Venice as Mecca or Jerusalem – By John Haag
About God & Things – By Wanda Coleman
Bedtime Story – By Wanda Coleman
OBSERVATIONS ON THE COLOR BLACK – By Philomene Long
For Luna Archer, 3 Months Old – By Mary Getlein
Notes from Venice – By Michael McCoon
Beachhead’s 45th Birthday – By Roger Houston
Do You See? – By Emily Wood
Atomic Child – By Humberto Gomez Sequeira HuGoS
To live and die in capitalism – By Roxanna Gomez Sequeira
———————————————-
Venice as Mecca
or Jerusalem
By John Haag
I sit here on the sand,
a holy place on sacred land,
remembering the tribes and clans
that gathered here, took counsel
and dispersed; foreseeing all
the ones that will arrive,
drink our blessed water and survive,
only to disperse in turn
to spread the word
amongst a disbelieving world.
Take heart, my heart,
for here is never lost
anything forever (but the soul
at times sent wandering
along some other plane).
It too returns home safely
found like a cache of nuts
the squirrel lays by against
a cold day in hell, forgets,
then comes upon in time
of need.
Rejoice!
The promised land is here;
The time is near at hand.
———————————————–
About God & Things
BY WANDA COLEMAN
1
i want to have your child
cuz upon losing you
i’ll have more than memory
more than ache
more than greatness
i’ll have laughter
i do not mean to be fatalistic
know the limits put on you black man
me, black woman
when you are killed or imprisoned
desert or separate from me
i’ll continue
fill the void of your absence with
love between me and ours
gods
2
you love me
in your eyes. don’t say it loud
pain
america will never let you
3
you’re home. it’s a surprise
you’ve made it thru another day
one more night in your arms
to fuck
merge our bodies merge
give
wealth/freedom
congress cannot legislate away
4
eyes wide as suns inquire
where’s daddy?
he’s gone away
i love my daddy
i smile
he’s a good man
eyes wide as suns
burn my hand with a kiss
go outside to play in the streets
god
what god is about
———————————————-
Bedtime Story
By Wanda Coleman
bed calls. i sit in the dark in the living room
trying to ignore them
in the morning, especially Sunday mornings
it will not let me up. you must sleep
longer, it says
facing south
the bed makes me lay heavenward on my back
while i prefer a westerly fetal position
facing the wall
the bed sucks me sideways into it when i
sit down on it to put on my shoes. this
persistence on its part forces me to dress in
the bathroom where things are less subversive
the bed lumps up in anger springs popping out to
scratch my dusky thighs
my little office sits in the alcove adjacent to
the bed. it makes strange little sighs
which distract me from my work
sadistically i pull back the covers
put my typewriter on the sheet and turn it on
the bed complains that i’m difficult duty
its slats are collapsing. it bitches when i
blanket it with books and papers. it tells me
it’s made for blood and bone
lately spiders ants and roaches
have invaded it searching for food
———————————————-
OBSERVATIONS ON THE COLOR BLACK
(Griffith’s Observatory July, 1994)
For Wanda Coleman
— Philomene Long
In the shining
Black wound
Of night
Jupiter
Scarred wind
Blind red eye
And the comet
Flower of what
Broken sun?
Its long-drawn trail
Of frozen petals
Across the
Blazing black
This intimacy
Seed of ice
Spinning womb
Of winds
What immense Black Lover?
————————————————-
For Luna Archer, 3 Months Old
We are all mothers and fathers
even those who have never had a child –
you can pick up a baby
and all these strange wonderful hormones are released
turning us to butter
melting us down to a crouched creature
holding and protecting this little human
with incredibly tiny fingers and toes
your instinct is to care for her or him
our freshest visitor to this planet
living in a cave or a magnificent palace
the instinct is the same:
to protect
we are all mothers and fathers of this planet
it’s up to us if it survives
we’ve been here so long
but it’s just a drop in the ocean
of earth’s time –
we need to protect our earth
we are so busy killing each other off
we forget to notice how the earth is responding
to our inhabitation
we need to protect, cherish and be in awe of
all the new seedlings reaching out
the vines will grow and grow and cover us up
the earth go back to the earth
and cover all the ugly cement we left
all the styrofoam cartons and trash we left,
left to spin soundlessly in the ocean’s gyres –
we are all mothers and fathers
we need our children to clean up our mess,
before it’s too late
– Mary Getlein
———————————————-
Notes From Venice
Exaltations from the
Edge
Where the end
Meets a beginning
Where the stairway
Is sown with the
Stratosphere
Where the sun
Circles the halo
Where the skull
Sprouts a candle
And the sand sparks
Where the mind
Is a well
Within
Welcome!
