​The Fair
 
He saves up money all summer 
hoping his mother will slip him 
an extra dollar or two. 
Off with his brothers and cousins 
cutting through yards
hints of winter teasing 
his one-square mile Vermont town.
 
At the edge of the fairgrounds 
they jump the fence
make their way to the barns
familiar smell of manure
to inspect blue ribbon hopefuls
cows, pigs, chickens.
 
Taking a seat in the grandstands
inhaling the aroma of hot dogs
he unwraps his peanut butter sandwich
coins pooled for a shared bag of fries
attention turns to the demo derby
and dare-devil stunt car drivers.
 
They dash to the midway, 
hands in pockets jiggling loose change
ready to part with it for the rides
especially the dive bomber. 
Smiles and screams
running along dusty paths
from one ride to the next.
 
Dusk reveals colourful bright lights 
outlining the shapes of the rides
music of the carousel fading
skies darken as they amble home 
tired, empty pockets, glancing back
at blinking, flashing colours 
he will remember for years.
 
Lois Perch Villemaire

This poem was first published at Cabochon Review.

Lois Perch Villemaire is a poet and collage artist from Annapolis, MD. She is the author of My Eight Greats and Eyes at the Edge of the Woods. Her work has appeared in a number of anthologies, journals, and magazines both in-print and online. Last Leaves, Thimble Literary Magazine, and Anti Heroin Chic have published her artwork. Lois is a contributing writer to AARP-The Ethel. A Pushcart nominee, she works part time at the public library and propagates African violets. Recently, she became a proud great-grandmother to twin boys.

​                       
Oroshi (Wind blowing down from the mountain), by Kino Satoshi (Japan) 2016                                        
http://64.136.229.66:8081/search/Satoshi  

Undulating Breezes
      
The wind blowing down the side of a mountain provides cooling relief in the suffocating heat of summer.  I press my face against a piece of glazed porcelain, feeling the smooth surface become warm, savoring the comforting cold.  Sometimes, the wind cascading down the side of a mountain becomes fierce and intense, causing storms and creating damage.  Perhaps the undulating nature of a wave attracts us.  Dynamic change offers more opportunities than static comfort, yet we long for stability, for something upon which we can always rely.  My mother set my hair in large rollers to pull out the curl when I was a young girl, while I concentrated upon reading a book.  My hair resisted all attempts to straighten it, with great determination.  I studied sine and cosine waves in junior high, realizing they continued indefinitely, toward infinity,  I appreciate curls, these days.  Their shape possesses so much potential.  The wind, an unfurling curl, undulates down the mountain.  Undulating, undulating, and always undulating.  Will it provide comforting coolness or destruction?  Regrettably, we cannot decide.  

Cascading breezes
bring coolness in summer, and
sometimes destruction.  

**

Undulating Breezes
        
The wind blowing down the side of a mountain provides cooling relief in the suffocating heat of summer.  I press my face against a piece of glazed porcelain, feeling the smooth surface become warm, savoring the comforting cold.  Sometimes, the wind cascading down the side of a mountain becomes fierce and intense, causing storms and creating damage.  Perhaps the undulating nature of a wave attracts us.  Dynamic change offers more opportunities than static comfort, yet we long for stability, for constancy, for reliability.  Lightest of greens and lightest of blues, combined, neither one dominating.  A color labeled celadon, similar to aquamarine, a hue I had seldom seen in nature, yet it comforted and relaxed me.  My mother set my hair in large rollers to pull out the curl when I was a young girl, while I concentrated upon reading a book.  My hair resisted all attempts to straighten it, with great determination.  I studied sine and cosine waves in junior high, admiring that they continued indefinitely, toward infinity.  I consumed curls of carrots in salads, delighting in their fresh crunchiness.  I appreciate curls, these days.  Their shape possesses so much potential.  The wind, an unfurling curl, undulated down the mountain.  Undulating, undulating, and always undulating.  Will it provide comforting coolness or destruction?  Regrettably, we cannot decide.  

Porcelain, smooth, cool, 
comforting, evokes mountain
breezes cascading.  

