 Where Are You Going, Mr. God? by Aloise Corbaz (Switzerland) c. 1958? WINNING ENTRY: TAUNJA THOMSON Mr. God Comes to Understand Himself Where are you going, Mr. God, with that pink violin in one hand, Turkish delight dripping rosewater in the other? You know you want to play & savour. Don’t run away. When will your armor grow petals—will it be under the lamplights lining moon-brushed avenues? Or will it be when you weep into a volley of crown conch, lightning whelk, alphabet cone, first letter S for sadness? Both love & sobbing redden faces like a July horizon. How will you traipse the countryside without compass, country, chivalry, water, grain, no bed in sight? You will dance around a Maypole with steps as deliberate as an orchid mantis. Who will go with you, her bosom flushed like a pink pearl apple & as round, let you cut into her pulp? Or will you sail alone, find your face in afternoon sky, relish your own knotty hands, pulse & click like a river dolphin? Together, alone, seed & soil, juice & ocean, wait to run down your chin. Why have you erupted from your throne, Mr. God, hurled headdress down to rattle about in sunset valleys? Because you want a honeybee love, rummaging nectar from hibiscus bowls, licking pollen from the pan of scarlet petals grazing on bergamot from your own fingers to an arpeggio of crickets leaning into twilight. Taunja Thomson Taunja Thomson is co-author of Frame & Mount the Sky (2017), a chapbook of ekphrastic poetry, as well the author as Strum and Lull (2019) and The Profusion (2019). She loves walking in autumn rains, feeding wild birds in winter, playing in spring mud, & bat-watching in summer. Her first full-length collection of poems, Plunge, was published by Uncollected Press in 2023.  A big congratulations to Taunja Thomson for her winning poem, and to all of the finalists for their incredible stories and poems. It is truly a pleasure to follow your inspiration into these enchanted, painted worlds. As always, choosing favourites is a difficult task from the wealth of ekphrastic talent, insight, and innovation. Some surprises were that some authors had two poems selected, and a repetition in the artworks that inspired the finalist entries, as well. Our editor Sandi Stromberg had the difficult task of choosing one winner from the finalist works. She read and chose without author names. Her note is below. We are grateful for your talent, creativity, and participation in this amazing community. Thank you. Lorette ** Dear Writers, It was a true pleasure to read the remarkably well-crafted and fascinating responses to the artworks of Tickled Pink. Your writings deepened and broadened the role of the coluor in art and life going far beyond Barbie's pink explosion at the cinema this time last year. With a plethora of form poetry, free verse, and prose, choosing just one winner was the greatest challenge. A big thanks to each of you for taking me through the shades and tones of this colourful journey. Sandi Stromberg ** Tickled Pink Finalists: Haiku, by Portly Bard To Rosalie Renaudin Regarding Woman Wearing a Pink Hat and Corsage and a Blue Apron, by Portly Bard Ida Hammershoi, by Kate Copeland Portrait of a Summer Morning, by Kate Copeland In the Room of Rules, by Vanessa Crannis Some Rosiness, by Efren Laya Cruzada The Roses of Heliogabalus, by Peter Devonald The Oldest Colour in the World, by Adele Evershed Rising Rose, by Julia Griffin late spring: haiku, by Kimberly Hall Toward Pink, by Kimberly Hall It’s Natural, by Cathy Hollister Razzmatazz, by Tanya Adèle Koehnke A Room Designed to Ease a Wallflower’s Escape Route, by Joan Leotta A New Madonna, by Mary McCarthy Immortelle, by James Penha Boredom, by Stien Pijp Paint it Black, by Jane Salmons A Chambered Nautilus and Other Blessings for the Grands, by Jo Taylor Forget-Me-Nots in Pink, by Jo Taylor The Playroom, by FF Teague Mr. God Comes to Understand Himself, by Taunja Thomson Pink is My Second Favourite Colour, by Margo Stutts Toombs  Woman Viewing Cherry Blossoms on the Bank of the Sumida River, by Utagawa Kunisada (Japan) 1840 the wings of angels bravely reaping lethal wind blooms renewing Spring 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.  Woman Wearing a Pink Hat and Corsage and a Blue Apron, by Rosalie Renaudin (France) 1828 To Rosalie Renaudin Regarding Woman Wearing a Pink Hat and Corsage and a Blue Apron Between her bodice and her bows you paint her as a pinkish rose -- with lilt though faint that fills a room above its vase as single bloom bejeweled in a dew of gold, embracing glisten taking hold, adorning glow of blissful youth with sign of now enduring Truth that is in darkness Way and Light that from the depths reveal the height of all that love can let her be as witness though she did not see the seed from which her beauty grows that first was faith and then arose. 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.  