across the robed knee of the older figure, the wrist angled unnaturally downward. His head is completely slack, neck hyperextended such that the chin nearly touches the clavicle, and the eyes are shut — lids carved with barely perceptible creases. His hair is mid-length, parted roughly at center, each lock rendered as a wavy, narrow ridge, tapering at the ends. These striations, flowing back from the forehead and clustering in flattened waves around the ear and neck, contrast with the smoothness of his forehead and jaw. The mouth is slightly parted, lower lip fuller than the upper, subtly shadowed to suggest the slackness of death or unconsciousness. Both figures share a common base, irregular in shape and carved with vegetal and rocky motifs. At the lower left, two sheep heads or lambs emerge from the stone, barely raised in relief, their fleece represented with tight spirals and low mounds. These organic inclusions — symbolic perhaps — are not given the same dimensional prominence as the human forms but ground the scene in pastoral or Biblical suggestion. The boy’s garment consists only of shorts or a draped piece about the hips, detailed with an open netted pattern over the right thigh. The individual diamonds of the netting are cleanly bored through the marble, revealing darkness beneath and enhancing the sense of fragility. The net, though stone, appears as if it could flex or tear, its intersections knotted, the threads thickened at junctions. The fabric beneath is smoother, loosely hanging, with scalloped edges and minor vertical creases that collect in depressions as it is pulled by the boy’s falling weight. The elder figure’s right hand is clenched against his chest, index finger bent at a downward angle, as though recently moved or about to shift. The hand is not fully relaxed but shows tension in the thumb’s compression against the folded palm. The left hand is buried beneath the draped torso of the youth, not visible except for a glimpse of the wrist emerging near the lower ribs of the younger figure. The elder’s exposed chest is bare, delineated by muscular striation and planar geometry, a stark contrast with the bulk of the robe, whose weight is indicated by deep, plunging folds that shift abruptly at the contour lines of the seated knees. The base plane upon which the sculpture sits is a rectangular plinth, bevelled at the top edge and unadorned except for surface toolmarks, fine striations running at oblique angles likely left from rasp work or sanding. The composition is triangular, with the apex at the turbaned head and the base defined by the arc of the younger figure’s body. The centre of mass lies low and toward the front, creating a forward-leaning momentum that underscores the gesture of collapse and support. The entire sculpture is positioned against a matte black background, which amplifies the white stone’s radiance and allows the shadows cast by the folds and limbs to take on greater spatial presence. No armature, external prop, or restoration marks are visible; the figures are complete in themselves, unified in gesture, and isolated in silent stasis. Albert Abdul-Barr Wang Albert Abdul-Barr Wang is a Taiwanese-American Los Angeles-based experimental writer, conceptual painter, photographer, sculptor, video, and installation artist. He received a MFA in studio art from the ArtCenter College of Design (2025), a BFA in Photography & Digital Imaging at the University of Utah (2023), and a BA in Creative Writing/English Literature at Vanderbilt University (1997). ** This Sculpture is Not Representative My mother called me Sarah Bernhardt. All those times she believed I was overreacting to a telling-off or when I didn’t get my own way. Stroppy, sulky, I knew no other response. I was six or seven and Sarah Bernhardt meant nothing to me but the tone of her voice and the look on her face told me my mother’s comment was not meant in kindness. Years later I found out she was a famous French actress and I viewed my mother’s jibe another way: as a complement. Perhaps my drama or melodrama was particularly convincing to have summoned the name and likeness of someone so accomplished. Maybe I should have followed her to the stage. But I didn’t and so I live with my mother’s voice in my ears. Critical, dismissive – and not in the least maternal. Berni Rushton Berni Rushton works in the health sector in Sydney, Australia. She recently came back to writing poetry, as well as flash fiction and is also working hard on her first novel. ** Pieta Have you noticed how statues round here never weep? Okay, they have stone tears fossilised on marble cheeks, a narrative of misery. People who pass by nod in approval at grieving acted out in stone, but show them grief in the raw, wet and red as meat slapped on a slab, they turn away. The widow has nowhere to turn. The sunshine and the spring leaves are mocking her tears. How can she find sympathy in stone? Statues may not weep, but neither do they heal. She is her story and the passers-by pass by, as cold as marble tears. 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 ** What Sarah Saw There’s joy in catch for fisherfolk, as witness lore of fishing smacks, the fleet’s return with crew on board, shoal haul continued, sacrosanct, trawl, school, buoys, pots, gull hover nets. So beach scene greeting Sarah’s view - an overlap of fish, flesh cost, in slumped despair, family loss, forlorn with cradled cruciform, but draped, pietà, hanging free. A limb entangled in the web - that network on which trade relies - patella hinge of dangled limbs, no reflex, angle, shin to thigh, like ankle dangle unattached. Sea urchins, starfish, pebble dash, here’s trigonometry of grief, grandmother’s boy still, garment gripped like crab caught in entanglement, as she might grasp imagined gasps. Both stranded, bare, a beach bereft, with lanky strands, sleek silky hair, a selkie now of nether world. Bedraggled, rag doll, flap fish flop, beyond once nestle of that lap. A marble marvel of distraught, that dead can grow from slab to life, a living vein to bloodless corpse; awaiting, too much, hope for soul, in anguish for one laid before. 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 Fist's Grip on Hope – a Ballade The peasant family's home was worn Against Breton's wind and water jets A night like this was often the norm Even though the stage was already set When the grandmother saw a boy's silhouette Mangled and tangled in knotted rope Her scream shook the pale moonset He still has a fist's grip on hope In the scattered scene after the storm Wrapped in an old fishing net Laid the boy slumped upon the shore Covered in sand; all cold and wet Blue and limp; as never to forget His grandmother lifted him to her robe But the story doesn't end just yet He still has a fist's grip on hope The child must have not been warned Or perhaps he had a stubborn mindset To dive from the docks even if informed Where loosened lines were a sure bet And fishing gear had shifted and offset Then reappeared where the sea crashes the stones But with one arm stretched across his grandmother's garment He still has a fist's grip on hope So, fishermen, don't be rigid with regret The storm is at fault for what broke And the boy's fate remains unmet He still has a fist's grip on hope 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. ** Bernhardt Portrays Love Scene What the sea gives: salt and seal pups, crashboom of spangled water, pearl-white oyster shells, and floating remains of wreckage: bottles, seaglass, driftwood. And a boy fisher along the Breton shore, tender-muscled, just past safety of women’s skirts and helping to bake their sweet butter cakes. Storm swells so deep broke waves so high, gales no fishermen would try. Alone, he cast a wild net, tore him out, washed him in. Portrayed in marble, luminous death, theater piece, as his mamm-gozh breaks toward him. Lynn Axelrod Lynn Axelrod’s poetry has appeared in journals and outlets such as The Ekphrastic Review, California Quarterly, Orchards Poetry Journal; was featured in the San Francisco Chronicle; and is in the James Joyce Library Special Collections, University College, Dublin. Her chapbook Night Arrangements was described by Kirkus Reviews as “evocative and lushly detailed.” Lotus Earth on Fire, (2024, Finishing Line Press) was praised by a poet-reviewer as “an unflinching witness to the hungry and the homeless, to floods, fires, and the untold injustices of man to man.” She's been a disaster-readiness community organizer; weekly newspaper reporter; environmental NGO staffer; and a happily- and early-retired attorney. ** During the Creative Storm my mind kept spinning thoughts and moved in all directions. Even upside down to navigate through complex dreams and theories The subject matter flowered around me. Half in light, half in shadow. I flared with thirst, a ruby sunrise, an emerald spring but my brilliance shattered into stillness. My mother held me in her arms and wept. Not a goddess but a fragile pieta. I stared at her with the seed dark eyes of a bird -- knowing I needed rest and time to return becoming merely human. Wendy 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. ** My Grand Child I heard the harpies singing after the storm After you washed ashore You lay across my marbleness In shrouded god's lament I gave you my lungs I gave you my pulse I lashed my sorrow to the mast I heard the harpies singing after the storm Never more Donna-Lee Smith DLS writes from l'île de Montreal where storms from the mighty St. Lawrence may wreak havoc. She dedicates this poem to her sister. ** An Idol, an Icon. Sarah Bernhardt My Idol. I have been impressed by Sarah Bernhardt for years. Perhaps that is why a trilogy about her came to my mind, my heart and my soul: The actress, the sculptor and the feminist. In my mind, the actress As a former speaker on academic success in schools and at conferences for many years, I was influenced by Sarah Bernhardt’s modesty as an actress. Every time I gave a lecture or a workshop, I had stage fright. Once a colleague told me this charming anecdote about Sarah Bernhardt: One day a young actress asked her if she had stage fright before performing. She answered that she always had stage fright before going on stage. The young actress, boastful and naïve, said that she never had stage fright. Sarah Bernhardt told her this wonderful reply: “Those who are talented have stage fright, others don’t”. I kept preciously this tasty reply, hoping, before each of my lectures, that I had some talent. In my heart, the sculptor I didn’t know that Sarah Bernardt was a sculptor. Her splendid sculpture, After the Storm, reminds me of mothers and fathers in countries at war who are “In the storm”. They are desperate and overwhelmed by a dreadful pain that ravages them While they are seeing their children dying from lack of food and trapped in the (fishing) nets of horrible wars. In my soul, the Feminist Sarah Bernardt, with her multiple talents, disturbed male artistic circle or her time. Isn’t the same situation today when women have to fight for their rights and their place in a patriarchal world? She particularly disturbed famous male sculptor Rodin who was not kind to her. He would have said that her sculptures were “filth”. Despite the criticism, she never gave up. She «continued anyway”. It was her motto: to continue anyway. From now on, I will make this motto mine. It’s not too late…even at seventy-five years old. Jean Bourque Jean lives in Montréal. French speaking. Even if it's difficult, he continues to learn English anyway. ** The Courage and the Beauty I hold you draped in my arms. White is your skin of divine mystical grace. Visions of the world at peace with itself. You swoon with the beauty of alabaster . Untouched and unspoiled. Blessing me with your body of purity. We become one as forces of spiritual beauty remake our lives. You have come to teach, to bless and to keep holy. Behold the vision man has made. Grant me the courage to see your wisdom. To not be afraid. To inhabit our shared souls. You were created by the master of creation. We live together in this one life now and forever. Sandy Rochelle Sandy Rochelle is an award winning poet, actress, and filmmaker. She is a recipient of the Autism Society of America's Literary Achievement Award. Sandy produced and narrated the documentary Film, ARTWATCH, about famed art historian James Beck. Her poetry has appeared in: Wild Word, One Art, Amethyst Review, Impspired, Verse Virtual, Dissident Voice, Connecticut River Review, Haiku Universe, Indelible, and others. Her chapbook, Soul Poems, was published by Finishing Line Press. ** Cradled Before Standing Even in black-and-white, shades of gray in relief, the last gasps of consciousness, satin marble for smoothness, grip the soul. A mother’s love piercing, crying out to her gods, unheard