(Matthew 22 37:38)


An Opinion column

from Beatlick Pamela Hirst

May 24, 2017




Local students of Oaxaca presented interpretive dances and plays to observe the kidnap-

ping and disappearance of 43 student in 2014. According to Wikipedia: On September 26,

2014, 43 male students from the Ayotzinapa Rural Teachers' College went missing in

Iguala, Guerrero, Mexico. Other official reports claim the students commandeered several

buses to travel to Mexico City in order to commemorate the anniversary of the 1968

Tlatelolco Massacre. During the journey, local police intercepted them and a confrontation

ensued. Conflicting reports claim after a day of protests, the students only wanted to make

their way back to their college. Accounts of what happened next differ. Members of the

student union say they boarded three local buses, but the police says the students seized

the buses.

The performances presented on the zocalo of Oaxaca City included local students who

coordinated the event with many artists and musicians.

"The struggles of the educators has continued for decades. The education reform is better

understood as an attack on labor. Much like the discourse of recent education reform

movements in the United States, the Mexican reformers invoke notions of accountability

and equality.But the reform itself contains numerous measures aimed at undermining the

power of teachers union including measures that weaken the union's control of the hiring

process at normal schools (which they historically controlled), eliminate teachers' ability to

pass down a position to their children, make it easier to fire teachers who miss work, and

limit the number of union positions paid by the state," according to the Jacobin.



May 1, 2017

Bus drivers continue protests in the streets during Mexican Labor Day. These Mexican

citizens represent Revolutionary Workers’ Federation of Mexican Trade Unions (FORAS)

who continue their protest with Choferes del Sur and Urbanos of Oaxaca, transportation

companies who employ them.


The conflict concerns how the two companies are taking advantage of their transporters by

not honoring earlier agreements and contracts calling for fair labor practices. FORAS

originally held a strike on March 20. The businesses have fired many workers who participated in the March 20 strike.


FORAS representative Alejandro González Forastieri said the workers are demanding that

the collective bargaining agreement be updated, as the workers have to pay fees for the

maintenance of the trucks owned by the companies and the fuel required to run their



Their salaries constitute what remains after these expenses are met by the workers.

Additionally, they do not have any standard employee benefits that are common in America,

they are not paid for overtime, and they are not paid according to hours they work.

Alejandra Gómez Candiani, president of the board of directors of both companies, recognize

d the right to strike, but said that strikers agreed 40 percent of transporters would not stop

work. He says he is moving forward with plans to fire striking transporters.

The capitol city depends on approximately 900 buses of five different transportation lines to

provide service for more than 260 colonies and territorial zones. At least 50 percent stopped

work during the strike.

This particular Labor Day protest calls for the signing of a work contract, salary benefits and

compensation for the workers fired due to their participation in the March 20 strike.

Additionally, representatives of eight social organizations from different localities marched

in Oaxaca in support of FORAS.



by Emma J. Wisdom

            Writing can be torture, but also it’s a labor of love and to find readers of one’s ilk whether fiction or non-fiction is the best of its kind.  Many readers and writers extend kudos to Stephen King for breaking through the wall of resistance to receive the Medal of Distinguished Contributions to American Letters.  However, not everyone feels so positive about King being the recipient of such an honor.  

            I’ve kept author Samuel G. Freedman’s article “Stephen King Deserves an Award for Creating Readers” as an incentive to remind me of the possibilities as well as to add my accolades to King as what one can possibly expect in  the writing arena.  In addition, I want to thank Freedman for his bravery to voice such a pithy observation in support of Stephen King’s writings…his body of works.  Not all writers write what I suppose the eminent critic Harold Bloom believes to be worthy of honor.  At the time King received the award, he had written 40 novels and drawn millions of readers--no small accomplishment by any measurement---and for that reason among others the committee awarded him the honor among his judges, peers, and readers.

            As Freedman writes,  “If his work convinces people to turn off the TV, log off the computer, unplug the earphones, and discover the imaginative world conjured by the written words (this author’s emphasis), then he is preserving something vital…”  And, thus again, I, among the American Letters committee, recognize King’s value to the written word.  The number of readers that King attracts each year is only one reason for a writer such as King to be recognized for his accomplishments.

