New Poetry by Mark Roberts

accession

the red car turns right 
& heads down the hill. 
in the valley the mist
ponders 
whether to rise or to hang 
around for another 30 minutes.

i stand on the edge of the escarpment
& watch the mist rise slowly up the rocks
wisp by wisp 
disappearing somewhere above my head
imagine taking four steps forward & falling 
through clouds, waiting to be lifted up
by soft invisible hands – an australian accession.

the whip of a branch 
across my face
a crash of bone
against rock
look around
to see 
the last thyacline 
lapping at my blood.


- Mark Roberts 2015

Mark Roberts is a Sydney based writer and critic and editor of Rochford Street Review and P76 Magazine as well as being Poetry Editor of Social Alternatives journal. He has been published widely in magazines and journals both in Australia and overseas over many years.

New Poetry by William Doreski

My Shadow Has Thinned

All winter my shadow has thinned,
and no longer supports my weight.
The cars parked at Whole Foods grin
with dramatic chrome expressions
as I slog along with shopping bags
of flotsam fresh from Mexico
and Peru. The horizon lolls
in a wimple of pearly smog.

At lunch my friends insisted
that I eat more, that the flesh matters.
I’ve tried to plump up my shadow,
but it has lost its appetite
for landscape and the arts, has eaten
its last panorama of Paris
boulevards sprawling with traffic,
its last glimpse of Fifth Avenue
storefronts smiling for Christmas.

I noshed a decent salad, but stink
of fat and crunch of carbohydrate
numbed me to the finer things,
like bacon bits and slabs of bread,
blue cheese dressing and croutons.
Over the years the light has slaved
to cast as dense and flattering
a shadow as I could absorb. 

Now in the parking lot a gray
anemic blush trails me. Ashamed
of my limp display I pack my bags
into my car and drive away as fast
as I dare. The fruits and vegetables
bought with my last fistful of cash
wouldn’t fatten a greedy child
but will keep me alive for a week.                            

The horizon bends and swoops
and drops a few seagulls strayed
five miles from Boston Harbor.
Their appetites don’t inspire me,
but in passing they cast shadows
tough as oilcloth, and their cries
mock the elaborate human world
that can’t begin to account for me
and the vacuum I leave in my wake.


- William Doreski 2015

William Doreski's work has appeared in various e and print journals and in several collections, most recently The Suburbs of Atlantis (AA Press, 2013).

New Poetry by Martin Durkin

1. Khoba

A cowboy rolls in
takes the money.
his mind
is certain about the job
but he can't make a
decision about
life
or
more matter in fact
about
the past
his, hers, any of it

****

His body is in
chains
the rain pours
only for him
as he feels he
doesn't deserve the touch
of the warm sun

****

His hand is quick
he believes in heaven
and hell
he holds no hesitation
about pulling the
trigger
or
where this path will take
him

****

One day he finds himself
inside a
chapel
sitting in a
pew
he looks at
Jesus pulled down
from the cross
and he wonders
about a word
regarding
debt and sin.
although the body
of Jesus is
dead
he sees something
in the statues
eyes

****

He pictures her in
his mind
frozen for him
and smiling.
his boot's shift under
the pew
as he reopens his eyes

****

There is a partial weight lifted,
his horse drops head and
snorts
he throws a leg over
and
rides.

- Martin Durkin 2015

Over the past four years Durkin has been published in various anthologies and literary magazines including: ByWords, The Dream, Niagara Falls Poetry Project, E-zine, Blurred Blue Tattoo, AnotherTorontoQuarterly.com, Jones Ave., Origins, and Subterranean Quarterly. Durkin spends his time taking part in poetry readings across southern Ontario, being a freelance writer/photographer in Greater Toronto Area, and was the poetry editor for Origins Literary Magazine.

New Words and Images by Wayne H. W Wolfson

Ambergris

Again, the twitched out rituals that always accompanied my preparations for travel. A lifetime of accumulating coins, nonsensical mantras and moments of silence, they were piling up so that it was becoming harder and harder to do on the sly. And the amount of energy which they demanded was becoming nearly as taxing as the worry which they were supposed to keep at bay.  I knew that I had to get rid of some of them. This fact was emphasized by how uneasy I became even upon initially coming to this realization. As much as I lived in my head, one foot needed to remain planted firmly in the real world too. 

