tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-180204312024-03-13T21:03:37.811+11:00BLUEPEPPERPoetry with biteJustin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.comBlogger1496125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-38421990614952607642023-07-10T09:45:00.001+10:002023-08-03T09:06:52.764+10:00Bluepepper Bids Farewell<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiaOu_MOIY1cUOsusG51wYQAHxB5960E2oqTaz-jypvw8zJ3MaymkQWi-nKz6PtUKaeO_eeH4lnCKPAr4GHhVNW0zOYJ9l5O8m7SxgRMbP4Kqu0_-FOB6Xcm1ROhKM4--K9AMt4vfGaVzCMut_w8RvntbB1Jvv9vrMQE6fiiMnHQoAEw93ko1F/s577/Me.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="577" data-original-width="433" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiaOu_MOIY1cUOsusG51wYQAHxB5960E2oqTaz-jypvw8zJ3MaymkQWi-nKz6PtUKaeO_eeH4lnCKPAr4GHhVNW0zOYJ9l5O8m7SxgRMbP4Kqu0_-FOB6Xcm1ROhKM4--K9AMt4vfGaVzCMut_w8RvntbB1Jvv9vrMQE6fiiMnHQoAEw93ko1F/s320/Me.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /> After eighteen long and fruitful years it is time to pull down the shutters on Bluepepper. It hasn't been an easy decision to make, but it has been a long time coming and, after a succession of less than savoury exchanges with members of the poetry fraternity, I decided I no longer had the energy or inclination to contine administering the site. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> As many editors will tell you with a wistful sigh, the tone of much of the discourse on social media is trending downwards at a rapid rate. Which isn't to say I haven't relished the opportunity to make contact with so many wonderful writers and poets from all over the globe. It is just that the cons are starting to nip at the heels of the pros and I want to quit while I'm still ahead.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> There are all sorts of explanations for this erosion of manners, and I won't dwell on the issue as I am no sociologist. In the case of Bluepepper I believe part of the explanation may lie in the fact that we have been around so long and gained such an international following that in certain eyes we have taken on all the trappings of an institution with all the apparent limitless resources of an institution. This perception seems to have triggered the iconoclast in a certain type of poet and I don't see that situation improving any time soon. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Were I a part of a loyal and dedicated team things might be different. But since the launch of Bluepepper back in October 2005, Bluepepper has been the solitary enterprise of a rather solitary individual who simply wanted to reach out and provide a safe space where disparate voices could find a home. I believe I have achieved that.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> However, being a lone operator meant that, while I could lap up all the kind words and encouragement like a thirsty kitten, there was also no-one to share the burden when things became increasingly challenging. So, here we find ourselves and I am sad but relieved the right decision has been made.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> There are way too many poets to thank for having helped make Bluepepper what it is. Their kindness and support will live with me always. I hope that people continue to visit the site and discover the wonderful array of talent on show here. The site will remain open in perpetuity, along with the comment section which I will free of my administrative duties, so be careful in choosing your words.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Please be kind to each other, and most importantly stay safe.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> - Justin Lowe (10/07/2023)</div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-17039145205901215712023-07-10T08:51:00.001+10:002023-07-10T08:51:50.230+10:00New Poetry by Paul Willis<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNc9G1YtXiGD0XjUezBc2R--mh3bX0lRZ4zPcOQAOcshVX4ugNQmZt1ba1W4YlesAnrTTB0D5CG0gP2-3GjHA2oB89OowAdNNeDCvur25lj_b0HGqyS2CwIkUhmTvTnmJ1J9fv24j9s1vwUdC0wmRpBsqetS0m0SPxcUc2GF4zXNy4fS4Hl-xH/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNc9G1YtXiGD0XjUezBc2R--mh3bX0lRZ4zPcOQAOcshVX4ugNQmZt1ba1W4YlesAnrTTB0D5CG0gP2-3GjHA2oB89OowAdNNeDCvur25lj_b0HGqyS2CwIkUhmTvTnmJ1J9fv24j9s1vwUdC0wmRpBsqetS0m0SPxcUc2GF4zXNy4fS4Hl-xH/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Venetian</b></div><div><br /></div><div>In my window, Venetian blinds divide </div><div>the trees and tennis courts into slatted ways, </div><div><br /></div><div>one lane atop another. At night the avenues </div><div>wink shut, but in the morning they resume</div><div><br /></div><div>their daily maze, a labyrinth. Each parallel</div><div>contains its own spiritual center, a lateral </div><div><br /></div><div>of understanding. Or maybe each </div><div>opening is a wet and wandering canal,</div><div><br /></div><div>one leading on to the next. After all,</div><div>these could be the streets of Venice.</div><div><br /></div><div>And look! A bluebottle gondolier is singing</div><div>his way from one end of town to the other.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- © Paul Willis 2023</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Paul Willis has published seven collections of poetry, the most recent of which is Somewhere to Follow (Slant Books, 2021). Individual poems have appeared in Poetry, Ascent, Christian Century, and the Best American Poetry series. He is a former poet laureate of Santa Barbara, California, where he lives with his wife, Sharon, near the old mission.</i></div></div><div><br /></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-90675108478620651442023-07-10T08:46:00.001+10:002023-07-10T08:46:23.467+10:00New Poetry by Doug Holder<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_OhRT9fISfTpyr9swTdR513452PrJtS6yiomooGTbEDciGf7-ks9uyGTyaPjFHTNtytZ4Lv9nl1Zfzeq6C2fdAPo89kj3DBHvCSPwRM7Kuozm588nqaLBPQQzGv03QTBqtqIrU7LxNl1PNp-DtoL85nZUkL7w1I0SuzyNxh_DYNVykXMD0a-x/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_OhRT9fISfTpyr9swTdR513452PrJtS6yiomooGTbEDciGf7-ks9uyGTyaPjFHTNtytZ4Lv9nl1Zfzeq6C2fdAPo89kj3DBHvCSPwRM7Kuozm588nqaLBPQQzGv03QTBqtqIrU7LxNl1PNp-DtoL85nZUkL7w1I0SuzyNxh_DYNVykXMD0a-x/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>The House on Fountain Ave.</b></div><div><br /></div><div><i>- To Susan, Leon and Bruce Freimour</i></div><div><br /></div><div>In our mind</div><div>we never renovate</div><div>our childhood home.</div><div>Our innocence</div><div>is preserved</div><div>in stone.</div><div>All that food</div><div>the chickpeas, tuna sandwiches,</div><div>the wonder</div><div>of Wonder Bread</div><div>the peanut butter</div><div>that stuck to the</div><div>the roofs of our mouths</div><div>like a gooey pavement.</div><div>The mother crooning </div><div>"Is this a house or hotel, </div><div>yes or no?"</div><div><br /></div><div>The father barking out</div><div>"British Petroleum!"</div><div>from his Wall Street Journal,</div><div>he always told us the suit</div><div>makes the man.</div><div><br /></div><div>We wondered</div><div>about the father's</div><div>book " Denial of Death"</div><div>which seemed to be a sacred</div><div>text to him</div><div>and we wondered</div><div>whether we could.</div><div><br /></div><div>In our minds we</div><div>still schvitz from the hot summer</div><div>without the nefarious smoke</div><div>from Canada</div><div>no mournful wisps</div><div>will ever cloud</div><div>our childhood home.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- © Doug Holder 2023</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Doug Holder is the co-president of the NewEngland Poetry Club and the founder of the Ibbetson Street Press. Holder holds an MLA from Harvard University in American and English Literature. "The Doug Holder Papers Collection" is housed at the University of Buffalo. In 2015 he received a citation from the Massachusetts State Legislature for his work as a poet, professor, editor, publisher and educator. </i></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-81976675674145915192023-07-09T10:20:00.001+10:002023-07-09T10:20:27.900+10:00New Poetry by Elizabeth Morse<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHqJ8Io6BDxuF3jeATcaNkrWd1XCBtDjs90dcM9CeimbEemwROQG1hUx0RjsWg4BoBKaxTIcUG70bfbEFaPueY_GRN7sCfIWv23rinkoFgxAVMfiYHqmM1pHbmftpxRpmMsHtPmElFQm7Vy7GqvzwP3zsx1GrMt2TF4Z9mKL7FwH8J73wjdIpR/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHqJ8Io6BDxuF3jeATcaNkrWd1XCBtDjs90dcM9CeimbEemwROQG1hUx0RjsWg4BoBKaxTIcUG70bfbEFaPueY_GRN7sCfIWv23rinkoFgxAVMfiYHqmM1pHbmftpxRpmMsHtPmElFQm7Vy7GqvzwP3zsx1GrMt2TF4Z9mKL7FwH8J73wjdIpR/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>The Past is a Food You Can No Longer Find in Stores</b></div><div><br /></div><div>The past is a living room with comforting chairs.