Monday, December 31, 2012

New Words and Pictures by Wayne H. W Wolfson

THE JOB Part 2

A 3 panel movie. Cheap Marker on 5x8 Paper 2 minute sketches, late night free jazz of the pen. Soundtrack: Clifford Gilberto "The 10th Victim" from Xen Cuts (Ninja Tune)

Part one; It's On

"I have known you all these years, you are really going to make me stick a domino through the mail slot?"
I remained silent,
"Look I got the money right here, cash of course and probably more than the job is worth"
I shrugged but after quickly looking around rweached my hand out.
"My sister says hello by the way."
I pocketed the money.
"You still owe me a domino."
End part one

Part Two; Hard Eights

I went to Spontini's to make my final arrangements. We went over the last details, I always liked to have a back up plan too, What if I did not find him, what if I did and he was with her? How much did Aubrey want me to weight in either situation? 
"How are you going?"
"I will drive."
"But you hate cars, you never drive."
"That is exactly why no one will notice or expect me"
From the corner stool Ana was nursing the first drink of last call. She never talked out of school and so had witnessed who knows how many scenes like this. A Dutch-Cuban beauty with an over riding thing for feet of all shapes and sizes. 
"If you get tired take your shoes off, drive barefoot."
I half raised my glass to her in salute without turning my head. 
The half a second he bent below the bar I had to ask myself as anyone in my position should,in between two hard heartbeats, is this it then. is this how it ends? He popped back up and slid a manilla envelope across the bar. I put it in my coat pocket. I turned around to leave.
"Oh one more thing."
I turned around, a double six, white with black dots was handed to me.

End Part Two

END SCENE; A Lion Alone

I had found them together, His idea of laying low had been the back table of a Chinese restaurant. The scent of jasmine tea and burnt cooking oil. His first instinct had been to sacrifice her and that I thought was about right. He begged, pleaded and when the futility of that became evident threatened which was followed by a sort of wide eyed hands over mouth regret for having done the later. Of course he brought up the old times, the "good old days" .
"They had not been that good for me."
He pushed her into me as to run for the back door, the first mess made. An exhaling of breath, the icon stare towards a cheap drop down ceiling that had seen its share of pu pu platters and late night pai gow games. I lay her down on her back in the booth and nodded to the waiter that it was ok to call somebody. I chased him but knew it would be over before it became interesting. I read somewhere once that when a child is lost he will automatically head up where as an adult to the center. He had-had it soft his whole life his positions always being given because he was a legacy member. And even as he rose in the organization he did very little actual work, save entertain out of town guests taking them to all the places to do the things he would have been doing any ways but now he did not have to foot the bill. He ran up the fire escape. I followed but could take my time as there was nowhere left to go. The roof top. He stood with his back to the neon skyline. He was babbling in a panic now. I let it flow for a minute or two.
"Look, even if I let you go, they know where you are someone else will come. You have never been good at saving that is half the reason why you are in this mess. I am sorry, it is over."
He decided not to go out with grace, he began taking off his watch extending his hands from which it hung off clammy fingertips towards me. I did not say anything which he took as hope but was really my temper about to flare up.
"Why, why do this, you are not even one of us, you are just a lion alone, you can let me go, give them the money back, I will give you the fee."
It was starting to rain. I thought of something funny, not an articulate thought but a small component of something. So vivid was the image I started to laugh which momentarily mixed with a scream, an opera duet as could have been described by Dante and it was over.


- Wayne H. W Wolfson 2012

Saturday, December 29, 2012

New Poetry by Kevin Del Principe


Welcome to the sacredly profane and always sanguine carnival
A bare-bones world made with saxophones trombones
And cigarette smoke rings blown from hot lipstick lips
Anyone willing to sweat out god’s lost fever may enter

But once admitted the shadowy tent you cannot readily get out
Because savage light swings wildly casting phantom glances
And the cacophonous chords played by fallen watchers
Disorientates sinners and saints alike who clap and stomp together

It is not yet morning and the drive to abandon reason is strong
Let her go son let her fade into the slippery atmosphere
She belongs among all things vacuous and ethereal
Fight the devil’s knife tongue attached to your hallowed ear

Perhaps the most desperate character is also mostly honest
And the greatest revenge is spitting daffodils instead of flames
Maybe the only way to get out is to let go again
Because in a shadow world only real objects can be lovers or friends

- Kevin Del Principe 2012

In addition to writing poetry, Kevin Del Principe writes for the screen and stage. He is currently an M.F.A. Writing for the Screen and Television candidate at the University of Southern California.

