​mercy
 
i lie face down in the field
because Mont Sainte-Victoire won’t come to me,
her pale shoulders shrug, 
like Atlas holding up the sky 
as if endurance were a form of tithe
they’d been rehearsing forever.
 
a hoary pine rises skyward,
weathered, feathered, above me, 
frames the mountains like proscenium,
tickling the clouds to clear the way 
for a blue that awaits,
full of sunlit promises, and the great knowledge
that god has a sense of humour, too.
 
watch, the fir needles hiss,
 
and i see the cypresses seek
to suppress the blocks and cubes of man
to overcome the ancient aqueduct
its gray arches 
carving progress into the valley,
and green is losing
to square terracotta houses
who’ve forgotten their curve.
 
it's silent where i lie. 
no voices rise from the menageries
my eye stabilizes, fixed on the mountain,
its weary shoulders
a form of mercy.

PS Conway

PS Conway is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee and the author of two books, Echoes Lost in Stars (2024) and Life Sucks (2025). Over the last five years, his work has appeared in The Belfast Review, Spectral Realms, and twenty-five other journals and anthologies. He lives in Upstate New York freezing to death with his wife Susan and often identifies as a palimpsest soaked in red wine

 
Persephone Naps and Saves the Dead
​
She was sleeping naked under his tree, so the old farmer took her, harvested her like wheat, muffled her nose and mouth with his tough, massive hand as he pulled her to his waiting cart. There was nothing she could do, couldn’t kick or scream because the scent of the earth on his palm gave off the odor of night and darkness, and so that’s where she thought she was—asleep. 
 
The moss upon which she’d slept curled softly around her hips and feet, but as soon as her skin left the touch of the furry green, her limbs grew chill, and she struggled to wake. But wake she did not. Not until she was six feet under, twenty feet, thirty feet, right down to the center of the earth.
            
He was not an unkind man, except that he stole her away from the day’s beauty; not cruel in that he didn’t hurt her, except to remove her from all that she wanted, which was to relish that one afternoon away from the sweltering kitchen on that late summer day when the heat rose in waves off the treetops and fields, and birds took shelter in the branches, making the leaves tremble with the flutter of their wings. 
 
She had longed to escape that smelly kitchen where potato peels and gristle piled up on plates. That afternoon, standing at the sink, washing that unending stack of dishes, she saw it in the distance as if for the first time--a tree springing from the center of that flat, dry field, offering the promise of shade and relief. 
 
She turned off the spigot, untied her apron, slipped on her old, black pumps, opened the back door and stepped into the hot, hot sun. The tall, brittle grass scratched her ankles and calves as she trudged towards the ancient oak, its limbs stretching wide, inviting her to partake of its shade. How many times had she looked out the window without really seeing it? Why, in all her years of washing dish after dish, her hands scorched and sore, had she never considered throwing down her rag and crossing the hot, dry field to investigate that enormous grandfather of a tree?
            
Her mind had been stuck ever since her last day as chambermaid. She’d gone upstairs to her master’s bedroom to clean the fireplace when she saw his delightful, huge bed, the sheets and blankets a tangle at the foot of it, the feather pillows piled high like clouds. She was so tired she couldn’t resist, and had lain down, thinking if old Betsy found her there, the woman would simply pinch her and say, get up you silly girl. But it was not old Betsy, it was plain, ugly Marta who hated Persephone because she was everything Marta was not, soft and voluptuous and curvy, but maybe a bit stupid? For what chambermaid would enter her master’s bedroom and lay on his bed and not expect trouble? And so, she told on Persephone and got her demoted to scullery maid. 
            
The dishes kept appearing. Persephone couldn’t rest until every one of them was cleaned and put away. That afternoon she had looked down at her hands bleeding into the white, sudsy water, turning the bubbles pink, then looked up and saw the tree off in the distance, standing so proud and bold and strong. 
 
The tall, brown grass crunched, and field mice squeaked and scurried away as she passed. Crows cawed and reeled overhead, screeching at her disturbance, for when had anyone ever crossed the field? They couldn’t remember. 
 