</div><div>The past will come back and tap you on the shoulder.</div><div>It leaks out of everything: green, yellow and orange.</div><div>Faulkner said the past is not even past.</div><div><br /></div><div>The past is a chunk of life, completed and examined.</div><div>The past is an inscrutable block of concrete.</div><div>There are some words you’ll never really know,</div><div>some chapters you’ll never truly understand.</div><div>The past is a riddle you may not be able to solve.</div><div><br /></div><div>The past is writhing with life, pulsing with energy:</div><div>drag it out and watch it kick and scream.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- © Elizabeth Morse 2023</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Elizabeth Morse’s poetry has been published in literary magazines such as Ginosko, Kestrel, and Survision. Her poetry chapbook, The Color Between the Hours, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press in late 2023. She was a finalist in the Blue Light Press full-length poetry collection contest and has her MFA from Brooklyn College.</i></div><div><br /></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-45578581614046636282023-07-09T10:12:00.001+10:002023-07-09T10:12:49.004+10:00New Poetry by Matthew Curlewis<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeL9JPx465SPD0_Db1Ax-DcXv1D2HnUnrYXq1PwhsL_7E344DEEIWFqhWwE8kElKRCSkA4Bkib3jeleiXb1WHUq_D2DWwjtJBUbqrqVHQlf9Ae5Vf7zunxKQ-xP1oD8tvW6zjQL2-hjfW2DrhGTXBLC4ZrZsQyNRUSV1ZTivoFPVR-PTdzjSHF/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeL9JPx465SPD0_Db1Ax-DcXv1D2HnUnrYXq1PwhsL_7E344DEEIWFqhWwE8kElKRCSkA4Bkib3jeleiXb1WHUq_D2DWwjtJBUbqrqVHQlf9Ae5Vf7zunxKQ-xP1oD8tvW6zjQL2-hjfW2DrhGTXBLC4ZrZsQyNRUSV1ZTivoFPVR-PTdzjSHF/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Alter the Frequency</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Dawn is still in the distance.</div><div>A future event never certain –</div><div>always hoped for.</div><div><br /></div><div>Out here beneath a heaven-sized sky,</div><div>far away from city glare,</div><div>it’s tempting not to somehow…</div><div>let go of everything.</div><div>Then I could float upwards</div><div>and lose myself between and</div><div>around and within and among</div><div>those billions of twinkling lights.</div><div><br /></div><div>If I stand up straight,</div><div>weight balanced evenly between</div><div>both feet, cast my arms out wide and</div><div>raise my face upwards to</div><div>gaze at all the stars,</div><div>it feels like maybe, just</div><div>maybe if I did this under</div><div>certain different conditions,</div><div>then I would actually vaporize.</div><div>Not into darkness and nothingness,</div><div>but into light.</div><div>Boundlessly bright, infinite light –</div><div>neither ending nor beginning,</div><div>but much more importantly:</div><div>continuing.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ideally however, that will all occur at a later moment,</div><div>much later. (During a future event always certain –</div><div>rarely hoped for.)</div><div>So I return my arms to my sides,</div><div>and smile in gratitude that this isn’t</div><div>my time for any of that;</div><div>not yet.</div><div>What I need to do right now instead is simply:</div><div>be here.</div><div>Bear witness to the beauty and the majesty</div><div>and this moon and star-lit darkness, and</div><div>let it all fill me, without bursting me.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I watch, and</div><div>breathe and wait, and</div><div>feel and sense, and then,</div><div>there – there it is.</div><div>The most subtle of changes in the breeze.</div><div>A barely perceptible alteration of frequency because:</div><div>the sun has commenced her ascent. </div><div><br /></div><div>And the more I tune in, and delight in</div><div>the sensations of stars and planets and galaxies,</div><div>wheeling and arcing over me, and</div><div>through me and around me,</div><div>my heart goes out to every being every where</div><div>that has never had the time or the luck or the opportunity to</div><div>stand here and just feel the energy of everything.</div><div><br /></div><div>So if that sounds anything like you, then I invite you, come –</div><div>come out to what at first might look like a void,</div><div>until you stare at it a bit longer and find that you,</div><div>you yourself have the power to alter the frequency.</div><div>Which is when you’ll also discover there is no void; this space is full –</div><div>full not beyond your wildest imagination, but full</div><div>because it is the source of ALL imagination.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- © Matthew Curlewis 2023</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Since growing up in Australia, Matthew Curlewis has worked as a performer-designer-writer on four continents. At his entity Amsterdam Writers, Matthew runs the workshops Writers’ Stretch & Tone, and Storytelling for Academics. His works can be found in publications including The Guardian, Time Out, Blume Illustrated, and Wordpeace, and his Dutch-British-Polish coproduction short film Brilliance can be viewed via the streaming platform Lesflicks.</i></div><div><br /></div></div><div><br /></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-86374237818779095002023-07-06T11:48:00.001+10:002023-07-06T11:48:38.872+10:00New Poetry by Frank C. Modica<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUUrWxugBlyBruvq5fMC6JHiv883G5cG1DY0LPNUCYmS-R5CdOvFECINUGUwova0AVxPAQU-SQ2dkLCflzdbjdy9Ep2WnP8QyjkScL1st-Pa3V1kMrH8UzNmVGVl_3U1piOh8lvITgaxZ9DzwHZ16JPvNR5Vs4bCdAg4dYw6gHZbI158aqQNO2/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUUrWxugBlyBruvq5fMC6JHiv883G5cG1DY0LPNUCYmS-R5CdOvFECINUGUwova0AVxPAQU-SQ2dkLCflzdbjdy9Ep2WnP8QyjkScL1st-Pa3V1kMrH8UzNmVGVl_3U1piOh8lvITgaxZ9DzwHZ16JPvNR5Vs4bCdAg4dYw6gHZbI158aqQNO2/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>chernobyl-rust and steel</b></div><div><br /></div><div>this massive steel radar web</div><div>built to detect American missiles</div><div>hides secrets in dark recesses</div><div>silent spaces for invisible spiders</div><div><br /></div><div>abandoned useless metal</div><div>like thousands of hair curlers</div><div>barbed wire fences gone wild</div><div>no havens for people or birds </div><div><br /></div><div>this mute patchwork abacus</div><div>these cold metallic interwoven nests</div><div>abandoned strung together</div><div>catch strands of wild feathers</div><div><br /></div><div>dry leaves rattle under rusty pylons </div><div>cracked concrete behind the porous</div><div>ephemeral wind break an absence </div><div>hovers over bombed farmlands</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- © Frank C. Modica 2023</div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Frank C. Modica is a retired teacher who taught children with special needs for over 34 years. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Dust Poetry, New Square, Sheila-Na-Gig, and Lit Shark. Frank's first chapbook, “What We Harvest,” nominated for an Eric Hoffer book award, was published in the fall of 2021 by Kelsay Books. His second chapbook, “Old Friends,” was published this past December by Cyberwit Press.