above the crashing waves upon the shore. Like a stone net, chiseled salvation, an alabaster eternity cleaves their souls under- neath a just- clearing sky. Todd Sukany Todd Sukany <[email protected]>, a two-time Pushcart nominee, lives in Pleasant Hope, Missouri, with his wife of over forty years. His work has appeared in Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal, Cave Region Review, The Christian Century, Intégrité: A Faith and Learning Journal, eMerge Magazine, and The Ekphrastic Review. Sukany authored Frisco Trail and Tales as well as co-authored four books of poetry under the title, Book of Mirrors, with Raymond Kirk. A native of Michigan, Sukany stays busy running, playing music, loving three children, their spouses, seven grandchildren, caring for a rescued dog, and four rescued cats. **  Join us for the epic event of the year. You won't be sorry. It is wild, exhilarating, exhausting and wonderful. A day of pure creation. Play. Brainstorming. Join us on Sunday, or do it on your own time over the following weeks. This year, to celebrate ten years of The Ekphrastic Review, an optional Champagne Party follows the marathon on zoom. Details are below. Perfect Ten: an Ekphrastic Marathon Try something intense and unusual- an ekphrastic marathon, celebrating ten years of The Ekphrastic Review. Join us on Sunday, July 13 2025 for our annual ekphrastic marathon. This year we are celebrating ten years!!!!! This is an all -day creative writing event that we do independently, together. Take the plunge and see what happens! Write to fourteen different prompts, poetry or flash fiction, in thirty minute drafts. There will be a wide variety of visual art prompts posted at the start of the marathon. You will choose a new one every 30 minutes and try writing a draft, just to see what you can create when pushed outside of your comfort zone. We will gather in a specially created Facebook page for prompts, to chat with each other, and support each other. Time zone or date conflicts? No problem. Page will stay open afterwards. Participate when you can, before the deadline for submission. The honour system is in effect- thirty minute drafts per prompt, fourteen prompts. Participants can do the eight hour marathon in one or two sessions at another time and date within the deadline for submissions (July 31, 2025). Polish and edit your best pieces later, then submit five for possible publication on the Ekphrastic site. One poem and one flash fiction will win $100 CAD each. Last year this event was a smashing success with hundreds of poems and stories written. Let's smash last year out of the park and do it even better this year! Marathon: Sunday July 13, from 10 am to 6 pm EST (including breaks) (For those who can’t make it during those times, any hours that work for you are fine. For those who can’t join us on July 13, catch up at a better time for you in one or two sessions only, as outlined above.) Champagne Party: at 6.05 pm until 7. 30 on Sunday, July 13, join participants on Zoom to celebrate an exhilarating day. Bring Champagne, wine, or a pot of tea. We'll have words from The Ekphrastic Review, conversation as a chance to connect with community, and some optional readings from your work in the marathon. Story and poetry deadline: July 31, 2025 Up to five works of poetry or flash fiction or a mix, works started during marathon and polished later. 500 words max, per piece. Please include a brief bio, 75 words or less Participation is $20 CAD (approx. 15 USD). Thank you very much for your support of the operations, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review, and the prizes to winning authors. If you are in hardship and cannot afford the entry, but you want to participate, please drop us a line at [email protected] and we'll sign you up. Selections for showcase and winning entries announced sometime in September. Sign up below! Perfect Ten: annual ekphrastic marathon
CA$20.00
Celebrate ten years of The Ekphrastic Review with our annual ekphrastic marathon. Fourteen drafts, thirty minutes each, poetry, flash fiction, or CNF. You'll choose from a curated selection of artworks chosen to challenge, inspire, and stimulate. The goal of the marathon is to finish the marathon by creating fourteen drafts. Optional: you'll have time after the event to polish any drafts and submit them. Selected works will be published in TER and a winner in poetry and flash fiction will each be chosen and honoured with $100 award. Following the marathon, exhausted writers can join our Champagne Party on zoom to celebrate an amazing day.  Rainy Day Rainbow, by Kaz Ogino (Canada) 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 Rainy Day Rainbow, by Kaz Ogino. Deadline is June 20, 2025. You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way. Scroll down to donate $5CAD (about $3.75 USD). 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to [email protected]. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry. 5.Include OGINO CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, June 20, 2025. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 15. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly.   Transmogrification, by Donna-Lee Smith (Canada) contemporary Black Into White Within just thee minutes, black into white Transmogrification, as it has been named What secrets were all hidden in negativity Now being exposed to us with no privacy With a face and identity that’s unashamed Of what now can be observed in the light There seems no reason for this odd change Maybe it’s the image being self deprecating A little frustrated with so few details shown Yet since inception, many years have flown And just be dissatisfied with all that waiting But its choice of representation was strange A subject or object, one may choose which Relieved to be seen however one might feel Now as a picture that is almost abstract art As a strange conception from the very start Perhaps a chance to be viewed as more real And even trying to scratch that creative itch 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. ** Manifesto He carries my wound like a badge of honour, holding me up as an example - of what? of resilience? domination? of his own cruelty? All that is obvious. But what he doesn’t see, what this monster doesn’t know, is that what he sees as a scar ripped across my face is actually a tool. A brush. A makeup brush that fools him into believing he has me in the palm of his hands. That I am stuck on his canvas. He is oh, so wrong. I am not even there. I am a painting of my own creation and as I leach myself of darkness, I transform him. My eyes glow at his screams as my brush becomes a scalpel. Turning him into the object he believed I was. Until he is nothing more than my shadow. And his wound becomes my mask. Kaila Schwartz Kaila Schwartz runs an award-winning theatre program at a secondary school in the San Francisco Bay Area, where she has spent the past 23 years. Her poem Chaplaincy was selected for commendation in the Hippocrates Open Prize for Poetry and Medicine, and was published in the Hippocrates Awards Anthology in 2020. Her poem promise in the garden will be published in the June edition of Moss Piglet. ** Arresting Arresting woman, hiding behind images, protecting herself. ** Reflection Deep attractive eyes, staring into the blackness, judging reflection. 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. ** Transmogrification Re: model, yes, remodel, morph, but more than indication brought, a grifter casting telling spell - witch moves, transforming which we see - the moment what might be revealed, in manner magical it seems. Those dark arts frame the ghostly wight as pales into significance, a play on what enlightens us, the stage, the script, that cast again. Is there a shadow armature, some patent, type, prepared before, a stock for grafting other fruit but rooted, tapping common source? I sense the Easter Island heads, those moai stones of ancient craft, great monoliths, hung ears and nose, as if each knows their tribal part. Whatever medium your art, exhumed whomevers from your past - hear spirits of their vocal hearts, with black cat moggy in your sights. 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 ** Exposed in Reverse Order Now, all you see are my dark sides The negative of me -- I won't deny Yet, there is more going on within this shot And I want you to see below my surface laid plot I lured you into my shutter snapped shadows Even though you were hung in my red room glows You are more attracted to the leading lies on my face Than the click of my cobra bite blade, but I have more to offer, more to search for There are parts of me that can only be exposed in reverse order Why can't you just see me in the light? There are parts of me that can only be exposed in reverse order I have more to offer, more to search for Than the click of my cobra bite blade, but You are more attracted to the leading lies on my face Even though you were hung in my red room glows I lured you into my shutter snapped shadows And I want you to see below my surface laid plot Yet, there is more going on within this shot The negative of me -- I won't deny Now, all you see are my dark sides 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. ** The Final Cut Like Dorian Gray she had two personas, both with shadows, one dark, one light. Both slashed open, sliced in two divided. In the final cut she was both. Lynn White Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for Pushcarts, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Magazine, Firewords, Vagabond Press, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes Journal. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com. ** Gratitude Dear friend Donna-Lee Your black and white images take us through our own inside mirror The thin and fragile skin which envelopes our body is transmogrified It becomes our privileged and faithful channel Between our soul and our peers Transmogrification allows our breath to flow And contacts our deepest feelings Our creativity and our humanity Our Human entity…being concerned by people around us People who can transmogrify us People we hope to transmogrify by our presence It feels so good to influence each other It feels so good to be transmogrified By your inspiring vision of the environment La gratitude fait partie de la métamorphose Que nous pouvons opérer en nous Pour devenir une meilleure personne Jean Bourque Jean lives in Montreal. He is retired from Special Education. He takes English classes. He also participates in a pairing program for English and French conversation at MCLL (McGill Community for Lifelong Learning). He is paired with Donna-Lee who told him about The Ekphrastic Challenges. Merci beaucoup Donna-Lee. ** The Scar "They never forgot that even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course..." W.H. Auden, Musee des Beaux Art If I believed that my answer would be to someone who would never return to earth, this flame would move no more, but because no one has ever returned alive from this grief, if what is true I can, I can I can reply with no fear of anything...* When the pieces didn't fit they were forced to rely on intuition. It was a miracle (this they knew) the 21st century's contemporary capacity to scan the entire work of art like a puzzle drawn by heart -- but whose heart? And who had made the pieces? Alexander the Great had died at 32, by poisoning, assassination or bacterial disease which was no doubt called by something ancient and infectious, and heart- breaking. Definitely transmogrifying. The plastic surgeon looked at her birthmark, now a cavern, grown upward on her face, threatening her ear; if repaired, nerves might be cut to her eye, winking at fate above the ear that might have to come off; and O yes: she would not be able to smile. It was losing the smile that became the most fearsome as she imagined a light so bright above the eye above the threatened ear; the length of dissolving thread, commanded by the needle to bridge the gap. She had never visited Venice, the Bridge of Sighs, or made love in a gondola. Petronius, trapped within himself, had found humor in The Satyriicon (See quote at beginning of the poem to avoid footnotes) and she was known for natural humour, to laugh or die? Alexander the Great was so brave, so young and accomplished (not to mention handsome) a map of his conquests moving west to east; a part of his sarcophagus (You never vanished from my heart, antique sarcophagai*) found in Venice and finally scanned, all these centuries later, found to fit; The Star-Shield Block, found, stars winking above passages, canals of thought these memories, a bridge to a broken past, magically transformed when a poet sighs, happy on a bridge to try try try. