Arts & Culture

Poetic License

By Liam Woodworth-Cook

poetic licenseHello. We are running the mill again. Shooting the bark and dusting off gloves. Sidewalk slippery and sun slinking. Do you sulk? Do you capture the light? Do you ski? Would you like tea?

IF you answered any of those questions or did not respond/question the questionnaire; The Beacon would love to have your poetry. Email or attend the bi-weekly writers meetings. To welcoming us back, we have a winter mix poem from myself, poems by Magella Cantara and Jessica Gibson.

By Liam Woodworth-Cook

This is winter now, my hands dry as if salt bathed, only freeze is the culprit.
I shake hands with unseen storms. My density tropical I sag to sands to hide. Shelter me now.
Lather cream, still my hands flake, crumbled dust of cliffedge years.
All things fall prey to the ice tooth. I den, dipping darkness across my Iberian cheek.
These serpent storms swallow my lonely holes. As if to pull apart a curtain, yet the shreds are only the Atlantic, and my swimming is only to show myself I cannot find ground to stand.
This is punched asphalt pit season, I get a birthday card. Another, another. Each run of the sun illuminates the cheap package stuffed potholes of body. Plot holes orbital, potholes tactic My rainforest sobs as if calling storms to color.
With winter wisp wicked my lips crack as if to say all my words shall break on the floor.
This is winter now, when rhythm is brittle chatter to sew my hands back on

Night Time Shoveler
By Liam Woodworth-Cook

I am the night time shoveler,
freezing pins into dedicated grasp,
I am the faint kitchen light
on all night,
washing myself,
I am the basin,
I am the night time shoveler
hauling my lungs against hail.
I am the tormentor, whomever’s closet I stand,
I am the clean and dried dish,
awaiting soil,
I am the rag sitting for two days
on tiled bathroom floor,
I am the chauffeur, driving what I cannot afford,
I am the Proletariat, you’ve heard
the working poor?
I am the night time shoveler,
Massachusetts to Maine,
I am the night time shoveler
heaving his way.

By Magella Cantara

I could tell you about her
about the tattoo on her collarbone
about her insecurities
and oh my god the way she could draw
how she quoted so effortlessly
“Art isn’t a talent it’s a skill”
I could tell you about her
Who she wants to be who she wishes to be
And who she really is
the one who paints fire on her jeans and goes thrifting
The way she sketched skeletons on my back drawing them out of the closet where she would’ve rather stayed about how close we once were how she found people with more to offer her
I could tell you about her but she’s left me with not a damn thing to say.

By Magella Cantara

My lips were ducking underneath your jaw,
staining your neck with a near perfect
So now that you’ve left I hope that stain
tucks into you like the way you moved
when we tickled each other.
There was smile and laughter in every
moment between us.
In every “I love you” I like to
believe I’ll continue too but time doesn’t allow it.
So now I’m here alone running my fingers
along my own jaw taking in the memory
of us, of you.

By Jessica Gibson

We are all flowers,
We have our own beauty.
Our own colors unique to us.
Together we create a magnificent garden,
Apart we are a lone wonder.

Who are you to discriminate?
Who are you to say that one flower is better?
You yourself are different from the other flowers,
You yourself must accept the differences,
To love them, for they are you.

Without them, we are clones.
Sameness driving us in circles
As clones you’ll get nowhere
As your own unique person, along with others you’ll make magnificent discoveries.

Categories: Arts & Culture

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