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-35447917932360896782023-07-05T15:10:00.003+10:002023-07-05T15:10:58.838+10:00New Poetry by Rob Schackne<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIM_RvfYVPSGe1beY3D848RDhJUygDnkWViPm0saeYN9gDQ61V6O7zGLkp4lO1nA5jntIPGJ7coAWAq0KyoR34t0z7sT58q13PZx2rM-5R5eIs68MEtcazFvAvx8Rtk7GBteKNkhg4vmlOxAqWODZgdkr1E60dodeYZtBqw7z_dRflQ7rDfHme/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIM_RvfYVPSGe1beY3D848RDhJUygDnkWViPm0saeYN9gDQ61V6O7zGLkp4lO1nA5jntIPGJ7coAWAq0KyoR34t0z7sT58q13PZx2rM-5R5eIs68MEtcazFvAvx8Rtk7GBteKNkhg4vmlOxAqWODZgdkr1E60dodeYZtBqw7z_dRflQ7rDfHme/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Limen</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Do big clouds stay</div><div>and bring their winds</div><div>invisible strings</div><div>let them go</div><div>birds aghast</div><div><br /></div><div>cats near the heaters</div><div>look out the windows</div><div>dry sinews</div><div>languorous</div><div>let me be</div><div><br /></div><div>do bright domestics</div><div>(how the colours bleed)</div><div>ever sinuous</div><div>ever rub off</div><div>in the mind</div><div><br /></div><div>reading weather</div><div>lonely on the road</div><div>Taneda’s poem</div><div>the way ahead</div><div>raindrops for company</div><div><br /></div><div>seen from afar</div><div>miss the in-between</div><div>walk on cracks</div><div>they add up</div><div>looking everywhere</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- © Rob Schackne 2023</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Rob Schackne was born in New York and he lived in lots of countries before settling in Australia in the 1970s. Before retirement he taught in China for a long time. He now lives in central Victoria. His poems have been published in many magazines both printed and electronic. His book “A Chance of Seasons” was published by Flying Island Books in late 2017. When he’s not writing, he likes taking photographs. </i></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-37321295566039047642023-07-05T15:04:00.000+10:002023-07-05T15:04:18.559+10:00New Poetry by Rumaisa Maryam<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDhRmvxlwWQ5l0zw_nwhST59nU4EV-mzCdhfh0fRjN201L-3Q2MuZJvQelvhuJvLR2f5-2e8_uPHjj42EWUVtZVyZLuRF_vIg8lLp-SyAiHPWGoQlOcURUDYeI8nSrahHhpx-P8_DZvz5irTKL85u5hqQg_ZSIKMnQwOGS22YdHiOn52ehFWHh/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDhRmvxlwWQ5l0zw_nwhST59nU4EV-mzCdhfh0fRjN201L-3Q2MuZJvQelvhuJvLR2f5-2e8_uPHjj42EWUVtZVyZLuRF_vIg8lLp-SyAiHPWGoQlOcURUDYeI8nSrahHhpx-P8_DZvz5irTKL85u5hqQg_ZSIKMnQwOGS22YdHiOn52ehFWHh/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Morning Storm</b></div><div><br /></div><div><i>8 a.m., driving past Clifton Beach</i></div><div><br /></div><div>In this sickly light, a bear lumbers past-</div><div>a man, hair windswept.</div><div>The grey sea groans, and the sky is resigned</div><div>to a paler hue lit up by streaks,</div><div>white antlers that drag forth</div><div>a rumbling in the belly of the sky.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- © Rumaisa Maryam 2023</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Rumaisa Maryam Samir was born and raised close to the sea in the city of Karachi, Pakistan. She first discovered poems were fun at the age of eight when she wrote one on her mother for a school assignment. Now nineteen, she wishes she had more time to write in between juggling her studies and internships!</i></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-13546785463349558432023-07-04T12:44:00.003+10:002023-07-04T12:44:57.287+10:00New Fiction by Bill Tope<div style="text-align: center;"><b> The Fun House</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> It was late October, the last weekend for the Fun House, the featured attraction of the regional Eventree Carnival, a fixture in Southern Illinois during the1960s. We made our way past the farmland and the lakes, through the trees with their scarlet and orange and brown leaves, visible by moonlight. We drove down Interstate 55--which climbed up all the way from St. Louis to Chicago--to an abandoned wheat field, where the Eventree Carnival was held each fall. En route, Patty goosed me, said, "This was your bright idea, Kev; what if they're closed?" The air became a little hazy as a light rain began to fall, hiding the full moon.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "They can't be closed," I insisted. "They got two paying customers here." And I goosed her back. Finally we turned into the fair grounds, parked in the abandoned lot. Strings of orange lights encircled the field. At the entrance to the carnival was a large placard, emblazoned with the word, "Freaks," and featuring a picture of the star attraction: the Fat Lady. It was late and so they would be preparing to close, but we thought we had just enough time to have a little fun. Besides. this was our last chance for the season. I glanced around the grounds, saw not a soul besides Patty and myself; we had the place to ourselves. Cool. Alighting from Patty's yellow and rust '61 VW Bug, we approached the ticket booth and I leaned through the window, but no one was present. Even cooler. We embarked across the muddy, straw-strewn field, straight to the Fun House, our favorite. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "There's nobody around," I said in my best spooky voice. "Maybe someone escaped from the State Hospital and murdered everyone." Patty punched me. "Jerk," she said. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Inside the Fun House, we walked up precipitous inclines and through low-ceilinged, attenuated corridors, where almost-human hands stretched out to wrap our ankles with supple fingers. Rubber spiders dangled from the ceiling and bedeviled our faces. Everything here was in total darkness, increasing the shivers and the prickly feeling down our spines. Finally we came to a lighted area: the hall of mirrors. There I pointed to Patty's eggplant-shaped reflection and she to my green bean physique. We mugged in front of a hundred bizarre, crazy mirrors, just having a ball. Overhead, a multicolored glass globe sprayed dazzling colors everywhere. Calliope music blared out of hidden speakers.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Then we heard a sizzling and snapping sound, like a short circuit, and suddenly all the lights went out and we were plunged into inky blackness.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "What happened?" asked Patty, less afraid than annoyed. She was enjoying her ten foot reflection.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "Search me," I replied.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "I can't see, Kevin," she said. "How are we going to get out of here? It's getting late!" We literally couldn't see our hands n front of our faces.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "Just lean against a wall and follow it to the door," I suggested. But the walls were convex and concave and bulging and covered with latex snakes and spiders and jazz, and often led into blind alleys or dead ends.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "Kevin, help me," cried Patty from a distance and she sounded panicked. Totally, not like her. I heard a sound like a door slamming, then took off running towards the sound of her voice, only to slam into one of the many full-length mirrors, which shattered spectacularly. A shower of glass rained down upon me. I bounced off and landed on my backside, my mind spinning. I touched my forehead, felt the bloody abrasion from where I'd smashed into the mirror. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "Kev..." Her voice sounded very distant now. Scrambling to my feet, I moved blindly towards the sound, my hands extended before me. Feeling my way I came at last to a corner, and beyond it a small lighted space. A single dim bulb hung pendulously from the ceiling, casting a weak light over the straw-covered floor; there I found Patty--or what was left of her. Lying upon one side, her blond hair was drenched in vivid scarlet: her blood. And protruding from her chest was a hunting knife of some kind. I gaped, started to hyperventilate, was dragged back to the present by a scream--Patty's voice! Checking the victim a second time I discovered it was in fact a mannikin. The blood looked real, though. It reminded me of a quotation from Shakespeare about there being so much blood. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> I hastened away. Reaching the back of the vast tent, I charged through, came face to face with the figure on the poster at the entrance to the carnival--The Fat Lady. She was even bigger in real life than in the artist's rendering. No more than five feet tall, she must have tipped the scales at 600 pounds! And she had Patty in a death grip, clutching her round her abdomen. Surely her ribs must fracture into splinters! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> The Fat Lady kept repeating, over and over, "You'd better pay for them tickets!" Yikes! Seeking to loosen the freak's grip, I pulled on her arms and shoulders, but she was terrifically strong. I couldn't budge her. She shook off my efforts.