New Poetry by Zebulon Huset

On the Cusp of Summer, Minnesota

            for my mother

During the couple weeks

when the neighborhood

bloomed a pale blue-hue

then burst full of purple

we’d round up armfuls

of the lilac buds. We’d

bust out every stadium

collector cup and every

dollar store and garage

or yard sale vase and on

every flat surface precariously

perched some water and

a rubber-band-bound bunch

of dying blossoms. As kids

we never suffered through

the disposal of their dried

husks with the slimy bit

of mold clinging to the stems.

We merely knew that our lilacs

brought spring into the house

just before school loosed us

for another raucous summer.

- © Zebulon Huset 2022

Zebulon Huset is a teacher, writer and photographer. He won the Gulf Stream 2020 Summer Poetry Contest and his writing has appeared in Best New Poets, Meridian, Rattle, The Southern Review, Fence, and blueppeper among others. He publishes Notebooking Daily, and edits the literary journals Coastal Shelf and Sparked.

New Poetry by Nicholas Barnes

naomi is

a wind piano melodica

seesawing up and down

with jeff mangum's

breathless baritone.

        some hand-rolled

        sandalwood incense

        from mumbai.

a cult leader

with droves of followers

dressed in pink and sneakers.

        a trout that brushed up

        against your little piggies

        while you were swimming

        in a high mountain lake.

a taxidermy mount

with marble eyes

and wooden bones.

        a bottle cap pounded

        into a rolltop desk

        with silver nail and hammer.

a bag of soft chew licorice

from ingleburn australia,

new south wales.

        an old man

        who saved a young man

        from bungee jumping

        sans-bungee.

a leather booth

in an old roadside diner

with a splintered cobweb face.

        a postcard the mailman

        reads between houses

        on his repetitive route.

a mango pit

planted in the backyard

by someone hoping

that she'll visit again.

- © Nicholas Barnes 2022

Nicholas Barnes earned a Bachelor of Arts in English at Southern Oregon University. He is currently working as an editor in Portland, and enjoys music, museums, movie theaters, and rain. His least favorite season is summer. His favorite soda is RC Cola.

New Poetry by Jean Bohuslav

cause and effect

all woolly flanks turn in one direction

like slow motion tennis spectators

as a red ute draws dust idling

the long drive

then spooked by commanding trepidation

they hoof it down to the flats

pounding crackling debris

while grasshoppers click amongst

copper stalks

and cockatoos choreograph afternoon’s

echoing flights

affronted by kelpies controlling the run to

the yards and race

this orchestra is abruptly unplugged

the corriedales’ eyes resembling

large tombollers roll backwards

like mum’s when the old man gets stupid

nature’s tango

weaving natural laws of order through disorder

tapestries with connecting golden threads

spun effortlessly as falling leaves

- © Jean Bohuslav 2022

Jean Bohuslav’s love for mindfulness philosophy often creeps into her poems.  She resides in Torquay Victoria where she enjoys the company of other poets and reading online poetry.

 

New Poetry by Michael Keshigian

Persistent Daylight

 

He was caught in an endless day,

persistent sunshine, no darkness,

a day that curdled

green leaves falling,

rotting upon dried lawn

spotted with insects desiccated,

fragile carcasses littered

beneath the lessening shade of trees.

He walked between sagging sycamores,

crossing the street,

asphalt which singed his soles,

his face aglow,

burnt to a crimson hue,

on his way to the river

where others must be waiting.

Soon he will swim under the soundless sun,

water easing his burns,

submerged in the cascading current

in order to survive this day without end,

dressed in a white shirt and shorts,

a luminosity that mimicked the sun

as he approached the shoreline

where the crowd swam,

he whispering how the sun

became a threat,

that all will suffer then dry,

so we must sing

before our remnant ashes disperse,

that an earnest song

will bear us wings to embark

on our journey from earth,

for due to our negligence,

the rules have changed

and our bodies can only go so far. 

- © Michael Keshigian 2022

Michael Keshigian is the author of 14 poetry collections, his latest, What To Do With Intangibles, published by Cyberwit.net . His most recent poems have appeared in Muddy River Review, Smoky Quartz, San Pedro River Review, Tipton Poetry Journal. He has been published in numerous national and international journals and has appeared as feature writer in twenty publications with 7 Pushcart Prize and 2 Best Of The Net nominations. 

New Poetry by Caleb Delos-Santos

Saying Goodbye To My First Apartment

Farewell, my pocks-like triangle-sized sky.