Interior in Louis XVI Style, by Vilhelm Hammershoi (Denmark) 1897 Ida Hammershøi Near human gold stand surrounding chairs. A kingdom and frost, our house on the Strand. He paints crescents every Sunday. We gather round creative circles, rebuff the praise on a side table. We travel numerously. Always, he cuts the sun with the knife he plies to open envelopes, then saves me the postmarks from faraway countries, where solely enough light on my evening skin, terrifically lit in a set afternoon. Heaven in every hotel. Doubtless what he desires, he does so devotedly. His entrance to a new interior, I see, he marks his traces with remarkable, always. I am his model, the one reading letters, the only one cooking him parsley meals below a moon deathpallid, steerless in the sieved smoke. Danish like our daytime dreaming. We travel on. How I will always heart him. Kate Copeland Kate Copeland’s love for languages led her to teaching; her love for art & water to poetry. Please, find her pieces @The Ekphrastic Review, WildfireWords, Gleam, First Lit. Review-East, a.o. Her Insta reads: https://www.instagram.com/kate.copeland.poems/ Kate is curator-editor for The Ekphrastic Review, and runs linguistic-poetry workshops for TER & The International Women’s Writing Guild. She was born @harbour city; adores housesitting @the world.  Landscape with Pink House, by João Timótheo da Costa (Brazil) 1921 Portrait of a Summer Morning Sun climbs Sky jewels Coffee oils Coyotes bolt Placid talks gentle Valley quiets Skin crackles Dogs churn Dust trembles Echos think restless Bikes flat Mountains move And he, and I We gleam Garden, home We walk land later Nice sounds Summerday Kate Copeland Kate Copeland’s love for languages led her to teaching; her love for art & water to poetry. Please, find her pieces @The Ekphrastic Review, WildfireWords, Gleam, First Lit.Review-East, a.o. Her Insta reads: https://www.instagram.com/kate.copeland.poems/ Kate is curator-editor for The Ekphrastic Review, and runs linguistic-poetry workshops for TER & The International Women’s Writing Guild. She was born @harbour city; adores housesitting @the world.  Untitled, by Mark Rothko (USA, b. Latvia) 1967 In the Room of Rules The walls are the colour of Elastoplast and the curtains are polka-dot pink. Lissa didn’t choose them. She hates their dollhouse pleats, her mum leaning over her bed to draw them close, tut-tutting at make-up stains and sprawled sweet wrappers. We bought you a bin, use it! The fuss when the bin reveals a squidge of black banana, No food in bedrooms! Her snort at the scrummage of clothes; Lissa should know better than to fritter her pay onyet more frothy camisoles and tight black skirts. Lissa is exhausted by her mum’s pig squeals. They make her life shameful, make nothing happen. When she leaves, Lissa tracks her sigh from the bathroom flush to the bottom stair. Slides a cigarette under her pillow. Nauseated by her own stale breath, Lissa longs to unclasp the window and fling herself beyond its frame. She stares at the ceiling, imagining the plasterer’s wrist swanning the big surface; envies the artistry of his slurred swirls and quick flicks. She waits for the landing light to dim, for the click close of her mum’s adjoining door. Satisfied, Lissa tugs loose the sheets and rolls to her side. She knows the exact position of each mattress creak and, like a newborn foal, adjusts her arms and legs accordingly, then hoists herself to the latent air. The night is in motion: wind planes the roof tiles, little roosting birds are blown from branch to branch. Lissa reaches under the pillow for the cigarette, thumbing her lighter at the same time. She takes the first drag. Ballet dancers smoke. She’s glimpsed them from her Stage Door role. Her mum doesn’t want to believe her, but she knows what she knows. After performance, some are barely stripped from their tutus before their slender fingers are pinching out a Rothmans, passing round a box of Swan VESTAS. Lissa took a summer job. She can’t see the stage from the small chair and table where she signs the company in and out, but she magics the dancers into view from the sound of their tippy-tap toes, launches them into twirls as light and crisp as macaroons. These times, Lissa’s stomach becomes a Niagara of tiny cascades. She dreams herself into ribboned pointes and offers herself up to the corps de ballet, dances herself stupid. The night blows harder and Lissa stretches as far as she can out of the window, drapes the curtain around her back to stop the fumes from filtering back into the room. The nicotine does its job, dares her to lean further. Her hip knocks the frame and a pencil of ash crumbles into the gutter. Lissa prays the neighbours are not her mum’s spies. Smoking kills, her head scorns. But for now she’s immersed, she can’t turn away. The clouds from her lips taste a mix of sugar and coal dust. By chance, they’ll drift into the night and mingle with the dancers’ own smoke wisps. By chance, she’ll take to the stage; pirouette; chuck sweet wrappers, like confetti, into the wings; write fuck the rules in pretty lipstick all down the flesh of her arm. She’ll beckon her mum from her third row seat and they’ll peek-a-boo the audience from behind the velvet drapes. End their makeshift dance in a giggling heap. Inspired, she’ll work on a piece called ‘untitled’. The choreographer will create laid-back, experimental sequences. The aesthetic will be a hazy grey. The finale, a fandango. Dancers will hook arms to waists, orbit the stage in gin-pink tulle. Circle fast. Then faster, faster. A teaser, she’ll tell the reporter. The headlines: ‘Mesmeric. Nothing in this work is black or white.’ In the Room of Rules, Lissa tips her surplus cigarettes onto a rooftile. Arranges them into a miniature bonfire and strikes a flame. Sparks poof into the night. She releases the window from its latch, watches it swing wide. Vanessa Crannis Vanessa writes mainly flash and short stories, but would love to develop her selection of poetry. She has a poem published in Writers' Forum and a flash highly commended in the same magazine. A recent success was shortlisting for The Propelling Pencil Spring 2024 flash competition. Vanessa is happiest out-of-doors and runs or swims every day. She is aiming for a second marathon and her first triathlon. Having bought her first ever vinyl aged 56, Vanessa is discovering whether music might move her as much as words.  Durer’s Young Hare, by Ottmar Hörl (Austria) contemporary.Photo by Fred Romero from Paris, France, CC BY 2.0 Some Rosiness I She took over the ringmaster’s duties wearing a coat of lavender rose. Her posture oozed with the confidence of a master of ceremonies. Gathering her troupe within the circus ring, she sized up her magicians, aerial silk dancers, ventriloquists, hunger artists, and other acts, proclaiming The Pink Edict. A bohemian atmosphere descended within the circus tent. Whoosh! A fuchsia hare leapt out, and a flurry of azaleas spun to its polka rhythms. Cheers resounded. The one who communed with a flock of flamingos was especially delighted. Isis-Aphrodite materialized on the ringside seats with her rouge headdress, crown of kalathos. She looked on approvingly. Nearby, Madame Galy awakened. Smoky pink hues exuded out of her dress, —mystic incense! In response, the hare grew to the height of a trapeze and hopped toward the entrance. The giant creature wiggled its nose. The feeling of having just attended a matinal recital pervaded the throng, bassoons in obligato, motifs of quiet sleep, as if one had knelt in a rosy dress to offer a goose a flower. A pink key was raised. An artifact opened. The mass in the tent was swept away by a cyclone of spinning roses. Even the riders from a far-off beach, having journeyed through sands of taffy…even they were swept up in representations of love and light. The throng within the tent couldn’t contain itself, too enamoured of the revolutionary decree; a hue of double pink cherry radiated out of this universe as an opaque luminosity. Pinkness. Critical mass. II You are here. You’ve materialized from some parallel world of bubblegum and amaranth. You’ve once chanced upon a scene that altered you into something else. The mere sight of a tableau had been too fervent. Faintly, you remember a porcelain dog keeping reality in check, —a magenta silk robe, a pink interior, someone asking you for a drink of water. A potion. Associations of hues. Natural to you as breathing. Aphrodisiac. Even now, you are lying on some unnamed landscape with a rosy-fingered horizon that keeps you perpetually asleep. Thorns that scrape your skin can’t even wake you. This is no dream. A roseate veil grounds you. Perfumes are potent. Your face isn’t yours. You’ve become the essence that dematerialized you. —chamber— Close the door. Revel in yourself, the interior of a dressing room, and the budding of something like a soul from a plant that you watered with painstaking precision. —still life— What used to be familiar has been abstracted into its purest shape. Your instrument has become lines that have a semblance of the original viola. The fruit and the vase have flattened. They are forms that symbolize things beyond mere ceramic and juice. —blossoms— The river is soothing. No signs of industry yet. One day, people will pass by and forget that light pink petals once spiraled around their souls. We must remember this. We will forget. —candelabra— The portal to a scene is nearly closed. The only way in is through a vast emptiness we have already filled. Elephants know. —birches— Trunks that used to be distinct have become a piece of a whole emotion. III a ballet, aplomb and grace, inexpressible elegance / ah, little lamb and pink frills / the abstract tulip had once been the subject of hyperrealism / you had a firmer command of your universe in childhood / a visionary has already mapped out your spirit in roses / artifacts of a history are nearly lost to you / attempt a self-portrait…end up beneath a magenta sky and impressions of what you once believed was an ideal monument / depict iterations of an image in silkscreen and let plum blossoms be your guide / just standing here…my pose will someday fade away / to bring back that blue apron and that pink corsage, relieved of the confines of imagery / you should consider a pink bow to complete your outfit / I seem to have misplaced the jewelry I wore the day you wanted to paint my likeness / a pink hill, and a figure that a pink population gravitates around / the table is made of pink topaz and fallen plums adorn it / all you’ve ever wanted was a pink house and a calm landscape / IV And an inner madness had been quelled by pink roses merely lying there, expecting nothing, not even a viewer to consider an entire life to be captured within a blossom. Still, calm the viewer they did. And the viewer abandoned all grandiose longings for eternity. Even now, a graceful history can be gleaned