            Yet Richard Snyder, formerly of Simon and Schuster, asks the rhetorical question of King’s writing, “Is it literature?”

            The standard of measurement by which Americans consult more often than any other reference book is Webster’s dictionary, which defines literature as “writing in prose or verse regarded as having permanent worth through its intrinsic (essential) excellence” or “the entire body of writings of a specific language, period, people, etc.” or “the writings dealing with a particular subject….”  And all kinds of writing is essential just as a balanced meal is essential to our healthy well-being.  Thus, accordingly, the answer is King does write literature.  Although his topic or subject matter might not be Snyder’s cup of tea, it is nevertheless “literature” according to Webster whether he or others might not plunk down money to purchase King’s fanfare.  Yet, it is by definition “literature” of a particular kind.  And King has a crop of faithful readers, to boot, by his and his publisher’s annual earnings.

            Regardless of what the critics have said, or presently saying, or even what they might say in the future, Stephen King is going about his business of being a writer and a writer, by all means, writes.  On November 3, 2015, (little more than a year ago) USA Today announced the release of yet another novel by King.  The title of this one is called The Bazaar of Bad Dreams.  According to the report, the story is set in the 1950s.  Here King writes of the supernatural and deals with deep meditations on age, morality and mortality. According to the report, two pieces are particularly “outstanding.”  King writes an introduction to each new story.  But then, the author has the ability “to grip the reader’s mind, body and soul with his prose [making] it all look easy and graded King this time out with a 3.5 rating out of a possible 4.

            This author has read both Stephen King (in horror) and Ray Bradbury (in science fiction).  While I am not a reader of either author’s long list of books, I have read from their short list, because like all readers my  choice depends on the storyline to determine whether I’ll make the decision to purchase a particular book or not.  It’s called reader’s choice, I believe.


 Author Stephen King:  “Books have weight and texture; they make a pleasant presence in the hand.  Nothing smells as good as a new book, especially if you get your nose right down in the binding, where you can still catch an acrid tang of the glue.  The only thing close is the peppery smell of an old one.  The odor of an old book is the odor of history, and for me, the look of a new one is still the look of the future.”

 ----Stephen King                                                                                                                                Reader’s Readers' Digest, April 2002


Emma J. Wisdom is an award-winning writer, educator, playwright, journalist, and author of more than 40 novels, novellas, and books.  She holds undergraduate degrees from the University of Tennessee and Tennessee State University in Nashville, and a Masters of Arts in Education.  Wisdom is also a lifetime member of Phi Kappa Phi.




United Kingdom




Put two hands under my armpits and lift me
and still I fall.
Raise me above crowds
pass me along
twist me around
and still I fall.
Baptise me in holy waters from a sacred river and still I fall.
Trumpet my name with adoration and still
still I fall.
Worship me and still
still I fall.
Be my friend the most loyal friend anybody could have
and once again
I fall.
Pamper me
look after me
make me lazy
and still yes
still I fall.

Betray me.
Mock me.
Piss all over my body.
Shout, spit at me.
Hate me.
Torture me.
Laugh at me.
Cut me, pull my limbs from my body.
Nail me to a cross.
Let ravens peck out my eyes and liver.
And I will rise.
I will



As I walked into the supermarket

A woman bent down in front of me.

She started to pick something up from the floor

I looked down,

there was a round flattened chewing gum down there.

I watched as she

thinking it was money

tried to get her nails right underneath it.

 I walked off shaking my head and laughing.

She followed me in

realizing her mistake.

And suddenly

I knew why I had left the house



 I look at the girl's reflection in the sheet glass window.

Another woman looks at me.

I see her

but still she looks, I am not that different am I?

The woman shouts some exotic coffee to go but it doesn't matter because everything is in a 'to go' cup today.

The Anglo Indian man told me the dishwasher was broken I asked him if it was him, he looked sheepish.

I can't decide whether to tell



 I look out of the window

not to see anything just to look.

A biggish man pushes his young son along in a stroller.