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "I'll get to you next, Cookie,"she snarled. Looking round, I saw nearby a High Striker, one of those gizmos where you slam a sledge hammer to test your own strength.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Taking up the cudgel, I slammed it as hard as I could into the back of the Fat Lady's skull, which was covered by ringlets of orange hair. There was a sound like breaking concrete. Suddenly the Fat Lady quivered, then went limp, collapsing to the ground. Patty inhaled rapidly, starved for breath.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "You alright?" I asked stupidly. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "Come on," Patty gasped. "Let's get out of here!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "Don't you think we should call the cops?" I asked incredulously. (This was decades before the cell phone and calling would have meant finding the nearest pay phone). Patty shook her head no.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "Shes not alone, Kev." I looked frantically around, saw no one. "There are eight or ten midgets who keep her company," Patty explained. "And they're mean little turds, too! Quick, to the car." We hightailed it to the parking lot, found the old VW and climbed inside. You might think I'm making this up, for dramatic effect, but the damn car wouldn't start! No Vroom, no turnover at all, just "click, click, click." Then I noticed that the engine cover was up. The engine in a Bug was always in the rear, so I hurried to the back of the car and peered inside. A screw fastening the power cable to the starter was askew. I quickly righted it. I climbed back into the car, just in time to watch an army of scurvy-looking midgets descend on our vehicle. We quickly locked the doors and braced for the assault, uncertain how all this would eventually play out. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> None of those nasty little men, all of whom were clad in lurid carnival garb and seemed to be chewing on big black cigars, appeared to be armed with anything more formidable than a rock. Suddenly one of the little devils climbed atop the shoulders of a second and then a third handed the uppermost midget the enormous sledge from the High Striker. I must have dropped it after I conked the Fat Lady. Once or twice the elevated midget tumbled from the shoulders of his compatriot, cursing fluently, but finally he gained purchase, drew back and smashed the windshield of the VW into a zillion shards of glass. He was strong for his size. The midgets next began crawling over the trunk lid, seeking to enter through the hole in the glass. But the surface of the car was slick from the rain and the assailants tumbled off again and again.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> So fascinated was I at the spectacle generated by the maniacal midgets that I'd completely forgotten about starting the car. In the next instant, the engine turned over with a loud Vroom! I threw the VW into gear and we were off. The mob of horrible midgets swarmed after the car, throwing themselves before the vehicle.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> I heard a couple of "thunks," indicating we'd run over several of the treacherous throng, but we'd only passed through several potholes; looking through the rearview mirror I spotted the entire army, chasing after us but growing smaller in the distance. We sped away, not pausing till we reached the Interstate and safety. On the journey home we were quiet, lost in our own thoughts.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Recovering from the shock, we moved slowly through town and saw by the clock in the square that it was nearly midnight. We were exhausted. "What should we do now?" I asked Patty. We both stared at the gaping hole where the rest of the windshield used to be, then at one another. She felt experimentally her ravaged ribs and gingerly touched the wound upon my forehead. Her hand felt warm.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "I think we should just forget all about tonight," she said unexpectedly.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "But, don't you think we should tell anyone? A cop, maybe?" I asked. She regarded me with her sky blue eyes. "Look at it this way, Kev: if you were a cop would you believe us? Besides," she added, "Let's not ruin it for next year; I can't wait to get back to that fun house!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">- © Bill Tope 2023</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Bill Tope lives in Illinois with his mean little cat Baby; he has been published several score times.</i></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-49450833201411337082023-07-02T10:47:00.002+10:002023-07-02T10:47:57.828+10:00New Poetry by Alexandria Tannenbaum<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVothl_wp5lc_xjelP4HpRs_SodNHJg2yt_jO8XaLsG5ubXAkP7dxEcWMNw4eD4HEWt_eSU-Ma6qZm48wnEHdagVFc6i5xu4xJPHU-Ih0zXa_oWKbkC3d8xkM_YsjMMQKyCu6gtGhlKoMAaYazhaiEC2U2IzqfobYjb3a83HOe1izfOQV1_8e1/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVothl_wp5lc_xjelP4HpRs_SodNHJg2yt_jO8XaLsG5ubXAkP7dxEcWMNw4eD4HEWt_eSU-Ma6qZm48wnEHdagVFc6i5xu4xJPHU-Ih0zXa_oWKbkC3d8xkM_YsjMMQKyCu6gtGhlKoMAaYazhaiEC2U2IzqfobYjb3a83HOe1izfOQV1_8e1/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Putting Up My Daughter’s Hair Before A Bath </b></div><div><br /></div><div>She turns her body away </div><div>curls falling over her shoulder </div><div>like rain on a window.</div><div><br /></div><div>Her shoulders, </div><div>a comma at the end of a sentence, </div><div>curved and triumphant. </div><div><br /></div><div>I take in my hands, </div><div>her curls, which are light–</div><div>the weightlessness a wisp </div><div>of all the delicate pieces.</div><div><br /></div><div>I collect them all:</div><div>carefully wrap the rubberband </div><div>bringing it over again and again </div><div>and I lower her into the warm bath water. </div><div><br /></div><div>She folds into play with her sister </div><div>droplets of water go unnoticed </div><div>as they lift arms up and out of the water </div><div>birds diving again and again for fish, </div><div>creating colonies of animals, </div><div><br /></div><div>and I am rendered useless </div><div>as it gets easier and easier </div><div>to float.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- © Alexandria Tannenbaum 2023</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Alexandria Tannenbaum is a poet and twice National Board Certified educator working outside of Chicago, Illinois. She is pursuing a poetry MFA from Lindenwood University. Her poems are published in the journal Across The Margin, and her poem “The Strip Mall” will be appearing in an upcoming publication of As It Ought To Be Magazine.</i></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-26722779499454860672023-06-29T14:19:00.001+10:002023-06-29T14:19:37.800+10:00New Poetry by Robert Kinerk<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTCBXpiNZXwicBhOBT7v-VhRCKiAfGBLAHuBur0Z6tV-S9kSOO08XAd-4Ail5ifVaoGBezaGYmLVY3Lmuy7d8HwZSV0EyXjonLeXuB8KuBy6a68Uy7piejTPVnRhq09XWeSZ9tbUNPNXWaAgKJ-UA5ZumlTxApKPhVVz4btPBGQlhAbwAha2gd/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTCBXpiNZXwicBhOBT7v-VhRCKiAfGBLAHuBur0Z6tV-S9kSOO08XAd-4Ail5ifVaoGBezaGYmLVY3Lmuy7d8HwZSV0EyXjonLeXuB8KuBy6a68Uy7piejTPVnRhq09XWeSZ9tbUNPNXWaAgKJ-UA5ZumlTxApKPhVVz4btPBGQlhAbwAha2gd/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>I’ve spoken English my whole life</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div>and now I’m learning Death.</div><div>It’s a difficult language</div><div>with only one pronoun,</div><div>first-person singular.</div><div>When you overhear native speakers</div><div>they’re muttering, “I never… I didn’t…</div><div>I wasn’t… I should have…” and so forth.</div><div>Notice it’s all past tense.</div><div>No present tense, nor future.</div><div>But the language has accomplished poets.</div><div>They turn out dirges, laments, elegies…</div><div>Plus you hear a lot of keening,</div><div>and at annual festivals</div><div>thousands get together and regret.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- © Robert Kinerk 2023</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Robert Kinerk began writing in the fourth grade. His output includes stories, novels, novellas, poems, and dramatic works including straight plays for adults and musical plays for both adults and children. He most recently published 'Tales from the Territory: Stories of Southeast Alaska.' Check him out at robertkinerk.com. He and his wife Anne live in Cambridge MA.