from a mere scent, a graze of a petal. And all the viewer longs for is to lie in tranquility, experiencing exhibitions of expression and desire in notions, after which, will the viewer have unraveled an entire museum where the only thing that matters is to view, and the viewer, ignoring explanations, stirred by brushstrokes, vanishes. Efren Laya Cruzada Editor's note: This poem was written in response to most of the visual artworks in the Tickled Pink inspiration collection! Efren Laya Cruzada is a poet who was born in the Philippines and raised in Alice, Texas. He studied English and American Literature and Creative Writing at New York University. He was shortlisted for the La Piccioletta Barca Prize and was a semifinalist for the Driftwood Press Short Story Contest. He is the author of Grand Flood: a poem. Most recently, his poems have appeared in The Hopper, The Closed Eye Open, The Tiger Moth Review, Discretionary Love, and Tiny Seed Literary Journal. He now resides in Austin, Texas. You can find more at efrenlayacruzada.com.  The Roses of Heliogabalus, by Lawrence Alma-Tadema (England, b. Netherlands) 1888 The Roses of Heliogabalus A banquet swamped by drifts of pink rose petals, falling endlessly, endlessly, from false ceilings, dreaming of them, swimming in them, drowning in them, the terrible perfect impossible beauty, divine day-dream, a disaster waiting, waiting, smothered to death, unable to crawl out to the top, swords sharpened, enemies made, revolution ready, a child emperor's wild visions and fevered imagination lost in pink roses and confetti dreams, flying, blinding, Marcus Aurelius Antoninus baths in lost taboos, the world given too soon, eccentricity, decadence, zealotry and promiscuity, soon a banquet swamped by drifts of blood red rose petals, rivers of blood flow endlessly, endlessly, from false hope to the red sea. Peter Devonald Peter Devonald is widely published in magazines/anthologies including London Grip, Door Is A Jar, Bluebird Word, Metachrosis, Vipers Tongue, Voidspace and the6ress. Winner of the Waltham Forest Poetry Prize 2022, Heart Of Heatons Poetry Awards 2023 & 2021, joint winner FofHCS Poetry 2023, commended by judges in the Hippocrates Prize for Poetry and Medicine 2024, Forward Prize nomination 2023, two Best Of The Net nominations and shortlisted Saveas 2023 & Allingham 2023. He is poet in residence at Haus-a-rest. Won 50+ film awards, former senior judge/ mentor Peter Ustinov Awards (iemmys) and Children’s Bafta nominated.  Riders on the Beach, by Paul Gauguin (France) 1902 The Oldest Colour in the World Painted in nursery colours so we think the pinking beach is playful (rather than just another way to get rid of the brown) and the broodmares are only horses— manes tamed ungentlely and claimed with silks and exotic flowers (for that read—wild—because we’ve been taught well enough to know that every wild thing needs a civilizing hand) we were able to ignore the ache from the ground all those bones of living creatures crushed as we walked the world (even though the scrooping sounds were as vivid as the drop under a magpie’s tongue—and we’ve cut off enough to know) and as we stood on those broad backs we chose not to see the scars where once were wings believing ourselves to be the closest things to heaven Adele Evershed Adele Evershed is a Welsh writer. Some of the places her work has been published include Grey Sparrow Journal, Anti Heroin Chic, Gyroscope, and Janus Lit. Adele has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net for poetry and has two poetry collections, Turbulence in Small Spaces (Finishing Line Press) and The Brink of Silence (Bottlecap Press). She has published a novella in flash with Alien Buddha Press called Wannabe and her short story collection; Suffer/Rage has recently been published by Dark Myth Publications. Find her on X @AdLibby1  Portrait of Marthe de Florian, by Giovanni Boldini (Italy) 1888? 1910? Rising Rose Breasting the shadows from her nest of silk, The fabulous pink swan de Florian (Named by herself) offers one flawless cheek To her new-found admirers: Colombine- Slash-Marianne. Trapped in a lifeless room So many years with ormolu chaise longues, Stuffed ostriches, and dust, she welcomes time, Which swept in, love-struck, freeing her – still young – To stun our bête époque. But it was something To miss what came between: voitures blindées Pounding through Paris, scared Parisians rushing South – like her granddaughter, who turned the key And left her hanging there, a city’s ghost And symbol, keeping up her brave half-face, Till Hitler, and her grandchild too, had passed, And she could soar into the auction house: Bright morsel, phoenix-bird of paradise, Scattering style for quite a pretty price. Julia Griffin Julia Griffin lives in south-east Georgia. She has published in several online poetry magazines, including Light, Classical Outlook, Snakeskin Poetry, and The Ekphrastic Review.  Woman Viewing Cherry Blossoms on the Bank of the Sumida River, by Utagawa Kunisada (Japan) 1840 late spring: haiku passing blossom cool – like breath and cherry petals, time flutters downstream Kimberly Hall Kimberly Hall (she/her) is a queer and neurodivergent poet and author based in Southeast Texas. She holds a master's degree in behavioural science. Her poetry and prose can be found or is forthcoming in publications such as Equinox, Trace Fossils Review, Wild Roof Journal, and Common Ground Review.  