Monday, December 24, 2012

Seasons Greetings

Bluepepper would like to wish everyone a Merry Christmas and a peaceful and productive 2013. And if you're an Aussie, don't forget to blow those candles out!

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

New Poetry by Stuart Barnes

Eucalyptus resinifera

in drizzle
in humidity


-three o’clock

from gnarly
hearts, mahoganies

million fruits!—

all marbled

& where were you

- Stuart Barnes 2012

Stuart Barnes lives in Melbourne, Australia. His poetry's been published in print, online, & anthologised. He also writes plays & creative nonfiction, is working on his first novel, & edits PASH capsule  (, a poetry magazine.

Sunday, December 09, 2012

New Poetry by Benjamin Dodds

Struggle Street

A pitbull pup launched
through the void of a screenless
second-storey window breaks
four legs and siphons
from readers a soup
of tears and muttered tutting.
These toothless/heartless owners should be
licensed and where do they get the cash
to buy their Crayola cartons of
Horizon 50s anyway?

- Benjamin Dodds 2012

Cygnus olor, Tokyo

In rain-pocked
of human smut
the greasy swan
swims bound up
by ligatures of
plastic packing
at the high walled
corner of an
inner city moat.

Her black
and the mute
way she
bends herself
from his
searching rape
echo half-
from Kubrick's
final film.

- Benjamin Dodds 2012

Benjamin Dodds is a Sydney-based poet who grew up in the Riverina of NSW. His poetry has appeared in various journals, newspapers and anthologies. His first collection Regulator is currently seeking a home.

New Poetry by Julie Maclean

In search of Noir

Clark Kent in thin black frames,
smooth as blonde wood,
pale as a white-washed wall
charms the girls   boys too

Seems tired as he talks
of Nordic crime…
more blood   more guts
more rapes  more scalps
more sticks up arses  
snuff stuff      burning at stakes
serial death   more girly bait
in soft focus    hand held camera
grist for the mill    bread and butter  
thinking...not more wannabes

wannabe famous
get off the slush pile
out of this shit hole
wanna break
Kit Kat
wanna be loved
see sky
hear twang
see sun
smell a gum tree
get duty free
see mum
go home

- Julie Maclean 2012

Lamb Silence

Blank libretti either
side of the Oresund Bridge

till we got to Oslo
Walls of the harbour
rose and fell with House,
Sounds of Soul, a grass toupee
lifted off the castle wall

Ice block Operahuset
framed by nouveau
kroner from oil,
banged a steel drum
It sounded out of place

Like the skinhead
in the butcher's apron,
with the mohawk,
muscled in honey tones
of the Viking
flour dabs in gently
fingered timpani

taking orders
for moules frites
with the grace & style
of a symphony,
face pastorale

- Julie Maclean 2012

Originally from Bristol, UK, Julie now lives on the Surf Coast, Australia. In 2012 short listed for The Crashaw Prize, (Salt,UK). Her debut collection of poetry, When I saw Jimi, will be published in June 2013 by Indigo Dreams Publishing, UK. Poetry and short fiction features in UK, US and Australian journals including Cordite, Overland, Southerly, Wet Ink and The Best Australian Poetry (UQP).Short listed for Press Press and Whitmore prizes.

Saturday, December 08, 2012

New Poetry by Donal Mahoney

Wooden Anniversary

She uncradles the phone with a lyric
for someone who might be calling
if I weren't calling again from work,

who would be calling, she says,
if five years ago I hadn't
promised her me.

Five years ago she believed me
and now she has children, four,
a house, my calls each noon.