It was faulty logic, trying to pick which irrational behaviors were the most practical to keep. I always worked hard not because I had to in the same way as someone in the nine to five life would but because I felt better when doing so. The contemplation of the cuts became too much a distraction from the pen. I pulled my sickness up over my head as if going to sleep on a cold winter’s night and temporarily let the matter drop. 

As beautiful as it was, even the city burning with the cicadas getting too close to the fire and then lighting off too late to escape, their sound was the fading piano at the end of a song, had come from a fever dream. What had I done lately? The pen had not mapped enough new terrain.   

With my work, I strove for a distinctive style and to avoid lapsing into merely mannerisms. Paris has always been my Mecca but the inherent inspiration which I knew it held for me was my “B” plan. Without the succor of most of my newly jettisoned rituals, I felt that the discomfort in the actual journey over would shake something new free from the barrel of my pen. I leaned my forehead against the cold glass of the window. Down below, abstracted patches of city as seen through the blurred arch of the propeller. 

The first time upon my arrival back into the city I had spent my first night in a hotel, it had not been by choice. The long term sub letter before me needed an extra day which he was given, I suspect for having paid for his entire stay in cash. 

The hotel I picked was nice. Nicer than where I used to stay all those years ago before I started subletting a place, when all I did was hotel living. My room was on an upper floor and afforded me a simultaneous view of Val de Grace, the Pantheon and over its left shoulder, off in the distance, the Sacre Coeur. 

Now I preferred my first night back to be in a hotel. To me, it was akin to when you buy a fish and upon bringing it home one leaves it in the bag, putting the entire thing in the tank by way of an environmental transition. 

Despite having spent some twenty hours in transit I had to shower as I could never bring myself to crawl into a bed, any bed, dirty. As it was a good hotel the water remained nice and hot for the entire duration that I stood under the spout, head upturned. 

After that I drank a bottle of vichy water somewhat too quickly and got under the covers. I fell into a deep dreamless sleep, waking several hours before dawn drenched in sweat which had dampened the sheets and smelled faintly of black pepper and flowers. 

Two weeks home. She was surprised, when I had sent her my first few letters and they were not padded with the usual observations about the weather, the journey home or reminiscence of views seen together during the time shared in the same city. In different ways to us both, the letters were the perfect device with which we could remain together and close. For her, our correspondence allowed for interaction but with the buffer zone of continents between us, it was as if she were viewing a wild animal but within the safe confines of a zoo. For myself, the normal social pressures of etiquette were reduced down to writing back, which I gladly did, in a timely manner. This missive me was a pleasanter fellow too as he was more giving of his thoughts since the usual mostly silent me would have just equated to a blank page which would be kind of an Avant garde slapstick. 

When I was a little boy, the first loose tooth I got, the idea of the tooth falling out frightened me. As to prevent it as long as possible, I would chew only on the other side of my mouth. I would keep my mouth open as to prevent any of the other teeth from accidently touching it and then as to not look like a circus geek, keep my hand over my open mouth. Now, a lifetime later I do not remember the actual loss of the tooth but only the torturously long time beforehand in which I tried to prevent the loss. 

I had been dreading first seeing Fatima in the flesh but had been so busy with planning the logistics of my return that it was low in the background. Now, everything else done it rose to the fore. When I went out to get supplies, should I go and see her at work right away while still a little tired and protected in that way by a sheen of fatigue? Over the course of our long correspondence the timber of her letters changed not merely being one way. Who knows what else has come into her life, what further sea changes may have taken place? Perhaps I should wait a few days until I was completely free of jet lag and had my sea legs. Why was I exerting energy in strategizing? Neither of us had promised anything to the other. If I had been in front of a mirror I would have seen my reflection slowly shake its head as I realized that there was a good chance I had just jinxed myself. 

I would go anyways, while on my way home from the market with the gaping mouths of my mesh net bags vomiting celery tops and leek stalks onto the still warm baguette.   

The start of putting in time at all my usual hunts, I stopped for a drink. I hung my bags on the little hooks which were hidden under the lip of the bar. From the end of the bar and I at my usual spot at the other end, time pays too much attention to me, and I know that I can not put it off any longer, it is time to go. 