The young boy thinks for a bit

 then decides to wave at no one in particular

like he is a queen waving at his subjects

not seeing them but knowing they are there.



A baby swimming in the womb with a bathing suit on.

A white elephant .

The elephant in the room.

A sous chef sliding plates of food down the line and off the edge, smashing them all - forever.

 A cyclist riding backwards up a hill .

A tree smiling and waving his branches at you.

A poetic drunk in a bar.

A smile from a stranger.

A mountain made of butter.

The thought that I will never know who I am.

Conjoined twins telling each other they are sick of sight of one another.

A dog chasing its own tail until it has a heart attack.

Yellow, blue and red clouds floating together to make new colours.

A giant owl on your window frame.

A totem pole in the shopping centre.

Seeing to the end of two mirrors.

Being able to put these things together like a giant jigsaw puzzle.

Please try and if you do, get back to me, you know where to find me.



What about if you had never had an original thought

It had all come from somewhere

a painting you had seen or a word

spoken by someone else

or a book you had read

or even worse something you had seen on TV.

All that subliminal shit on the internet

you don't think you notice or see.

All that money companies pay thousands for

so they can know what you like and what you don't

Who is to say 1984 really is in the past.

So next time you think to yourself




was it really yours



I am fairly sure now

I will never leave this place

time is stuck here in some horrible loop

I am left checking the tightness of woman's trousers

and why their boots never seem to fit properly

and why they wear inappropriate clothes for the time of year

maybe this is where I was always going to end up

alone only these thoughts for company

of course all poets have to be alone

even when they think they are not



 Life sent some people to soften the blow

 but as always they slipped through my fingers

and I was alone again

just me and the sorrow

and the grief

and whatever is left in the bottle

which is always never enough.

I don't need people much

just now and again

but whenever I do

all I ever see is them walking away.



 It is all here

a smile

a glance

a half second before a teardrop hits the floor

a kind word on a bad day






finding a reason

telling the truth then having the courage to live that truth

not being afraid

madness then calm

the sun on your face

a sky filled with stars.

To give people what they think they want.

All these

some ingredients

that we call




I feel something

don't know what it is.

Could be anything

but it is not

it is something.

Some meaning in it all

just knowing that something has to be done

even if

I don't do it.

It is nothing simple like cleaning the kitchen floor

or doing the dishes.

This can only be done by me

it can only come from me.

Deep inside this old brain

that likes to drown itself in wine at night.

And watch trash TV

and call the end to another day.

Yea this weary old brain knows something

that is why I don't talk to people anymore.

I speak a different language to them.

I am fairly sure I always did

but now I am sure.

So I have to do that thing that others can't

and of course here it is.



 I got an urge to met the Dalai Lama

I guess he would take some finding

he is probably traveling the around the world

enjoying himself.

Or I might get lucky and find him at home

staring up at all those big mountains

contemplating God.


I told my son

when I die I want to have my ashes scattered on Everest

but I don't think he will ever make it up there.

Even if it were my truly dying wish.

No the back garden will do just fine

no need for a fuss.



 all here

it is all here

this place

the only place where life begins.

I can feel it now

when there is no one else around

and my mind leaves this world.

It finds a place where there is no pain no greed

no jealousy no money

a purity that makes everything shine.

I can't always get here

but for the days I can

I never really want to come back.


                POETRY PAYS!!!

Mary, left, receives the cash from Pamela Hirst.

TIM STALEY publishes
"Still Howling" & "Endnote to Still Howling"
 by Mary Dezember in Cacti Fur



Albuquerque event/Civic Plaza

Theme: Go Viral


This is a story about Beatlick Joe Speer, the Jack Kerouac of the Southwest, born and

raised, died and buried, right here in Albuquerque. He was a product of the Land of

Enchantment.a cultural heritage. He was magic and the most spiritually developed

person I ever met.