Double Cherry, by Alma Thomas (USA) 1978 Toward Pink I’m not even looking for wallpaper when I see it, this swatch of spotted eggshell, all blush-stains on paper- white – but immediately my mind is thrown backwards into flush-painted walls, stick- on dragonflies hovering below a popcorn ceiling. Backwards, into blood draws and lungs wheezing, chest the constant colour of a fresh bruise. The taste of iron and phlegm from a swollen throat. Into the closet full of dresses I did not ask to wear. Skirts I did not want to. Speckled blooms inside of thighs, split, skin split beneath heat and stolen razor blades. Cherry blossom, amaranth, carnation – a flurry of girlhood I never felt comfortable enough to claim as my own. I see this sheaf of white under pink and for a long moment I imagine how it would feel to wrap myself inside of it. To shed this weave of thicket and thistledown, this body grown from thorns instead of roots. I imagine how it would feel, allowing my heart to slip into something velvet-soft and stay. Kimberly Hall Kimberly Hall (she/her) is a queer and neurodivergent poet and author based in Southeast Texas. She holds a master's degree in behavioural science. Her poetry and prose can be found or is forthcoming in publications such as Equinox, Trace Fossils Review, Wild Roof Journal, and Common Ground Review.  Pink Tulip, by Georgia O’Keeffe (USA) 1926 It’s Natural Pink petals, lightly parted await a gentle touch soft clouds blush the blinding sun light breezes kiss damp leaves Far away cicadas sing of loss and hope as the quiet of evening consummates desire that sprouts in fertile ground, grows in nurturing hands blooms at its peak Cathy Hollister Cathy Hollister is the author of Seasoned Women, A Collection of Poems published by Poet’s Choice. A 2024 Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has been in Eclectica Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, Burningword Literary Journal, Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, and others. She lives in middle Tennessee; find her online at www.cathyhollister.com and Instagram cathy.hollister.52  The Ringmaster’s Daughter, by Lorette C. Luzajic (Canada) 2018 Razzmatazz I was born into the big tent a zany calliope whistled chuffed my first breath. Clowns cartwheeled the fat lady sang the barker hollered hurrah the mime cried the magician disappeared the sword-swallower gulped the flame-thrower ignited the trapeze artist tumbled in the air the tightrope walker misstepped the escape artist skedaddled the elephants lions tigers bears danced the fortune teller embraced her crystal ball all the motley characters in my family performed antics announcing my birth. I am the ringmaster’s daughter a carnival spectacle. I captivate crowds by juggling tangelos eighty-three fruits at once. Tutti-Frutti is my stage name. I masquerade my face round lilac cheeks twinkle-pink lips white slit eyes. In my disguise I amaze I see astonished eyes dropped jaws looking at me astoundedly. Citrus washes over me like the sea the wet tropical sun the colours of my life chime like the colours in my striped cone hat my performer’s jacket buttoned tight. I bow when I complete my act the spotlight shines on me the bubblegum backdrop of the circus pops bursts illusions are everywhere saturated in fuchsia orange yellow pink purple. Tanya Adèle Koehnke Tanya Adèle Koehnke earned her MA in English from York University. Tanya taught English at several colleges and universities in Toronto. Tanya also has a background in arts journalism. Tanya's poems appear in The Ekphrastic Review; The Ekphrastic World Anthology 2020; Framed & Familiar: 101 Portraits: An International Anthology of Poetry and Photography; Hamilton Arts & Letters; Big Art Book (various issues); Poets & Painters; The Canvas; Canadian Woman Studies; Verse Afire; Harmonic Verse: Poems for the Holidays; Christmas at Spillwords; tinted memories; Sleet Magazine; Forever Soup; Tea-Ku: Poems About Tea; Foreplay: An Anthology of Word Sonnets; Alchemy and Miracles: Nature Woven Into Words; and other publications. Tanya has received several awards for her poetry.  Interior in Louis XVI Style, by Vilhelm Hammershoi (Denmark) 1897 A Room Designed to Ease a Wallflower’s Escape Route: a Sestina It seemed the right colour to use, painting the walls pale pink with ivory white trimmed edges and the right setting for white chairs, small half-moon mahogany table along that pink perimeter. After all, the perimeter is where girls in gowns of varied colours will pick up dance cards from the table chattering with excitement, cheeks pink, some standing, some seated in those chairs all waiting until a young man edges over, to inviting her to leave the edge to waltz with him, away from the perimeter. After a few minutes only a few are left-- in chairs their cheeks flushed a deeper color an embarrassed pink that matches their gowns of pink. Some place empty dance cards back on the table. Then, hoping no one saw them by the table, hoping their pastel gowns blend into the rooms’ edges they slink along that pink perimeter, glad they chose gowns of the