Five years ago she lied to herself
as I napped on her parents' porch,
silent yet screaming the truth.

- Donal Mahoney 2012

Silver Anniversary

There beyond the shrub
the sun medallions on the grass
around a python and boar,
the python winding.
Through binoculars I see
the python work so slow.
The boar now knows
what I learned long ago.
To go this way
takes years.

- Donal Mahoney 2012

Donal Mahoney has had work published in various print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.
Some of his earliest work can be found at

New Poetry by Matthew Davies


You’re way too scrupulous
Stop swaying that saliva ass
and lick me

Your eyes alert, aware
Mine, weary, polluted
in drunkard imperceptions
of flicking lights
that cause stark reactions
on the inside-out

Now forget all that
and come out bulging
Flesh unto yourself
Not erect with honesty
or with clear-thought, purpose, direction

Just show me your body
Show me your toes filthy
Show me the land you inhabit
where the crisp tobacco rolls

- Matthew Davies 2012

Matthew John Davies is a poet from Brisbane, Australia. He has been published in Page Seventeen, Rabbit, and Regime Magazine, as well as journals online and off. 

Friday, November 30, 2012

Call to Oz

Now that the bushfire winds are here, the cicadas are beginning to chirp, and our cricketers are on the verge of reclaiming number one Test ranking (it will happen, believe me!), I have a yen for more poetry from this scorched isle. I don't see enough of it and would like to see a lot more in my inbox. As usual, pay close attention to the submission guidelines in the sidebar, especially the bit about the speed and nature of my responses. May you all get through this heatwave a few kilos lighter but otherwise brimming with Yuletide cheer and inspiration!

Thursday, November 29, 2012

New Poetry by Holly Day

After the Phone Call

my husband crouches in the bathtub, arms
around his chest, knees drawn up, folded so small
I could fit in the space of water behind him
wrap my arms around him, put my head
against his back, I could climb into that space
so easily
but I don't.

my husband huddles on his side of the bed
curled so tightly around himself he barely
makes a knot in the blankets tossed over him
for warmth, for extra camouflage. he lies there,
eyes open, staring at the wall, I
can only hear his breathing
when I hold my own breath.

- Holly Day 2012

This Guy I Saw Sitting in a Car

He was parked in the lot at Thrifty's Drug buck naked save for
A big white cowboy hat and a pair of dark sunglasses he was
Holding onto his erect penis and grinning proudly and happily 
                                                                                    like his penis
Was a prize he had won as a bowling trophy or at a carnival 
Or like it was something a teacher had given him for being
A real good boy in school instead of a gold star or one of those
Phony certificates of accomplishments that can be traded in
For a cheeseburger at McDonald's with the purchase of a
Large drink.

- Holly Day 2012

Holly Day is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota who teaches needlepoint classes in the Minneapolis school district. Her poetry has recently appeared in Hawai'i Pacific Review, The Oxford American, and Slipstream, and she is a recent recipient of the Sam Ragan Poetry Prize from Barton College. Her book publications include Music Composition for Dummies, Guitar-All-in-One for Dummies, and Music Theory for Dummies, which has recently been translated into French, Dutch, German, Spanish, Russian, and Portuguese. 

Friday, November 23, 2012

New Poetry by Phillip Ellis

"Ut pictura poesis"

The turntable taps as it hisses,
one for the spirit of dead music,
over and over again
like a rap against an empty door
behind which there is no truth hidden,
and when I have entered the room,
battered the night with what's recessed,
and cast it outdoors
where it taps on the windows
in fingers ringed with beetles,
I do not contemplate
the uselessness of all that is art.

There is no time for that.

- Phillip Ellis 2012

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Bluepepper comes a close second!


contact info.:

Sharing More Than Poems Makes Open Mic Voices Most Popular Poetry Social Network In The World

Willimantic, CT November 13, 2012 -- the world's poetry social network, responded to the latest news about Google ranking Open Mic Voices the best poetry social network on the planet.

