By Liam Woodworth-Cook
It is 1 am. It might as well be 3 am. Perhaps midnight. The snow is falling on this Tuesday night as the clocks enter January 30th. I’ve shut my math homework and still the night’s work is before me. Philip Glass has gotten me through the last several nights of writing. Again, his compositions march into my ear as if an alien spaceship landing. The opera of misfitted words. The keyboard’s looping in circles, I am turning around and shrinking while the room expands and, all the same, I am lurching forward. The flailing results are more words, more pages. I remove my watch, the band of sweat tastes oxygen. I do not tally my caffeine intake of the last day, nor tally hours of sleep in the past 3 nights. One is a large number, tiny in milligrams, and the other an integer I don’t need, for the obvious exhaustion is felt. The Beacon is always looking for writers, and if you wish to submit any poetry please email me at email@example.com. Apologies for a typo in our last edition, we featured a poem by Jessica Gipson, not Gibson. We have included a reprint with the correct name.
Grateful By Liam Woodworth-Cook
(or that little smile stepping into the car)
Deep drink of lung smut.
An occasion of lighting past
On the current path.
We settle in, after we’ve left the shields and words alone,
Then there is pulse.
As if to say, O yes, do not forget this is here.
For it lives
when shattering defenses, when bursting
It is when the genuine is de-robed of false creator’s tongue,
And I drink my soothing remedy.
Out from the bone stock soup.
I’ve remembered to let myself down from the tiptoe no one told me to start.
Heels landing, almost as if laying my head.
By Magella Cantara
Tonight my flowers are struggling
They’re thriving through a cracked glass of ice that was once coffee
Earlier this afternoon my flowers breathed carefully through their last cigarette
My flowers week was long and exhausting for this is their midlife.
Struggling, demanding to be dependent on caffeine, breathing suicide, and being lovers with exhaustion.
This is their midlife that they’re content with.
A life they have come to know and understand.
To get to this middle life each of their petals have been cut like a project.
A project they were proud to create and build not for their world but themselves.
These scarred petals of mine in their midlife is an endeavor of survival
As long as their roots are bleeding, their petals are being carved my flowers and
I will not tolerate struggle, dependency, suicide or love for exhaustion not tonight in this midlife.
Daddy Does Cocaine
A little girl sits at the dining room table, listening to her grandmother talk about her father,
“Virginia, I cannot believe you were married to the bastard, he wont stop doing cocaine.”
She knows nothing about what this is, but she knows her father gets in trouble a lot.
She knows her father went to “time out” for giving people lots of cocaine.
Little girl goes to her first day of school, she finally made it to third grade!
Her father is not there to put her on the bus, she assumes he is doing cocaine.
The little girl can finally visit with her father, oh how she missed him putting her on his shoulders, She looks underneath a loose floorboard and finds what she finally now knows as “cocaine”.
Little girl grabs the phone to call her mom, and tells her she found something dad was hiding.
Later, the police come and take daddy like he’s a bad man, all for having some cocaine.
It was Valentine’s Day, they were supposed to be making cards!
She had so many ideas, now her day is lost due to cocaine.
Dad missed more birthdays then he was there for, but when Sidney got her first cell phone,
He accidentally texts her, asking if she wants to buy some cocaine.
Little girl is not so little anymore, she goes to her first party at the age of sixteen,
She is having such a fun time, until someone asks her to try some cocaine.
She puts her nose to the table and breathes in a thousand snowflakes,
She still does not understand why her dad loved her less than cocaine.
By Jessica Gipson
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.
To You By Celina Simmons
yyou are vindictive.
you are selfish.
you are pain.
you use people.
you use yourself.
you used me.
you hate the world
for what it blessed you
and saw it as a curse.
you wont face the truth
so you spit it back.
everything you are
you label everyone else.
everything you hate
is all you see
in this world.
but i cant help you.
i could never help you.
i am letting you go
you will do the same.
you hurt me.
i hate you
because i love you.
youll never read this, but this is my goodbye