I went in and her coworker whom I used to think was her slightly older sister saw me first, letting out an “ahhhhhh” which had been preambled by several clucks of her teeth. Fatima was finishing up with a customer. As they hunted for the correct change she made a crossing motion with her index fingers one over the other reprimanding me for not having written the exact day of my arrival and a handful of other such level of sins. The light in her eyes managed to betray a happiness to once again see me. 

Instinctually I still found myself keeping an eye out for her brother although it was now a moot point. 

In their tongue she quickly said something to her coworker, remembered how I hated that and apologized as she held the door open for me. We embraced. I was breathing in her scent and so her shoulder semi-obscured what she was saying but I knew it was what I had done wrong;

“I know, I am sorry.”

We made plans for the next night.

“We will meet where, you know, Verlaine died.”

She still did not drink but enjoyed the verbena tea which I did not understand as it was still bagged. I wanted some kind of a portent, which I knew could only be found in our kiss good night. It was warm and soft but remained obtuse as it was merely on each cheek. 

The next day I continued my rounds of reacquainting myself with all the usual places. I had lain out my clothes for the night on the dresser as I have always hated the visual of an outfit on the bed minus a body filling it. The crisp dress shirt whose color made my skin have a somewhat healthier hue than the reality of when I was caught up in work or having just arrived somewhere. The pants, whose waist offered a little room and so would not collude with the lack of vitamin C from my childhood, further altering my body posture with a tightness. 

I got there a little early as was my habit. Her simple black dress, my exact idea of her. I would have preferred to have had her over and made dinner but I did not want to force her hand were she fed up with me. I briefly smiled to myself as my inner voice once again mentioned as it must have when initially making plans;

“It is your place, should things go bad you would have nowhere to retreat to.”

I ordered her tea and something stronger for myself, the waitress mouthing our order without actually saying it as she bided her time looking us over to figure out where she knew us from.

“I received your Christmas card, thank you.”

I had pretended to be the good boy for so long that sometimes it almost felt real. The politely superficial, how was my trip over, were the tiny grapes with their razor like seeds still growing on the balcony, was safe for us as it was neutral ground. Or in its blandness, the perfect device to make any possible discord that was to follow seem all the more dramatic by the mildness of the prelude. 

Of course I tried to take my time with the drink but they were used to dealing with tourists and if one did not know the bartender then it was a tiny pour. I asked her if she was hungry. The shrug that I knew conveyed a “no” held back by politeness. We decided to walk around the Luxembourg Gardens a little. 

There were the people just getting off work taking a stroll to decompress after their office internment and the tourists who tomorrow would be heading back to their real lives wishing to despite having already gorged themselves on the city take one last bite. 

We stop by the fountain to watch children beg for one more minute of piloting their sail boats. The setting sun made everything emit golden rays. I lamented the dying of the day. Soon would be the night which held its own appeal but this, my first real day here I wanted to stubbornly hold onto. For a second I suddenly had the desire to be alone, accompanied only by the beautiful melancholy of Monk’s slowed down take on stride. Briefly, I think of someone I once hurt. I do not repent but there is an embarrassment akin to when one sees an old photo of themselves wearing an outfit which did not look as good on them then as they had thought then. 

Her fingers, delicately laying across the top of my hand, protected from the cold stone of the railing I was leaning against.

“What are you thinking? “

Had I any support system during my formative years, I would have become a great man instead of merely a strong one. With everything that I had done just to survive, it would have been nice to have had options. I probably would have still acted the same but at least for once, the choice would have been mine. 

I blushed and offered up a small smile.

Finis

www.waynewolfson.com

New Poetry by Jason D. DeHart

Need a Bath Boy

there is an endless assortment

of homeless on the on-ramp.

I have heard the sighs and prayers

of well-meaning people in the car,

imagined the muttering lips of bothered

people rushing past to their shopping

and over-priced meals at the mall.

the child, his hair slack, his skin

darkened with grime,

this child, family, cardboard message

creates, for some, an emotional tableau

and I worry about the emptiness,

the stone I carry inside my chest, a hollow

purse I call a life, and I wonder about 

sounds of vehicles swooshing by,

trembling hands the the odor of rain.