</i></div></div><div><br /></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-49153561810823029892023-06-20T14:37:00.001+10:002023-06-20T14:37:20.572+10:00New Poetry by Matt Thomas<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqTcyvvZZTq1-RB1u08QAgsQbguw6y1pERI5IhRYXcOVwtScF2VGaj3r9RVObktLxnk240yw1bgn2pl7CASgHtRtWiJwF4vt_HVUTnHigstYDUmGJZpi5imW6Ap9Ev5rcHJ5If_sl5B7IipfZfRh1d63CTxNM5ngwvk4FUxl_dqbaPe7Pv_Aj1/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqTcyvvZZTq1-RB1u08QAgsQbguw6y1pERI5IhRYXcOVwtScF2VGaj3r9RVObktLxnk240yw1bgn2pl7CASgHtRtWiJwF4vt_HVUTnHigstYDUmGJZpi5imW6Ap9Ev5rcHJ5If_sl5B7IipfZfRh1d63CTxNM5ngwvk4FUxl_dqbaPe7Pv_Aj1/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Goldfinch</b></div><div><br /></div><div>A break in the traffic pushed me</div><div>away from the cigarette butts,</div><div>plastic bags, sneakers,</div><div>things lost their fight at the bus stop</div><div>to fly across the road</div><div>winged, nose squashed but</div><div>fists balled and grinning split lips</div><div>asking for it again,</div><div>the insult</div><div>“pretty boy,"</div><div>spat at me a second time</div><div>a confirmation of the first, no accident.</div><div><br /></div><div>Pinned by the shadow</div><div>of his sleeveless, muscled anger</div><div>lengthening my own in the cinders, blood,</div><div>hot wash of exhaust,</div><div>I had the premonition</div><div>that it would be worth having dared him</div><div>to get off at my stop</div><div>just to be able to warble that boast,</div><div>"pretty,"</div><div>long and jumbled</div><div>to each day thereafter,</div><div>and I have, often, living up</div><div>to the standards of that cocky bird.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- © Matt Thomas 2023</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Matt Thomas is a smallholder farmer and occasional community college teacher. His work has appeared recently in Cleaver Magazine and Dunes Review. He lives with his partner in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.</i></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-13609193880406121792023-06-19T14:32:00.000+10:002023-06-19T14:32:35.523+10:00New Poetry by Nina Rubinstein Alonso<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPdmC5k-CuEB7iPWYiuUAk6RezJ-jaZuzAexqqXV0Qab6y3ofhjbNsFH-ewc-FRXYk-9SvBsPNYTgyWMqjLarkBGV3VyYZKcCsnTEJ2EDaO2mNAikrR5h3laB28R1usoU4X4bb2WJT_kLEUIVkPxj1PJO-763W5lEyGKW2i8wMEZyiwdFkIyH2/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPdmC5k-CuEB7iPWYiuUAk6RezJ-jaZuzAexqqXV0Qab6y3ofhjbNsFH-ewc-FRXYk-9SvBsPNYTgyWMqjLarkBGV3VyYZKcCsnTEJ2EDaO2mNAikrR5h3laB28R1usoU4X4bb2WJT_kLEUIVkPxj1PJO-763W5lEyGKW2i8wMEZyiwdFkIyH2/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Chasing Loki</b></div><div><br /></div><div>We just sat down but John jumps up</div><div>from the table where salad waits untouched</div><div>as he heard the front door</div><div>squeak realizes the dog got out</div><div>Loki that clever Weimerauner</div><div><br /></div><div>dashes after him then</div><div>Heather runs too telling me</div><div>to stay with the baby and with Mika</div><div>the mellow Labrador while they</div><div>race dark streets calling</div><div><br /></div><div>woohoo Loki woohoo Loki wohoo</div><div>glad baby Sonia wasn’t in her high chair</div><div>already asleep in her crib but I recall </div><div>the froth of the chase slow hours waiting</div><div>the shock of empty stillness </div><div><br /></div><div>sitting numbly at the table gazing at salad</div><div>I’m too nervous to eat listening</div><div>for the baby who might cry but doesn’t</div><div>patting Mika snoozing on the rug</div><div>until finally they’re back</div><div><br /></div><div>looking more frazzled than Loki who’s</div><div>had his fun running wild around Cambridge</div><div>wonder why this crazy beast is so important</div><div>study their passionate eyes</div><div>and still don’t know.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- © Nina Rubinstein Alonso 2023</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Nina Rubinstein Alonso’s work has appeared in The New Yorker, Ploughshares, Peacock Review, Ibbetson Street, Nixes Mate, etc. Her poetry collection This Body was published by David Godine Press, her chapbook Riot Wake by Cervena Barva Press, and her story collection Distractions En Route just published by Ibbetson Street, available on Lulu.com and on Amazon.</i></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-64308905771234801672023-06-16T12:06:00.000+10:002023-06-16T12:06:20.276+10:00New Poetry by Gale Acuff<div style="text-align: left;"><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-OGSXGOSlKuqm8kRfs-3A5MsZw8E0hCMIYGzRqiT9mLIQqK77Vuz3Te5J7cAHmltTyLCntG_0YWQ7V3ER5lWAGHexc2D9S5v_FBe5mlvBfZ4RciwKSzIgGTd0ixgXsiSceF-zF_S3ak6uKnzzfdyuUFiR-og2v2WI_kI3yKmuiWUo56siUw/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-OGSXGOSlKuqm8kRfs-3A5MsZw8E0hCMIYGzRqiT9mLIQqK77Vuz3Te5J7cAHmltTyLCntG_0YWQ7V3ER5lWAGHexc2D9S5v_FBe5mlvBfZ4RciwKSzIgGTd0ixgXsiSceF-zF_S3ak6uKnzzfdyuUFiR-og2v2WI_kI3yKmuiWUo56siUw/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>One day when you die you live again is</b></div><div><br /></div><div>the story at church and Sunday School so</div><div>you never really die though you do but</div><div>you live again and forever and it's</div><div>real life, the life eternal they tell me</div><div>and I'm only ten years old--Hell, I be</div><div>-lieve anything, especially if</div><div>I don't understand it, ha ha, so what</div><div>death means has no meaning because death dies</div><div>or all there is is birth and growth and what</div><div>seems like death is only life escaping</div><div>to the land of the best kind of living,</div><div>the Afterlife I guess it is, which lasts</div><div>forever and then some and so will I</div><div>once I die but don't. I'd pay to see that.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><b>I'll die someday but so will everyone</b></div><div><br /></div><div>else, just not at the same time unless we</div><div>get wiped out by a comet or atom</div><div>bombs all gone off at once and I'm only</div><div>ten years old, what should I know about death</div><div>but that it's in the future, where it be</div><div>-longs? That's what I asked at Sunday School and</div><div>my teacher told me that I should be con</div><div>-cerned about where my soul will spend Eter</div><div>-nity, Heaven or Hell, they're not the same</div><div>she says but I said and I still say that</div><div>I don't want to die at all and if God</div><div>is God then I shouldn't have to but she</div><div>just laughed and said Gale, if you don't die then</div><div>you'll never have been born. The mouths of babes.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div><b>One day I'll be done, dead that is, but at</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Sunday School they say me nay--I'll live on</div><div>in Hell or Heaven and Heaven's better</div><div>but Hell they mention first and raise their eye</div><div>-brows, I mean our teacher does and I fear</div><div>she means that if I dropped dead right there on</div><div>the spot Hell's where I'd land and I agree</div><div>but after class I asked her why Jesus</div><div>died if there's still a chance that I'll go to</div><div>the Bad Place, what's the point of sacrifice</div><div>if it doesn't seven save a sinner</div><div>and she answered that it's not enough for</div><div>Him to die but that I must believe that</div><div>He's the Son of God and if I don't then</div><div>He died for nothing. That makes me feel good.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- © Gale Acuff 2023</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Gale Acuff has had hundreds of poems published in a dozen countries and has authored three books of poetry. He has taught tertiary English courses in the US, PR China, and Palestine.