Renée Szostek 

Renée Szostek is a Tau Beta Pi, Mortar Board, and Honors College graduate of Michigan State University, and a Sigma Xi graduate of the University of Iowa.  She earned master's degrees from Northwestern University and Yale, and was Student Editor for the Yale Journal of Biology and Medicine.  She won first, second, and third place for haiku in the Penumbra Poetry and Haiku Contest, second and third place in the Southern Shakespeare Sonnet Contest, second prize, third prize (twice), and honourable mention for poetry in the Westminster Art Festival, and "Haiku of the Week" four times from Arts at Michigan.  

Sister Tubman
 
after Untitled (Harriet Tubman), by Elizabeth Catlett (Mexico, b. USA) 1953
​https://www.nga.gov/artworks/143191-untitled-harriet-tubman

Git in formation, Harriet growls.
How could she have known that, centuries later, a woman named Beyoncé would sing those very words. Sing, not snarl-as Harriet is want to do. Singing, Harriet knows nothing about that. Her reality is shepherding parcels of Negroes out the hellhole of slavery to safety’s gallery up North. She reserves her gun for surly slave catchers, for hungry dogs that won’t back down, for any wild critters they stumble upon, for folks who imagine they can simply change their minds mid-stream and turn back, and for any man who is part of her parcel and can’t see fit to follow a woman’s orders. She sleeps with one eye open.

Joanne Godley

Godley is a thrice-nominated Pushcart and Best-of-Net poet, writer, and recent MFA graduate from Pacific University. She is a retired physician and public health specialist, who immigrated to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico with her puppy, Jazz. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Crab Orchard Review, Decolonial Passage, The Kenyon Review Online, among others. How the Black Panthers Fell From the Sky, is a memoir-in-verse and Godley’s first poetry collection. It won the Naomi Long Madgett award for 2025 and has just been published by Broadside Lotus Press. 

What's the deal with Cy Twombly?

Polarizing American painter is considered one of the greatest artists of the 20th centuries...and one of the worst. 

He was a walking contradiction in every conceivable way. 

Enormously popular, but quite reclusive. He gave only a few interviews and didn't show up at his openings.

An abstract painter, inspired by poetry.

Ultramodern art, built on archeology, ruins, and classical antiquity.

American, but spent most of his life in Rome.

A longterm marriage to an Italian aristocrat, alongside a longterm relationship with a younger man, an open secret that was seldom discussed.

People pay millions for his paintings, but others called him a fraud and described his work as "scribbling."

Join us on Zoom to discuss his life and look at his artwork together. We will do some creative writing exercises inspired by his paintings.
​

The Poetry in White Roses

Tall vase of Hawaiian flowers: pink 
and crimson bougainvillea, 
a gathering of greens: banana frond,
 
braille leaf with tiny raised bumps, 
red heart anthuriums, perfect Valentines,
that hardly look real, but are.
 
The centerpiece consists of three white roses,
a quiet white, eye of the color storm.
Stepping nearer I see white petals with cream 
 
spiraling into the middle, and gold flecks.   
Roses are not Hawaiian; missionaries
and ship captains brought them to the islands,
 
the Old Garden roses, green roses 
from China, and the pink lokelani.
Of course, the Hawaiian queens loved them.
 
I move closer a few steps at a time, 
until eventually I see the roses are made 
from pages torn from a book,
 
ruffled with printed words circling
down into the center, music notes 
along the outside edge, and golden spots. 
 
Fragments of rose poems flow 
through me like fragrance, TS Eliot, Mary Oliver, 
Ted Kooser, and then stop at Rainer Maria Rilke
 
because of his strange relationship with roses. 
He lived alone in a castle in Switzerland, 
befriending Old World roses in the castle garden,
 
nurturing, and writing about them in letters 
and in verse. Wounded by thorns one day, 
the cut festered, he fell ill, 
 
and ten days later, he was dead.
This tenderest of poets left this world 
believing he died of roses.

Nancee Cline

Nancee Cline is a lifetime lover of the written word.  She has published poetry, a children’s book, and a history book on Hawaii.  She holds a master’s degree in Interdisciplinary Humanities. She has tutored and taught most of her life, both in California and Hawaii.  Today Cline lives with her husband on the Big Island. When not reading or writing, she dances hula, bakes peasant bread, and gardens her half acre of wild green.  Her new chapbook is Blurry Things.