- Jason D. DeHart 2015

Jason D. DeHart is the author of the blog, jasondehartjustliving.blogspot.com.  His writing has appeared in a variety of publications.

New Poetry by William Davies Jr.

Grandfather's Garden

The straw as lazy

a drooped eye

over strawberry plants

scalloped in cold earth.

Runners sabotaged 

the way boxcars

emptied of Jews

on dead snow.

- William Davies Jr. 2015

New Poetry by Greg McLaren

Oranges

for Frances Odette


Frankie demands fruit she can’t reach.

We spring it to earth, where it’s hidden, sun-warm,

in laundry.

                 Leaves appear on the kitchen floor.

She looks to the flowers,            

white and yellow, and to me, and points – 

star!      flower!

                        The blossom in my fingers            

smells of orange, or is it

that my fingers now

                                 smell of orange?

She lifts her body, nose-first as if weightless,

to the half-crushed blooms, eyes closed, and sniffs – 

                       I love 

and fear everything. 



- Greg McLaren 2015

A short bio: Greg McLaren is a Sydney-based poet, critic and teacher. His recent books are After Han Shan (Flying Islands, 2012) and The Kurri Kurri Book of the Dead (Puncher & Wattmann, 2007).  A new collection, Australian ravens, is forthcoming with Puncher & Wattmann in 2015.

New Poetry by William Davies Jr.

Valley Forge

Air, crimson-plum cold.

Windows; silvery

long-in-the-tooth

snatched in January,

pronged and writhing 

the same as an agate pot

seized in the caroling

ice of the pond.

- William Davies Jr. 2015

New Poetry by Lizz Murphy

Karaoke

A woman is at home having the time of her life just herself

and her karaoke machine  I know this because she told me

There she sat in the crowded shopping centre just herself

on the circular seat in an arc of people separated by their shopping   I saw her alone in her deciding moment crossed her path like some stray black cat  Our eyes met and she stood up Stood by her conviction

If they don’t want to hear me sing

I’ll buy my own karaoke machine

and sing at home! 

Alone             Just herself

Alone sometimes I think I hear her song  

It drifts down from the north  seventy years old  

a little smoky  a bit cracked  more off-key than on


- Lizz Murphy 2015

Lizz Murphy has published 12 books of different kinds. Her seven poetry titles include Portraits: 54 Poems and Six Hundred Dollars (PressPress), Walk the Wildly (Picaro), Stop Your Cryin (Island) and Two Lips Went Shopping (Spinifex). Her eighth poetry title, Shebirds, is forthcoming (PressPress). She is widely published in Australia and overseas and has some awards and mentions. Lizz was born in Ireland and has lived in Binalong in rural NSW Australia for a long time.

New Poetry by Michele Seminara

Christmas Passing

travelling home on Christmas Day
full hearts and bellies straining
bush teeming on either side
of this glistening snake of humanity
from the front seat a few sighs 
and then the benevolent curtain of rain parts
to let Great Uncle Tommy pass 
through


- Michele Seminara 2014

Bluepepper would like to take this opportunity to wish all poetry-lovers a happy new year and a peaceful, prosperous and inspired 2015.

New Poetry by Dawnell Harrison

A party

The rocks in my front yard

are gemmed with rain -

a mill of raindrops battle
with the forecast bruising

the sky purple and black.

A party at my house -

the human beehive buzzes
in one at a time as they

lay their needs on me.

My heart is too small

for such desires.

I smile as if I truly care

as the headlights of cars
trail down the street.

- Dawnell Harrison 2014

Fresh pain

The rain marbles the sky
grey and black as the wind

blows my golden hair sideways -

tussles cling to my maroon lipstick.

My baby scrubs the air raw with her

blood red cries,

always wanting something that

I sometimes cannot undo.

Perhaps she holds fresh pain
in her soul that only God

can comprehend.

We move forward.

- Dawnell Harrison 2014

Tiger lilies

The moon frowns on me -

I disappoint her.

Six tiger lilies sit
in a tubular vase

on the kitchen counter.

They are too wild for me -

their spots throw me
off balance.