perimeter’s colour not wanting to languish in the white chairs with cheeks still that embarrassed pink. they truly wish to escape the room, not just the chairs as they move along, empty dance cards now discarded on the table hoping to reach the door on the perimeter before those dancing return to the room’s edges jealously thinking how the cheeks of those girls will be an excited pink that those girls perhaps tired from dancing will flop into chairs for just a minute and after taking a that brief rest in a chair leaping up, heading to the centre table for a glass of punch from the coloured crystal bowl on a tablecloth edged with lace, or nibble from trays on that table’s perimeter trays of cookies of all colors, red, blue, pink. The chosen-to-dance don’t notice walls, cheeks, dresses of pink they spend only seconds in those white chairs. Their night is comprised of hardly any time on room’s perimeter. With their new beaus, they gather at the center table of refreshments out away from the room’s edge bouquets of beauty, admiring each other’s gowns of varied colours while those wall-coloured flowers of the perimeter, in pink colored gowns, not wanting to remain in chairs too timid to approach the food tables alone, escape, out the door at room’s edge. Joan Leotta Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. She performs folk and personal tales of food, family, strong women on stages across the country and in Europe and offers a one woman show of author visits as Louisa May Alcott. Internationally published as essayist, poet, short story writer, and novelist, she’s a two-time Pushcart nominee, twice Best of the Net nominee, and a 2022 runner-up in Robert Frost Competition. Her essays, poems, CNF, and fiction have appeared or are forthcoming in Impspired, One Art, Lothlorien, Ekphrastic Review, Ovunquesiamo, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Pure Slush, and others. Her poetry chapbooks are Languid Lusciousness with Lemon, (Finishing Line) and Feathers on Stone, (Main Street Rag).https://mainstreetragbookstore.com/product/feathers-on-stone-joan-leotta/  Maternity, by Tamara de Lempicka (Poland) 1928 A New Madonna Would that sudden angel sent to announce God’s terrible favor recognize you now? Wearing no mantle of blue innocence but the loose embrace of pink satin, curled around bare shoulders, rosy as a kiss, soft as a caress, warm as the breast against the infant’s mouth- Blessing with the mother’s gift–breath and sustenance, the miracles of the body good as any angel’s promise. Your face intent under its smooth cap of dark hair, no halo, no coronet, no crown of thorns– Attention fixed, eyes locked on the questing mouth, your hands a cradle holding him to you sweet and fierce flesh flower fallen star the rose within the rose. Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy is a retired Registered Nurse who has always been a writer. Her work has appeared in many journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic World, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic, The Plague Papers, edited by Robbi Nester, and recent issues of Gyroscope, 3rd Wednesday, Caustic Frolic, Inscribe, and Verse Virtual . Her collection How to Become Invisible is now available from Kelsay books, amazon, and the author.  The Roses of Heliogabalus, by Lawrence Alma-Tadema (England, b. Netherlands) 1888 Immortelle He sees, the bearded charioteer at the edge of things… he who had loved the boy Emperor but was replaced by one better driver after another, the latest seated there on the dais to the right of matriarch Julia Soaemias… he knows that like most kings and queens and gods Heliogabalus—claiming identity with all of these-- wields power to satisfy the self. How often, thinks the charioteer, did the boy call cruelties beautiful? And here comes falling from heaven infinity of roses, a plethora of pink to adorn and bedeck the assembly so thoroughly that most will drown as in a tsunami. And he, the charioteer, like Rome, like you perhaps, sees and knows what will happen and says nothing. James Penha Expat New Yorker James Penha (he/him) has lived for the past three decades in Indonesia. Nominated for Pushcart Prizes in fiction and poetry, his work is widely published in journals and anthologies. His newest chapbook of poems, American Daguerreotypes, is available for Kindle. Penha edits The New Verse News, an online journal of current-events poetry. Twitter: @JamesPenha  Pink Birches, by Tom Thomson (Canada) 1915 Boredom A stillness of trees just standing there Pointless alive Very much always alive refusing to move a single branch Any branch A leaf Any leaf just waiting for the sun to set to rise The rain to fall The clouds to run along A stillness of me sitting here Wondering how to blossom Stien Pijp Stien Pijp lives in the east part of the Netherlands. Some years ago she and her family moved there to a house in the woods. As a dreamy urban person, comfortable with the rhythm of the city, she is now getting closer to nature every day. She works as a language therapist. She reads stories and poems of friends and sometimes writes herself.  