Arts & Culture

Poetic License

Disclaimer: This week’s Poetic License contains strong language that may be offensive for some readers.

Brisk wind brisk wind brisk wind brisk wind. Shiver shiver shiver shiver. Pour pour pour. Snowball.

We are at the cave, the chasm, it is wide. It pulls us despite our skidding boots. The curtain of early night falls alongside the Atlantic. Simon & Garfunkel keep the time, despite our subways only being buses with minor plastic shelter. Someone makes a couch out of a bench, the comforter pulled over them as we read poetry beside the restaurant’s cooking oil drums. We feel the heat vent and say a blessing.

The air is of roasted bird, mourning the deaths when the plague of settlers arrived.

And the students bundle haphazardly awaiting December. Heat the fire, use the page as kindling and the pen as flame.

You can reach out for poetry submissions by contacting the Beacon or emailing me at This edition has a few poems from Magella, myself, and a student I met through a homeschooling co-op, Etain Brown.

By Etain Brown
A love poem to ballet.
Left hand on the barre, First position,
Soft music plays,
My worries float away.
From tendu to fondu,
I think of how I love you.

By Etain Brown


By Magella Cantara

Sitting on this parking deck
The lights are dim reflecting
Off of another
Spring downpour
I’m inhaling and exhaling
Every memory
That was created here
Pushing them down
My throat even when
They are refusing to
Let me breathe
My tears have made
Their way to the
Gutter of my
Open palms
As the wind
Pulls at my
Hair like a messy bun
my skin
is scraping away
At the times you touched
In between my thighs so
Gently or
Up my ribs kissing
My neck it all felt so safe.
So okay.
Now nothing is okay.
I am just here, without
Your body left in this
Fucking rain on
This parking deck all
By myself and I’m only
Beginning to
Understand that
I am the reason for this
moment on the concrete
In a worn out flannel
With no socks or shoes that
I deserve to feel utterly
alone in.
So if I could have all of you
Again I would be sure
Not to mistaken
Your troubled mind
For a good heart


By Magella Cantara
If there’s anything
I’ve learned about ghosts
It’s that if they come
back they will never be there
for you as if they
were real.

By Liam Woodworth-Cook
Woodstove heat press on the unwinding wires
culture sits hungry on belly for change
the shirt unbuttons for the unfolding of tomorrow
conversation pieces rummage thro pages
filtering topics like hats on head
the fan gently slicing the dry bone
of a parched room

Acorn Hatch
By Liam Woodworth-Cook

by revoking the    wait, ground                  -ing

enter what is

This hurricane month,               my moth has seen the

flame a lie!

All my      


gravity has                      beckoned.

A bug’s life,

I wrapped a sudden                  



my acorns tousling

became                            hatched.

When You Visited We Stole Away Undressed Baskets From The Grocer
By Liam Woodworth-Cook

Plums. Apricots. Sherry. Crimson & crazed cranberry cushions.
I shall spell the fruits correctly.
Little whisper like cherries suckaling. Apples twisting off branch. Grazing tongue lords lofty pillow light. Crack snackle of doors busting like dropped jam. Thick sticky. Vibrato in spirals, voice as the color of ice cream droplets, on that, that sunny day.
Smooth rock slate in wet.
A ruckus of strings above this gloomy cave drops floorboards while our notes of portraits portray solids solidifying as orogenesis crust. A bread rise of it’s own.
Chocolate, you sang to me despite my father’s tooth. Holding a grin I have teeth smirk.
Laden in orange scarves of fire’s mixture the perfume arouses.
A tongue, you won’t lose. It flocks of being, admirable desire the waves clear and clinging ocean’s salt.
My whispered thoughts cackle.
We are cat hunting one another. Cat stretching, let us wink in unpeeling a ceremony of pheromones.
The smell of;  hair, juice.
Cunt.             Not foul, fool, a delicate emersion of soft fruits.
Lush skin. Papaya. Peach.
Love of thee. Crisp sweat holding wet spoonfuls.


Categories: Arts & Culture

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