We enjoyed 22 years together. Beatlick Joe taught me what love really means,

he taught me kindness, acceptance, and non-conformity. And the day came…was only 62,

when he began to fail, his legs hurt, then swelled, unto the point that a doctor had to be

consulted.  And that is the day, Nov. 19, 2010, that I found out Beatlick Joe had pancreatic

cancer, and his days were meagerly numbered. Joe had a novel in him; he was a dedicated

journalist, writer, and raconteur. And when I found out he was going to die, I said, “Honey,

we have to get your novel published.” He had been working on it for 20 years.

The goal was to get a proof of his book into his hands. And I did accomplish that by working

18 hours a day, relentlessly, beside his death bed. This was my mission, my final tribute

to the finest man I ever knew, bring that book to the light of day.

One night, on Jan. 23, 2011, to be specific, I was sitting beside his bed, laptop on a table,

continuing to edit, when I was shocked to see by the clock on the wall, that it was almost

three o'clock in the morning. I went to bed.

And as I there with my brain too stimulated to sleep yet, I looked up into the dim light,

fixated at the spinning blades of the ceiling fan. And then smoky entities began to fill the

top of the room. Small eddies of smoke emanated from the end of the spinning fan blades.

Everything was rotating, smoky spinning white things, more and more began to spit out of

the blades, multiplying. In a matter of moments the ceiling was filled with dozens of small

whirlwinds which began to slide down the side of the wall. I reached out my hand and tried

to touch one. I lay there amazed, not concerned yet, amazed.Until all the eddies above my head, almost in unison, began to stretch out, elongate until they became somewhat rolled out like bread dough. Elongated until they became worms.

This was death, horrible furies, rolling around trying to suck up Joe's soul.

Evil horrible things. I stared at them in order to confront them, I called out the name of

Baby Jesus, I defied them.  I opened my eyes as wide as I could as one by one they came

at me, darting closer to within one inch of my eyeballs. But I just kept on glaring at them,

challenging them. Calling out Jesus, Jesus.

They seemed to be building up their mass and I leaned over Joe’s body as he lay in the bed

so they couldn't get at him. This went on for quite a few minutes. Finally they began to

come together up in the ceiling and reshape into something more like clouds. It seemed I

had been able to repel them but they were not leaving by any means.

 I thought to myself this is working but I don't know how long I can keep my eyes wide

open like this for the whole night. I believed calling out the name of Jesus would protect us

both, but I was becoming really spent and tired. And then I realized. This is evil, darkness,

and the one thing evil cannot tolerate is the light.

 So I merely got out of bed and turned on the light. Problem solved. The threat was over

and the furies were all gone. Joe never knew a thing. We slept with the light on the rest of

the night. But I tell you with every fiber of my heart I believe I fought off death that night

as it came to take Joe.


But alas, it was inevitable. Beatlick Je lived two more days.  He lived to hold this book in

his hands. Two days later, during the early evening, I left him, for just a short while, to go

to the store. I wasn’t gone 30 minutes. When I came back, he was sitting straight up in the

bed, his eyes were wide open. I spoke to him and he didn’t reply. He looked strange.

“Joe,” I said, “Joe?”

But Joe was dead; the furies took him while I was not there to protect him. They came in

the night and took him away. Today Beatlick Joe Speer lays in a common grave in the

Evangelico Cemetery. His ashes were buried with 88 other souls. Beatlick Joe always

loved an audience. And today, tomorrow, when you are on Facebook, or YouTube or the

internet, search for Beatlick Joe Speer and meet the Jack Kerouac of the Southwest.

Make it Viral!



June 11, 2016

Anasazi Winery, Placitas

One big highlight of the Book Fair was getting to visit with Gary Wilke and Marilyn Stablein

(foreground) again since their move to Portland. 

John Roche at the Duende Book Fair

Margaret Randall at the Duende Book Fair, one of the biggest names in local literature                                


             MORE OF MARK CARVER 



I get that feeling

there are robots in some big factory

making men and women.

Then an overseer pulls from some special place

a soul

I don't know where he puts it

only he knows that

but I hope it is somewhere gentle and easy to get to.



I went to the toilet on the train

noticed a sign?i have never seen before,

it says 'do not flush while seated'

I got a picture in my mind of a woman

being sucked down the toilet

or trapped on there,

deciding whether to live with her embarrasement

or call for help.