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp lives and writes in Houston. Honored multiple times by The Ekphrastic Review's Challenge, she found Donna-Lee Smith's Transmogrification, a face, darker by night, brighter at sunrise (or revealed by ill-health during an Inquisition) to be thought-provoking. Although it is unusual for Newendorp to use multiple quotes in the body of a poem, The Scar reveals a variety of sources: Petronius, The Satyricon; You never vanished from my heart, antique sacophagai from Newendorp's translation of Rilke's Sonnets To Orpheus in the voice of Eurydice; and try try try [cry cry cry] is a quote written by Cynthia Macdonald, describing her struggle to become a poet. The Star-Shield Block was found in St. Mark's Basilica in Venice. Its likeness -- scanned and printed -- was carried to the British Museum to verify its fit in a fresco carved on Alexander's sarcophagus. ** I Find There are Bits of Me in This I see my past self in the pictures here. I cannot mold my precise, my mirror image to them, but my eyes grasp that slash of shadow sweeping from chin line upward, and I raise my hand to that place on my own face and feel the crease left as I slept, in Le Bourget airport, cheek anchoring the stiff strap of my shoulder bag when I was stranded there without funds. In the light gray of the phantom face mask I find my fear of fading into nothingness at my class reunion while they laugh over all our shared “jolly times” of which I recall none, since in those days I hid in the library surrounded by stacks of notes, frantic to recall all data for tests to keep my scholarship. Only bits of me, but yes, I am in these images. These familiar but not comforting, faces are not identical to me, at least not yet. So I will step away now before I find more bits of me scattered here and there in this work. I will place these works and my already noticed bits of past discomfort in a back drawer of my brain and will them both to sleep. Joan Leotta Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. She’s been published as essayist, poet, short story writer, and novelist. She’s a two-time nominee for Pushcart and Best of the Net. Her poetry, essays, and stories have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, The Lake, Ovunque Siamo, One Art, Gargoyle, and other journals. Her shows most often highlight her Italian heritage, food, family, and strong women and has been a guest on Italian radio. Her one-woman show is Louisa May Alcott, Author, Nurse, traveler to Italy and Writer. ** To Donna-Lee Smith Regarding Transmogrification You model soul you've bared to bone by brush that dared to turn the stone exposing truth as underside both dark and blinding light could hide. beneath the good and evil known in seed the wind of fate has sown to freely bloom as conscious will and yet forever struggle still with choices one cannot undo and consequences that ensue to piece together greater sum of hope and damage we become that time completes, however strange, as frames embracing art of change. 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 Dark Room Sometimes someone flips a switch and the room that held so much darkness and so many knives, is bright, and the knives reveal as soft as feathers wafting in the wind. Darkness, today, is the red of wine in a patterned glass and its fear no longer grips. Last week I was drowning in that glass, where the wine was blood and the shadows were a curse. Every step contained its own argument that near was far, that less was more and the darkness was a parasite heavy on my back. This week the light cascades around me and the dark is just a drift of feathers. The knives are sheathed and the wind is a caress, but it has the promise of the week gone by and the week yet to come. And I still bear its scars. 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. ** My Black Soul Black is the colour of my soul. It is the mask that I cleverly use to disguise my face. I live with the undesirables fooling all who try to approach me. My smile is rancid and cold. Sinister is my game. I will disgrace you if you look my way. Stay away from the evil within me. I am cold to the touch- no skin here. I am plaster and paste-no blood in my veins. No heart and no soul to love. I am here on an expired passport. Listen to me child. Some praise my alleged beauty -but that is just a trap. A myth discussed among the living of the world. Those with blood in their veins and a clean heart and soul. I am my own entity. Touch me if you dare. Observe me if you must. You have been warned. Sandy Rochelle Sandy Rochelle is a widely published poet, actress, narrator and filmmaker. Her documentary film Silent Journey is streaming on Culture Unplugged. Publications include: Wild Word, One Art, Verse Virtual, Dissident Voice, Connecticut River Review,Haiku Universe, Impspired, Indelible, and others. ** Concealment Cento The veil a device, Which hides my future life from me- God, the unity of everything, my hands and eyes- All they can see is my toes and my hair- I’m hiding, I’m hiding- I have wings flattened down and hid- I raise the darkened veil Subtle as light The sudden, first unfurling, That I may have the sky. Debbie Walker-Lass Line 1)The Marble Veil, by Paul Batchelor Line 2 & 7) “Oh, Could I Raise The Dark’nd Veil” by Nathaniel Hawthorne Line 3) “Onset” by Kim Addonzinio Lines 4 & 5) “Hiding” by Dorothy Keely Aldis Lines 6 & 8) “The Bridal Veil” by Alice Cary Line 9) “Dreams” by Grace Greenwood Line 10) “Before I Got My Eye Put Out” by Emily Dickinson Debbie Walker-Lass, (she/her) is a poet, collage artist, and writer living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared in, or soon will appear, in The Rockvale Review, Green Ink Poetry, The Ekphrastic Journal, Punk Monk, Poetry Quarterly, The Light Ekphrastic and The Niagara Poetry Journal, among others. She is an avid Tybee Island beachcomber and lover of all things nature. (Except spiders, not yet.) She’s recently provided a rollicking poetry workshop for her local Dekalb County library. ** Amnesia How is it I have misplaced my memories? Is it that the shadows merged with my bones? If I make myself very still, very quiet. My thoughts are grey. I keep failing to escape from these labyrinthine dreams. The horizon moves farther and farther away. Yet I cannot stop moving. I am walking on a bridge inside a revolving door. I go and go and go and go nowhere, spiraling within the formless silence of obliteration. have I lost my mind? where did it go? the mirror laughs; life abandons 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/. ** Tectonic Face I carry my face in my hands, hoist it onto the dining table, ready my knife and fork. My eyes, dark and brooding, stare at the black-and-white plate. Nothing has taste for me anymore. I suck in my cheeks as I prepare to bite. into gray food. I jut out my chin to make sure I don’t dribble. But then light bites my face, forces my eyes shut. A bright beam sears my right cheek, penetrates my skin, leaves a fault line from glabella to jowl. Like lava, the heat creeps beneath the skin until it enters from behind the eyes and shoots out. I am sprouting fireworks. My face is alive. I am alive. 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, especially surrealist art, 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. ** Transmogrification Sometimes she would say that the next time she’d see herself in the mirror, she’d have a different face. Her eyes were the darkest brown, almost as dark as the Black Oaks she often imagined the fiend within her hiding behind. Sometimes she would say that the next time she’d see herself, her face would be radiant, and her eyes would gleam with the glory of the angel she often imagined hiding behind Japanese Maples with their lovely coral bark. Sometimes she would say that the next time she’d see her reflection in the pond behind her home, the under-eye circles formed during sleepless nights, when the fiend and the angel inside her battled, would be gone. Sometimes she would say that the next time she’d see herself in the surface of a window at midnight or on a car’s shiny hood, the war within her would be over, that magic could change her into someone she’d never known. Gregory E. Lucas Gregory E. Lucas writes fiction and poetry. His short stories and poems have appeared in many magazines such as The Horror Zine, Sparks of Calliope, and previous issues of The Ekphrastic Review. He lives on Hilton Head Island in South Carolina. ** Penumbra There are two sides to every being. To every shadow self. Something unspoken works upon you as dusk falls. An unmuttering of whispers. When it’s time for all your doings. Shadow selves do shadow work. They embalm, they bury, burn candles, make offerings. When the moon glows pink. When the night of the dead looms high. Sometimes, you hear the whooping. You spot a lone falcon during the day. Messenger. A sign. Time for ritual and remedy. The runes fall sideways, face up, sunlit. Always telling you the same thing. Protection. Quiet time. Soft spells. A time for fasting. Scrying. Reckoning. You are not alone and you never were. The falling night brings a shedding of self. You are fond of all the ways. You, shadow woman, leave behind what no longer serves you. The chameleon selves that never were you. You grow into she of the four directions. Future crone, she who loves. Deep, secret, unceasing. She who bestows her benediction upon the passing traveller. To vanish the moment their back is turned. Do not look into her eyes too long. You would forget your purpose. She becomes a mystery. She shed so many selves, she cannot be known. Not anymore. Those she loved she left, or they left her. Through will, death, circumstance. She is centuries old. At one with the wildflowers in bloom. The moon at half-mast. The forest at the edge of the world. Nina Nazir Nina Nazir (she/her) is a British Pakistani poet, writer and artist based in Birmingham, UK. She has been widely published online and in print. She is also a Room 204 writing cohort with Writing West Midlands. You can usually find her with her nose in a book or on Instagram: @nina.s.nazir. She blogs regularly at www.sunrarainz.wordpress.com ** Breaking Out I was tired of always, bored with day after day, with showing in shadows a mask to go inside frames and expectations people carry as they measure me with a glance to see how I might fit. Then a light dawned inside, brightened until it cracked my mask like a cocoon, forced it open, and burst from my forehead, my eyes. I glared shadows away, shattered frames as I stabbed a challenge to the world: Here I am, if you dare! Gary S. Rosin Gary S. Rosin is a retired law professor now living in California to be near family. He has been writing poetry for almost 60 years, and ekphrastic poetry for about 40 years. He is a contributing editor for MacQueen's Quinterly. ** There Once Was a Mother who rejected her daughter’s birthmark, regretted her lack of grace, and sent her to beauty school to learn elegance, or at least, not to wobble in high heels. “Wasted money,” she sighed, disappointed in this girl-- and handed her a tube of Max Factor Erase. Together, they waited for the swipe of makeup to transform the duckling into a swan. To bestow glamour at eighteen, twenty-five, forty. Twice a day, the girl prayed the tube would correct her defect. But Erase was no magic wand. At bedtime and each morning, the port-wine stain still splattered across her chin like bloody shards of glass or the work of a palsied tattoo artist. Decades of fruitless efforts to cancel, expunge, delete-- no procedure more successful than the last. Until a knight errant, in somewhat tarnished armor, proclaimed he loved everything about her. She questioned his eyes but accepted his care. With time, she stopped erasing herself. Sandi Stromberg Sandi Stromberg is the author of the poetry collection Frogs Don’t Sing Red. Her poems have recently been accepted by The Orchards Poetry Journal, Panoply, and MockingHeart Review— and appeared in Pulse, equinox, Gyroscope Review, San Pedro River Review, and The Senior Class, among others. An editor at The Ekphrastic Review, she also edited two anthologies of poetry--Untameable City and Echoes of the Cordillera. A four-time Pushcart and two-time Best of the Net nominee, she was a juried poet in the Houston Poetry Fest eleven times. Dutch translations of her poems have appeared in Brabant Cultureel. ** Mirror, Mirror on the Wall stern, sabred, resurrected, remembering the undoing, the ongoing undoing, the undone morphing into the light, nourishing into being, black matter bringing forth an unforeseen brightness, a blazing unforgiving fire blinding the bearer and all who would ask the mirror. 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 has been published by Kelsay Books (November 2023). A chapbook is about to be published, and a new MS is looking for a home. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/ ** Akhlut Piebald and crouched I stalk my prey Toward the sea Leaving wolf tracks On the shore Black and white I slip transmogrified Into murky darkness Sending out a click train Through the deep 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). ** When I Look in the Mirror When I look in the mirror, There are two reflections. Three, four and many more Those who are going forward Those going back infinitesimally Each is like a wax letter stamp. Each is an unopened correspondence Each muttering, pray, do -open me. Now unto eternity. 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. ** In Meditation (at Mount Auburn Cemetery) Each stone An ascetic- No longer alone. Rising at dusk Rising in light Rising When there was The rain. Like the air In folds of a curtain -- Like the unborn. Illusions of a mind Confined to whirling Of a fan -- Burning with desire To be found. 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. ** Silence of Love On my first rendezvous with daylight since I moved to Colorado near Estes Park, I stir from winter’s silence, hours before a blizzard is forecasted. I recall months ago we attended a harvest fair where we encountered a tattooed artist sitting by an easel who created this clever interpretation of your portrait in black and white. We laughed at the finished sketch which you gave me as a souvenir of that crisp October afternoon. Months later I mourn the distance between us and the stars. Jim Brosnan A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Long Distance Driving (2024) and Nameless Roads (2019) copies 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. ** An Interview for the Artist in Chiaroscuro Our understanding is correlative to our perception. ~ Robert Delaunay, French artist (b. 1885 – d. 1941) Where division meets mystery and creativity yields inner friendship, do you document your face as proof of existence, characterize your countenance as evidence? Where contrast invites interpretation and imagery explores universal belonging, do your self-portraits honor humanity, offer tribute to solidarity? Where the knife cuts and the complexities of life are lost in black and white thinking, does your lens widen with nuance, embrace the vastness of human grayscale? Based on hypotheticals, if compassion suddenly transformed the world canvas, altered societal discernment, would your likeness change, include a transmogrification of color? As the Earth turns in this light-dark framework of time, do you believe our understanding is correlative to our perception? Jeannie E. Roberts Jeannie E. Roberts is an artist, author, and poet. Her latest full-length poetry collection is titled On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing (Kelsay Books, 2025). Her work appears in various publications, including Anti-Heroin Chic, Blue Heron Review, The Ekphrastic Review, The New Verse News, ONE ART, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Panoply, The Poeming Pigeon, Presence, Quill and Parchment, Silver Birch Press, Sky Island Journal, Verse-Virtual, and elsewhere. She serves as a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs and is an Eric Hoffer and a two-time Best of the Net award nominee. ** Hope Overshadowed Darkness. It clings to me like a second skin. No amount of soaking, scrubbing, washing deters its inky quality. It never ceases in its appearance. Gathering. Layering. Hardening. More, and more, and more. The weight is so heavy… But no one sees as it hides behind an illusion I’ve portrayed: a radiant smile, a helping hand, a strong façade; that no one wants to believe is false. Removing the pretenses, being open, vulnerable about the origins and reasons for this emptiness… yet you still cannot see through this white, angelic smokescreen and truly understand me… Will I forever be a prisoner of this shadow? No. For while hope may seem lost in the endless void, a light will always continue to burn at the other end of the tunnel guiding you onward. Katie L. Davey Katie L. Davey is an aspiring author from the rural parts of House Springs, MO. She has published four pieces through four separate challenges for the Ekphrastic Review, the first titled Hidden Prophecies as part of the Richard Challenge, the second titled Listen Well, Listen All, of My Tale to Caution All as part of the Vicente Challenge, the third titled I Blink as part of the Morrisseau Challenge, and the fourth title A Rocky Perspective as part of the Gabler 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. ** Etymology of Portrait of Earth Charcoal as whole body emoting emerging the etymology of portrait of earth unfurling draw is to draft is to drag is to seize [what’s pleasing- what’s changing what’s up for grabs? DRAW from your wrist draw from your shoulder conjure ecologies of charcoal emerging from embers embers emerging emergent emerging emergency of charcoal calling on what came before us charcoal—Middle English [related to coal emerging converging smudging transforming form & transform the earth brutal and raw Jeanne Morel Jeanne Morel is the author of three chapbooks, most recently, I See My Way to Some Partial Results(Ravenna Press). She holds an MFA from Pacific University and has been nominated for a Pushcart in both poetry and fiction. Her new work is forthcoming in Telephone—An International Arts Project, On Resilience, Stories of Climate Adaptation Across Washington’s Landscapes, and Birdbrains, a Lyrical Guide to Washington State Birds.  After the Storm, by Sarah Bernhardt (France) 1876 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 Storm, by Sarah Bernhardt. Deadline is June 6, 2025. You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way. Scroll down to donate $5CAD (about $3.75 USD). 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to [email protected]. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry. 5.Include BERNHARDT CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, JUNE 6, 2025. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 15. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly.  Die Erde & Der Himmel (Heaven and Earth), by Séverine Gallardo (France) 2024 Heaven and Earth Reality reins, into cohabitation, of heaven and earth. 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. ** Therapeutic Art That Makes Us Grow Social psychologist Amy Cuddy argues that expansive body postures increase self-confidence and the positive influence we have on other people. To help us remember to do this when speaking to another person, she suggests to “pretend there's a hat, or object, on our head that we are supporting.” I imagine for a second that I’m wearing one of these super colourful and fun head ornaments created by Séverine Gallardo. The thought of that spectacular hat on my head makes me feel like I am a steeple of a cathedral connecting with the sky. With the overshoulderarmsleeve, I feel as if I were a living part of a luminous garden. A garden that emerges from the Artist’s mind and that tends to a paradise. I feel a connection with Nature as if I were hugging a tree, but, here, it is the tree that is hugging me. Jean Bourque Jean lives in Montreal. He is passionate about nature and sylvotherapy. He particularly enjoys hugging trees, except for conifers…because of the resin. ** To Séverine Gallardo Regarding Die Erde & Der Himmel You fashion us as juxtaposed -- between the sensed and undisclosed -- as bridge connecting things observed to spirit never seen but served... ...as flesh aware yet mystified, by timeless reach of soul inside unique as force inherent free to destine as its legacy the mind, the eye, the hand, the heart becoming tools of human art to leave behind the work and worth of time's decay and its rebirth of crafted selfless sacrifice that Love intended to entice as promise kept of living Grace that we become in faith'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. ** You Are On My Mind Swathed in the fabric of life I enter and think of you only. Tall and bright -the Tower on Pisa on my head. Swaying back and forth. You inhabit my brain and go forth in the world. The beauty of color and fabrics leads me to accolades and wisdom. I am a success in this world -tall and mighty. The vision atop my head pushes me onward to brilliance. I am observed and admired for my creative fortitude. I am acknowledged for the new heights I have reached. Talent is once again the center of my universe. My audience applauds and awaits my entrance. The awards are endless. I am the mistress of creation. My entrance is greeted by all. Cheers abound from the crowd. Hand clapping causes my ears to ring with endless applause. My hat is a supreme success -my head dizzy with recognition. I enter the room as people bend and bow. Crowds cheer and genuflect. Perfection is mine. Sandy Rochelle Sandy Rochelle is an Internationally published poet. Actress and narrator. She narrated and produced the documentary film Artwatch about Art historian James Beck. Her poetry has appeared in: Wild Word, One Art, Dissident Voice, Connecticut River Review, Haiku Universe, Impspired, Indelible, and others. Her chapbook, Soul Poems, was published by Finishing Line Press. ** The Daughters of Atlas “…Atlas... bade Hercules hold up the sky in his stead. Hercules promised to do so, but succeeded by craft in putting it on Atlas instead....he begged Atlas to hold up the sky till he should put a pad on his head.” - Apollodorus, Library II.5.11, c. 1st-2nd century CE Old tales tell of mighty men who fought to lose What women daily bear with ease and grace For men cannot balance the world on their heads Who portray each daily chore as legend But it is now strong and stately women Who hold up the sky’s unlikely colours Pastel shades of blush and dawn nourishing Towering gardens of russet and sage As women have done since before the beginning No matter what elder tales may tell Balancing life as if practicing posture Draping the world across their left shoulders A cauldron of time there heaped and expanding The world-serpent’s skin coiled around her brow Her veins gush with the wine of summer Heaven and earth a mere fashion statement Heavily felt yet lightly burdened Royal purple worn most casually With her grace and a firm simplicity For that which she bears is not all that she is Mark Hendrickson Mark Hendrickson (he/him/his) is a gay poet and writer in the Des Moines area navigating the Sturm und Drang of daily life through wordcraft. His work has appeared in Variant Lit, Vestal Review, Modern Haiku, Spellbinder, and others. He has a background in music, psychology, and marriage & family therapy. Mark worked for many years as a Mental Health Technician on a locked psychiatric unit. Follow him @MarkHPoetry, or visit his website: https://www.markhendricksonpoetry.com ** Elevate Your Thoughts When the strain of this world becomes a heavy padded cloak that sits heavily over your shoulder like the biggest epaulette ever it does not matter how lovely it is, the skill and care in its creation, the green land and the forests of it, flooded rivers running down your arm, red lava flows reaching to your wrist. The roiling mass of its primal forces and drive for survival overwhelm: it is fight or flight, kill or be killed. When this lopsided burden threatens to overcome you, contemplate heaven. Lift your mind above earthly things, the rock strata, the land, the water. Elevate your troubled thoughts to a more rosy view above, dwell on those higher matters. Unknowable portals will lead you to mystical realms beyond. This is the essence of the infinite, its strangeness unquantifiable, its exotic nature beyond our ken. We can try to imagine it, taste it, the fruit of a new kind of Eden untainted by mortal corruption. Clothe your head with meditations, send prayers to rise in spirals, make a mitre from your mantras. Emily Tee Emily Tee is a writer living in the UK Midlands. She's had pieces published in Ekphrastic Review Challenges previously, and elsewhere online and in print, including most recently in Poetry Scotland. ** A Tendency to Work in Squares I wear the office inside my window Grafting Bosch onto their burnt life Bold, risqué, exploratory graveyard The people made of victory gardens Grey of cadmium neutron absorbers The people fresh with fruit and lush Without which the system explodes With the wreckage of lasting greens Propst the rat race Daedalus for this Mismatched patch over the software Minoan Age of cheese yellow sheets Sheltering my catgut jeweling bright Bull market with hecatomb jaundice What won’t belong makes belonging Bully bullshit bullpen Chinaware era Happen by the process called longing When I’m cold I drape myself in the Whenever the body becomes a rufous Nondescript bucolic cell lit with heat Halo of kestrel and an orphic mammal Magna cum laude certificate in Excel The body also wears the leeward dive Summa of the backroom imagination Its determinate, uncertain textile rustle Starched cloud atmosphere ironed on Cockaigne resembling karst the heart The end of the world isn’t a spheroid Lithic mordant caustic a talon a claw Flat, unwrinkled, unblinking fissions A hand reaching for variegated fruits Cleaved panes resembling utopianism Without which the system explodes JDG JDG (they/them) is a writer based in Brooklyn, NY and a member of the New Haven Writers' Group. Their work has been published, among other places, in Cleaver Magazine, Prospectus, and Prairie Schooner. You can find more of their work at JustinDGoodman.com ** Easter Parade The parade was over. I was as pleased with my creation, as any creator would be, especially a mad Hatter like me! But though it was over, I wasn’t done. I had so many pieces left over, so many earthly marvels still awaiting creation, so I collaged a sleeve, modified a sweater clothed the Earth. mapped its changes and created some more heavenly art. Lynn White Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for Pushcarts, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Magazine, Firewords, Vagabond Press, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes Journal. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com///www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/ ** The Reluctant Model Why would someone do this to me? It weighs a tonne and I feel a fool. There's skill and artistry in the intricate designs, but any beauty in the detail is lost in the overall execution. No I won't smile for the camera this thing is giving me a headache and if I move a muscle it will all come tumbling down. So many problems in the world need solutions and you choose to do this to me? Juliet Wilson Juliet Wilson is an adult education tutor, wildlife surveyor and conservation volunteer based in Edinburgh, Scotland. Her poetry and short stories have been widely published. She can be found in various places online as Crafty Green Poet. ** Bluebird Liturgy Heaven reached down and touched the earth, dipped its fingertips into the soil, grasped tree roots. Heaven kissed the earth and the roots broke through the ground, blossomed into majestic tree clouds. There, in the branches, a bluebird lifted its beak in gratitude toward Heaven and sang, “Then heaven touched the earth,” again and again. Three other bluebirds in red nests caught the refrain from the west and carried the tune, passing its notes from one to the other. Then the trio sang in unison, a three-part harmony. Red petals unfurled and worms crept out of the soil to find each other. The bluebirds knew no more effective prayer than this: “Then heaven touched the earth. And all was well.” 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, especially surrealist art, 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. ** Woven in Dialectic Here I stand on firm foundations A thesis of thinking labelled on Die Erde Wrapping arms with world sensations Blocking fears, I've long been scared of And yet above I continue to contend An antithesis of angst that awaits in Der Himmel Resting where my mind has never been Imagining a worth beyond metaphysical As all my observations blend into Das Leben I synthesize, paired of the middle, woven in dialectic 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. ** ensorcelled what is it like to be a hill, a tree, a place of impossible beauty that moves into spirit expanding beyond all estimation? how to measure time when it disappears and loses its borders? when what was formerly distant pulls the outside in and speaks in voices that are not sounds but images of pure lucidity? that can only be heard in the hushed luminescence of word lessness, the cosmic hum? 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/. ** Mad Hatter? A helmet, hat, a mindset space, agenda for evolving taste, grandmother’s knee to artistry. It started in a crochet tool, repeated gestures, time again, ahead, remoulding, textile part. Beyond the screen, still reading squares, tile history, ceramic piece, or letters, alphabetti seize. Intriguing motifs, headline stuff, to cap it all, consolidate repurposed bits as galvanised. Through eye to pinpoint travelogue, flea markets through to online shop, what meets that eye are coloured threads. Yoruba for the carried weight, divinities in India, unseen and seen met native heads. A head for heights, totemic feel, do heaven, earth find unity in Séverine’s material? 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 ** pitch you can tear out the thread that weds heaven to earth & then swear on your spit of this bead it will birth & while you might speak of it as air or as breath or as spirit god holds the idea of death so high even the dogs cannot hear it Mark DeCarteret ** Die Erde & Der Himmel Smart of you, Gallardo, to place heaven & earth not in the hand & head of God but of the human, and especially – the woman, which even Zarathustra missed in his superman gist! You structured the heaven as a high hoisted fist, though carrying it for a lifetime, even if it’s only her mane, defies any rational frame, but that’s exactly why the creator has given us imagination! Only by invention she can harmonize the intricate heavenly perfection into such fair super bun and place all the big and small crusades into their right honorable places, as light shines, flowers bloom, mountains green creatures crawl and fly and sing. At the same time it’s upon her practical arm to balance and conduct all the earth’s super contrasts: deluge and drought, kernel and darnel, fresh and old, calm and storm to grab the best from each whim and turn blossom into fruit, only to then start again from seed; as authors interchange poetry with prose and, of course, turn the other way around as by the season of their ideation bound; yet always carrying the two tasks with gravitas and grace, no matter full face, profile or back – it’s always a pure poise, as Gallardo here shows! You may correct me if it’s otherwise – earth standing on her head, and heaven hanging on her arm – but, it’s, any way, an argument resolved – ‘on earth as it is in heaven’, as by the book. But Gallardo’s present open book reading wouldn’t be complete without reaching the mounting top and spice Michelangelo’s gist – indeed, man was once inspirited by God, but woman – second time by giving Birth – here facing labor alone looking calm as if it is a piece of birthday cake her poise enhancing as we speak, but if you stop…you will hear her “thanks” to heaven and earth for turning into wearable mode as her natal dress code. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and her poems have been honored often by TER. Her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europe Edizioni. ** What i was i was an easter egg and my falcon, a trinity In a history of eclipse i had my fibers combed into thought stacks, smoking cones years ago, riding horseback i noticed my arm was pregnant with verse, time and motion. A quisling child betrayed me to my father, unseen since the time of darkness. Silly silly me. False deserts dressed in cacti grew like mints in apocalypse, and i turned away. i was the sea and shore, near Greece overgrown with rosemary weeping, in spite of blue and green and yellow Feral Willcox Feral Willcox is a poet and musician living in Truth or Consequences, NM. Her first full length poetry collection is forthcoming from Artemis Tales Press. Her work can be found in The Mackinaw, Rogue Agent, Nixes Mate, Per Contra, and elsewhere. ** I Contain Multitudes I contain multitudes Of virtue Of sin I contain multitudes Of pleasure Of pain Of short sighs singing in the dark of night Of persistent aches echoing in the marrow of my bones I contain multitudes Of enigma Of clarity I contain multitudes Of memory Of prophecy Of toes-tangled-in-dew-drizzled-grass flickers and of arms-aloft-in-trees flashes Of wet-astreaked-cheek assaults and of depressed-dirge-drumming-heart visions I contain multitudes Of love Of hate I contain multitudes Of knowledge Of the forgotten Of calculations and of dates and of trivial fact Of names and of faces and of important lessons I contain multitudes Of sanity Of craziness I contain multitudes Of niceties Of aggressions Of “please’s” and of “thank you’s” and of held doors and of smiles Of “fuck you’s” and of “go to hell’s” and of punches and of glares I contain multitudes Of defensiveness Of offensiveness I contain multitudes Of order Of chaos Of perfectly aligned books and of washed hands and of sanitized surfaces Of randomly placed knick knacks and of dirty t-shirts and of disorganized closets I contain multitudes Of forgiveness Of resentment I contain multitudes Of joy Of sorrow Of brilliant smiles and of sparkling laughter Of poorly disguised frowns and of drip-drop-drip-drop-drip-dripping tears I contain multitudes Of calm Of fury I contain multitudes Of reality Of dreams Of hard truths Of wild desires Indeed, I contain multitudes! Multitudes! Multitudes! Multitudes Of Heaven and Of Earth! Rose Menyon Heflin Originally from rural, southern Kentucky, Rose Menyon Heflin is a poet, writer, and visual artist living in Wisconsin. Her award-winning poetry has been published over 250 times in outlets spanning five continents, and she has published memoir and flash fiction pieces. She has had a free verse poem choreographed and danced, an ekphrastic memoir piece featured in a museum art exhibit, and two haiku put into a gumball machine. Among other venues, her poetry has appeared in Deep South Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, and San Antonio Review. An OCD sufferer since childhood, she strongly prefers hugging trees instead of people. ** Heaven and Earth When the new Pope was chosen, I thought of the mitre he’d don, decorated with gold & gems, made of white linen or silk. The right to wear the pointed cap belongs only to the pope, cardinals & bishops — always men who take their roles seriously, incense wafting around robes like the white smoke that emerged from Rome before we learned his name. But what if holiness was less the terrain of pomp & gaudy display, instead accessible by donning a completely different head covering -– say, a felt stocking cap in the shape of a bouquet woven by women, displaying mountain, canopy & cloud as sun’s rays dance across snaking river bends, dense speckled soil teeming with flowers. If only I could acknowledge the forest on my head & sleeve, parade a cape of bright colors for adoring fans smitten with natural beauty – sleepy orchids & lilac bends, waterfalls, grassy peaks, blood red buds. My elevated cap would depict the universe with yarn -- every item of worship that sustains me & makes the world bearable — clematis, bellflower, banyan tree, calla lily, yarrow, honey locust, & the breath of the body, rising. Susan Michele Coronel Susan Michele Coronel lives in New York City. Her first full-length collection In the Needle, A Womanwon the 2024 Donna Wolf Palacio Poetry Prize, and is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press this July. A two-time Pushcart nominee, Susan Michele Coronel has had poems published in numerous journals including Mom Egg Review, Redivider, One Art, TAB Journal, and Spillway 29. In 2023, she won the Massachusetts Poetry Festival’s First Poem Award. Versions of her book were finalists for the 42 Miles Press Poetry Award (2023), the C&R Press Poetry Award (2023), and the Louise Bogan Award (2024). ** In the Spotlight I’ll bloody knock ‘em dead with this, not literally obviously though I could hide a fair few things up my sleeve if I wanted. Red carpet gown, my arse. They can’t upstage me. This, here, will be my centrepiece. The second I walk in, they’ll be… astounded. Gobsmacked. Wowed. They just won’t know where to put themselves. I’m not trying to steal anyone’s limelight, mind, cos mine was just a bit part, but still, my character was key to the whole plot and this is my moment too, damn it. Forget muted tones, trailing skirts or artsy black, give me all the colours! Give me asymmetry! A forest on my head! A village hanging off my arm! Guaranteed no other bugger will be wearing this. Come on, Cannes Film Festival, let’s have it, here I come. Open the doors, lock up your sons and pass me a champagne flute, waiter, por favor. I will say one thing though – it’s a good job I’m right-handed. Nina Nazir Nina Nazir (she/her) is a British Pakistani poet, writer and artist based in Birmingham, UK. She has been widely published online and in print. She is also a Room 204 writing cohort with Writing West Midlands. You can usually find her with her nose in a book or on Instagram: @nina.s.nazir. She blogs regularly at www.sunrarainz.wordpress.com ** Weary Angel Cento Because women are required to carry enough things as it