They seem to lean on me

as their open mouths

say feed me.

I have nothing to feed them -

these beasts inhabiting
my house, my eyes,

my luke-warm assurances
from the world.


- Dawnell Harrison 2014

Dawnell has  been published in over 200 magazines and journals including Queen's Quarterly, Fowl Feathered Review, Nerve Cowboy, and many others.  She has also had five books of poetry published entitled Voyager, The maverick posse, The fire behind my eyes, The love death, and The color red does not sleep.

New Poetry by Les Wicks

Formication Fridays

As someone

who was certain

in this gangrel

runaway beige

thanked them

realtors & lords

shot.

If money

can be sharp

then I’m lost.

Ants sweetheart

(dead abnormal).

So back to please

don’t pay

this wrapping

I know.

In strength

you are away

so I comprehend cold

& crash the tides.

Get away with silence,

defeat the mouth.

Shelter is a rough binary,

but it’s not worth it.

- Les Wicks 2014

Les Wicks is a widely published Sydney poet.

New Poetry by Daniel Barbare

Mother Cooking

Mother eats watermelon.
Watching the news. Talking
the whole while. Goes
back to the bedroom.
Comes back wearing pajamas.
Boils corn and slices fresh Blue
Ridge
tomatoes. Fries chicken. While
biting her tongue. The house
smells delicious. The
oil is just a crackling. The
kitchen is quiet. It’s ready.

- Daniel Barbare 2014

Roadside Stand

Labor Day.  Coming down
the Blue Ridge Mountains. Sun
on our backs. Gravel
drive. Dust flying off the wheels.
Looking at squash, fuzzy
whole okra, green beans. Tomatoes
soft enough to slice this evening.
Wildflower honey,  pickled beets,
bread and butter pickles, dill and
garlic. Mother buys sweet
potatoes.
And peaches to soften in the
kitchen
window. I buy three plump and
red tomatoes for $2.00.

- Daniel Barbare 2014

Danny P. Barbare resides in the Upstate of the Carolinas. He works as a janitor at a local YMCA. And has been writing poetry off and on for 33 years. He says he enjoys the cold weather in the South and taking long walks especially if it snows. His poetry is mostly about what ever strikes him at the time.

New Poetry by Colin Dodds

The Urgent Center Expands

The urgent center expands,
takes the newspaper as its skin.

As it went in history,
so ran the NFC wildcard game.
The religiopolitical Saints
overran the astrological Rams.

Aside from that, the story was familiar and unchanged.

The linemen were terrifying,
though easily persuaded, hulks.

The receivers were handy
with the razor and the getaway.

The running backs went straight home
and would be foremen someday.

And the quarterback was the driven patrician
with nothing but an immense promise
and an immense burden for a life.



- Colin Dodds 2014

Colin Dodds grew up in Massachusetts and completed his education in New York City. He’s the author of several novels, including WINDFALL and The Last Bad Job, which the late Norman Mailer touted as showing “something that very few writers have; a species of inner talent that owes very little to other people.” Dodds’ screenplay, Refreshment, was named a semi-finalist in the 2010 American Zoetrope Contest. His poetry has appeared in more than a hundred publications, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He lives in Brooklyn, New York, with his wife Samantha. You can find more of his work at thecolindodds.com.

It is my sad duty to inform you that a matter of hours ago Southern Redbacks batsman, Phillip Hughes passed away as a result of the injury he sustained at the Sydney Cricket Ground earlier this week.

The word tragedy gets used far too often in sport but this freak accident is now a real-life tragedy. Just shy of his 26th birthday, Phillip has been taken from us far too young.

As a cricketer, Phillip was an incredibly talented and dearly loved member of the Australian, South Australian and Adelaide Strikers squads and a former NSW representative. He also played county cricket in England and IPL in India. Without doubt he was a rising star whose best cricket was still ahead of him.

As a cricket community we mourn his loss and extend our deepest sympathies to Phillip’s family, friends and team mates at this incredibly sad time, and of course to the Australian cricket family and the State Associations. We are thinking of you right now.

I’d like to thank you and the broader cricket community around the country for the wonderful show of support given to Phillip and his family. From social media to phone calls to our front desk, the support has been tremendous and I want to thank you on behalf of Australian cricket.