The moment she stepped out of that hot, blazing sun that scorched the top of her head and the back of her neck and into the shade, it was like sinking a burning finger into snow. The perfumed air smelled like every honeysuckle blossom she’d ever sipped as a child, like roses and hyacinth, like geraniums and marigolds. 
 
And before you know it, Persephone is stripping down to her skin and settling down between the roots of that magnanimous tree. She can no more resist getting naked than she can resist breathing. The filigree of green, feather-soft whirls closes around her limbs like seaweed as she drifts off into the most languorous, delicious, eloquent sleep she’s ever known, far, far away from dishes and demands and exhaustion. 
 
The ancient farmer gazes upon her naked body sprawled out under the cool shade of his tree, his tree! How could she not expect him to take her, to drag her across his field with his big, dirty hands across her tender, full mouth? 
 
Hades takes her down, down, down into the musky, moldy dark where the dead clamor and give him no peace. 
            
Persephone wakes and cries out, sensing that this is all real, as real as the tree had been, as real as her journey across that dry field had been, and that here she is in this new place. And who is this gnarly, old man who smells of a newly dug grave? It is then she believes she is dead.
 
But he’s shaking his head and wagging a knotted finger at her.
            
“Not dead. Renewed.”
            
Persephone trembles, but only a little, for she realizes that she does feel refreshed. And yet she does not know what he has in mind. Will she be stuck down here forever just as she was at the sink?
 
“Where are my clothes?” No sooner does she say this than she is draped in a shimmering gown the color of new ferns unfurling. She breathes in its scent of spring rain. A soft, green light emanates from her dress, and not just that, but her skin, her eyes, her hair.
            
They stare at one another, the old man and the young woman, and reach a truce for she realizes what he offers—a life of purpose. 
 
“Show me where we are,” she says.

Hades leads her through his vast halls where legions of the dead cry out. Persephone takes pity on their poor, hungry souls and spreads her arms wide, shaking green over the hordes. Moss springs up from the ground where the dead stand and curls under their limbs like soft kittens. The dead grow sleepy, sigh, and fall to the ground, smiles on their faces. No worries, no concerns, just gentle slumber until their bodies turn into ash, and a wind blows through the great halls, and the air fills with the dust of the dead, spreading it over the dry, brittle field above where tendrils of green sprout from the earth, and the mice delight in having new shoots to eat, and the earthworms gambol in the moist soil, and the great tree spreads its limbs, shedding bounty.

Polly Hansen

Polly Hansen is a flutist and writer. Her first job out of graduate school after experiencing homelessness and trafficking was as editor of a flute magazine, which launched her career in publishing. Today, she produces two nationally syndicated, weekly radio programs. She’s published in Newsweek, The Sun, LIT Magazine, and numerous literary journals. She lives in Asheville, North Carolina, with her husband and two black dogs often mistaken for small black bears on leashes. You can learn about her memoir at pollyhansen.com.

The Tree of Dreams

Fruit on the tree
Turns to ash
And spirals
Slow and graceful
on the morning air
settles on bent shoulders
the silver powder
of broken dreams
The hand flicks
the coat-sleeve
Plants another sapling
in the turf of faith
Wonder as it grows
Deny as it withers
Dismiss as it dies
Then move on easy

Damp roots preserved
Under the dust
Of memory
Embers fanned
Of hope long gone
For a moment
Cold smoke
Chokes the lungs

A thousand
Shades of grey
Dance in the air
Carpet the ground
Strange beauty
At the end of dreams
Says we managed to hope
All this, for a while
And when our spirits
Ride the ash
Of earthly dreams
To heaven
Hope is not found
Among the trash
We’re asked to leave
Outside the door

Mary Featherstone

Mary Featherstone is a retired arts administrator based in Paris, France.  An Anglo-French dual national, she moved to France from the UK over 35 years ago. Having spent much of her life enjoying connecting artists together and promoting the work of others, she is now finding time to develop her own writing. She recently retired from her role as administrator of le Pavé d’Orsay Arts space and is a member of a Protestant church in the Marais district, where she volunteers in various capacities, including helping with meals for those experiencing homelessness. 