"We have only just begun," smiles Henry Hunter, Founder and CEO of Open Mic Voices, "Google is the world's most popular information resource, by far, on the internet, 80% of all people on the web get their information from Google. So, being ranked by Google as the best poetry social network in the world is extremely rewarding and will keep us focused on uniting the world through the common language of poetry. It's incredible to see your idea come to life and the world embrace that idea. Open Mic Voices is about people, from all over the world, who speak one language on Open Mic Voices: Poetry." 

While earning Googles recognition for being the best poetry social network on the planet, Open Mic Voices is more focused on meeting it's goal of getting people to share poetry, worlwide. It is free to join Open Mic Voices and everyone is welcome. Members of the popular poetry social network write poems, share feedback, share poetry website links, share poetry events and places for poetry. Members, also, upload audio poetry and video poems right from their home computer. Open Mic Voices encourages socializing and sharing amongst members, so there are no limits on how many friend requests that a member may send to other members of the site.

Open Mic Voices members range from Ivy League professors to high school dropouts, published poets to novice poets, with traffic to the site coming from over 180 geographical countries, and 80% of Open Mic Voices members are female. "We are all inclusive, " states Henry. "People love to share all things poetry and we are playing a major part in poetry's growth on the internet. Poetry can't grow unless we all share it. We invite places that feature poetry, educational institutions, poetry groups, book publishers, and so on, to create a profile in our community and help bring poetry together." Open Mic Voices has a Page rank of 3, an amazing rank for a 9 month old website, and it is listed by the internet's foremost authority on website traffic,, as the highest ranking poetry social network in the United States.


Open Mic Voices launched February 01, 2012, by brothers James and Henry Hunter. is a poetry social network connecting people who enjoy poetry, worldwide. For more information:


Or email:

Monday, November 19, 2012

New Poetry by William G. Davies Jr.


In the dirt cellar
panes of glass
show light
in Milk-Of-Magnesia.
A steamer trunk
like a sarcophagus
closed then opened
at Christmas
as if the grave
is never sacrosanct
but born anew
through centipedes, spiders
apples and potatoes.
Inside, cedar- redolent
thin as drum skin,
adamant as the
Innkeeper at Bethlehem.

- William G. Davies Jr. 2012

Saturday, November 17, 2012

New Poetry by Michael Keshigian


On the seventh day
there really was no rest.
It was the serpent
who approached God
with an apple,
crushed it with his powerful abs.
“Applesauce,” he muttered,
but God told him to keep it to himself.
The snake curled into a question mark,
slithered over to Eve
who rubbed it all over her body,
called over Adam
who licked off every tasty drop
but left Eve panting.
“Don’t go,” she cried, but Adam
had a shelter to build.
The serpent snickered
until Eve grabbed him
and showed him a wild time.
God told Adam,
who despondent at the news,
tried to hang himself
with a vine in the garden.
The serpent attempted to explain,
but the sauce
and Eve’s choke hold
gagged his syllables.
Eve, finally satisfied,
started stomping on the snake.
Now every time the snake shows up,
she winks at him
until Adam smashes it with a club.
God is pleased,
though everything still goes to hell.

- Michael Keshigian 2012

Michael Keshigian has been widely published in numerous national and international journals and appeared as feature writer in over a dozen publications. Recently, his collection of poems entitled Lunar Images, was set to music for Clarinet, Piano, and Narrator by Boston composer Dennis Leclaire and premiered at Del Mar College in Texas on November 5, 2010. A Boston premier took place on March 7, 2011 at the Berklee College of Music and a September 2011 performance occurred in Moleto, Italy. (

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

New Poetry by Kathryn Guelcher


Once love has been established
there is always someone else
who ignites anxiety. Not the,
are-you- having- an –affair
sort of worry. It’s more the,
if- his- wife- and- I- were- both- hit- by-
buses-you- would- remarry- each-other
kind of concern.

For my part, there is only one
named Brittney.
(since Lauren with dead eyes is out of reach)
Brittney is barely twenty-something
with a figure.
She is nice and thinks my husband is funny.
And he teases her.
And she loves him
almost openly
because she can.
When, one Friday, he asked her
what the work drama was there,
she placed a sure hand on his hip
and suggested they create some.