</i></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-68731723149009241752023-06-15T13:32:00.002+10:002023-06-15T13:32:23.815+10:00New Poetry by Jason Beale<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghz6DBUOmNdVAX4ZCQ18HMOB2sfQASmZuUjaVpJArgM-u8oxEwblIHZMabQ-EFlB6IuvfVutoJyRhvJUB3NE6HyGNbc1QowT_-FkYUxfqFzi-KSJxSQY7bXjua6LrvLZJyBYJglVsFkqzVdTzEh-HW5_oeKKGziOszMC1t1NBk9aZuAWs0mw/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghz6DBUOmNdVAX4ZCQ18HMOB2sfQASmZuUjaVpJArgM-u8oxEwblIHZMabQ-EFlB6IuvfVutoJyRhvJUB3NE6HyGNbc1QowT_-FkYUxfqFzi-KSJxSQY7bXjua6LrvLZJyBYJglVsFkqzVdTzEh-HW5_oeKKGziOszMC1t1NBk9aZuAWs0mw/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Embers</b></div><div><br /></div><div>The lights are changing </div><div>green to red, the sun </div><div>is clean upon the ground; </div><div><br /></div><div>the passengers wait </div><div>with empty thoughts </div><div>for the day to end. </div><div><br /></div><div>No chapel has such </div><div>stillness found, a prayer </div><div>before the embers spread; </div><div><br /></div><div>and then as shadows start </div><div>to grow, a fearful noise — </div><div>like thunder — falls.</div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>- © Jason Beale 2023</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Jason Beale is a writer from Melbourne whose poems have previously appeared in a number of journals and anthologies. His chapbook Be Quiet About Love is published in Picaro Poets by Ginninderra Press.</i></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-30960409094520053582023-06-14T16:33:00.002+10:002023-06-14T16:33:52.658+10:00New Poetry by Miles Varana<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlkiNDt2zCnbEP1AM9sbxIdQAwzLo3cHCQnFVo7-esls_2HwB-Dy1BzBcn4Q7Fz8C_WJqK-maPmhYg389HUXZQFDTHLqVKEqIrWsag8DrvIB5iAgmDFzGVu2zPadqXwKNCb1c8N59h8kbZ-xbuYBqmmtU_jngmjpWFFfE0M8dg_DpkebjE-w/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlkiNDt2zCnbEP1AM9sbxIdQAwzLo3cHCQnFVo7-esls_2HwB-Dy1BzBcn4Q7Fz8C_WJqK-maPmhYg389HUXZQFDTHLqVKEqIrWsag8DrvIB5iAgmDFzGVu2zPadqXwKNCb1c8N59h8kbZ-xbuYBqmmtU_jngmjpWFFfE0M8dg_DpkebjE-w/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Despite What You Might Think</b></div><div><br /></div><div>There are still drunks today, in 2023,</div><div>after all the Naltrexone and bad bets,</div><div>after bad TV and drummer’s livers,</div><div>Mesopotamian hangovers and Bukowski;</div><div>after all that, we’re still around,</div><div>redownloading Grindr at noon,</div><div>coming awake to the quilt of night.</div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Drinkers</b></div><div><br /></div><div>What a rich, wild life</div><div>waking up to endless thirst</div><div>in the rooms of history.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Rehab Food</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Days we had Cognitive</div><div>Behavioral Therapy, drank</div><div>coffee, talked fights</div><div>and women, played frisbee.</div><div>At night we stole chowhall</div><div>cookies and woke up</div><div>screaming in our beds.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- © Miles Varana 2023</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Miles Varana’s work has appeared in Typehouse, The Penn Review, and Passages North. He has worked previously as a staff reader and managing editor at Hawai’i Pacific Review. Miles currently works for WKBT News in La Crosse, Wisconsin, where he does his best to be a good Millennial despite disliking tandem bike rides.</i></div><div><br /></div><div> </div></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-54111720295983897072023-06-13T13:29:00.003+10:002023-06-13T13:29:59.342+10:00New Poetry by Peter Mladinic<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz5RreHrMTlrKCZ0BidgYzpprOAw7rQJr8bMhtvU87R7uvKxlqr_cHJFlvxF4eGg3MdA8vYbc-x_VWGOGhlg34lPOHVPVgfTWOTryFZF0WdlS7hBgQNjf2LsSDd3127oMftlcHxrwMy9xEbeXK-kTDZSFH_SCvensACuNaE7ivw9Y69BBBCA/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz5RreHrMTlrKCZ0BidgYzpprOAw7rQJr8bMhtvU87R7uvKxlqr_cHJFlvxF4eGg3MdA8vYbc-x_VWGOGhlg34lPOHVPVgfTWOTryFZF0WdlS7hBgQNjf2LsSDd3127oMftlcHxrwMy9xEbeXK-kTDZSFH_SCvensACuNaE7ivw9Y69BBBCA/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Lost in the Woods </b></div><div><br /></div><div>The path’s dark dirt cushioned my soles</div><div>in shoes. I walked up and out of woods</div><div>to the street of Cape Cod homes,</div><div>an unmarked car’s open door, a flashed</div><div>badge’s spread silver wings and blue dot,</div><div>the detective’s gray hair, high hairline, </div><div>his clean-shaven face. We rode around</div><div>down to neighbors in front of a house. </div><div>Four years old, I’d wandered off. </div><div><br /></div><div>The dark corner outside our art class</div><div>held light blades like icicles. You asked, </div><div>Why aren’t you talking to me? I love you, </div><div>I didn’t say to your face. I talked plenty</div><div>to others, gave you the silent treatment. </div><div>I didn’t know to speak. Fifteen then,</div><div>now dust, you are alive in your sisters, </div><div>you go your way, a path in eternity’s woods. </div><div>I love you in elms’ shade near a river,</div><div><br /></div><div>in the black of your eyes and your hair.</div><div>I walk up out of woods to your hand’s</div><div>charcoal drawings on paper, brushes </div><div>in jars, long tables, the dark corner </div><div>of your question, and the unmarked car’s</div><div>open door. You live in a white house</div><div>on a hill on Roosevelt Ave and in dreams.</div><div>Why aren’t you talking? I didn’t think </div><div>I was lost. I walked into, up out of woods.</div><div><br /></div><div>The brown bomber bus pulled away </div><div>in a cloud. Across the sunlit street you </div><div>in a white blouse and long black hair, lit</div><div>the day, your lithe stride, going to school.</div><div>Now, eyes so brown they are black </div><div>animate a red bow mouth, a chin’s light</div><div>cleft, a long angular face’s olive tone.</div><div>Slender frame, quiet voice, all you are,</div><div>dearest, lives forever in your sisters.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- © Peter Mladinic 2023</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Peter Mladinic’s fifth book of poems, Voices from the Past, is due out in November 2023 from Better Than Starbucks Publications. An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico, USA.</i></div></div><div><br /></div><div> </div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-30906576637494633012023-06-07T10:58:00.002+10:002023-06-07T10:58:47.475+10:00New Poetry by Michael Keshigian<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgntmT3YAewqCFpESM6Kx9Pyu-edGHouEAvnAA4SVDBdh15Zbuy_BUVowBS3tXdY0EGB3ZRLG0k51ynHtY0qULV8-A0b7tv6ZpjyoHd8MGim1nhuJE6QMRccHNq_zZcxwhz1dNXy_CkoNz1Y7GVKxSSozpYeMvzGSTcB1UbMgFj6SNCS7ck7g/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgntmT3YAewqCFpESM6Kx9Pyu-edGHouEAvnAA4SVDBdh15Zbuy_BUVowBS3tXdY0EGB3ZRLG0k51ynHtY0qULV8-A0b7tv6ZpjyoHd8MGim1nhuJE6QMRccHNq_zZcxwhz1dNXy_CkoNz1Y7GVKxSSozpYeMvzGSTcB1UbMgFj6SNCS7ck7g/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Courtship</b></div><div> </div><div>She handed him his heart</div><div>after she found it amid the rubble on trash day.</div><div>He gave her eyes,</div><div>a pair she lost long ago on the beach</div><div>under the boardwalk.</div><div>She gave him skin pulled from the air,</div><div>cleansed and dried it</div><div>to replace the layers of back alley soot.</div><div>He was stunned by the purity.</div><div>She found hands for him, discovered hers</div><div>as she sewed them on his empty wrists.</div><div>For the first time in his life</div><div>he could feel and he then continued</div><div>to carefully assemble her spine,</div><div>spit shine every piece</div><div>and set it in perfect order.</div><div>It was a massive undertaking,</div><div>but he was inspired.</div><div>He attached it to her brain</div><div>and she perceived subtleties,</div><div>laughed and twisted her torso.</div><div>She attached his feet,</div><div>he stood proud and fashioned her hips,</div><div>buffing each piece in place,</div><div>they gleamed, renewed and working well.</div><div>Finally, she mended his skull,</div><div>closed the soft spot,</div><div>tended the wound till it was smooth all over.</div><div>He fastened her throat,</div><div>and attached her breasts.</div><div>She cooed, then oiled the tips of his fingers,</div><div>he wiggled them and mended her tongue</div><div>with a delicate silk thread.</div><div>She traced his neck with soft pink scrolls,</div><div>he sunk into place between her thighs.</div><div>Two souls discarded, they gasped</div><div>as they brought each other to perfection.