Yea it could be an interesting job working on the trains

I sat back out side the toilet

sure enough before long a woman went in there,

and strangely

she is still in there now.



I came back to the centre
Got some food and mounted the steep short statue.
The electric violinist with the loop machine and all the top gear was still playing.

"That is a way up." I said to the man on a break from his office.
We both agreed he was good as we sat eating, looking down on him.
I felt the tears coming but pulled them back as I looked at all the young women around me.
"It makes you feel human, touches your soul." I said to him.
He kept looking at me for longer than he should.
As I left the last thing I said to him was.
"Time for the descent."



I walked along the river we walked at the same speed.
I did not know the river's name
And he did not know mine.

He will go much further than me
But I have been so far already.

If he waits
I will find him
At the sea



I went upstairs with my big Mac and fries

you can say what you want about Madonald's

at least it is quick?

no ordering

no waiting

no tips.

The eastern european woman took a shine to me and gave me an

extra barbecue sauce


I sat behind three girls

must have been about 14 or 15,

they started to talk about facebook

"He asked me to send a photo, then said he would send me one,

he sent me a picture of his dick,

like you are going to go out with them after that."

Things have sure changed since I was a teenager.

I got up and got going as I was fairly sure this big Mac

would be coming out soon

and I was fairly sure it will probably look the same on the way out.



I found a pair of pants on top of my big locker

looked like they had been up there awhile,

a big tyre mark through the centre.

I knew they were Jimmy's even before I asked him

this was his old room

and people here did things like that

and they were proud of them too.

I liked Jimmy

he said he came from the gorballs

some said

the worst estate in europe.

When he used to laugh

he looked like he was about to piss himself.

Over the years

I thought I would meet more Jimmy's

but I am still looking

Sad to say.




No poems shall I write today
None of hope or new chances.
No poems shall I write today of love.
No poems shall I write today that speak of the freshness of the air
The newness of the day.
No poems shall I write today of laughter.
No poems shall I write today of beauty.
No poems shall I write today.
No poems shall I write today.
No poems.
Not today.



There are a pair of pants on top of the small roof next to my toilet.
I know because I threw them there.
Sometimes people walk by
Talking about them
Like there were some tourist attraction.

Some people have flags of their country flying from their roofs.
I have a flag of underpants from the country of crazy crazy
And it is the only country for me.



Have you heard about the worst poet in the world
He tells people to F off on stage.
Goes to the mic drunk.
Makes fun of people.
turns up late or not at all.
if you haven't seen him
I have to confess.



As ride of the valkyres came on

I had an urge to leap from my chair

put my feet on the shoulders of the boy in front

and fly up into the air.

Push up around the dome of the royal albert hall

circling everybody as I soared above like a big bald eagle

and just for a second I was sure I could do it



Apri 1, 2016


See it all on YouTube!

link to John Roche hosting  at AWP

Left to Right: Our coordinator Teresa Mei Chuc, Gayle Lauradunn, Jules Nyquist,

Michael C. Ford, Beatlick Pamela Hirst, Michael Czarnecki, John Roche.

Beatlick Press table display at Pasadena Public Library




                               JOHN KNOLL

                           the mythological guru poet of pojoaque, nm

                REMEMBERING JOE

The need for money and fame didn’t interfere with Joe’s human connection
He was a man with a curious tongue and a fierce love of the ineffable
His loved a blonde Nashville woman who shared his poetic breath
He lived his convictions, I never saw him mad at anyone
For 22 years I was a member of his pleve
His humor incited reverence, made bad times hysterical

The acts he performed in the name of art were indeed hysterical
His mantra: Make another connection. Make another connection.
A Chameleon, Gypsy, Crow and a member of the Planetary Pleve
His life articulated a classic map of the enchanted ineffable
He was a professional Gypsy, not afraid to ride with anyone
To Joe the road was an undulating wave of angel breath

He most often greeted his friends with a poetic breath
Peach brandy on his breath, he loved the world hysterical
At a party for certain he would dance with anyone
Always yearning for that human connection that went beyond connection
A poet of the open road, he prayed to the ineffable
Word by word by word he created a poetic pleve