Goodbye, my rib-like frost and navy walls.

So long, my soggy sunken carpet-sty.

Adieu, my poo-room pruned by shower falls. 

Peace out, my flick-bound reeling ceiling light.

Please, take it easy, numbing-drummed AC.

I’m off, glass-blind, who can’t conceal one night. 

I’ve got to go, my home, who good-groomed me.

I would say “later,” but Mod-time has died.

I’ll see you in my phone and mind’s time-drive

I hope we keep in touch, my grown-up pride.

Until next time, I’ll keep school-vibes alive.

Godspeed. Stay barely-not-condemned and true. 

I love you so much, M6. I’ll miss you.

- © Caleb Delos-Santos 2022

Caleb Delos-Santos is a Junior double majoring in Acting for the Stage and Screen and English at Azusa Pacific University. He has four published poems and one non-fiction with West Wind Magazine, Outrageous Fortune, and GoldScriptCo. He was also awarded the APU Esselstrom Prize for creative writing. Writing helps him to improve his mental health. He dreams of successful careers in writing and acting.

New Poetry by Erina Booker

Awakening

Shafts of sound: insistent and clamorous

descending from alto to bass,

siren through the glass wall

and drop into the tiles beneath

it’s early morning, the sky

is indigo, not black, and feels

about 5 a.m. … we walk the few steps

to the balcony, and freeze before the two heralds

who woke us, sitting next to each other

claws over the glass panes

a pigeon pair of large black birds, currawongs

summoning us to their presence

I know there’s white on the undersides

of their tails, but can’t see it

neither can I see the egg-yolk yellow

of their eyes, just an onyx gleam

they shrill loudly in unison

immobile, parallel

both eye-ing us

doppelgängers by sight and size and sound

they have my full attention:

a perfect Tarot card

of divination

thrust before my face!

one currawong, a former visitor

responded to a whistled call, pecked at

the dog’s kibble, paraded his magnificence

of strut and strafe, his fearlessness

his desire for company

now he has brought his new mate to introduce:

he has reached through the barrier of biological

class to something greater, deeper, and privileged

he has grasped our commonality of living spirit

and in so doing has made us familial

now there is an icon in my mind –

a sacred painting of this pair of birds

jet black against a gold-flecked sky of

lapis lazuli, who sang loudly enough

to rouse us and tell us their news

thank you for that, you two,

I approve

I approve with all my heart!

 

- © Erina Booker 2022

Erina Booker is a Sydney-based poet. Her life revolves around poetry, from publishing books and contributing to journals, to recitals at public events and presentation of seminars. She contributes ekphrastic poems to various galleries. She has a Bachelor of Arts (Literature & Composition), & a Post-grad degree in Counselling. Words, & the pauses between, are her interests. Her work may be found on Amazon and Lulu Press.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

New Poetry by Elizabeth Shack

Wild Cherry

wood sleeps through winter

frozen nights of wondrous dreams

waking with spring rain

limber green-leafed limbs

drink deep of summer sunlight

building sweet sugars

rubies and garnets

feed cardinals and sparrows

bright things for bright wings

oblong yellow leaves

shimmer in cloudless blue skies

as the year withers

leaves litter the ground below

yellow ink on fertile page

- © Elizabeth Shack 2022

Elizabeth Shack lives in central Illinois with her spouse, cat, and an expanding collection of art supplies and fitness equipment. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in The MacGuffin, Writers Resist, Daily Science Fiction, and other magazines and anthologies.

New Poetry by Mohammad Ali Maleki

Estrangement

 

In a blocked atmosphere

away from people — at Donnybrook,

all the gates are closed on us.

Everybody is hopeless with broken hearts.

On a cold spiritless day

in a small gloomy room,

l sit on my bed

as my mind travels back to the past...

When l become aware of my surroundings again

l find nine years has passed uselessly in detention.

My body is feeble and tired.

When l try to focus,

to witness all of these tragedies,

it feels as if I’ve grown into a flower, mute from fear.

It seems that they have separated the world's pains.

What do they know about the things

that happened throughout these years?

They blamed us for all the bad things of the world!

I am tired of this bunch of stone-cold people

who rejoice at seeing us suffer.

My God, l am abandoned all alone here.

l have no parent or sibling to console me.

It makes no difference if I write about my agony —

no one has suffered as much as me in estrangement.