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- © Michael Keshigian 2023</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Michael Keshigian has recently been published in the Comstock Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, Young Ravens Literary Review, and Jerry Jazz Musician. His latest collections, What To Do With Intangibles, Into The Light, Dark Edges, are available through Amazon. He has been nominated 7 times for a Pushcart Prize and 3 times for Best Of The Net.</i></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-19576623972500005282023-06-06T14:37:00.000+10:002023-06-06T14:37:04.712+10:00New Poetry by Hazel J. Hall<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOx49NZsOoKIei1YnC8lfqch6vQoJsI3em4VzGGg4uidRj-h-3ZxYaUfQBj-qtHmKO5Z4lI3-UhUFjVeqM4CKhyvO6QxP0v2t0Jyv3D25ceC-soTn5Y_rWEQlOFRbIvYDllS3HRxKB6sUKmtDcsN7pXOBKyminRj4s2R3P7x1GKcLLC2xOOA/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOx49NZsOoKIei1YnC8lfqch6vQoJsI3em4VzGGg4uidRj-h-3ZxYaUfQBj-qtHmKO5Z4lI3-UhUFjVeqM4CKhyvO6QxP0v2t0Jyv3D25ceC-soTn5Y_rWEQlOFRbIvYDllS3HRxKB6sUKmtDcsN7pXOBKyminRj4s2R3P7x1GKcLLC2xOOA/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </div><div><br /></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>The Shadow Cast By Gentleness</b></div><div><br /></div><div>In the patter of city street puddles,</div><div>I see the truth about chaos. </div><div>In the center of everything, </div><div>there is a light. A shining light.</div><div>I see the truth: that a gentleness is also </div><div>a longing, for then I glimpse a girl at a desk. </div><div>I look into her while all at once looking</div><div>into myself—I can only hope</div><div>at night she still dreams,</div><div>and in the nightmares, the monster</div><div>catches her before she is forced</div><div>to run on empty, for a mercy</div><div>is also a gentleness. And the wildfire</div><div>is warmer than all the heat</div><div>a heart could ever carry.</div><div>I look into the girl at the desk,</div><div>hoping she'll hold onto what energy </div><div>the universe would rather keep,</div><div>for a mercy is also a longing,</div><div>a jealousy. Could things have been </div><div>different? Could the gentleness have</div><div>stayed, never fleeing in the face of the monster</div><div>inside?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- © Hazel J. Hall 2023</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Hazel J. Hall is a writer and poet powered by caffeine and insulin. Right now, she is pursuing an English degree while working on her first novel. More of Hazel's work can be found in Bending Genres, Vocivia Magazine, and CLOVES Literary, with other pieces forthcoming or visible at her site, hazeljhall.com.</i></div><div><br /></div></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-81374798882907545012023-06-04T09:34:00.000+10:002023-06-04T09:34:07.129+10:00New Poetry by Hannah Scott<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLgtudoVQr-mcBdp1hIGVFW3piRNIYdy7dHukmpf9xuV5YG5m6En0ijT-7_ws3oLZSwopFPgQBYlMvAJWsWTQW4lUtzth1Lc4Hug-V1HJR3RVeR_8FaGCHIqlVyrWGZNgUfzTGIusPrvfPG_kiQGTnXnNEy9UagBiT4WDDV434u1fdLMBCYg/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLgtudoVQr-mcBdp1hIGVFW3piRNIYdy7dHukmpf9xuV5YG5m6En0ijT-7_ws3oLZSwopFPgQBYlMvAJWsWTQW4lUtzth1Lc4Hug-V1HJR3RVeR_8FaGCHIqlVyrWGZNgUfzTGIusPrvfPG_kiQGTnXnNEy9UagBiT4WDDV434u1fdLMBCYg/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Wanderlust *</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Oikophobia;</div><div>the fear of one’s home.</div><div>Plain walls are closing in,</div><div>nowhere to run.</div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Eleutheromania;</div><div>an intense desire for freedom.</div><div>A long straight journey before me,</div><div>nothing to stop me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Resfeber;</div><div>the restless race of a traveller’s heart.</div><div>Before a journey,</div><div>anxiety and anticipation,</div><div>excitement and fear floods in.</div><div><br /></div><div>Numinious;</div><div>being in awe by what is before you.</div><div>So beautiful and wonderful,</div><div>such a small part we play.</div><div><br /></div><div>Selouth;</div><div>everything is different, strange.</div><div>Foreign lands and exotic cultures,</div><div>unfamiliar but fascinating.</div><div><br /></div><div>Quaquaversal;</div><div>we’re moving in every direction</div><div>instantaneously.</div><div>In a new place,</div><div>we want to see everything.</div><div><br /></div><div>Trouvaille;</div><div>a wonderful chance encounter.</div><div>Stumbling along a hidden back street,</div><div>connecting with the locals;</div><div>all the magical moments.</div><div><br /></div><div>Onism;</div><div>the world is a big place.</div><div>We’ll never see it all,</div><div>frustration.</div><div>We’re stuck in one body,</div><div>only inhabiting one place at a time.</div><div><br /></div><div>The more you travel,</div><div>the harder it is to stay in one place.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- © Hannah Scott 2023</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Hannah Scott enjoys writing fantasy and the unusual to escape the horrors of the world, but she does occasionally explore the fears and beauty of human emotions. She’s a book cover artist looking to find her way into the world as a writer and poet.</i></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>* the word at the beginning of each stanza translates to ‘wanderlust’ in various languages.</i></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-76857035249993485982023-06-03T10:49:00.002+10:002023-06-03T10:49:56.931+10:00New Poetry by Tony Hughes<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibySJAwm-IuXgfEil2kwY8m-wEQc58RS48Aaowg-IRMg-aD8rBBaMuFn_n4GG3_VSW0BEQl3brCHnYpt7bNOOXdeVz_9csrUA1ogJj3aGGhB0aymUcT6EyLk-XE3XWWRC_0LDpLTSG21dctMFlAAjjRs2qgSupw2qNAp5_qZcJ4ADD-pjtiw/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibySJAwm-IuXgfEil2kwY8m-wEQc58RS48Aaowg-IRMg-aD8rBBaMuFn_n4GG3_VSW0BEQl3brCHnYpt7bNOOXdeVz_9csrUA1ogJj3aGGhB0aymUcT6EyLk-XE3XWWRC_0LDpLTSG21dctMFlAAjjRs2qgSupw2qNAp5_qZcJ4ADD-pjtiw/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Lover </b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div>You always</div><div>believe.</div><div>That yours</div><div>Is the best</div><div>A trust</div><div>that will</div><div>Last; </div><div>the torturous </div><div>weaves; of late night</div><div>conversations </div><div>with its airs and reels </div><div> played and tabled </div><div>indefatigable</div><div>to Morpheus</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- © Tony Hughes 2023</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Tony Hughes, is an Australian actor and singer. As an actor </i><i>he starred in the ‘Lost Islands’(1976) Chopper Squad (1977-1979) and the film </i><i>adaptation of Puberty Blues (1981). As a singer songwriter he has fronted A.R.I.A award nominees </i><i>Bellydance and King Tide.</i></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb8IEBQAruQjvVfhjOchXvyAlUUTKpc6YkcW5hobkHuAqtQeH8kysRuKpSndODRb-1hhQ0fh4auAOnfdyGHV-zgjGqLSHu6ZgzD5c4ZZW4Yad8Oyy3eCs1MD_DU3FPXw5tNmqqqDQPfuya0tYFSU2kz4UINmJyJV5zKhmv0JkLHqSoVWMJgQ/s4032/ERA%20MIST%20FOUR%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb8IEBQAruQjvVfhjOchXvyAlUUTKpc6YkcW5hobkHuAqtQeH8kysRuKpSndODRb-1hhQ0fh4auAOnfdyGHV-zgjGqLSHu6ZgzD5c4ZZW4Yad8Oyy3eCs1MD_DU3FPXw5tNmqqqDQPfuya0tYFSU2kz4UINmJyJV5zKhmv0JkLHqSoVWMJgQ/s320/ERA%20MIST%20FOUR%20.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Pic taken by Tony on a sea misty day at Era beach just south of Sydney.</i></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-72098313522292791952023-06-02T12:26:00.000+10:002023-06-02T12:26:33.922+10:00New Poetry by Dominik Slusarczyk<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZIgwKRCvqOsc6_QPoNi635fzaKt9y4JEzfxRNbEQAUFteVlwkLEx3rb1pFu2tQdHS74bdlMp0YcUl2EGmdsR0ANUHjnvsevFgv2UB7KQelCQFnCtQPWzGWh0lSyBJTZ4lgNYVaR1w_Y2H5wMiirHZ_5Y27AVfT4HnDt87ENVLTgmFrwJuww/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZIgwKRCvqOsc6_QPoNi635fzaKt9y4JEzfxRNbEQAUFteVlwkLEx3rb1pFu2tQdHS74bdlMp0YcUl2EGmdsR0ANUHjnvsevFgv2UB7KQelCQFnCtQPWzGWh0lSyBJTZ4lgNYVaR1w_Y2H5wMiirHZ_5Y27AVfT4HnDt87ENVLTgmFrwJuww/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>The War </b></div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe we </div><div>Can win the war: </div><div>We have piles </div><div>Of glorious guns and </div><div>Hundreds of </div><div>Soldiers to </div><div>Shoot them. </div><div>They will happily </div><div>Fight for us, </div><div>Because of us, </div><div>In <i>spite </i>of us. </div><div>People join the </div><div>Army every day; </div><div>I think it is </div><div>Because life is </div><div>A jar of sadness.