From  Albuquerque to Nashville to Machu Picchu clouds were his pleve
He said clouds are our Mother’s breath
Not the Mother who is your Mother but the Mother of the ineffable
His mad genius truly hysterical
A lamplighter switched on to the cosmic connection
His DNA encoded with the splendor of everyone, anyone

Look into his eyes and you might see anyone
Anyone and everyone was a member of his pleve
Thunder & Lightning his Arcadian connection
O to plant another kiss on his lips of brandy scented breath
Would be enough to make me hysterical
Impossible though to embrace and kiss the ineffable

Sound and wisdom in the beginning the end ineffable                                                                                                                                                                                   A compassionate man limitless in his care for everyone, anyone.
Gypsy Joe had a passion for the mystical hysterical
What grace to be a member of his pleve
Days with Joe encoded on my breath
Remembered walks through snow, the rainbow connection

Dead now our connection ineffable
Anyone who knew him laments the absence of his enchanting breath
Our pleve of cloud, man, rock, snow and ash hysterical in his absent embrace 


Here's another poem about Joe's unusual burial.

Beatlick Joe died on Jan. 25, 2017. A box of his A box of Beatlick Joe's ashes

was interred in a communal casket with 88 other souls.

                          JESSIE EHRENBERG
                                                                   Albuquerque, NM

                      MEMORIAL DAY


I once saw a Poet 

buried by a city,

he was the

featured event,

at a very special


it was a

sacred gathering,

it was an

act of

bureaucratic reverence,

a city showing a

social conscience.

It was the

“Interrring of the

Unclaimed Dead.”


It was true democracy,

Ashes to Ashes,


sharing the ground

with strangers.

a communal coffin

for a community of the dead.

It was  a gift from the living

for the known and the unknown,

a gift laid down in

a field of broken hearts.


And words were spoken

from hearts that never healed,

voices crying out with loss,

while the sun made

diamonds of their tears.

Tears made of memories

for the voice they longed to hear,

tears made of longing,

for the voice they never knew.


And when the wind had carried

the last farewell away,

when the last flower was laid,

the last prayer prayed,

when the last footsteps

were just impressions in the sand,


when the last of the cars,

like a train of sorrow,

had all driven back into the world,

and the dead

were left with the dead,


in the quiet,

the only sound

was the


steady breathing

of the land and the sky,

and maybe

the voice of a dead poet,

reading his way into the next world.



Poem seen hanging

in Lorca's last breath:


He eyes a Big Apple moon
Stops to ask directions
But there are none
The subway is lit
By a giant
Pumpkin head
He jabs at a
Shrunken head
On Wall Street
On his third day
In New York
He spies his muse
Through the eyes
Of a calico cat
Lying in an underground
Grotto with his corpse
Laid out on a block
Of ice
His corpse is her
A corpse with an Astral
The History of the
Future in her hands
She stands on a desert
Hill spotted with juniper
Dots and microphones
The Last Resort Casino
Neons the distance
She licks her feral lips
Ingests frozen moonlight.

Hungry Ghost

More More
More More More
More More More More

More More More More
More More More
More More


More More More

More More More More
More More More

Future Poetic Vision

Words transcend the myriads of thought.
Strange symbols appear in the rorschach inkblot.
Numbers become words as thoughts twisted.
The poet creates verse and feels gifted.
Strange parallel universes open up your mind.
In slipstream mode faster than light you see time.
Go beyond yourself into infinity.
Look towards a future of miniscule devices.
We have taken the cavemans vision of fire,
Into a higher plane towards laser beams and missles.
I whistle when I walk.
I use one-hundred percent of my brain when I talk.
Words are my weapon in a world full of hate.
Brief moments of total recollection help me meditate.
Words are zen as imagination flows through the pen.
Outerspace takes me beyond limited capability.
In a trance I dance on endless clouds.
On the stage I imagine wearing an indian shroud.
The shaman speaks to me in symbols.
In the stardust above my soul becomes composed of love.
Emotions scatter in space dust to all worlds.
Words slowly create a world beyond hate and death.
As I hover beyond this limited place,
I see gods face.


