Submissions closed for the year

 

Bluepepper will be on the road over Christmas/New Year and so will be closed for submissions until 3rd January 2023. Seasons greetings and stay safe.

New Poetry by Anthony Vernon

Birds

Terror Birds

Bird songs come from terror

They are screams

And cries of fear

Each note a desperation

Every tune a panic

Melodies are but anxieties

Chirps are but worries

And all flights are frights

As bird songs only come from terror birds

Window Birds

Like a bird to a window

I’ll fly into you now

Thoughts of coming through

Crush dead onto the ground

Found are feathers, blood, and bone

A dying alone

And a cry towards the transparent

But the words aren’t apparent

To a barrier to all but shight

That brings an end to flight

Kite Mountain

Sons are birds

Flying up and over mountains

But not before they breathe their mother’s body

Then their wings are born

And the old lungs are forgotten

And when I flew

You cried til the night

Then in your dreams

You clipped my wings

Keeping me in my cage

Where a bird’s flight is forgotten

- © Anthony Vernon 2022

Anthony David Vernon is a Cuban-American literary writer and master's level philosophy student at the University of New Mexico. He is a regularly published author of poetry along with short stories and philosophical articles in a variety of outlets. His premiere book is The Assumption of Death a hybrid work of poetry, short stories, and philosophical musings.

New Poetry by Greg Jensen

Loneliness is a Killer

In the small room you rent 

several floors above the city

you put two words together 

to make conversation.

One word follows

the sound of the other

but just sits there in the room

not explaining like a father

who comes home and stares

deep into the center

of the television.

You put yourself together

and have a day,

instant coffee

and a tinful of tobacco

for company.

Your heart feels

like a hammer 

swinging low

after a long day 

nailing two words

to keep four walls

from falling down.

When it stabs

you take a small tablet 

of nitroglycerine

and swallow another five minutes

of watching the clock.

You hear footsteps

in the hallway,

another door

closing on another

person who rents,

like you, loneliness

for next to nothing.

The cost of living

in this city is high.

You pay to keep 

yourself locked up 

after years 

being locked out.

- © Greg Jensen 2022

Greg Jensen has worked with unhoused adults living with mental illnesses and addiction problems for over 20 years. His work has appeared in 'december,' 'Bodega,' 'Crab Creek Review,' 'Fugue,' 'Rabid Oak,' and 'Porridge Magazine.' Greg holds an MFA in Poetry from Pacific University.

New Poetry by John Rock

Chrysopeia

if I opened my heart

you'd see children playing in the sand

and the glass cauldron of a sunset

with foxfire beneath it

slow silver swells and a little boy sayin

"I'm a pickle"

and no one listening

this ocean on the edge of ornament

almost metal

almost pure

liquid

the soft blows

of swallows snatching beetles

lifting toward the mountains

- © John Rock 2022

John Rock is a long-time fan and contributor to Bluepepper and organic farm traveler just trying to get at some poetic truths and grow some beautiful food. More poetry, novels and recordings at johnrockpoetry.com

New Poetry by Mark J. Mitchell

Little God Lost

Disguised as art, he slides through the city

like some chess piece left behind when the rules

got drawn up. He sorts every face he sees—

checks or mates. His cracked harlequin mask, blue

under streetlights, can burn red when he needs

passion. He makes confetti notes. Swallows

them without reading. He steals just nothing,

borrowing dropped souls. He’s never allowed

in certain dreams. There are corners his mask

can’t hide, where the voice it uses to sing

is too cold. It cracks lost jewelry—glass,

not precious. He rests. Sleeps on the night bus.

It slides like a rook towards dawn. The last

notes cling to his framed mask. Cool. Safe as dust.

- © Mark J. Mitchell 2022

Mark J. Mitchell was born in Chicago and grew up in southern California. His latest poetry collection, Roshi San Francisco, was just published by Norfolk Publishing. Starting from Tu Fu   was recently published by Encircle Publications. A new collection, Something to Be and a novel are forthcoming. He is very fond of baseball, Louis Aragon, Miles Davis, Kafka and Dante. He lives in San Francisco with his wife, the activist and documentarian, Joan Juster where he made his marginal living pointing out pretty things. Now, he’s looking for work again. He has published 2 novels and three chapbooks and four full length collections so far. His first chapbook won the Negative Capability Award.

New Poetry by Paul Ilechko

Anthem

I see your fingers     scarred and bandaged

your hands are not the hands belonging to a child

I see your feet     the way in which you spin

the angles of your pointing     I see the way

in which you fell     the silence of it was so very

shocking     I see the flowers bursting into color

you were a visitor here     this was never going

to be your country     you wore the heavy coat

and sang the marching songs     your splendid voice

now quiet     your face the shade of candlewax

looking upwards in your stiff unportioned aspect

locked into a theory of directionless divinity.

- © Paul Ilechko 2022

Paul Ilechko is a Pushcart nominated poet who lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ. His work has appeared in a variety of journals, including The Night Heron Barks, Tampa Review, Iron Horse Literary Review, Sleet Magazine, and The Inflectionist Review. His first album, "Meeting Points", was released in 2021.