Time Is A River Without Banks: Ekphrastic Poetry

Time Is A River Without Banks Ekphrastic Poetry Edition1

We are pleased to announce the release of the Spring 2019 Issue.

The poets with work in this Ekphrastic Poetry edition are:

Misky Braendeholm
Adrian Ernesto Cepeda
Tim Dunne
Alexa Findlay
Christopher Hileman
Nancy Byrne Iannucci
Diane Jackman
Mary Anna Kruch
Sarah Law
Betsy Mars
Joshua Medsker
Michael Minassian
Debi Swim
Robert Walton
Martin Willitts Jr

You may download a copy of the PDF release here.

Ekphrastic Poetry Spring 2019

You’re invited to submit to our new issue. Happy writing!

Perspectives, By Debi Swim

Perspectives
By Debi Swim

They walk along the chilly shore
heads together deep in conversation
the sounds of the gulls overhead
barely tugging the stuff of awareness

Skiffs and other colorful boats
committed to the business of commerce
take no notice of the couple
But curse the gulls as thieves and nuisances

The sky belongs to the keen gulls
single-minded, aggressively hungry
one eye on the couple for crumbs
the other for a chance to pilfer fish

And I sit far up on the hill
with a spyglass watching the classic scene
flicker like a silent movie
awed by the many perspectives below

what we see and what we ignore
one man’s beauty and another’s mundane
it’s all the same and yet remains
someone’s point of view, someone’s diehard truth.

“We can ignore reality, but we cannot ignore the consequences of ignoring reality.” ― Ayn Rand

seagulls
Photo prompt by Red Wolf Prompts, Prompt 423 (https://redwolfprompts.wordpress.com/2019/01/14/prompt-423-ekphrastic-poetry-seagulls/)

Debi Swim writes poetry or something like it in WV.
Blog: https://poetrybydebi.wordpress.com/

No One Expects the Spanish Inquisition, By Misky Braendeholm

No One Expects the Spanish Inquisition
By Misky Braendeholm

But why do you feel safer in public?
He doesn’t answer.
He looks as fragile as chipped china,
and I want to rinse away life’s
last meal from his unmended finish.
Bring him up where the surface ripples.
I want him to see tomorrow because
I’m not sure that he will.
But why do you want to sit here
on this pigeon poop bench?
He looks at me, as if ready to reveal
some great secret, and then he
scratches his flourishing beard,
and laughs like there’s no tomorrow.

night
Photo prompt by Red Wolf Prompts, Prompt 424
(https://redwolfprompts.wordpress.com/2019/02/09/prompt-424-ekphrastic-poetry-night/)

Misky Braendeholm’s work is regularly published in monthly issues of Waterways Poetry in the Mainstream, Ten Penny Players, Light Journal, and Muse.

Chickie-Runs, By Nancy Byrne Iannucci

Chickie-Runs
By Nancy Byrne Iannucci

On the Road star gazing,
Bill Haley’s comets come.
kicking stones to stolen cars,
Jim & Buzz wonder “Why do we do this?”

the road could have ended
at Elvis’ hips but they
kept doing this:
the Beatles, Rolling Stones,

The Doors, Motown, Hendrix-
Sunday bests surrendering
to Saturday Night Fevers,
God save the Queen,

No future for you,
Bowie, Run DMC,
Wu-Tang-
cars keep racing,

cuffs keep catching
door handles,
Mary Quant minis,
hoodies, Vans,

Back to the Future
Slappy grinds & rail slides,
playing S.K.A.T.E
in private parking garages,

waxing youth,
rebels without causes,
doing this like
reruns-

new generations
supplanting old ones
in high speed
chickie-runs.

Do we know
what we’re doing?
Do we see a pattern?
Plato, what is a chickie-run?

james dean

Photo credit: James Dean and Corey Allen on the set of Rebel Without a Cause, 1955, Getty images.

Nancy Byrne Iannucci teaches history and lives poetry in Troy, NY. Her poetry can be found in numerous publications including Allegro Poetry Magazine, Gargoyle, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Typehouse Literary Magazine, Riggwelter Press, Three Drops from a Cauldron, and Picaroon Poetry to name a few. Her debut book of poetry, Temptation of Wood, was recently published by Nixes Mate Review.

Stereoscope, By Mary Anna Kruch

Stereoscope
By Mary Anna Kruch

Seventy years ago,
life played out in shades of gray
for my mother,
but she longed to view it in colors
of the Parks she and my father would see
once they had saved two hundred bucks
for a used roadster.