This makes me like her. Sort of.
It makes me remember fondly
the aching enchantment
that is hers
but mostly mine.

I went there once in the heat of summer
to be analyzed, apparently.
Under her youthful, sideways glare, I felt
the weight of motherhood and envy and age
also confidence and contentment.

Mostly I felt glad that I had gotten
there so many years earlier,
twenty-something myself and glad also
that there were no buses
in sight on that long stretch of back road

- Kathryn Guelcher 2012

Monday, November 12, 2012

New Words and Pictures by Wayne H. W Wolfson

Blue Absinthe

The waitress told me they were having a special for today on it. The cynic in me assumed that either no one was buying it and they were trying to bleed off their stock or that a vendor had given them some sample bottles for a trial run and they just wanted to get rid of it. I had my head down in "Toilers of the Sea" and so passively shrugged my shoulders. She lit a cigarette, her gaze traveling down the street looking for the cat whose territory this area was. The drinks came, it was really blue not the wraith like pastel blue as one would have supposed. I drank it anyways, it was a little sharper than the usual stuff, i popped peanuts from the little white bowl to counter act it. Finishing my drink at first I felt a coolness akin to when one steps outside on a cold winter night, then my body involuntarily shuddered...we were right down the street from home luckily...passing the Hemingway plaque I saluted it as I did when in a good mood. My shoes were cutting into my shirt was pulling tight across my back. Oddly I had to duck my head to get into the door which was not usually the case. I asked her to help me get my shoes off they were killing me with their tightness now. She laughed saying I was lazy as I had drunk much more than this before, I was just being dramatic. My body shuddered again...I got my clothes off just before my height shot up to what I estimated to be between 12-15 feet. I was not used to the change in perspective nor the extra weight involved in my growth. "We have to cancel dinner..." The only thing that fit was my bathrobe and that covered nothing up, I kept knocking into furniture and bumping my head, I was becoming wound up like an animal from the wild who accidentally finds its way indoors. She petted my hand told me to calm down and suggested I just get into bed as I would be more comfortable and it was safer. I got in bed, she put some Jelly Roll on to further calm me. I was told;

"Ok now breathe in...breathe out...."

The panic stopped. Unless I was on my side or bent my knees I did not fit fully on the bed. The thought of the physical mechanics of us, with me in this state popped into my head. I said her name and was about to give her my look when a railroad spike went right into my forehead killing the mood and causing me to yelp. She said that she would make coffee and if that did not help she would run back to the cafe after to ask the waitress how long the effects lasted. 
I drank the coffee which was too hot for my taste out of the little doll cup. I felt tired now.
"Want me to go?"
"You should run down and check, don't mess things up for me there, they just started pouring for me with a heavy hand and throwing free rounds my way, I do not need you ruining a hang out by breaking the waitress's heart. "
Were it not for the rest of the situation she would have pulled more of a face but right now things dipped in my favor on the scoreboard, there was always tomorrow though..

- Wayne H. W Wolfson 2012

Wednesday, November 07, 2012

New poetry by Ivan Jenson

You Noticed

I just disappear
into the patterns
of the tablecloth
and wallpaper
and at other times
I am the floral
sometimes I
am the embarrassing
coffee stain
but sometimes
I am the
vintage wine
I am the
apple cider
of your eyes
and then
I am as far
away as
the man on the
quarter moon
taking a cold
meteor shower
a sight only
a geek
with a telescope
would be
interested in
and sometimes
you give me
one hundred
percent of your
and I am
a crowned
prince of
and ruler
of your smile

- Ivan Jenson 2012

Scripted Lines

After negotiating
with the big boys
of Hollywood
I am now signing
with my barely legible
John Hancock
a finely printed
that my dreams
made of American
idioms, and
cute colloquialisms
with roots in
ancient latin
slurs and peppered
with up-to-the-minute
(to add that
authentic street cred)
will be transformed
into a glamorous
love and gorefest
a virtual visual feast
complete with
an A- list drama queen
and king
and I hereby hope
that this is the beginning
of my ragged riches
because my jagged journey
filled with speed bumps
has tired my spinning tires
and I would much prefer being
sun-glassed, spray-tanned
and jaded
in a window tinted