My heat is infested with sorrow.

l feel that I need to cry.

l feel that l need my mother’s hug.

I’d love to lay my head on her knees

as she touches my face tenderly.

l'd love to hug my mum again one day

and tell here about the tragedy of these years.

Mum, what should l do with my pains and sorrows?

But my mother has already passed away

from grief after hearing about them —

What reason have l got to go on now?

Who should I live for now?

The dearest person in the world to me

was my mother who passed away.

Mum, I wish l could die instead of you.

That way, l would not have to face

the sorrow of our estrangement.

- © Mohammad Ali Maleki 2022

Mohammad Ali Maleki is an Iranian poet who has been indefinitely detained as a refugee in Australian immigration detention for the last nine years. His poetry chapbook, Truth in the Cage, is available for purchase at Verity La’s online bookshop. All profits go directly to the author. 

New Poetry by Daya Bhat

Lichens

Little feet join the line

of those leaving

their sky and earth.

As roofs roll into debris

one after another

that we do nothing

is what they will remember.

The rocks we hide under

will be their homes.

They will still smile

the miniature rivers

will hold on to their hues.

We will see them everywhere

and they will remember

who put them on the rock.

They will line the sidewalks

of our health treks.

In their thallus

will be escape stories.

They will pair up

shoulder to shoulder.

There will be mosaics

boulder to boulder.

Remember they lived

they lived a war

those who made it.

They will live

with memories

who didn’t.

Lichens . . .

rootless children of war.

They will grow

on you and me.

- © Daya Bhat 2022

Daya Bhat has published two books of poetry. Her free verse, short poetry and short fiction appear in a number of journals. She lives in Bangalore, India with her family.

New Poetry by Doug Holder

Tragic Cardigan

Now it’s time

To let your paunch

Lay low

In your

Grandfather’s sweater.

Take off the tight

Italian leather shoes

Surrender to

The ratty

vagrant slippers.

You are febrile

In your frumpiness.

You try to muffle

The invective

In your head,

“ Old Man—shake a leg!”

And you would

If it wasn’t so

Painful.

Now put enough pens—

Perhaps a pipe or two

The overdue phone bill

Gnarled pencils in its

Deep , sagging pockets

Perhaps sip a well-timed

Scotch

And disappear

On a wave

With

Miles Davis.

Don’t worry

No one will

Notice…

- © Doug Holder 2022

Doug Holder teaches Creative Writing at Endicott College outside of Boston. His poetry and prose have appeared widely in the small press.

 

 

 

New Poetry by Earl Livings

Long Haul Flight

Learning to leave things undone

is a training for death

When you set foot on that plane

for a long overseas trip

what doesn’t get done

on that 200-item To-Do List

stays undone

You may ache for who

you leave behind

as you journey

but not what

And in death, as in travelling,

you take your memories with you,

leave others behind with theirs

can do nothing about this

and all things left undone

but stare at clouds

threaded with starlight,

wait for touchdown

- © Earl Livings 2022

Earl Livings has published poetry and fiction in Australia and also Britain, Canada, the USA, and Germany. His work mainly focuses on science, nature, mythology and the sacred. His second poetry collection, Libation (Ginninderra Press) was published in 2018 and his fantasy verse novel, The SIlence Inside the World, is due to be published mid-2022. He lives in Melbourne with his wife and their ever-growing piles of books.

Bluepepper will once again be open for submissions from 9am 26/4/2022 (AEST). 

Bluepepper regrets to announce that we have tested positive for COVID and will not be accepting submissions until our health has improved. Stay safe people.