My words are on fire reaching a higher plane of existence.
Resistance is futile.
I will drive the imagination wild with vivid thoughts.
I will create plots better than Lucas before he sold out to Disney.
Give me your writers block and over used dark and stormy night lines.
It's time for a cosmic overhaul of words beyond this universe.
I'm ready to communicate with the aliens that NASA say's don't exist.
Verbal messiah, I want to be the Jesus of the modern novel.
With words that connect and subject the reader to a higher philosophy:
I will explain the atrocities that plague our minds.
In time I will be written about in history books like a modern day Neitzsche.
The difference is that I know the world is good and kind.
We are tired of the overman speeches.
Humanity wants peace in our time before the new stairs of death are done.
As the sum of all thoughts in one,
The populace becomes numb to political lies from all the leaders.
There is a revolution and it's happening now.
We don't need guns.
We won't hurt anyone.
Our captors in suits and ties have already done this in D.C..
Most of us believe in a world without unjust laws.
Yearning for an end to war mongers flawed:
Our ideas are perfect in every thought.
Writers and dreamers unite with John Lennon as a symbol of hope.
As the broken pieces of America decimated by lies,
We are despised for knowing the truth.
Verbal messiah one and all if one falls another rises.
This is the peaceful revolution.

Brian Burchette




Publish the deserving!





Click on underlined names to find more info.

Writers published
by Beatlick Press:

GL Brower


John Knoll


Jules Nyquist


John Roche


Beatlick Joe Speer


Paul A. Speer


Teresa Speer

Mia Kirsi Stageberg


Jerry Zimmerman 


*    *   *

Writers published

Terry Alvarez

Reed Adair Bobroff

Joanne Bodin

Gary L. Brower

Wendy       Brown-Báez

Pamela C. Drapala

David Coy

Deborah Coy

Hanna Coy

Mary Dudley

Catherine Ferguson

Olivia Gatwood

Jennifer Givhan

Larry Goodell

Taylor Graham

Kenneth P. Gurney

Dale Harris

Brian Hendrickson


Jennifer Lynn Krohn

Maria L. Leyba

Adrian C. Louis

Anne MacNaughton

Amalio Madueño

Alissa Magorian

E. A. “Tony” Mares’

Robert Masterson

Les Merton

Merimée Moffitt

Carol Moscrip

Jules Nyquist

Suzanne Ondrus

Susan I. Paquet

Margaret Randall

John Roche

    Georgia       Santa Maria

Marilyn Stablein

Richard Vargas

Binah Waite-Williams

Stewart S. Warren

Neal Wilgus

Richard Wolfson

Writers published in Mo' Joe Anthology

Sam Abrams

Francisco X. Alarcón

John Ashbaugh

Steve Aushermann

Hakim Bellamy

Larry Belle

"Laughing Larry” Berger

Julie Blue

Joe Bottone

Rich Boucher

Sarah Brinklow

Richard Broderick

Julie SuZaNNe BroKKeN

Michele Brown

Monty Campbell, Jr.