is, There’s little to bear but the things I bore. I am tired of work, tired of building up I take off my skin, hang it up, There’s nothing to carry, and naught to add. Debbie Walker-Lass Line 1) Alice Duer Miller “Why We Oppose Pockets For Women” Lines 2 & 5) Dorothy Parker, “Ballade of Great Weariness” Line 3) Fenton Johnson “Tired” Line 4) Angela Jackson, "Mules and Women" Debbie Walker-Lass, (she/her) is a poet, collage artist, and writer living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared in, or soon will appear) in The Rockvale Review, Green Ink Poetry, The Ekphrastic Journal, Punk Monk, Poetry Quarterly, The Light Ekphrastic and The Niagara Poetry Journal, among others. She is an avid Tybee Island beachcomber and lover of all things nature. (Except Spiders, not yet.) She’s recently provided a rollicking poetry workshop for her local Dekalb County library. ** Revival of the Fittest After the collapse, The Revival commissioned The Gallardo to create biodegradable fabric; they were also entrusted with the development of a universal clothing system where everyone had access to clean, creative, and affordable apparel. Embellished with pearls, appliqué, and embroidery, the garments were unique and celebrated nature. Held in societal esteem, The Gallardo wore multicolored vestments. As if the living embodiment of sculpture, their winglike sleeves and soaring headdresses displayed land, sky, and ocean delights; offerings of reverence to Heaven and Earth, cacti, corals, and other organic shapes of ornamental needlework adorned the felted silk as a terrain of crocheted forms crowned the ceremonial raiment. The Revival practiced the sociopolitical ideology of anti-consumerism. The new era protected the environment and prioritized contentment over materialism. The Gallardo were instrumental in the elimination of Fast Fashion, restored environmental balance by reducing landfills of textile waste. After the collapse revival of the fittest Heaven and Earth thrive Jeannie E. Roberts Jeannie E. Roberts is the author of nine books. Her latest full-length poetry collection is titled On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing (Kelsay Books, 2025). Her work appears in various publications, including Anti-Heroin Chic, Blue Heron Review, The Ekphrastic Review, The New Verse News, ONE ART, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Panoply, The Poeming Pigeon, Presence, Quill and Parchment, Silver Birch Press, Sky Island Journal, Verse-Virtual, and elsewhere. She serves as a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs and is an Eric Hoffer and a two-time Best of the Net award nominee. ** Buffet of Daffodils Aargh my arm is a flower I wished it to be a bee instead it's their dinner table well thanks for the honey honey Marc Brimble ** Of Heaven and Earth The creature slams into the door, its alien appendages puncturing the reinforced steel. I’ve thrown the bolt, but it won’t hold. No matter. Every three years this abomination comes for me with its fetid breath and flashing fangs. I’ve defeated this cosmic anomaly before, and I’ll beat it again tonight. I breathe deep and don my crown and armpiece and immediately feel the tingle as the warp and weft activate. Every thread glows with power. And even as the beast hurtles into the door again, I stand, now thrice as strong as any creature on Earth. A CRASH and the door bows inward. Let it come. I am ready, ready, ready. Tracy Royce Tracy Royce is a writer and poet whose words appear in / are forthcoming in Bending Genres, Does It Have Pockets?, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Scrawl Place, Villain Era, and elsewhere. She lives in Southern California where she enjoys hiking, playing board games, and obsessing over Richard Widmark movies. Find her on Bluesky. ** The Lady of Two Lands Roots and wings, these are the things she dreams about at night, between the unpaid bills and the unknown bank accounts still — quite probably -- in her husband’s ex-wife’s name. Shame is what she feels for thinking such thoughts, even though the animal night-brain has a mind of its own, the train’s far-off whistle in the un- seen distance. But roots and wings. . . The red-barked manzanita tree grows disks taller than Nefertiti’s own elongated trunk, sheltering the birds that sing her name — Teeti, Teeti, Teeti! Meanwhile, the red-leafed palm tree becomes a lake of fire, violet irises the size of trees become palms, and water falls in a trickle, carving its way through heavy stones that weigh the wings of her better angel. Or are they gray-grape wisterias soft as summer in a strange and mysterious land? Epaulettes of islands decorate her wings, also holding her down. Or shall we call it grounding? The pink palace of her mind reaches higher and higher with a lush green crown and dark arched windows to home those wild birds, portals for passage to a secret realm. Which song, which clicking clock-like lock, which key word will magically unlatch the door? What’s more, what is the name, she wonders, for such unspeakable resplendence? And where is heaven, if not everywhere around and inside you — in roots and wings? Greta Ehrig Greta Ehrig holds an MFA in Creative Writing from American University, where she was a Lannan Fellow and enjoyed editing (and finding art for) Folio literary journal. She also paints, sings, teaches, and holds BAs in Art and Psychology. Her writing has received support from the Maryland State Arts Council and the National League of American Pen Women. In 2024, she was nominated for Best of the Net and a Pushcart Prize in Poetry. Ekphrastic writing is her favourite kind.   Transmogrification, by Donna-Lee Smith (Canada) contemporary Donna-Lee Smith is one of The Ekphrastic Review's faithful challenge contributors. She has been submitting her writing since 2022. Her contribution to the Nine Lives Marathon in 2024 is beautiful in words, as well as in imagery: she matched up her own face with the art prompt from the marathon. You can see these photos @ https://www.instagram.com/donna__lee__smith/. Donna-Lee enjoys working as a model, and to add to the mixture of creativity, she enjoys shaping impressive and varied artwork. Her black and white images are today's ekphrastic challenge. Looking forward to reading your writing!
be well, Kate Copeland ** 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 Transmogrification, by Donna-Lee Smith. Deadline is May 23, 2025. You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way. Scroll down to donate $5CAD (about $3.75 USD). 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to [email protected]. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry. 5.Include SMITH CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, May 23, 2025. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 15. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly.  The Birdcage, by Harue Koga (Japan) 1924  Anita Nahal Dr. Anita Nahal is a professor, poet, children's books writer, recent novelist and a very recent short film maker. Finalist, Tagore Literary Prize, 2023, for her ekphrastic prose poetry poetry book, Kisses at the espresso bar and nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize (22, 23), Anita won the 2024 Nissim Prize for Excellence in Literature for her poetry-prose novel, drenched thoughts. Her third prose poetry collection, What’s wrong with us Kali women?, is mandatory reading at Utrecht University. Her first under three minute very short film, “Clubs my sinful dance muse,” won the best super short film at the Five Continents International Film Festival, Venezuela (August 2024). A Fulbright and NEH scholar, she teaches at a university in Washington DC. www.anitanahal.com ** Leda’s Naked in a Cage and Zeus Is Locked Out She’s pale as the moon, trying to look composed as she crosses her legs, the god-as-Cygan having driven her to lunacy. Some would think it was love but nothing’s set in concrete. More like water, circulating through pipes and filters until justice and pH both balance and the scales show some sort of clarity. Sibelius wouldn’t be out of place here. Even if Lemminkäinen had a bow and not an erection, there’s still a swan in the story—a divine one, since swans don’t sing and this one has an English horn for a voice box, sighing lonely and seductive. Change the setting and it’s Zeus to a tee, Leda on shore and the god swan-downed and randy. I’m in a birdcage, she realizes as she perches, looking upwards toward where the bars meet. Outside, a red flower grows. To her eyes, it’s a camellia. To her heart, it’s a red spider lily, Lycoris radiate, the flower of the afterlife, the hell flower. Leda imagines the flower’s long thin petals curving back like spider legs, spreading across fields on either side of a foot path to the River Styx. Try finding a swan there in place of Charon’s barge. Tuonela’s waters are similarly dusky but the Styx is more like black ice, slushy and freezing, or so she was told as a child. Those red spider lilies might as well spin webs, she thinks, trapped like prey in isolation as the fields stretch forever, the air growing chilly on her skin. Leda’s trapped and knows it, whether imagining herself walking or snapping back to being perched inside this cage. She sits on a hope chest in farewell mode, wanting to uncross her legs but not wanting to feel cold air rush cold between them and remind her of who’s not coming back. She knows both the lily’s leaves and this train of thought are toxic, but she can’t help picking at the leaves or riding down a mine shaft of regret, caged like the canary people watch to make sure the air hasn’t gone bad. She knows she’s doomed to suffocate in full view of everyone around her. Jon Yungkans Jonathan Yungkans continues typing at odd hours of the night as he listens to owls hoot and watches yet another skunk amble under his house's foundation. He remains thankful when his writing is less noxious than the creature hiding beneath the bathroom's floorboards. His work has appeared in NOON: journal of the short poem, MacQueen's Quinterly, Sonic Boom, Synkroniciti and other publications. He has also written three poetry chapbooks. The latest, The Ravens Will Arrive Later, is scheduled for release in 2026 from Gnashing Teeth Publishing. ** The Caged Woman Demands Immediate Release Gadgets and widgets, circular shapes, soft versus hard lines, water and bricks, build a montage, frame a workbench like space. Tranquil light eases the still-life’s cage. Curves serve as mirrors in this surreal pic of gadgets and widgets, circular shapes. The patchwork of colour, rose, aqua, and jade, join ochre and rust as the contrast and mix build a montage, frame a workbench like space. Opposites animate the machinal array where living things change the surface of slick gadgets and widgets, circular shapes. The swans, nude, and blossom alter the scape, illustrate wonder as their forms affix to this photomontage, workbench like space. Technique repeats in a mechanized way where soft versus hard lines avail a mix of gadgets, widgets, and circular shapes that build a montage, frame a workbench like space. Jeannie E. Roberts Jeannie E. Roberts is the author of nine books, including her most recent full-length poetry collection On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing (Kelsay Books, 2025). She is an Eric Hoffer and a two-time Best of the Net award nominee. A Midwesterner with degrees in secondary education (B.S.) and arts management (M.A.), she divides her time between Minnesota and Wisconsin. She finds joy drawing, taking walks, photographing nature, and spending time with loved ones. ** Perfect Measurements She was expected to perform like a bird looking for a mate. She had read that only male birds danced and begged for attention. The males were flashy, but the females made all the decisions. She wondered if this is what separated humans from birds. The requirement from men that women look perfect and submit to their fathers and husbands. The doorman gave her powders for her face, lotions for her limbs, and rouge for her lips. “You must look sensational.” Off stage, she dreamed of the world beyond the bars. She painted flowers and free birds from distant memory; the outside world she grasped onto dearly had become but a ghost in her mind. She chose to believe the whirring machines in this storage room were musical instruments. The storage room was her own private ballroom. The dust was like glitter, and the dripping mouldy ceiling was a woven tapestry. She remembered dances she had watched as a young girl. Ballet, she believed it was called. Swan Lake. She couldn’t recall the premise but imagined herself a girl who had become a swan fluttering about her confines, longing to feel the water beneath her wings. Maybe a bird out there had become a woman, knees bent, head bowed, arms deep in suds