Join The Ekphrastic Review at Women on Writing! for a zoom session on ekphrastic haiku, or ekphrastic-ku! We will look at the practice and craft of writing haiku, read some ekphrastic haiku, and do a load of fun exercises with visual art for writing our own haiku.

It's coming up on Tuesday, September 15, from 3 to 5 pm ET. The session will be recorded and available after for anyone registered.

https://www.wow-womenonwriting.com/classroom/LoretteLuzajic_EkphrasticHaiku.html

Kubota-sama Dreams in Silk

after reading Opulence: The Kimonos and Robes of Kubota Itchiku (Itchiku Kubota) 

His hand, steady, gentle
takes narrow bands of silk
places tiny stitches 
silk puckers
mini hills, mini canyons
dyes of love.
 
Vibrant colours emerge
purple     blue     pink     golden
four seasons
in kimonos to grace a wall
a graceful body.
 
Dreams of silk
flare when the wearer
turns in unAsian haste
betrays western clothes
beneath
garish     loud.
 
Kimono evokes
samurai
chivalry
gentility of sword
seppuku.
 
Poetry interwoven with pain 
shimmer together 
in narrow
bands of silk
simple
elegant
regal 
kimono
dreams of Kubota-sama.
 
Lenora Rain-Lee Good

Lenora Rain-Lee Good lives near the Columbia River in Kennewick, WA. Her latest chapbook, Saying Goodbye to Thomas, published by Finishing Line Press. She writes fiction, radio dramas, and poetry. Her words have appeared in online and print anthologies, including Quill and Parchment, Fixed and Free, and Notes of Light and Dark: Southwestern Aubades and Nocturnes. Her favourite poetical quote: “A poet who reads his verse in public may have other nasty habits.” ~ Robert Heinlein

Congratulations to our five nominated writers for Best Small Fictions 2027.

This annual anthology series awards the best flash fiction and related small forms.

With a new publisher, Black Lawrence Press, in transition, the anthology is combining last year's nominations with new nominations from the first half of this year. This is why you see that the deadlines for last year's nominations were at the end of the year. 

​Please read these powerful short works and share them far and wide! 

Red Shoes Retrospective, by Camille LeFevre
https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/red-shoes-retrospective-by-camille-lefevre
*
Monsters of Somnolence, by Katharine Lennon
https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/monsters-of-somnolence-by-katharine-lennon
*
Mr Melon Has a Dream, by Caroline Mohan
https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/mr-melon-has-a-dream-by-caroline-mohan
*
A Great Darkness, by Laura Ann Reed
https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/a-great-darkness-by-laura-ann-reed
*
True Colours, by Tracy Royce
https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/true-colours-by-tracy-royce

Late to The Party

Source material from Gabrielle Carlo, Buffalo AKG Art Museum. Zoom Interview. 27 March 2026.
 
view of Marisol’s New York studio, Buffalo AKG Art Museum
https://buffaloakg.org/art/collection/major-gifts-collection/marisol-bequest
The Party by Marisol (USA, b. Venezuela) 1965-1966
https://emuseum.toledomuseum.org/objects/61754/the-party

“Has anyone proposed marriage?”
 
they asked you. You married
yourself, had a Baby Boy and
 
a Baby Girl, a Family with
a sweet dog. The answers are 
in your art. They say we have only
 
one lifetime here. You lived hundreds
before the Archivist held a small box
from the depths of your tiny closet,
tipped its lid only to find your ashes,
 
still at home. No wonder her reflection
looked like yours in the mirror at mid-
night. The countless random feet
and hands scattered around your loft.
I’m imagining some lost. Who am I?
 
Others balled up like my mother, trying
to bottle it in. A couple cracked & ashy.
A few high-five alive. That’s not counting
your million faces or the number of lines
tracing your body round and round—just
another journey around….
 
You are still here, Marisol.
The Party is touring. They hung
a “No Kissing” sign next “Kiss.”
All the Artists wrinkle with spirit.
Georgia O’Keefe’s dogs growl.
I see your self-portrait ring near
yet another of your hands and a shoe-foot.
 