New Poetry by Darcy Mueller

Windows 

This room has no windows 

No above no below 

A single bulb dangles lazily 

Casing shadows on your face 

As it meets my eye 

But all I want is a window 

To let in the sky 

This room has only the tick of a clock 

Hung upon the wall 

There are no syllables uttered 

To break its constant dull 

But I want a window 

So I may feel the breeze 

This room has a chair 

In which neither of us sit 

To offer it to the other 

A small but honest gift 

But I just want a window 

To see the passers by 

Your voice, it has a stutter 

As you slowly walk near 

Though you always speak so clearly

These words, I cannot hear 

But I just want a window 

So it may be opened to the sounds 

And with noise of city cars 

May drown this quiet around 

Your hand it has a tremble 

And does not reach for mine 

It looks for something safe to touch 

Then fiddles with the time 

But I only want a window 

So I may breathe the air 

This room now has a silence 

With the clock now in your hands 

And this lonely silence 

To the walls expands 

Oh how I want a window 

So I may hear the sounds 

This room has no chair now 

As you sink into it slow 

My weary feet are aching 

But dont know where to go 

I wish for a window 

So I may sit upon the roll 

In a moment of rest 

Could my feet finally be still 

This room has a door 

That’s been opened but a foot 

But light seeps through it 

So I go and take a look 

I do not need a window 

To see the world outside 

For with this opened door 

The room now comes to light 

This room has a boy 

Who sits upon a chair 

When I look back at him 

He will not return my stare 

He does not want a window 

I did not know before 

That he does not want to see 

The outer world's allure 

This room has an emptiness 

As he does not answer my calls 

My voice floats around the room 

With naught to catch it when it falls 

But I do need a window 

In all the rooms I see 

I do need a window so that I may be free 

That room has a boy 

And he is all alone 

For I am forced to leave him 

I know I must go 

He will have no window 

And therein lies the shock 

For I have known him for many years 

But he is not the boy I thought 

So I shut the door behind me to leave him in the dark 

One lightbulb to guide him 

It nearly breaks my heart

But I must have a window 

For the world I want to see 

And if he will have no window 

Does he not wish to be free? 

- © Darcy Mueller 2022

Darcy Mueller is a second year student at Tufts University studying History and Italian who greatly enjoys writing in her free time. She is originally from Jackson Wyoming where she lives with her parents, two brothers, and sister.

New Poetry by Tony Hughes

That Feeling Like No Other

Under the cover.

Of a thin, worn corrugated sheet 

On a bed. 

In a shack.

By the sea. 

With thunderous southerlies. 

Raining rivers. 

Thick fat 

mud leeches. 

Stuck to us.

Chasing after beer cans. 

Rolling down the hill. .

Relentless nor easters. 

Blowing up sand 

and sand 

and more 

sand 

from the seventh sea. 

All the sand from 

from all our summer's.

shipwrecked 

on your ankles

Jet black, fast on your finger. 

From the carbon mantel lamp.

The kero fridge melts.

Banksia cobs 

turn to coal. 

On a cooking fire 

built for fish 

That feeling only love knows.

That feeling like no other

- © Tony Hughes 2022

Tony Hughes is an Australian actor and singer. As an actor, he starred in The Lost Islands (1976), Chopper Squad (1977–1979) and the film adaptation of Puberty Blues (1981). As a singer he has fronted Bellydance and King Tide. The beach shack referred to in this poem is owned by the family of the poet's late wife, Cassanadra Woodburne, who passed away on 22nd November 2020 after a long and courageous struggle with cancer. 

The accompanying picture of the legendary shack at Era Beach is by the renowned Sydney artist Lucy O'Doherty, daughter of Mambo artist Reg Mombassa.

New Poetry by Paul Mitchell

 
Three on the Tree

Gold HG Holden Premier nineteen seventy-one
sedan with single dint on side door panel
installed a decent hi-fi in it played
Red Hot Chili Peppers on it took
fifteen minutes to warm up
each morning backed into a ditch
on the school run workmen
hauled it out with a winch.
 
Drove it drunk to a pub with mates
listening to Bee Gees Tragedy or something
bought it with the help of a mate who said
it’s gold could see that and what he meant.
 
Cost three-thousand five-hundred
two years later needed money divorcee
dad on the wrong side of what
there’s no right side of.
 
Sold it to a bloke who said
he’d put a new motor in it
mag wheels on it got three
thousand five-hundred for it.
 
Tired of being watched
wherever it went wanted to go
in cognito bought a Daewoo
Station Wagon didn’t have to go
that far but did so sorry at least
let me show you the photos.

- © Paul Mitchell 2022

Paul Mitchell is the author of six books, including last year’s essay collection Matters of Life and Faith, a novel, We. Are. Family, a short story collection, Dodging the Bull, and three poetry collections: Minorphysics, Awake Despite the Hour, and Standard Variation. Minorphysics won the IP Picks national prize for an unpublished Australian manuscript, and Standard Variation was short-listed for the Adelaide Writers’ Week poetry prize. He’s judged the Victorian Premier’s Award for Poetry and his poems, essays and stories have appeared over the past twenty-five years in numerous magazines and journals, most recently The Guardian, Westerly, Antipodes, Meniscus, and Eureka Street. He’s written several works for stage and he’s currently a co-writer with director Chris Nelius on a commissioned feature film for Madman Entertainment. He also co-wrote Actions to Live By, a recent AFL documentary on the Brisbane Lions of 2001 to 2003.