- Ivan Jenson 2012

Ivan Jenson’s Absolut Jenson painting was featured in Art News, Art in America, and Interview magazine. His art has sold at Christie’s, New York. His poems have appeared in Word Riot, Zygote in my Coffee, Camroc Press Review, Haggard and Halo, Poetry Super Highway, Mad Swirl, Underground Voices Magazine, Blazevox, and many other magazines, online and in print. Jenson is also a Contributing Editor for Commonline magazine. Ivan Jenson's debut novel Dead Artist is available as a paperback and on Amazon Kindle and Nook. His new novel a psychological thriller entitled Seeing Soriah is now available as an eBook or in Paperback on Amazon.

Monday, November 05, 2012

Ray throws a party

Littlefox Press warmly invites you to the launch of Ray Liversidge’s new poetry collection
no suspicious circumstances: portraits of poets (dead) 
with illustrations by Kathryn Bowden.

Thursday 22 November 2012

6.00pm for 6.30pm

Bella Union, Level 1, Trades Hall, Cnr of Victoria & Lygon Streets, Carlton South (Enter off Lygon Street)

Launch speaker:
Kevin Brophy

If you are unable to attend the launch but would like to buy a copy of the book please contact

Margie's Back


by MTC Cronin

Poetry | ISBN: 978 0 7022 4951 8 | November 2012 | B Paperback | 200pp | RRP $24.95

From one of Australia’s most daring poets, MTC Cronin, comes her eagerly awaited new volume of poetry The World Last Night. Rich, polished and delightful, the collection has confidence and grace as it moves from wit to whimsy, encompassing profundity with the lightest of touches. It is intellectually invigorating but wears this erudition lightly – there is a vital sense of joy running through the poems, and a beautiful evocation of the possibilities of a joyful life.

‘I can stick to straightforward words of praise, such as brilliance of technical address and originality of utterance, when describing her verse.’ Peter Porter, Age

‘These beautiful, contemplative poems are questions asked at the brink of the abyss.’ Rodney Hall

Friday, October 26, 2012

New Poetry by Robert Demaree


An old apartment,
In someone or other’s mews:
Years of cooked vegetables
Linger in darkened grout.
Screwing a curtain rod
Into soft wood:
Too many people
Have already lived here

- Robert Demaree 2012


A funeral today at Golden Pines,
The chapel full,
Amber afternoon light across
Crimson-cushioned pews.
The elderly receive familiar texts,
Celebrate a life, mourn a loss.
We knew almost everyone there,
Which was part of why I wept.

A year later, at 92, he wed again,
Perhaps as she had planned,
His bride a widower’s widow:
To affirm a way of living,
To affirm the act of living.

- Robert Demaree 2012


Morning walk at Golden Pines:
Late February sky deep blue
Through trees for now still leafless
But about to change their minds.
A moving van packs up the contents of a cottage,
Fewer since her husband died,
And takes them to Assisted Living,
As if there were some other kind.
Across the pond, the hink and honk of geese,
Heading north, programmed to care for their own.
An ambulance pulls slowly away
From the Health Care Building,
Siren, blue lights turned off.

- Robert Demaree 2012

“Carriers” first appeared in Tipton Poetry Journal Winter 2009.

Robert Demaree is the author of four collections of poems, including Fathers and Teachers (2007) and Mileposts (2009), both published by Beech River Books. The winner of the 2007 Conway, N.H., Library Poetry Award, he is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire in the eastern U.S. He has had over 600 poems published or accepted by 125 periodicals in the U.S., Australia, Canada and the U.K., including Cold Mountain Review, Red Wheelbarrow, miller’s pond, Bolts of Silk, Louisville Review and Paris/Atlantic, and in four anthologies including the 2008 and 2010 editions of Poet’s Guide to New Hampshire and Celebrating Poets over 70.. For further information see