Missing Persons

 

Join us at 

Teatro Paraguas

3205 Calle Marie, Santa Fe. NM

 Saturday, February 9, 2019 at 3:00 PM (new date)

for the launch of

Missing Persons


Beatlick Press is happy to announce our first launch for our book dealing with the diseases of dementia. We hope you will come join us in listening to the many poets and writers who made this book extraordinary. Included in this volume are poems and prose from Dorothy Alexander, Mary McGinnis, Kathamann, Bill Nevins, Lauren Camp, Rich Boucher, Miriam Sagan, Richard Vargas, and John Macker to name a few of the talented writers. The cover is a stunning work by Larry Schulte. There will be goodies!


Contributor copies will be distributed and books will be available for $12 for contributors and $15 for those not in the book. 


Edited by Deborah Coy and guest editor Barbora Cowles in hopes that it will bring comfort to those dealing with the diseases of dementia by showing them they are not alone. Barbora’s husband has Alzheimers and Deborah has had several loved ones who were afflicted. Barbora has shared a list of resources for caretakers that has helped her in her life with the disease. Barbara and her husband edited Event Horizon Press which published many books since 1990 until Joe’s diagnoses. Deborah financed and edited the award winning, La Llorona (with the help of friends Pamela Adams Hirst and Carol Moscrip). Deborah has also published three of her own books. 


Beatlick Press has published more than 30 volumes in more than six years it has existed. Authors include Larry Goodell, Jules Nyquist (winner of this year’s poetry award at the New Mexico/Arizona Book awards), and Gary Brower. Deborah has been involved in many of these publications. Visit our website @ beatlick.com (a work in progress) and like us on Facebook under Beatlick Press.


Readers include: 

  • Anne Shaughnessy
  • John Hicks 
  • John Macker
  • Andi Penner
  • Teresa Gallion
  • Mary Jackson
  • Jim Ransom
  • Joanne Bodin
  • Dorothy Alexander
  • Janet Ruth
  • Mary Dudley
  • Larry Schulte
  • Marmika Paskiewiez  

  • *********


Thelma Giomi______________________________



Quantum Barrier

 

 

My mind is fine.

Just fine.

It’s the doors.

Psychologists studied them.

Every doorway, 

Every passage through

Triggers an event boundary.

So, when my mind goes blank,

And I can’t even grab the edge of 

Why I came into this room,

It’s the doors.

It’s the doors

That separate thoughts,

Neatly filing them in one room,

Creating a blank slate in the next.

So, it’s not Alzheimer’s or an aging brain,

Or even preoccupation with a thousand daily chores

That accounts for my memory lapses,

It’s none of these.

It’s just the damn doors.

 

















Scott Wiggerman___________________________



Gravity


I have watched

the white-braided woman 

in the wheelchair

for half an hour.

Her head ticks downward,

slow as a minute hand,

so sluggish, it rests

at last on the table

without impact.

I saw the attendant

park her there,

pull from a bin labeled Activities

an assortment of plastic blocks

in bright colors,

place her mottled hands

on the blocks as if she were

a child learning shapes and colors.

The hands slumped

off the table

once the attendant disappeared,

and the glacial slippage

of the head began,

quiet as time in this place

where people go wordlessly,

where no one hears

flesh meet wood

or registers the difference.












Carol Moscrip______________________________



Ashes



what a great place to be buried, near the Golden Gate

scattered in a thoroughfare to and from the Pacific, 

my mother never sought peace and quiet, always preferred a party,

she had prearranged and prepaid for this one,

I wish now we’d had a solitary trumpeter on board

to baffle the rhythm of the waves, to sing the single note of grief,

as I read a list of sentiments compiled by my sister

adding how Mother had loved red, her college color,

her ashes transported to the center of the bay in the Neptune, 

she would have adored the pagan name, ever an agnostic

until she had almost reached the end of her mind,

then a fierce atheist with a faith as sudden

and ardent as a belief in Christ’s face 

on a piece of French toast, how she hated churches,

“I know there isn’t anything after,

I just know it,” with fervor she announced

to me shortly before she left us just her body 

slumped back in a wheelchair with vacant eyes,

she would have died had she known,

a mere lump to transport and feed and wipe,

she didn’t have to go to such lengths

just to demonstrate there is no God,

we prayed a godless prayer for her

that she didn’t sense a thing,

we mourned her breathing absence nearly four years 

until her lungs had no energy to rise and fall, 

at last her ashes scattered into the bay of the city 

where she was born, San Francisco,

the only city with class was another of her devout beliefs

did I mention the little waves that offered themselves up

over and over to bury the dark mass of her body 

and lap it up they did, to the last bit of ash she merged

with the currents as the boat rocked us

my sister and I nervously shaking any dust from the metal box

down to the last particles that clung to the sides





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