Girl Before a Mirror 
 
One of us is pregnant.
She did what we animals do, or,
it was done to her; she cannot know
what is reflection and what is real. 
Hundreds of eyes,
the air is heavy with them,
are grasping for her womb.                              
She is a moon girl so parts of her                   
are missing.  
The sun girl glares through fire; 
she does not know
that sun striking the mirror
could turn our world to ash.                   
We do not know if mirror girl looks  
through scarf or shroud,
how long she will be without air.
No. I will not see, 
moon girl blocks with her hand, 
this is not happening;
her other hand touches
mirror girl’s shoulder.

Barbara Johnstone

Barbara Johnstone lives near Seattle, WA where she came from the desert beauty of New Mexico for the tall trees, lush greenery, rivers and ocean of the Pacific Northwest.  She worked for 43 years as a psychotherapist, providing individual and couples therapy.  Her fifth-grade teacher inspired her love of poetry and she memorized and wrote poems privately until eventually (at 64) she began to attend readings, take workshops and send work out.  Poems are in a variety of journals including Pilgrimage, Persimmon Tree, Diagram and Crosswinds Poetry Journal.  

Red Shoes Retrospective 

How wicked was that witch? She of the verdigris skin, carmine nails, ruby pumps. The one crushed under the weight of narrative symbolism. What if Dorothy, instead of Glinda fastening them to her feet, had taken the red shoes for herself? What would that say about her? 

Click-click-click. 

How spoiled was another fairy-tale girl? Karen begged for scarlet leather slippers. Got them. Couldn’t bear their restless fascination. Pleaded to have her feet chopped off, footwear and all. Those bloody stumps danced themselves into the forest. Follow those shoes. Into Walmart. Where you can buy t-shirts reading, Your body, my choice. 

Click-click-click. 

How possessed was the ballerina, Victoria? This iteration always on her toes. Her secret a mangled spirit seeping through crimson pointes steadfastly dancing her to death. 

Click-click-click. 

Vanity, though. The illusion, of control. Go ahead. Give those pretty shoes a twirl. Tappity-tap, stilettos on stone; clonkity-clonk, heels on yellow brick; swish-chasse, ballet slippers on wood. The slow sinking of princess heels into soil. A corpse posed. 

Click. 

Click. 
​
Click. 

Camille LeFevre

Camille LeFevre crafts poetry and creative nonfiction, and teaches writing workshops on art and place, from her home on the unceded lands of the Hisatsinom, Yavapai, and Apache in Northern Arizona. Her essay, “Body Topography,” published in The Dodge, was selected for the 2026 Best of the Net Anthology. Her first poetry collection, Sandstone and Kin, will be published in Fall 2026. Her work also appears in Poets for Science, wildscape.literary, Feral: A Journal of Poetry and Art, Metphrastics, Fugue, Unleash Literary, Electric Lit, Brevity Blog, and other publications. She’s thrilled to have her work, once again, in The Ekphrastic Review.

​Join Brent Terry and Lorette on Zoom to celebrate Radio Free Nebraska!

This ekphrastic collaboration features the poetry of Brent Terry and collage artworks of Lorette C. Luzajic.

Lorette and Brent will both read. We will interview each other about our art and writing practices and take questions from the audience. It will be an informal and fun discussion with this amazing community.

Free to join. Bring your own Champagne, tea, or soda and celebrate this milestone with us!

To sign up: send an email to [email protected] with RADIO FREE NEBRASKA in subject line. We'll send you a zoom link.

​hugs from Lorette and Brent

Walk With Me: a Labyrinth Meditation
 
Walk with me into the labyrinth and surrender yourself to an ancient mystery, a marvel, a joy.
 
Walk with me and take one footfall after another, minding nothing but the path, twisted circuits of tight turns, narrowly defined.
 
Walk with me into the labyrinth and discover for yourself the surprising stretches, trajectories, irresistible ellipses that pull you inescapably to your own heart.
 
Walk with me and trust in angels, guardians, sentries of the sacred who keep the way perfectly, revealing themselves only by their soft breath on your soul.
 
Walk with me into the labyrinth and set your own pace, gliding, striding, dancing the revolutions with no discernible partner.
 
Walk with me and listen to the silence deep within, discover the cadence beating like a heart just beneath your feet.
 