Self Portrait on the Border between Mexico and the United States of America, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1932 Self-Portrait on the Border between Mexico and United States of America, by Frida Kahlo Now I’m in fashion. Even if pink it’s not a trend anymore. The world behind me is already grey. The world in front turns bold red. Fire itself. Grey + red = pink Pink like a girly dress on defiant woman. I’m standing between… I have always this feeling that I’m in the middle. In between, in the medium, on the centre of a circle. …two men, two cities, two selves’ or even more. On one hand I’ m a rebel, a smoker, a drinker, a junk-food eater. A weirdo, a lover. What happens on the other? Do I keep ticking all the boxes that society gave me to hold? Do I need to keep my pink dress up? The clock draws circles while I made sharp lines in empty boxes whose keep my hands busy. Now, I’ m in fashion. My dress is pink and romantic. My hair is tidy, and my eyebrows had that shape that magazine says. My white, made of flowery lace, gloves left my fingers free. So, that’s how I wrote all those thoughts. Filio Pipi Booklover, food lover, fashion lover, doctor in Phenomenology. Filio Pipi lives in Cyprus. For this contest, Pipi took up the challenge of writing in English.  The Ringmaster’s Daughter, by Lorette C. Luzajic (Canada) 2018 Paint It Black In the drizzle Soho shimmers pink. Behind plate glass, hollow-eyed mannequins glare, as I clack down Wardour Street in my new kitten heels and Mary Quant coat. Soggy chips and a limp piece of battered hake lie strewn across the drain. Trying to make its way home, I think. I picture a dismal Saturday night back in Porthflynn. Decrepit wooden boats. Grey waves churning like an endless argument against the harbour’s granite wall. Mam and Da, swaying on horsehair stuffed stools, in the gloomy back bar of the Navigation Inn. Within a week of my escape, I land a job at 83 Bond Street, W1. Salon girl at Vidal Sassoon. I make tea, wash the punters’ hair, sweep up. Last week, I made nearly a quid in tips, on top of my five pounds thirteen shillings wages. Imagine that! I’ve proved Mam wrong. Mam says, little tramps never amount to much. She says, you make your bed, you lie in it. After hours, Mick, a senior stylist, cuts my straggly mane into a sleek bob. He says that with my looks, one day I could be famous, like Twiggy. Louise Brooks, I say, because my hair is jet black. Mick doesn’t reply. He’s the mysterious type. Mick wears musky cologne. He has a gap between his front teeth, just like Da. When he’s drunk, Da grins like a shark. He winks at me, slaps his knee and beckons me over. He calls his gap, my lucky diastema. In the dark of the stockroom, I tease Mick about his lucky diastema. He grunts, but doesn’t laugh. I arrive at the Flamingo Club. As I push open the door, I brush back a strand of damp hair and touch my bump. Three months gone, but I haven’t let on. Da would kill me. Mick’s got his back to me. Pompadour quiff, purple satin shirt tucked into tight blue jeans and Cuban heeled boots. He’s terrific. Really, he is. In one hand, he’s sloshing around a pint; in the other he’s shoving coins into the jukebox. ‘Hello Cuddlebug,’ I say. When he wants something, Da calls me that. ‘You’re late,’ Mick slurs, without turning round. Maybe tonight isn’t the right time to drop my bombshell. The jukebox whirs and clicks. Number one in the Hit Parade, the Stones strike up. Mick starts to squawk and strut like a demented seagull. Mick’s not his real name, I find out later, when we register the birth. His real name is Norman. Nor is he twenty-four. He’s pushing forty. Each of us has secrets, I think, as we bicker over the baby’s name. He says that when I turn sixteen, he’ll do the decent thing and marry me. I can’t get too excited. But at least I’m away from home. Away from them both. Slippery old fish. Jane Salmons Jane Salmons lives in Shropshire in the UK. She has a poetry pamphlet ‘Enter GHOST’ (dancing girl press, 2022) and full poetry collection ‘The Quiet Spy’ (Pindrop Press, 2022). Jane has poems and stories published in various journals and anthologies, including Salzburg Poetry Review, Ink, Sweat and Tears, MacQueen’s Quinterly, The Ekphrastic Review, The Dribble Drabble Review and Atticus Review. A recipient of Arts Council England funding, her microfiction has been shortlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction Award and nominated for Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions and Best of the Net. She won the Pokrass Prize at the Flash Fiction Festival in 2022. After nearly thirty years teaching, she now works part time as a consultant teacher trainer. www.janesalmonspoetry.co.uk  The Pink Seashell, by James Ensor (Belgium) before 1949 A Chambered Nautilus and Other Blessings for the Grands I hope you learn to appreciate the rains, the snow, flat tires and chigger bites. Perhaps to discover a little joy in them. To turn embarrassment and humiliation into discovery and to look past mistakes after recognizing them as your own. I hope you know nothing you would ever do could diminish a grandmother’s love and not one thing, not one, can separate you from the love of God. Love yourself, love others, love the world, cherishing the time you have in it. I want you to enjoy every run around the bases, to pride yourself in the number of at-bats. Many have cheered you to this point, so hear