Alan Casline

Teresa Mei Chuc

Norm Davis

Susan Deer Cloud

Steve Coffman

Timothy J. Cook

Anne C. Coon

Deborah Coy

Craig Czury

Carolyn Czarnecki

Michael Czarnecki

Jim Daniels

Martha Deed

Steven Deridder

Lori Desrosiers

Sean Thomas Dougherty

George Drew

Nicolas Eckerson

Jesse Ehrenberg

Michael C. Ford

Philip Frisk

Teresa E. Gallion

Brian Garrison

Geoffrey Gatza

Lisa Gill

Kimberly Glemboski

Vincent F. A. Golphin

Larry Goodell

Dane R. Gordon

Steve Greene

Kenneth P. Gurney

Vijali Hamilton

William Heyen

Pamela Adams Hirst, a.k.a Beatlick Pamela

Patrick Houlihan

Doug Holder

Tom Holmes

Amy Jackson

Mary Strong Jackson

Kitty Jospé


Herb Kauderer

Danny Kerwick

Michael Ketchek

Mary Elizabeth Lang

Gayle Lauradunn

Alice Lee

Wayne Lee

Stephen Lewandowski

Lyn Lifshin

Gerald McCarthy

Robert E. McDonough

Karla Linn Merrifield

Les Merton

Michael Meyerhofer

Basia Miller

Merimée Moffitt

Carol Moscrip

Bill Nevins

Simone Nikkole

Lori Nolasco

Bruce Noll

Maril Nowak

Jules Nyquist

Mark W. O'Brien, aka: obeedúid~

Sarai Oviedo

Chad Parenteau

Don Paul

Teresa Peipins

Pat Pendleton

Carla Perry

Rick Petrie

Colleen Powderly

Randy Prus

Margaret Randall

     Lynette         Reini-Grandell

John Roche

Charlie Rossiter

Helen Ruggieri

Jane Sadowsky

    Georgia        Santa Maria

Joe St. Martin

Wanda Schubmehl

Gretchen A. Schulz

G. E. (Gerald) Schwartz

Peggy Seely

Adam Sinesiou

Diane Smith

Jack Bradigan Spula

Eugene Stelzig

Eleanor Grogg Stewart

Paulette Swartzfager

Steve Tills

Martha Treichler

George Wallace

Stewart S. Warren

Judy Wells

Bart White

David White

Fred Whitehead

Dwain Wilder

A.D. Winans

Patricia Youngs

Leah Zazulyer

Ryki Zuckerman


Writers published in VALUE Anthology

 Mikki Aronoff

Meg Baldrige

Joanne Bodin

Dee Cohen

Deborah Woodside Coy

Sylvia Ramos Cruz

Mary Dezember

Mary Dudley

Teresa A. Gallion

Thelma A. Giomi

Dale Harris

Pamela Adams Hirst

Gayle Lauradunn

Merimee Moffett

Carol Moscrip

Susan Paquet

Sharon Pines

Denise Weaver Ross

Janet Ruth

Barbara Shaffer

Mia Kirsi Stageberg

Betty Lou Williams

Judy Wells

Holly Wilson

Emma Wisdom



Dorothy Alexander

Megan Baldrige

Shirley Blackwell

Joanne S. Bodin, Ph.D.

Rich Boucher

Lauren Camp

Gregory L. Candela

Dr. Maria Chavez

Gracie Conway Panousis

Star Coulbrooke

Barbara Cowles

David Lavar Coy

Deborah Coy

Susy Crandall

Victoria Crawford

Casey Derengowski

Karen Downs-Barton

Mary Dudley, Ph.D.

Janet Eigner

Joseph A. Farina

Jeanne M. Favret

Rina Ferrarelli

Linda Flaherty Haltmaier

Teresa E. Gallion

Iris Gersh

Thelma Giomi, Ph.D.

Curtis Hayes

John Hicks

Steven Hendrix

Juleigh Howard-Hobson

Faith Kaltenbach


Mary Ellen Kelly

Sally Kimball

Sreekanth Kopuri, Ph.D.

Jennifer Lagier

Mary Elizabeth Lang

Gayle Lauradunn

Wayne Lee

Elaine Leith

Lennart Lundh

Kathy Lundy Derengowski

Jennifer Maloney

John Macker

Catfish McDaris

Daniel McGinn

Mary McGinnis

Caryl McHarney

Kelly Morgan

Valarie Morris

Carol Moscrip

Joseph Murray

Bill Nevins

Suzanne Niedzielska, Ph.D.

Jim Nye

Jules Nyquist

Mary Oertel-Kirschner

Marilyn C. O’Leary

Marmika Paskiewicz

Andi Penner

Bernadette Perez

Karen Petersen

Sylvia Ramos Cruz

Wendy Rainey

Jim Ransom

Janet Ruth

Miriam Sagan

Georgia Santa-Maria

Anne Shaughnessy

Larry Schulte

Janet Simon

Mary Strong Jackson

Richard Vargas

Scott Wiggerman

Martin Willitts, Jr.

Holly Wilson

Andrena Zawinski