BLUEPEPPER

“About one microsecond before sleep falls” A poet answers me thus, speaking of grasping tulips/phrases in those gravis, divid...

Converted Maternity Wing, Wonthaggi I live in the old lay over ward the infants’ windy smiles fall out of the lining of nigh...

In the Field The oats are tall here.  They stand up straight and dry,  seeds hanging like fruit along their edges.  The vast...

One Version of Les What’s going to happen to us without barbarians? They were, those people, a kind of solution   – Constant...

Hands in the Dark I haven’t got my mother’s hands. Her fingers were like ivory candles  that lit piano keys with a kindled fl...

On The Beach     One boat easing from the harbor All this grown-up sky and mist-cloud left   with room to breath All this w...

Notice   I noticed the junkie scratching his arm on the train,                      I noticed the drunk  singing sweet Jesus, ...

moon boot short blonde in a moon boot youthful strides so confident no overcoat beanie or gloves for her they’re supe...

CALLING ALL POETS! Regular followers of Bluepepper should know the spiel by now, but if you are new to the pepper, just follow th...

So Far Away  It was the whispered harmonies of the Everly Brothers singing “All I have to Do is Dream”, mixed with an unknown sessions ...

If you want to write, then write (for the Kenyan philosopher Nyambura Kiarie)    You can see it if you look closely enough. E...

My Soul is a tapestry where the moths go to eat. It is a tree filled with wounded birds. My soul is not a phrase but its...

Twenty years or more it'll take There’s a pen, a book, an apple, a paperclip, a notepad, on my desk. There is a tree, a w...

not hearing myself on the radio Ockham’s Razor, ABC, May 10, 2015 after a restless night i halfwake  hear a man’s voice  a...

Biographical Hands I visited the great tombs of Switzerland. No, it was Egypt. No, it was Rome. They swirl the same, embarra...

Captain Garibaldi of the Trader Carmen in 1852 ‘Yes men. Here on the Pacific we are becalmed. But our luck will change, our ...

Your grandfather and winter trees in London (For the Dutch poet Joop Bersee)     My dearest boy. My sweet child. There’s a  ...

Cruzen Rum Shack  Sunday. Well before Happy Hour. Palm trees sway like masts where a blackbird rides against cloudy crests. ...

hummingbird glib  sun hummingbird, if you vanish into a vortex  wherein the dibbler dines  on petals of dissolved earth, ...

Encroachment On the window to the left, the neighbor closing in.  Large vans, gas grills, overtaking with suburban life. T...