She had seen Alaska,
but had not yet laid eyes on Denali.
She‘d not viewed the multicolored sunrise
over Yellowstone, the outcrops
of Aztec sandstone in Red Rock Canyon,
or Yosemite’s Firefall
as the sun hits Horsetail Falls,
illuminating upper reaches
in fiery red.
She would settle for even one of these
as long as Dad was beside her.

So they moved into a small
upstairs apartment above Dad’s parents,
did without a car, took the bus,
saved five bucks a month in an envelope marked “Parks.”

Although the smell of fried garlic
wafted upstairs, drove her to near insanity —
and although the in-laws spoke “in tongues”
as though she did not exist —
Mom looked past all that.
Soon she’d see the Parks,
far from the old neighborhood;
maybe even move to their own home.

When the first baby arrived in ’47,
the road trip was put on hold; but not her dreams.
Dad snapped photos of baby in black and white
then developed them in the hall closet,
hand-coloring them in pencil
to add dimension.

When Baby #2 arrived in spring of ‘49,
they moved two blocks away
to a house with room for the kids to play.
For her birthday that spring,
Dad bought Mom a View Master.
The accompanying booklet boasted
that one could see “third dimension pictures”
in full-color Kodachrome.
Mom saw Yellowstone,
Red Rock Canyon, Denali, and Yosemite
in vibrant slides of stereoscope,
as she told stories about the national parks
to my brother and sister and to me,
Baby #3.

Process Notes
My poem “Stereoscope” was inspired by a photograph I snapped of my mother’s View Master and slides. After her death, the View Master was among the items she left for me. Raised during the Great Depression and married at the end of WWII, my mother knew how to be frugal as well as positive when it came to embracing life’s gifts. Rather than say she was “stuck in the city,” she preferred to dream of wild places, eventually making it to Yosemite and Yellowstone National Parks. My father, however, died very young so did not accompany her. My poem is a tribute to my parents–who inspired a love of nature, art, and hard work.

BW Photo for Stereoscope

Mary Anna Kruch is a career educator and writer. Childhood memories, her Italian family near Rome, and the family farm in Northern Michigan inspire poetry and photography. Currently, she supervises student teachers for Northern Michigan University and leads a monthly writing workshop, Williamston Community Writers. Mary Anna has been published in The Remembered Arts Journal, River Poets Journal, Edition 3, Plum Tree Tavern, The Safe Place, and Credo Espoir. Images of nature, childhood, and family farms are prominent in her writing. Her first poetry collection, We Draw Breath from the Same Sky, is in press.

Editor’s note: Mary Anna’s poem will appear in a new release by Red Wolf Editions, Time Is A River Without Banks, an Ekphrastic Poetry edition. If you wish to submit, you can do so by end February 2019. Submit to redwolfeditions@gmail.com Submission guidelines here.

Rogue after The Great Wave off Kanagawa by Hokusai, By Alexa Findlay

Rogue
after The Great Wave off Kanagawa by Hokusai

By Alexa Findlay

as grey clouds
cover the
blue sky
a rogue
wave forms
rising higher
than the
snowcapped
mountain
in the
near distance
carrying the
the wooden boats
along with it
a sight
so beautiful
yet terrifying
as the sea
prepares to
swallow those
who fall into
its mighty mouth.

the wave

Hokusai, The Great Wave off Kanagawa

Alexa Findlay has her B.A. Degree in Creative Writing from the University of California, Riverside. She spends most of her time writing fiction and poetry. She is the Founder and Editor-in-Chief of three online literary magazines. She is currently pursuing her M.A. Degree in English at California State University, Long Beach. Her work has been featured in Pomona Valley Review, Better than Starbucks Magazine, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Halcyon Days, Grotesque Magazine, The Quail Bell Magazine, Vox Poetica, The Ekphrastic Review, among others.

First Snow, By Robert Walton

First Snow
By Robert Walton

Cloud fingers,
Swift as serpents,
Steal stars
From night’s silk pockets.
Snowflakes riding wind sprites,
Flirt with pine needles,
Whisper promises of nights entwined,
Of embraces lingering
Until spring.

Process: First snow in the mountains lifts my spirit every time. Lots of promises of better days to come.

sentinel 12-18

A recent view of the High Sierras from the Yosemite Association’s webcam site.