or bread dough. The men would come and ogle her as she danced trance-like in her cage. They handed the doorman wads of cash on their way in, money she’d never see again. They sat on chairs in a semi-circle around the stage she’d get wheeled out onto nightly. A spectacle. Occasionally, she was allowed some clothing, a feather boa or a fur coat, but was always expected to shed it before the performance ended. “They’re here to see your perfect body, the rarity of your 36-24-36 measurements, the perfect perkiness of your breasts, the pearly smoothness of your legs, and the luxurious black silk of your hair. You are a mythical creature. These men have wives who could never be you. Mediocre wives with straight waists, straw-coloured hair, and flat bottoms. You are their dream. You fulfil their fantasies,” the doorman said one time, wheeling her back to the storage room. Some of the men tried to touch her. They’d leap from their seats and rush the stage, arms jabbing through the bars, pinching her unblemished arms and the tender flesh of her breasts. The doorman would tear them away. He never tried to touch her. Maybe she was too fragile for him to touch. He didn’t want to mar her. Maybe she would always be unattainable. Once, the doorman’s nephew, who sometimes helped clean the stage or bring her food, had said that her vestal nature was a key attraction for these men. She didn’t understand what that meant. The boy gave her books to read, so he brought her one on the natural bonds between man and woman, explaining her sacred duty and that of her womb. The cover bore the image of a lily unfurled. He smiled impishly at her horror. She had always felt a level of shame around her body and the way the men inspected her like a prized goose. Now, she realised she was exactly that. Before bed, she would stare at the boarded-up window in the corner. What was beyond? Sometimes, a halo of light seeped through the gaps. She remembered what the sun felt like. A warm hug. But not once did she consider sliding her palette knife into the grooves to prise it open. She was fed on a diet of fruits, fish, and boiled vegetables. As a treat, sometimes nuts and breads would be incorporated. Once, as a very rare prize, she was given a sweet treat. A pastry. She had almost forgotten the buttery, flaky nature of that morsel. She asked for another. “We don’t want you gaining weight, now do we?” came the doorman’s answer. The storage room became her home after hours. She was free to roam it. There was a small bathroom, a sofa, a few dry goods in a cupboard, and a couple of rickety light fixtures. The doorman brought her a new canvas and paper every fortnight alongside some pigments. He sold her paintings to the patrons of her show. If a particularly good price was reached, she would receive extra comforts such as a silk robe, fluffy slippers, and a Persian rug for the room. Art became her salvation. She would request more books over time. The doorman wasn’t keen on her reading and heavily regulated what she was allowed to read: a children’s book about a dollhouse, this picture book about wetland birds, and a ghost story collection. Nothing that would inspire freedom, rebellion, or knowledge of oppression and subjugation. She must remain ignorant. For in ignorance, she was docile, malleable – unmotivated. The nephew, however, found mirth in bringing her tomes on wars, revolutions, freedom marches, a book on the woman who opened the first university, another on women protesting for equality… Her mind reeled at the possibilities. At first, she dismissed all of this as mere fantasy. After all, she was the star of the show. These men paid to see her dance and paint. Surely, their obsession victimised them. She didn’t care for any of them, for they all looked the same to her. Their bulging eyes, mouths watering, the uncomfortable distension of their trousers, a certain insanity behind their gaze. They spent their hard-earned money to simply gaze but never touch. She wondered if the doorman would be as interesting to watch if he were caged in her stead. If he would look as elegant as she, flapping his wings about in rhythmic movement. She couldn’t fathom sacrificing her silks (for this is what she saw as monetary value) to gawp at a man in a cage, singing lullabies and spinning around until his arms hit the edges of his confines, all the while ignoring the window in the corner of his room. Dihya Ammar Dihya is a writer, poet, artist, and scientist based in northern Scotland. They live with their orange cat, pet frogs, and an ever-expanding book collection ** Stranded in Pigment She doesn’t remember entering this doorless cage. Doesn’t remember being posed to provoke. A nude dolly- bird behind bars. She doesn’t remember falling into a sleeping-beauty dream, waking up, all softness around her gone metallic. Steel disks and tools hanging in geometric order. Swans swim away, carrying her gaze—leave her longing once more to linger at a pond’s edge, to look up at the early-morning sky and see any slice of moon. Sandi Stromberg Sandi Stromberg is the author of the poetry collection Frogs Don’t Sing Red. Her work recently appeared in The Orchards Poetry Journal, Pulse, equinox, Gyroscope Review, Panoply, San Pedro River Review, The Windhover, and The Senior Class. An editor at The Ekphrastic Review, she also edited two anthologies of poetry--Untameable City and Echoes of the Cordillera--and is a four-time Pushcart and two-time Best of the Net nominee. Dutch translations of her poems have appeared in Brabant Cultureel. ** The Vanity of Birds and Man A morning stroll interrupted - a flash of red on white close by - a scarlet cardinal flitting around a car catches my eye. He settles, perching awkwardly, and stares into the side mirror. What can be so captivating? A rival bird? An admirer? His handsome reflection stares back. He surely knows he is alone? So mesmerised by the image, he must perceive it as his own. He admires his bright red plumage with whistles of self-awareness. Is this a reasoning creature, capable of self-consciousness? In our conceit and vanity we call something stupid ‘birdbrain’. This narcissist makes me wonder: of Bird and Man who is more vain? Michael Eyre Michael Eyre lives near Preston, England with his wife and Siberian cat. After a successful career working as a veterinarian, Mike discovered a passion for poetry and has been published in a literary magazine and shortlisted in an international poetry competition. He creates poems that are sometimes thought-provoking, sometimes amusing, but above all entertaining. ** Resting Concubine Conjuring a concubine is a birthright and I will summon you now. I pluck you freshly from the fields, you are choice amongst the fading fleurs, the disdain for wildest ones along the roadsides continuing. Find pleasure in your brilliance leading to capture. I see you tittering between fingers and pointing at my foibles as I fumble through the connections and try to weave together the story of how you came to be. The display case is fully forming, all pieces hammered together, I tire as it hastily comes together. It’s time to rest. Breathe softly now. Softly. This is not a burden. The music plays quietly in the background, but in the foreground, your objections are a cacophony to my deaf ears, and the slight changes in your position seeps out a clear beacon of messages. You are now fit for show and your curves will push out the envy behind each staring eye, bared teeth, and seething sentiments mixed heartily with bombast and brave shouts of the small few who have mixed their own set of slurries, now overly imbibing. The resulting picture show of peace on the pond leans on our attraction to fantasy and we settle on a semblance of safety on the surface and just beneath, where the eddies meet the rock, the water bubbles up and we imagine that all is clear. Christine Gay Dutton Christine Gay Dutton is originally from Rochester, NY and spent her early childhood in the deep south in Florida, Georgia, and Alabama. She resides with her wife in Northampton, Massachusetts. She began writing poetry in 1999 and her work has been published with Kota Press, Aileron, Deep Cleveland, Poems for Peace, Survival & Beyond, Meat for Tea, and Identity Theory. She has participated in and led a variety of workshops in the spirit of the methods of Amherst Writers & Artists. She currently is a member of Writing Sisters, a BIPOC and Queer community of writers in Holyoke, Massachusetts. When not writing, you might find Christine running along the Connecticut River. ** My Melancholy Machine My melancholy machine She gave up, gave in A poppy, poisonous, profound Purified and pumped out She gave up, gave in Beauty captured Purified, pumped out Opiodic joy Beauty captured Pierced the skin Opiodic euphoria But nothing within Aly Hux ** Unpaired Eyes See the World as Flat They constructed a machinery of possession using cages and mechanical memories they locked symphonies in boxes as women danced the Charleston using cages and mechanical memories they captured birds and musical notes as women backward danced the tango unable to see the future they captured birds and musical notes and connected songs and syphilis unable to see the future which was the same as the past they connected songs and illness separated art into squares which was the same as the past when lust went to war with nature they separated art into squares as a woman fox trots undressed when lust went to war with nature static with longings kept in machines Michele Worthington lives in Tucson, AZ where the Sonoran Desert, urban sprawl and our unacknowledged apocalypse prod her writing. She has had photography and poetry in Harpy Hybrid Review, Sandcutter, Persephone Literary, SandyRiverReview, OneArtPoetry, and UnlostJournal. She was a Tucson Haiku Hike and Arizona Matsuri contest winner, and a finalist for the 2023 Tucson Festival of Books literary awards. ** Bird / Cage Now you be me in my cage Trapped in the middle of a golden age Roadway, stairway, cold hard hell The loud humming, the subtle swell Trapped in the middle of a golden age Golden curtains, iron cage The loud humming, the subtle swell The prisoner rotting up on stage Golden curtains, iron cage Morphine, codeine, opium gum The prisoner rotting up on stage Silk road, dirt road, and then some Morphine, codeine, opium gum Darkness dipped in a moonlight shell Silk road, dirt road, and then some You've all seen me in my cage Darkness dipped in a moonlight shell Roadway, stairway, cold hard hell You've all seen me in my cage Now you be me in my cage Nuri Gunduz Nuri Gunduz is an unemployed man who lives in New York. He enjoys writing, making music, and petting cats. He is originally from Turkey, and publishes music under the name Hiçbir Şey. Somebody please give him a job. ** The Machine Could Not Hold Her Grief They built the machine to study the soul. Or so they said. They labeled her: Loss Specimen #003, Female-presenting Griever, Anomaly: still mourning after 1,000 days. They were certain of what they saw. She remembers none of this. Only the first rupture. The way her body folded in on itself after her mother vanished in winter. How the ache grew so large it leaked out through her fingertips and cracked mirrors. That was the day the men came with graphs and soft voices. They told her they could measure it. Fix it. Cure the recurrence. They called her grief “a malfunction in the system.”Now they keep her inside a cage of copper and language. They adjust knobs. Feed her milk. Show her swans and say, “Look. Life continues.” But she knows the water is painted. She knows the milk isn’t hers. It was meant for calves. They think they’re studying her. But they don’t even know her name.They study the shell. They code the curves. They miss the current moving through. Her grief is not a virus. It’s a portal At night, when the wires go slack and the fans still, she slips through her own ribcage into the deeper world. The one her mother taught her in dreams. The one where tears are sacred, and silence is not healing but forgetting. She returns with mushrooms in her mouth and seeds in her belly. Each day, she leaves small revolutions in the corners of the lab: a poppy blooming where only wires were, a gear rusted shut with saltwater, a whisper in the air that wasn’t programmed. She does not want revenge. Only remembrance. Only the end of cages. When the system finally fails, and it will, her grief will be the glitch that freed the whole machine. Michelle Carrera Michelle Carrera is a Puerto Rican grief worker, death doula, and writer exploring the intersections of mourning, memory, and liberation. Through her project Grief and Liberation, she shares grief-centered writing, grief workshops, and speculative fiction rooted in decay, transformation, and reverence. Her work often blends the surreal with the ancestral, imagining new ways to grieve and remember. ** Calling All MacGyvers! Well, I've done it I've Rube Goldberged myself Inside this situation -- again A maze of puzzling proportions This time without any explanations Of where the keys might be for this contraption Of course! I thought about trying to ask the swans But a caged human asking birds for freedom seemed like a bad idea Of course! They'd probably just hiss and gawk I bet they are mocking my blushed beak and cheeks as they speak Of course! The keys are in my pants that are nowhere to be found -- Don't ask Of course! This is in-bare-assing Please try to focus Look at me -- No kissed frog prince will charm me out of this mess I need the kind of problem resolver that didn't doze off in chemistry class I need someone that owns a Swiss Army knife and miles of duct tape Someone who can accommodate with an intuitive pull-it-togetherness Who will still love me even though I’d spend most of my time Wrapped in their bubble gum bindings and paper clipped by their intellect That's what I need To get out of here And the next time too Calling all MacGyvers! 