Venice as Mecca or Jerusalem – By John Haag

About God & Things – By Wanda Coleman

Bedtime Story – By Wanda Coleman


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.


The promised land is here;

The time is near at hand.


About God & Things




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





you love me

in your eyes. don’t say it loud


america will never let you



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



congress cannot legislate away



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



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 



(Griffith’s Observatory July, 1994)

For Wanda Coleman

— Philomene Long


In the shining

Black wound

Of night


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


Where the end

Meets a beginning

Where the stairway

Is sown with the


Where the sun

Circles the halo

Where the skull

Sprouts a candle

And the sand sparks

Where the mind

Is a well



Have a drink

This water

Is woven

With the


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


And the morning


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


And the streams



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


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


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


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


The monetary possibilities

For a funerary ceremony


To live


Having no where

To die

This is the capitalist life…

Categories: Poetry