Have a drink
This water
Is woven
With the
Universal
Where the breath
Is brewed
With incense
And the air
Is Pacific
Where the peaks
Point to the infinite
And the Ocean hums
An endless instrument
Where the Doors
Divide like oranges
The seeds
In the center
Where the darkness
Dreams
And the morning
Wakes
Where the bells
Are sunflowers
Blooming the brain
Where the confused
Are mentally poetic
And the drunkards
Are profound
Where the tides
Unfold like testaments
And the clouds
Are origami:
Where the moment
Is the message
And the insular
Moon illuminates
The passages
Where the waves
Tune
And the streams
Strum
Venice.
By Michael McCoon
New Richmond, Ohio
—————————————–
13:47 Monday, November 25th, 2013, Adullam ….. If I am not mistaken,
forty-five Long years have passed since you were born alive. By my best
calculation, way back when, Spoke truth to reason with your printed Zen. And I
can but imagine such a stir That had been generated. Rising star, Aspiring; a
beacon in the night, To guide around the rocks with beam of light. A kindness to
poor sailors from afar. Your message, always ready to confer. Contributors, the
women and the men. Pray tell, where are they now? For it has been Some five
and forty years, and yet you thrive. If I am not mistaken, still alive …..
Long live the Free Venice Beachhead, love, Roger Houston
——————————————–
Do You See?
By Emily Wood
I got the groceries
Without collapsing
Nobody asking
No please
No thank you
But I don’t need that
I just need you
To look up
And see me
And maybe smile
Do you see me?
You face away in the night
Your hot back against mine
And I know
That you see
The backs of your eyelids
Visions of truth
We call dreams
Am I with you?
When we wake
And I ask
You say
“I don’t dream”
Do you see?
Your footsteps
Rattle my bed
Voices
Rattle my head
From nowhere
To noplace
This whole world
But no space
For me to be
Children hurried along
When they stop to See
Directed
Toward a window scene
Twisted, turned around
To See the man
Who lives for free
Do YOU see me?
I ask
Cold teeth chattering
In the hot air
Steaming
Beaming light from my eyes
Hunting for a reflection
Another section
Of me
To lock eyes with
And maybe smile
Do YOU see?
How many times can I ask?
How many times can I plead?
Maybe I’ll stop asking you
And start asking me
————————————-
Atomic Child
By Humberto Gómez Sequeira-HuGóS
I dedicate this poem to my daughter, the poetess Roxanna Gómez Sequeira.
Fruit of the lotus child
descendant of the germs
disseminated by a luminous red nova.
Beautiful child
with heart made of blood
and oxygenated desire.
Sensational child
with hands that grew searching
for her spatial magnitudes.
Logical child
with head dilated by dreams
ignited by magic neurons.
Atomic child
with eyes of sparks
emitted by an electron cloud.
—————————————–
To live and die in capitalism…
By Roxanna Gómez Sequeira
For Winston Flores and his father Mr. Cirilo Flores, RIP
You work so hard
To sustain your family
Only to be crushed
By the weight of poverty
The frailty of your body
Gave way to deformity
Extinguishing your energy
It’s crippling effects
Took your last breath
A cost is attached
One to be burdened
By your nearest of kin
You left this society
One of debt and slavery
The cruelty of economic depravity
The insanity
Of a capitalist reality
The hardship of a family
And
The monetary possibilities
For a funerary ceremony
Laboring
To live
And
Having no where
To die
This is the capitalist life…
Categories: Poetry
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