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- © Dominik Slusarczyk 2023</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Dominik Slusarczyk is an artist who makes everything from music to painting. He was educated at The University of Nottingham where he got a degree in biochemistry. His poetry has been published in various literary magazines including ‘Fresh Words’, ‘Berlin Lit’, and ‘Home Planet News’. </i></div><div><br /></div><div> </div></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-30515962402522324742023-06-01T12:00:00.000+10:002023-06-01T12:00:06.393+10:00New Poetry by Kira Velella<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB3-R3f0c_jSYy7YZ0E86aJD9QWKlDWVm5WR1cgskxgMKh27LJPdlsW8MWReEQ04WSuLYhuHQspjPGD99DkenbiOgXvIqAzv6W73TLAnroWznP8OxyjA_5dRTc9I7zzMrDLsoQZ86nuYw0k9XALDlwgCe0Y2dveE3XsV9lwFz4DMbbnKaMEw/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB3-R3f0c_jSYy7YZ0E86aJD9QWKlDWVm5WR1cgskxgMKh27LJPdlsW8MWReEQ04WSuLYhuHQspjPGD99DkenbiOgXvIqAzv6W73TLAnroWznP8OxyjA_5dRTc9I7zzMrDLsoQZ86nuYw0k9XALDlwgCe0Y2dveE3XsV9lwFz4DMbbnKaMEw/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Both Praying</b></div><div><br /></div><div>He brings carnations</div><div>to the feet of the Mother,</div><div>red and two days old</div><div>from the corner store.</div><div>Lays them delicately</div><div>before her stony eyes,</div><div>over the fangs of the struggling snake.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am gathering petals here,</div><div>falling pink snow</div><div>in my hair as I navigate the boughs.</div><div>In the crook of each branch,</div><div>armfuls of blossoms.</div><div>Does anyone know they’ve collected these?</div><div>The trees’ own sacred offerings,</div><div>the laying down of flowers</div><div>in the arms of the Mother.</div><div><br /></div><div>We’re both of us praying.</div><div>There’s one of us kneeling.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- © Kira Velella 2023</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Kira Velella is a singer-songwriter who has written and released numerous musical works since she was 17. She has had several poems published in 2023, including Dog Circling featured in the Eunoia Review and The Desert Rings featured in the Nassau County Voices in Verse. Kira has been writing poetry nearly as long as she’s been writing songs, and passionately pursues both. </i></div><div><br /></div></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-66638303898667352492023-06-01T11:51:00.000+10:002023-06-02T12:20:32.117+10:00New Poetry by Stephen Mead<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3u-vpOcey6NTUr_tU887DK-WrXca9HsBYd7R480Li0bEhtKRsab5MZDec3sYGKGeh1s265LjT1Q0Ga2wP8i0IN0Lr0YrZLcB_Sij613CAnji87rHjEZ4jj9lcKrJCQYzmiJHOigZ1Bg2WD6FzQmaXcgP6mKnR0XQKgFWTkohg13C2gNoejA/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3u-vpOcey6NTUr_tU887DK-WrXca9HsBYd7R480Li0bEhtKRsab5MZDec3sYGKGeh1s265LjT1Q0Ga2wP8i0IN0Lr0YrZLcB_Sij613CAnji87rHjEZ4jj9lcKrJCQYzmiJHOigZ1Bg2WD6FzQmaXcgP6mKnR0XQKgFWTkohg13C2gNoejA/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Fair Game</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Last spring they dug up the bittersweet,</div><div>wild ivy and grape vines.</div><div>Of course I didn't actually own them.</div><div>It was just an adventure to duck under</div><div>such a menagerie overgrown.</div><div>How those plants made the picket fence sag,</div><div>their weight seeking a trellis from splintery slats.</div><div>How they blocked out, kudzu-tenacious,</div><div>the new shopping mall and housing complex next door.</div><div><br /></div><div>Those orange & ochre balls, those tendrils</div><div>resiliently tough, exactly matched my spirit,</div><div>resistant & fierce, a quiet heady savage.</div><div><br /></div><div>Come, travel wanderlust, this cove</div><div>of looping stems, this crazy valley maze.</div><div><br /></div><div>Some thought it an eyesore.</div><div>I found it more methodical.</div><div>To meander is an ancient tendency.</div><div>An odd goose among school kids, there I was happiest.</div><div>The cats, those observers, taught independence, & squirrels</div><div>ran the network of tangled abandoned telephone spools.</div><div><br /></div><div>When the bittersweet was yanked clear, the grape vines clipped,</div><div>for a minute I felt the earth had been skinned</div><div>as the malls spread their asphalt.</div><div><br /></div><div>That evening you brought me a handful of dandelions,</div><div>buttery stuff in a little jelly jar.</div><div>How our flesh reflected their Oleo & how life</div><div>was rearranged.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tonight on the fire escape transplanted vines wind,</div><div>mixed with morning glories in windowsill planters.</div><div>This is risk reconciled, this a fool's daring smashing bricks.</div><div>We warm our hands 'round chipped coffee mugs,</div><div>take some bittersweet, weave a jungle in each other's hair.</div><div><br /></div><div>The din of shoppers is muffled, the light, mild, the air, tropic.</div><div>There doesn't have to be another world, simply our gestures</div><div>& what stubborn roots trust fortifies.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- © Stephen Mead 2023</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Stephen Mead is an Outsider multi-media artist and writer. Since the 1990s he’s been grateful to many editors for publishing his work in print zines and eventually online. Recently his work has appeared in CROW NAME, WORDPEACE and DuckuckMongoose. Currently he is resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum, artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, organizations and allies predominantly before Stonewall, The Chroma Museum - The Chroma Museum (weebly.com)</i></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18020431.post-48584176993759537492023-05-17T14:17:00.000+10:002023-05-17T14:17:13.335+10:00New Poetry by Taya Boyles<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnUUNlWcnq6uxFf7-KvLke5lmi7ExKZr7W3z4wXtq7xAZsXL0IoC7318f2I9zZIPHsr44Hq_Qoj3Q2W3s5d3xcQups3ovxLmUZW7Dzc7xSCGMTC2QMHQENF5rG_4z0IhsVgLXZPIo3J-n2UDM6nvxMIXzDZYfDL36cPhcd0UyzNOtBDMLaqw/s200/bluepepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="200" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnUUNlWcnq6uxFf7-KvLke5lmi7ExKZr7W3z4wXtq7xAZsXL0IoC7318f2I9zZIPHsr44Hq_Qoj3Q2W3s5d3xcQups3ovxLmUZW7Dzc7xSCGMTC2QMHQENF5rG_4z0IhsVgLXZPIo3J-n2UDM6nvxMIXzDZYfDL36cPhcd0UyzNOtBDMLaqw/s1600/bluepepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>The Souls We Stand On</b></div><div><br /></div><div>If I had enough chalk. I’d give my mom</div><div>wings but I was unsure if I could hold her hand</div><div>and draw without breaking the line.</div><div><br /></div><div>There was nowhere to go but whoever would hold me.</div><div>I may have found flesh covering wires,</div><div>as long as I was imprinted.</div><div><br /></div><div>I’ve always been a sucker for shrines.</div><div><br /></div><div>You’d have to build 60 million rituals</div><div>and dig trillions of holes to bury the souls we stand on.</div><div><br /></div><div>Still, I would not last under the weight of one.</div><div><br /></div><div>I held a buttercup to my chin</div><div>and it was translucent, but not promising.</div><div>I left to find some daffodil seeds to replant</div><div>because weeds could grow anywhere.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- © Taya Boyles 2023</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Taya Boyles is a writer in Richmond, Virginia. She is currently a senior pursuing a Bachelor of Arts in English at Virginia Commonwealth University. Taya's writing journey started at just eight years old and has come far from misspelling glue. Her poetry and flash fiction have appeared in literary magazines such as Split Lip Magazine, Vermillion, Pwatem, The Rye Whiskey Review, Hot Pot Magazine, Radical Zine, and more. </i></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Justin Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12663437269668973076noreply@blogger.com0