Robert Walton is a retired teacher, a lifelong rock climber and mountaineer. His writing about climbing has appeared in the Sierra Club’s Ascent. His novel, Dawn Drums, won the 2014 Tony Hillerman prize.

First Communion 1960, By Tim Dunne

First Communion 1960
By Tim Dunne

The white suit, shorts, socks,
made proud, by mum,
rough to the touch.
Holy, pure,
Like you.

Dim in the fog of the Sacred Heart’s
pungent incense,
you kneel, awed in belief,
eyes fixed on the hanging saviour,
the sight of whose suffering
a reminder of the sins
of your seven years.

First time at the altar rail.
Dominus Vobiscum
Et cum spirit tuo

The sounds of the Latin Mass
unknowable, familiar,
your responses learnt by heart.

Confession yesterday
in the dusky tabernacle
with the cloistered priest.
Your sins confessed,
you passed that test,
absolved,
Sin free, grace-full,
to kneel at the altar rail
and taste the wafer, divine.

‘The body of Christ’ inside,
You rise, ‘Amen’.
Fierce in your faith
your halo, a hello
to the communion of the church.

Glowing with grace.
you step away from
this First Communion,
an innocent saved,
and ready to face a world of sin,
solely pure in your
white suit, shorts and socks.

communion pic

Tim Dunne has now taught English and Drama for more than 40 years. At first in the North West of England, then North Wales and for the past seven years abroad, first in Saudi Arabia and now in Azerbaijan. Home though, is up in the mountains of Snowdonia in the beautiful Croesor valley, where he lives with his wife, Bev, daughter Phoebe, six cats and one dog. Though now legally a pensioner, he has no intention of retiring just yet.

Editor’s note: Tim’s poem will appear in a new release by Red Wolf Editions, Time Is A River Without Banks, an Ekphrastic Poetry edition. If you wish to submit, you can do so by end February 2019. Submit to redwolfeditions@gmail.com Submission guidelines here.

The Vision (after Marc Chagall), By Sarah Law

The Vision (after Marc Chagall)
By Sarah Law

It is an annunciation of sorts –
the young man at his easel,
palette on lap and hand raised to the canvas;

for his subject is an angel,
whose wings are clouds, whose
body is milk-bright; whose music,

cool and sweet as hope, hovers
over ethereal spheres. This angel
utters his wish: it is to bloom

within the simple portrait; brush us
with whatever we call immortal –
he gestures at the cerulean blue.

The moment holds its breath; the man
assents; he and the angel are refracted
as the light wavers them through.

The Vision 1924-5-c.1937 by Marc Chagall 1887-1985

Marc Chagall, The Vision

Sarah Law lives in London, UK, and is a tutor for the Open University and elsewhere. With many poems placed in online journals, she has also published five poetry collections and a recent chapbook, My Converted Father. She edits the online journal Amethyst Review.

Editor’s note: Sarah’s poem will appear in a new release by Red Wolf Editions, Time Is A River Without Banks, an Ekphrastic Poetry edition. If you wish to submit, you can do so by end February 2019. Submit to redwolfeditions@gmail.com Submission guidelines here.

Miro’s “Still Life with Old Shoe”, By Michael Minassian

Miro’s “Still Life with Old Shoe”
By Michael Minassian

An old shoe
burnt leather
and weeping laces
alone on one corner—
on the left,
the apple, Eve’s fruit,
sex and juice and seeds
pierced by a fork—
behind the shoe
a loaf of bread
baked with flour
and pulverized bones
the bottle of wine
bitter as blood
half empty
half formed—
I prefer the soft edges
of the canvas,
the hidden hand
of the artist
beyond the horizon
of the table:
chaos
the catastrophe
of the everyday,
helpless against the flames
and shadows—
the marginalia of life.

Miro_shoe

My process: In 2015, I saw two exhibitions of Miró’s paintings: one at his Home and Museum in Mallorca, Spain and the second in San Antonio, Texas. I was fascinated by his evolution as an artist and the diversity of his art. This painting seemed different from his other work and I was reminded of the description of Miró as the “assassin of painting.”

Michael Minassian is a Contributing Editor for Verse-Virtual, an online magazine. His chapbooks include poetry: The Arboriculturist (2010) and photography: Around the Bend (2017). For more information: https://michaelminassian.com

Editor’s note: Michael’s poem will appear in a new release by Red Wolf Editions, Time Is A River Without Banks, an Ekphrastic Poetry edition. If you wish to submit, you can do so by end February 2019. Submit to redwolfeditions@gmail.com Submission guidelines here.