“I believe that the people right now are hurting and hunting for something. The writers are drawing on the past and what made this country what our forefathers had envisioned. Something got lost somewhere and we are all confused. We all hurt right now, even if we’re not sure exactly why. Putting our finger on the pulse is the problem.” — Beacon Poetry Editor Billy Hands
by Bill Batcher
(with apologies to Emma Lazarus)
I thank all those who opened up the gate
when my ancestors sailed across the seas.
Escaping war, religious bigotries,
my fathers took the risk to immigrate
to where they could live free. But now I hear
the cry to shut the door, turn off the torch
and pull the welcome mat from off the porch.
I’m sure that when my family appeared
on an embracing nation’s brilliant shore,
among those who had arrived before
were many who through ignorance and fear,
felt some discomfort seeing my folks here.
But still the New Colossus welcomed all.
The nation didn’t vote to build a wall.
A Mother’s Plea/Parkland
by Carol Deistler, Springs
An anguished howl
From a wounded soul
That will make a difference
A shattering screech
Of convulsive pain
Met with mumbled answers
Now is not the time
First we must heal
But how do you stanch
An open wound
That will bleed forever
Love bursts from the heart
Its object now gone
Burns a hole in the heart
We’ve been incinerated
Please do something
Bill Batcher is an author and poet who lives at Peconic Landing in Greenport. Carol Deistler lives in Springs and is currently working on a novel.
The Beacon is accepting poetry submissions, which may be emailed to firstname.lastname@example.org.