Walk with me into the labyrinth and stand in the antechamber of eternity where, for a moment, you may be moved beyond all expectation.
 
Walk with me and renounce your anticipation, be mindful, be content to receive nothing at all, open yourself to every possibility.
 
Walk with me into the labyrinth and seek the flower that blooms within, the unfolding beauty in a garden watered by faith and hope, by the brashness of life itself.
 
Walk with me and go backward to go forward, recognizing that life is a single path from beginning to end no matter how many turns you take or how often you step aside.
 
Walk with me into the labyrinth and become one among many, like the cells of your body, at once uniquely purposeful and insignificant.
 
Walk with me and meditate or weep or laugh aloud, feel whatever asks to be acknowledged, let your emotions take you by the hand and lead you home.
 
Walk with me into the labyrinth and we will find ourselves outside again, hearts wide open, breathless as the newly born, alive.
 
Lane Devereux
 
Walk with Me, by Kay Kemp (USA) 2012
 
Lane Devereux writes in memoir, creative non-fiction, poetry, and drama. Devereux has published poetry, feature articles, and personal essays, and has had plays produced. She has been awarded fellowships and scholarships at writing conferences and residencies. She recently completed her memoir, The Requirements of Love: Forging a Family Against the Odds.
 
Kay Kemp is a multifaceted artist known for her vibrant acrylic paintings and innovative mixed media work. Kemp’s mission is to make heart-centered art that stirs the soul. Much of her work is inspired by the magnificence of nature and by feminine empowerment.

Castagnaccio
 
What she would have given 
for a slice of this cake, for a God 
who meant pleasure as redemption.
 
A simple dessert: chestnut flour, olive oil, 
a sprig of rosemary, some soaked raisins,
things peasants could readily find in famine,
 
born from those bread trees gone golden
in October, dropping smooth brown stones 
in spiky sheaths, a plenitude in scarcity, 
 
as if wood stoves of Tuscan winters spoke 
of hard snows to come. Gaunt figures
gathering what scant gifts fall to ground.
 
I think of Donatello’s Penitent Magdalene, 
palms pressed in prayer, dress of rags 
shredded by the sculptor’s knife, how 
 
she does not to want to be seen, her eyes 
as sad as… no, no, that’s not it. She needs 
her hunger. It burns through her.  

Gillian Cummings

Gillian Cummings is the author of The Owl Was a Baker’s Daughter, winner of the 2018 Colorado Prize for Poetry, and My Dim Aviary, winner of the 2015 Hudson Prize from Black Lawrence Press. Her most recent chapbook is The Shy Yellow (Dharma Pine Editions, 2023), a letterpress edition of twenty copies. Her poems have appeared in The Cimarron Review, The Colorado Review, Denver Quarterly, Tupelo Quarterly, and in other journals. She lives in Catskill, New York with her husband and parrot.

Did you know we have an Ekphrastic Academy?

Join us on zoom for a variety of single-session zooms and longer classes.

Events are about art history, art appreciation, artist lives, writer's craft, ekphrasis, and more.

Our workshops are a great place to connect to community for conversation about art, discovering the lives of artists and their work, generating new drafts, and having fun. They are a great value and you always receive the slides of images directly after the session so that you can reference works that ignite your imagination.

Register for your favourite subjects, or try an unfamiliar topic and discover something new.

Upcoming: Abstract Women, The Impressionists, Tina Modotti, Leonard Cohen, and more.

Ekphrasis Anonymous sessions are purely generative. They include a curated grab-bag of various styles and artists. We write from four to six artworks during these sessions.

If you haven't tried our workshops yet, take the plunge and find out what you've been missing!