My shoulders are thinking about sky.
 
Your hand on my back, a sunset in St. Maarten.
 
May we make this silence between us a marathon.
 
I am all two million ears.
 
**
 
Kiss

after Marisol, with source material from her works on paper and countless interviews
 
Kiss, by Marisol (USA, b. Venezuela) 1966
https://buffaloakg.org/artworks/202134-kiss

When I open my eyes,
there is only electricity
 
/ hold it like this.
 
Warmth of cinnamon,
scent of smoked cherry / 
 
open your mouth.
I want more of that.
 
The gentle tease of tongue,
coming out and going back.
 
Graze the edge of his waist-
band, dip fingers to brush
            the opening of your /
 
He shutters an exhale
into me.     “  “     “     breasts

/ more of that,
an experiment.
 
From my shoulder down my back,
            be patient,
            making this collage / 
 
to have somebody.
His hands songbirds.
 
            And then the crayons.
cover cover everything
/ + black tears 
 
A sweet smile
crosses my lips.
 
            Don’t talk it away.
 
** 
 
Baby Girl

after Marisol
 
Baby Girl, by Marisol (USA, b. Venezuela) 1963
https://buffaloakg.org/artworks/k19648-baby-girl

Crayon scribble ruins what could have been a frameable
 
gift for my father. Always longing for the perfect
 
Baby Girl: white dress, white bow, quiet, still as a statue, enough
 
for adults. My father nods with the crowd, admires craftsmanship,
 
a life-sized doll (pat, pat, pat, “no touching, sir”), then he boards
 
a plane as if he is a Swiss banker about to—. His expectation
 
the exact same, in place every night. I am the statue
 
reviews claim as “hysterical,” “Pop,” “cartoonish”.
 
King Kong Baby Girl, a monster, with an action figure
 
on my knee, meanings he never saw (but you did). It takes all-
 
hands-on deck, pulleys, and levers to assemble and disassemble
 
me. I am a baby girl, like every woman who came before me.
 
Once this, now that. Hear how we Magic-Wanded metaphors,
 
redefined “gender and social politics,” not to be undermined
 
by our makers who makes me cringe wish instead I was tracking 
 
lines across a funny page, an unseen Family Circus kid. Wouldn’t it
 
be fun to retrace our steps, dear reader? Let your finger follow
 
my invisible body, my little footsteps, my pages full of failure-
 
filled scribbles, sketches, words I misspell/mispronounce,
 
my dashes crisscrossing, stopping here for ice cream and there to pat
 
a dog? Could you please tell my father his baby girl is long gone?
 
**
  
Face and Hand with Coco-Cola Bottle

after Marisol
 
Face and Hand with Coco-Cola Bottle, by Marisol USA, b. Venezuela) 1974
https://buffaloakg.org/artworks/202235-face-and-hand-coca-cola-bottle 

Love is a pop in the mouth
 
Snow on the radio (how do
 
Fuzz face rearranged My
 
hands made this These are
 
my hands making this Your
 
hands are plastered in museums
 
Lovely to meet you (how do
 
Pop is a way of liking things

**

Ruth
 
after Marisol, for Ruth Kligman
 
Ruth, by Marisol (USA, b. Venezuela) 1961
https://wirthsculpture.wordpress.com/2018/09/16/ruth/

Your breasts are landscape sky,
cloud-like pucker-pepper bottoms.
Not a still life, but a good time girl.
Back in the day, when people lost
their clothes or death-dropped down
the Niagara Falls, they wore a barrel.
How fitting now my thoughts circular,
looping the curve of your body, once
thrown from Jackson Pollock’s fast car.
Your hands cupping, Come here. Pucker
up. This is the sky, desire’s wood hair.

​Amanda McGuire
 
Amanda McGuire was awarded a 2026 Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Award for her ekphrastic poems. Her work appears in Hotel Amerika, Kestrel, NOON: journal of the short poem, This Quarantine Life: A COVID-19 Era Comics Anthology, the Toledo Museum of Art, and other literary spaces.