 

New Poetry by Bradford Middleton

A Little Bit Longer

A miraculous arrival has come along and caused a

Massive shift around in mind and room as at last

This place feels almost like home.  It’s not a woman,

Not even a new friend but a couch, beautiful and

Elegant it straddles the space in front of my window

And, often, since Friday night have I slept on it,

Feeling it sooth my aching body after years of

Sleeping essentially on my floor.  I look at it now

With a fondness usually reserved for a new lover

As it taunts me, it’s only 8:27 you’ve got to wait a

Few more hours yet.  This morning I woke and

Couldn’t bring myself to leave its warm confines

As I rolled over a few more times, whispering to

Myself, just a little bit longer.  Tomorrow will

Almost certainly be the same as at last I find it

Easy to get to sleep without the aid of drinking

Myself to the brink of death on way too many

Nights.  At last, a good nights’ rest.

- © Bradford Middleton 2022

Bradford Middleton lives in Brighton on the UK’s south coast.  He began writing poetry fifteen years ago when he first landed here knowing no one and with no money he holed-up and did it merely for something to do.  He’s since had four, sold-out, chapbooks of his poetry published as well as seeing his work feature in the likes of the Chiron Review, Rusty Truck, New Reader Magazine, Paper & Ink Zine and the Mad Swirl.  Follow him on Twitter @BradfordMiddle5.

New Poetry by Paul Tanner

jerk’s circle  

there’s the:

bloated one who eats all the free biscuits

the: chain smoker

the: one who keeps draping a veiny chicken fillet thigh

over your leg

when she’s not blowing kisses at the others

the: one with a new puncture mark on his skinny arms

every time you see him,

long grey spotted arms that shake

the: nail biter

with fingers like bled sausages

the: empty chair

where the guy who keeps doing overtime

would’ve sat

and they all praise jesus

and why? well, why not?

so a long-dead socialist baby coos

as the chicken thigh clenches around yours

like a vice that has goose bumps, as

Melissa, she says “me boyfriend just died”

with a smile

and then there’s

the: you.

- © Paul Tanner 2022

Tanner is barely qualified for minimum wage and he's allergic to cheese for crying out loud. His cat knows your sins.

 

New Poetry by John Tustin

This Hawk

There is this hawk

That careens along the currents

With the sea foam in his eye

And the mountain peak

Churning in his gut.

There is this hawk

Who snatches prey in midair –

His talons

Are the tomahawk chop

Of a shirtless brave bending

On horseback.

There is this hawk

Whose wings are flawless feathers

Of steel and bones

And you watch his silhouette

Getting smaller

Against the setting sun

As he flies far

Far

Far from you,

His final shriek

Piercing the ears

And the heart

With the battle cry

Of retreat.

- © John Tustin 2022

John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

New Poetry by George Gad Economou

the swing 

the old, dirty tire hanging from two chains 

seesaws, always 

empty, 

it continues to sway praying for one 

person to use it, give meaning to 

its existence. 

it’s been there for years—unused, 

unwanted. a lonesome swing, 

the tire never felt the joy of being 

enjoyed and used. 

all it wants is to hear the giggle of someone. 

kids and adults flood the playground, 

day and night—not even soused teens 

sit on the most lonely of swings. 

one fine summer day, three 

robust men arrived with 

sledgehammers and shovels. 

they tore down the swing, tossing into 

a fire the tire and its wooden poles. 

instead of proffering joy and laughter, 

the swing polluted the air; its 

spirit haunted the playground. 

it watched the visitors sitting on the fancy new 

swing, invisible tears watered 

the playground’s dirt; come spring, black roses flourished 

amidst the toys. all were bewildered from the roses that 

swayed back and forth,  

back and forth, on occasion 

shedding a drop of water, like a tear for 

the spirit that no longer lingered on. 

- © George Gad Economou 2022

George Gad Economou holds a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and resides in Athens, Greece, doing freelance work whenever he can while searching for a new place to go. His novella, Letters to S., was published in Storylandia Issue 30 and his short stories and poems have appeared in literary magazines, such as Adelaide Literary Magazine, The Chamber Magazine, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, and Modern Drunkard Magazine. His first poetry collection, Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds, was published by Adelaide Books in 2021.