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. ** The Cellar In the final week of Olga’s responsibility for the cellar, a pair of swans and a pair of ducks squabbled. They fought over the right to nest on a ledge beneath a bridge that spanned the town’s river. Olga borrowed a boat and rowed to the bridge. The swans and ducks fell silent, and with a flutter of wings, joined her in the boat. After she had moored at a jetty, the four birds waddled behind Olga to a derelict house on the town’s outskirts. Here, Olga produced a key and opened a door set in a grime-covered wall. She ushered the birds across the threshold and said, “This cellar is where you settle your differences. I’ll lock the door. You have fifteen minutes. Don’t waste them.” She glanced at her watch and sat on a nearby block of stone. Quarter of an hour later, she unlocked the door and let the birds out. “I assume you’ve resolved your differences,” she said. The pair of swans and pair of ducks looked content. They took to the air together and flew back to the bridge. The rest of that day proved quiet for Olga. But the next morning, as she sat with a book by the cellar’s door, a crowd of townsfolk approached her. “We’ve a problem,” said one. “It’s serious,” said another. “That person who calls herself an inventor has kept us up all night with the noise of her latest ridiculous machine,” complained a third. Olga rose. “You know what you must do. The cellar provides a space for the resolution of disputes and misunderstandings. Bring the inventor here. One of you—just one, mind—must enter the cellar with her and reach an agreement about her activities.” The crowd discussed the matter among themselves. They appointed an undertaker to represent the town. “Fetch the inventor,” Olga said to her. “The rest of you can go about your normal business.” Olga locked the undertaker and the inventor in the cellar for half an hour. When they emerged, they left with their arms over each other’s shoulders. “The matter is settled, it seems,” Olga said to herself. For the two days that followed, Olga had nothing to do other than read. As she returned home on the second day, she passed a shop that sold birdcages. From within, she heard a sob. She paused and knocked on the window. A naked woman appeared on the other side of the glass and said, “I’m closed.” “I know,” Olga replied. “Clearly, though, you are upset. I hold the key to the cellar. If you have a problem with someone, the two of you should visit me tomorrow. But don’t arrive late. It is my last day.” The woman shook her head. “The problem is with no one but myself.” Olga shrugged and walked on. The next evening, with just a few minutes left before Olga’s retirement, the naked birdcage woman strolled up to her. “Let me into the cellar,” the birdcage woman said. The demand perplexed Olga. What does this woman intend to achieve, she wondered, when the dispute involves herself alone? “Let me in,” the birdcage woman insisted. Exasperated by such rudeness, Olga unlocked the door. “You have ten minutes.” The woman passed into the cellar. Olga sat, but a few moments later, she heard a shout from the other side of the door. She turned the key, and the birdcage woman shoved the door open. “This is not how to behave,” Olga said. “Use of the cellar is a privilege. Never in my time here has someone acted so discourteously.” The birdcage woman grasped Olga’s shoulders. “I can’t be in there by myself. My thoughts tormented me more than ever.” Olga shook herself free from the woman’s hold. “You were in there for only a matter of seconds.” “Come in with me.” “Why? I have no issue with you.” “Come in with me.” I have never been in the cellar, Olga thought. I have not had a need to go in. The birdcage woman took her hand and pulled her towards the doorway. Suddenly tired, Olga allowed the woman to lead her down the stone steps into the damp, underground room. The only light came from the top of the steps. “I should have closed the door,” Olga murmured. “Listen,” the birdcage woman said and tightened her grip on Olga’s hand. “For years, I’ve felt trapped in my job. I couldn’t work out how I could break free and find other employment. Who wants a person who sells birdcages?” “I fail to see what this is to do with me,” Olga replied. “Pay attention. You’re on the point of retirement. You, who has the best job in this town. A job I want.” These words gave Olga renewed energy. “Your arrogance astounds me,” she said, and pulled her hand away. “This job of mine is a thankless task conducted for the benefit of misfits. Furthermore, I had doubted whether someone should replace me, and you have made up my mind.” Olga ran up the steps, slammed the door closed and locked it. From within the cellar, she heard the birdcage woman scream. “Create as much noise as you like,” Olga whispered. She walked to the bridge that spanned that town’s river and threw the key into the water. The swans and ducks swam out from beneath the bridge and looked up at her. “I did not mean to include you among the ranks of the misfits,” she said to them and went home. After dinner, she put her passport in a pocket and left town. K. J. Watson K. J. Watson’s stories and poems have appeared on the radio; in comics, magazines, and anthologies; and online. ** American Beauty If Max had anything to do with it, he would not let his daughter Lillian out of her Brooklyn cage. Her auburn hair and her shapely figure worried him each night she had a date. He wanted her to change the world. She wanted to change her hairstyle and nail polish color. She was his graceful swan, testy when tested. Yet, she was also the American Beauty of his flower garden. If only he could use his industrial tools–his wrench, his pipes, his coils–to keep her in his house forever. Play Tschaikovsky’s Swan Lake on the phonograph. How hard it is, releasing our children into the world. Thorns grow ev’rywhere. 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, especially surrealist art, 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. ** Spring Bough (the usually female name given Koga as Buddhist priest) As style, so life, the surreal, some schizoid scene, as Cyclopes blind - the pupil, baseball, never kind - yet giant as an artist type; ungilded, awkward, not a norm, expelled, unfinanced, brushed away. As we hear, read, a caged bird sings, some swansong summing turmoil; up- away from sway of father’s path, serene or regal never found. A cultural, religious clash, tradition rejects in his class, as school of western art secured, but opera, too light, those friends. A would-be artist-poet-priest, in Action see hope soon depart, through stillbirth markers stricken, sick, he’s dogged by tremors, hand on heart. But canvas, cast for troubled mind. 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 ** Canary (Girl) Do bright bars breed birds, fetters father fine feathers, stripped skin summon song? Find your opposable thumbs: Crack their coop. Dare to dress. Speak. Heather Neill Heather Neill is a mother of four daughters and a part-time lecturer in composition at Rice University. She is a member of Mark Jodon's Poetry Circle at The Center for Christian Spirituality. **  Join us for the epic event of the year. You won't be sorry. It is wild, exhilarating, exhausting and wonderful. A day of pure creation. Play. Brainstorming. Join us on Sunday, or do it on your own time over the following weeks. This year, to celebrate ten years of The Ekphrastic Review, an optional Champagne Party follows the marathon on zoom. Details are below. Perfect Ten: an Ekphrastic Marathon Try something intense and unusual- an ekphrastic marathon, celebrating nine years of The Ekphrastic Review. Join us on Sunday, July 13 2025 for our annual ekphrastic marathon. This year we are celebrating ten years!!!!! This is an all -day creative writing event that we do independently, together. Take the plunge and see what happens! Write to fourteen different prompts, poetry or flash fiction, in thirty minute drafts. There will be a wide variety of visual art prompts posted at the start of the marathon. You will choose a new one every 30 minutes and try writing a draft, just to see what you can create when pushed outside of your comfort zone. We will gather in a specially created Facebook page for prompts, to chat with each other, and support each other. Time zone or date conflicts? No problem. Page will stay open afterwards. Participate when you can, before the deadline for submission. The honour system is in effect- thirty minute drafts per prompt, fourteen prompts. Participants can do the eight hour marathon in one or two sessions at another time and date within the deadline for submissions (July 31, 2025). Polish and edit your best pieces later, then submit five for possible publication on the Ekphrastic site. One poem and one flash fiction will win $100 CAD each. Last year this event was a smashing success with hundreds of poems and stories written. Let's smash last year out of the park and do it even better this year! Marathon: Sunday July 13, from 10 am to 6 pm EST (including breaks) (For those who can’t make it during those times, any hours that work for you are fine. For those who can’t join us on July 13, catch up at a better time for you in one or two sessions only, as outlined above.) Champagne Party: at 6.05 pm until 7. 30 on Sunday, July 13, join participants on Zoom to celebrate an exhilarating day. Bring Champagne, wine, or a pot of tea. We'll have words from The Ekphrastic Review, conversation as a chance to connect with community, and some optional readings from your work in the marathon. Story and poetry deadline: July 31, 2025 Up to five works of poetry or flash fiction or a mix, works started during marathon and polished later. 500 words max, per piece. Please include a brief bio, 75 words or less Participation is $20 CAD (approx. 15 USD). Thank you very much for your support of the operations, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review, and the prizes to winning authors. If you are in hardship and cannot afford the entry, but you want to participate, please drop us a line at [email protected] and we'll sign you up. Selections for showcase and winning entries announced sometime in September. Sign up below! Perfect Ten: annual ekphrastic marathon
CA$20.00
Celebrate ten years of The Ekphrastic Review with our annual ekphrastic marathon. Fourteen drafts, thirty minutes each, poetry, flash fiction, or CNF. You'll choose from a curated selection of artworks chosen to challenge, inspire, and stimulate. The goal of the marathon is to finish the marathon by creating fourteen drafts. Optional: you'll have time after the event to polish any drafts and submit them. Selected works will be published in TER and a winner in poetry and flash fiction will each be chosen and honoured with $100 award. Following the marathon, exhausted writers can join our Champagne Party on zoom to celebrate an amazing day.  Die Erde & Der Himmel (Heaven and Earth), by Séverine Gallardo (France) 2024. Click image for artist Instagram page. 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 Heaven and Earth, by Séverine Gallardo. Deadline is May 9, 2025. You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way. Scroll down to donate $5CAD (about $3.75 USD). 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to [email protected]. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry. 5.Include GALLARDO CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, May 9, 2025. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 15. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly.  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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