Ekphrasis XIV 2025 Online Exhibition
SET 2. Writer Initiators and Artist Responders, cont.
SET 2
D. GENE LOCK, New Light. Response by artist LYNNE ZICKERMAN OLSON: Life Is Good, acrylic.
E. BLAKE MORE, She Paints Him Red. Response by artist SHANTI BENOIT: Nature's Sway, acrylic on canvas.
F. NANCY NELSON, Angled for Survival. Response by artist WENDELL RICKON: Wind and Waves.
G. KAILYN MCORD, Strawberries. Response by artist MARY-ELLEN CAMPBELL: C'MON!
SET 2. Writer Initiators and Artist Responders, cont.
SET 2
D. GENE LOCK, New Light. Response by artist LYNNE ZICKERMAN OLSON: Life Is Good, acrylic.
E. BLAKE MORE, She Paints Him Red. Response by artist SHANTI BENOIT: Nature's Sway, acrylic on canvas.
F. NANCY NELSON, Angled for Survival. Response by artist WENDELL RICKON: Wind and Waves.
G. KAILYN MCORD, Strawberries. Response by artist MARY-ELLEN CAMPBELL: C'MON!
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D. GENE LOCK, initiating author: New Light.
Sunlight, no longer trapped behind the now-donated dresser mirror, splashes the walls where artwork hung. All what was in the room is now enroute to Habitat for Humanity's ReStore.The room feels lighter, younger, although it is much older than even the now-given away bedroom set. So does he, feel newer. Three years that she is gone, ashes now. Memories softened faster than he'd thought, but time disappears more quickly now, anyway. New furniture is picked out. Soon this room will have new life. And he is ready for it, this beginning. A friend will help pick out an area rug, and the music to play on their rainy nights. The window faces east, for each sunrise to come. Life is good, if you can let it be. |
D. Life Is Good, acrylic painting in Response
by artist LYNNE ZICKERMAN OLSON: 
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E. BLAKE MORE, She Paints Him Red.
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Work is more fun than fun.
~ Noel Coward I sit on my morning perch sun arrowing my knees with patterns of tall spring book in my hand pausing to ponder the poet’s invitation to belong to sky as much as earth and notice a honeybee determined to pollinate a painted flower actually dozens of them one after another somehow believing my loose brush strokes flat and beckoning on the make-believe rug beneath my feet |
to be as potent as the real thing fanciful tufts of gold fringe against the purple floor mirroring the stripes of his body his seasonal job barely started as he works to nudge every one of them dislodge their voluptuous offerings refusing to yield until he grazes the last bloom perhaps surprised to find this early bounty like me, determined to do whatever it takes to eke out the sweetness of life |
E. Response by artist SHANTI BENOIT: Nature's Sway, acrylic on canvas.
F. Nancy Nelson: Angled for Survival
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the stark white surf
breaks insistent on the cliffs, driven by cobalt waves. jagged twists of stone, chiseled by winds, outline the shore. terns, gulls and ravens, floating on the currents, dance above me. at cliffs’ edge, the cypress trees bend low, twist inward, away from ocean winds. gnarled and dense, hunkered to the ground, the cypress survive the fierce assaults of relentless storms, through untold years. I see the stance I need. aging in place, here in my spot of woods, thankful for sturdy limbs and gnarly hands, turning inward, angled for survival. |
F. Response by WENDELL RICKON: Wind and Waves, mixed media 
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G. Writer initiator KAILYN MCCORD:
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Strawberries
Emma St. James stands on a bridge in a town she does not know and closes her eyes against a weak summer sun. She can feel the ocean on her face. She tries to lean against the metal girder rail and can’t, her belly big in front of her; it stands in the way of all things, now. Behind her, the traffic is fast and loud, and in front of her, and in front of her, a gully of green weeds stretches to a scummy beach. Gulls circle above. She opens her eyes to watch them. Her legs feel cold beneath the railing, a line of shadow across her thighs. She takes the strawberries she has bought at the farmer’s market — handed to her by the farmer who grew them, paid for with the last of a wad of bills she has carried for a week, this sweating through the thin jersey pocket of her balloon-like overalls, the only piece of clothing she can still wear — and sets the basket of them on the rail. She picks one from the top, examining it for blemishes; it’s shiny, but the rest beneath are matte, cloudy, the finish of fruit past its prime. A surge comes, low and crampy before it hardens, deepens, sweeps up through her body. Emma is two miles from home. Her phone is dead in her pocket. She waits, breathing over the berries, head between her elbows. When the contraction fades off again, she begins to sort through the fruit, placing anything less than perfect in a neat line along on the girder rail, leaving the basket full of only those that shine, new and red, like the inside of a mouth. One by one, she picks up the better berries and pitches them over, watching as the birds dive into the deep green to fish them out. When the basket is empty, she turns to the line of imperfects, squints as the gulls circle, watching them watch her. She picks up the first berry and puts it in her mouth, between her teeth, so they can see it there, and bares at them like a predator. She feels the beginnings of the next surge coming, sees the gulls circle closer, feels the strawberry's dry, seedy skin against her tongue. Come on, she thinks. Come on. |
G. Response by artist MARY-ELLEN CAMPBELL: CO'MON! 
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