If you would like to pay your tribute to Phillip and his contribution to the game of cricket, you can do so here.

Phillip Joel Hughes played 26 Test matches for his country. He will be sadly missed and forever remembered.

Yours sincerely,

JAMES SUTHERLAND

Chief Executive Officer 

Cricket Australia

Bluepepper has nothing else to add,

The Day Cricket Stopped

If poetry really does possess any curative powers, then all our thoughts are with you, Phillip Hughes.

New Poetry by Peter Venable

Heart fibrillation begins.

The doctor peers over a surgical mask

and furnishes a pep talk. Joe’s hands clamp
on the table; knuckles jut into the walls.
His eyes weld to an instrument tray:
scissors, tweezers, hemostats and some unnamed gadget.
A curved suture needle twinkles at him.
Doc grips a syringe--pricks, plunges,
then the scalpel . . . .

Joe stares into a ceiling bulb

and whisks into a phosphorescent tunnel
where rainbows arch, dissolve into bubbles,
and pop into pinwheels.

Something distant yanks

and Joe lifts his head. The doctor threads and tugs

a knot, removes a blood-speckled mask,
and hums while leaving the room.
The nurse takes Joe’s hand, guides him up,
and escorts him into the lobby.

At the door she leans toward his ear,

and invites him for drinks
at her apartment after work


- Peter Venable 2014

Peter works as an almost-retired addiction and mental health counselor, volunteers at a prison camp and food pantry, and is graced with a happy marriage, daughter and son-in-law, and Yeshua. Poetry, The New Yorker, and Atlantic Monthly are not worthy, unlike Bluepepper, of his sagacious poems.

New Poetry by William G. Davies Jr.

The Path to Citizenship

You can almost hear the fife and drum.

What are the Federalist Papers?

How many amendments are there

to the Constitution?

A couple speak to each other

in Guatemalan.

On this day, a celebrity judge

will do the oath.

He’s affable, tall with shiny hair.

He tells a joke, people look for a snare.

A woman clerk sets aside an Edwardian novel

and passes around miniature American flags.

After The Pledge of Allegiance

there are pictures, light snacks.

An old man wearing a necklace of bones

contemplates a portrait of Ronald Reagan,

in particular, a white handerkerchief 

in his left breast pocket, monogrammed 

the way the man’s bones are known to him.

- William G. Davies Jr. 2014


William and his wife have just bottled a case of red wine from their very own grapes. He has had some more work accepted by The Cortland Review and is working with his publisher, Prolific Press, on a forthcoming book of poetry: Before There Were Bones.

New Poetry by Stuart Barnes

The Night, The Dream

  

after Sylvia Plath’s ‘The Hanging Man’

  

Dreaming’s an art. Dreams can be re-created

Brushing the questions aside with a gesture of dreaming

 

draws on the night at last; the dream draws on.

Will speak to me in dream

 

Dreams drip to stone. Barracks and salt marsh blaze

a dream the world breathed sleeping and forgot.

 

 

- Stuart Barnes 2014

  

†a cento sourced from Gwen Harwood’s ‘Dreaming’s an Art’, Rosemary Dobson’s ‘Wonder’, Judith Wright’s ‘Sonnet’, Rosemary Dobson’s ‘Poems from Pausanias’, Gwen Harwood’s ‘Oyster Cove’, Judith Wright’s ‘Bora Ring’; title from The Cure’s ‘The Dream’ 

New Poetry by Michele Seminara

Elders

They are a stand of bitter wisdom trees

eyes revolving inwards like moons

beguiling faces smiling down upon us.

They don’t mention (or only in passing)

the ways the world is slipping from them:

the deft departure of the boyhood friend,

the driver's license routinely revoked,

the inability to leave the bath without resting

—shamefully—on its side.

Soon they’re talking of other things,

our things, pressing things like 

which school to put the children in or 

where to go this year on holiday…

it must take all their strength and love

to play along with folly; sustain fantasy 

of growth without decline. Hold back 

the hidden long enough to lend us time to flower;

immure us from what cankers in their limbs—

our inheritance, rank knowledge 

of everything.

- Michele Seminara 2014