**
​
​Workshop Testimonials
 
Lorette’s workshop on Paul Klee today was everything I had hoped for. And more. We were writing within the first ten minutes. When it comes to marrying graphic art with poetry, art with any form of creative writing, no one presides over the marriage with greater grace.
Lee Stockdale

*
 Luzajic is the real deal. Her workshops convey her profound mastery of ekphrasis, art history, and multiple writing forms. She excels in communicating complex ideas with ease, all the while generously opening creative doors for each participant to walk through. She does all this with wisdom, respect and kindness."
Theresa Wyatt

*

I recently completed a 4-week ekphrastic prose poetry class taught by Lorette Luzajic. Lorette is a phenomenal instructor when it comes to anything ekphrastic but I was also pleasantly surprised and delighted to find what a wonderful instructor she is in prose poetry. Although an experienced poet, this was my first class using that specific genre. Lorette gave us wonderful examples of prose poems as well as thorough and gentle instruction in the art as well as craft of writing prose poems. This is my third or fourth class with Lorette and I've never encountered another instructor who is so generous with their clearly detailed work product. Her slides contain a wealth of information and references, yet she givingly shares them with her students without fail. She is my go-to instructor for excellent, interesting, and thorough teaching.
Robin Gabbert 

*
Writing Ekphrastic Prose Poetry: This course was so inspirational and helped me expand my writing capabilities. Lorette C. Luzajic is an amazing teacher, art historian, and artist. I wrote at least 10 prose pieces based on the artwork she presented in class. I will definitely take another class with Lorette in the future. 
Laura P.

*

I loved taking Lorette’s Ekphrastic Prose Poetry class over four weeks. It provided a wonderful foundation for both writing ekphrastic poetry and also writing prose poetry. It reignited my love of both art and writing poetry.  I’m ready to revise my poems from 7-10 years ago and work on a chapbook or full length ekphrastic collection!  Thanks so much for your fantastic classes which is packed with a ton of art, poetry, instructional material, critiques, and interactive sessions.   I’m excited and looking forward to taking more of your workshops and classes.  Thanks a ton!
Deborah Strozier

*
Having taken both ekphrastic writing and collage classes from Lorette, I can’t recommend her enough. She brings to her classes a profound understanding of process and practice, warmth and grace, and is supremely well-prepared and thorough. Her thoughtfulness extends to every person in the class. You will learn a lot, while being encouraged and inspired. And Lorette’s takeaways are keepers: full of imagery, inspiration, and art history. 
Camille L. 

*
The workshop was fantastic,  inspiring, and wonderful. You're an epic instructor and mentor, Lorette. Don't want to see it end.
Rebecca W.

*

This class was a great discovery for me as I don’t know a lot about art history. I was introduced to a number of paintings which worked very well as prompts for stories. Lorette also taught us with very organized lectures and power point presentations about Ekphrastics and the short short. That was the more academic part of the class which is lacking in most workshops. In addition, she critiqued our work so we got that necessary feedback.
Helaina M.

*
Any workshop with the indomitable Lorette Luzajic is an adventure into imagination and creativity that transcends preconceived boundaries. I will register again and again and again!
Barbara K.

What Does the Wind Want?

 
Sky
 
Cold and lifeless
 lying on the bed
 she wraps the sheet
 around herself
 and rolls
 toward the wall
instead of her gray feet
 she stares
 at the white wall
 from up close
she thinks
 of the paths
 she has taken
suddenly, with body pain,
 she rolls onto her back
the wind forces
 the door open
she feels
 someone from afar
 is watching her
 
**
 
Plain
 
Her hair
 spread around her head
 she stares at the sky
she closes her eyes
 and in the darkness
 sees bright
 patches of colour
she opens
 her arms
the grass
 pinches
 her bare arms
the wind
 forces her
 to close her eyelids
one coloured patch
 lights up
 in the dark
she remembers
the patch fades
another patch
she forgets
she hears
 her pulse
her face is hot
 her back is wet
 
**

The Man
 
The roughness of the tree trunk
 has marked
 the palms of his hands
his worn coat
 moves back
 with difficulty
the man
 folded into himself
trying
 to hide his head
 beneath the collar
 of his coat
the wind
 shakes the grass
from the sky
 the sound
 of a woman’s moan
the man does not know
 where
 to return
 
**

Tree
 
From where
 he has laid his head
 he sees
 his toes
he has just returned home
 his body still
 tired from work
the ceiling fan
 spins in haste
warm air
 touches his face
something
 weighs on his chest
he feels
 he has lost
 pieces of himself
at last
 he tries to rise
but his body
 like a tree stump
dried
 heavy
 and damp
 
Marjan Khoshbazan

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