the echoes of these witnesses when you step again to the plate or when you retire from the game. Laugh. Laugh loud and often. Like you did as grade-school boys, upping each other in the back seat of the car with the potty language you learned last week at school—until your parents said, enough, that’s enough. And learn when enough’s enough. When it’s time to quit, when you have what you need, when it’s time to move on. But, please—don’t sacrifice your dreams. Go big. And if you learn the stuff of dreams does not satisfy and you discover yourself wandering aimlessly on the yellow brick road, know you can make a U-turn and find your way home. Your kin will kill the fatted calf and break the cork of our finest wine and place the signet ring on your middle finger. We will gift you the nautilus, chambered, with its rooms to grow, renew. We will make for you a bed of roses or one of corn shucks, if you choose. Jo Taylor Jo Taylor is a retired, 35-year English teacher from Georgia. In April of this year she published her second book, Come Before Winter (Kelsay Books). She enjoys morning walks, playing with her two grandsons, and collecting and reading cookbooks. Connect with her on Facebook or on her website at Jotaylorwrites.com  Pink Madonna, by Mikulas Galanda (Slovakia) 1933 Forget-Me-Nots in Pink Some things never leave you, like the taste of strawberries in summer. Like your father saying you thought yourself the Queen of Sheba and a few years later escorting you down the rose-petaled aisle as if you were. Like the swaddled and wonder-eyed innocence, peaking at you from under the warm pink blanket at 5:07 the afternoon of April Fool’s in ’82, her blood-tinged hair a mid-summer night’s dream, and wavy, like a washboard. Like Galanda’s Pink Madonna, mother and child skin to skin, the forever-sweet scent of their tender embrace. And how do you forget a spouse’s unrelenting silence, lonely, like mulled-wine shadows, when his tiny dancer trades her lighthearted-tinge-of-pink leotards and flamingo-pink tutu for long white veil and bridal gown. Jo Taylor Jo Taylor is a retired, 35-year English teacher from Georgia. In April of this year she published her second book, Come Before Winter (Kelsay Books). She enjoys morning walks, playing with her two grandsons, and collecting and reading cookbooks. Connect with her on Facebook or on her website at Jotaylorwrites.com  Pink Chamber, by Józef Mehoffer (Poland) 1907-13 The Playroom She’s waiting at the door. It’s almost time for Leon to arrive. She hears his tread upon the spiral staircase that they climb to reach the playroom. Fragrant overhead, the roses match his courteous requests amidst the other objects in the space; she likes to improvise. The rose that rests upon her hairline, by her flushing face, is her surprise. The love they share, a gift; the illness both experience is hard, confining, tiring. Playing stirs the shift from sadness to this dreamscape. Each has starred within their roles, through writing, over years and will – until his passing, and her tears. FF Teague F.F. Teague (Fliss) is a copyeditor/copywriter by day and a poet/composer come nightfall. She lives in Pittville, a suburb of Cheltenham (UK). Her poetry has been published in a number of journals including The HyperTexts, Snakeskin, Pulsebeat, Amethyst, Lighten Up Online, The Dirigible Balloon, and her first collection is titled From Pittville to Paradise. Her other interests include art, film, and photography.  Portrait of Marthe de Florian, by Giovanni Boldini (Italy) 1888? 1910? Pink is My Second Favorite Colour Pink is a poem about pink hot pink not the pale, pastel pink of gingham and ruffles and lace but sizzling pink, electric pink, eye-popping art pink Pink is hand soap in the bathroom of my elementary school. A whiff of it lingered on my hands after I rinsed them. Why does my nasal septum love it so? Where could I find this olfactory magic that shoots my memories back to childhood? Pink is a pearl necklace I wore in fifth grade with a brown sweater set. It made me feel like a movie star. When my boyfriend crooned, “You look pretty today, Margaret,” I retorted in my best Scarlet O’Hara voice, “You’re just saying that because I have on pink pearls!” Pink is health and that nasty, chalky drink I gulped after a night of too much drinking and smoking. But no amount of hangover treatments could put me back in the pink. Pink is my face that is flooded with rose when my naughty girl pops out. And red when a man tickles me pink. Margo Stutts Toombs A self-proclaimed internal humorist, Margo Stutts Toombs creates and dwells in wacky worlds. She loves to perform her work at Fringe festivals, art galleries or anywhere food and beverages are served. Her poetry and flash pieces dance in journals, anthologies, and chapbooks. Margo also loves to produce videos. Sometimes, these videos screen at film festivals. One of her favourite pastimes is co-hosting the monthly poetry/flash readings at the Archway Gallery in Houston, Texas. For 2024, Margo is the Newsletter Editor for Women in the Visual and Literary Arts, Houston, Tx. Check out her shenanigans at Margo Stutts Toombs - Performance Artist or on social media - https://www.facebook.com/margo.toombs/
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