Ars Poetica by Trudy Hale
The forsythia outside my window has given up the brilliant citrus yellow and is fading back to the sticky green leaves. I am trying to hold a dull panic at bay. My aim is to steady myself, my nerves. I do not want to doom scroll exhaustively, rants and laments of our country’s frightening descent into chaos. Look out your window, I tell myself. Write about the forsythia’s brave first burst that ushers in the redbuds’ purple halo. See the lime green of spring grass and tiny leaves. In Dostoevsky’s The Brothers’ Karamazov, Ivan, the … Continue reading Ars Poetica by Trudy Hale
We Have Winning Essays by Susan Shafarzek
The annual contest is a big event here at Streetlight‘s essay/memoir section. We never know what our invitation is going to bring, but it’s always interesting. This year we’ve been especially fortunate. Our first prize winner is Christopher Ghattas. His brilliant essay, “Final Thoughts,” is at once a narrative, a reaction, and a meditation, full of sharp wisdom and surprising humor. Our second prize winner, Ruth Knesevich, takes her inspiration “From a Persian Kitchen.” In an essay both culinary and emotional, she brings us the essence of a rich culture. It’s a culinary delight. Third … Continue reading We Have Winning Essays by Susan Shafarzek
The Radiant Reach of Heat by Ken Holland
As if to be human is to seek the warmth of another body, ……………………………………………..skin and the course of blood beneath The blood beneath the skin of a city street, how it gives back ……………………………………………..the heat when dusk untethers from the sun’s radiant reach The radiant reach of the heat rising from the skin of the street ……………………………………………..as would any figure of lonely drift and form A form that you meet in the shape of its heat ……………………………………………..and carry into the cool clime of dawn. Ken Holland has been widely published in literary journals and nominated … Continue reading The Radiant Reach of Heat by Ken Holland
Our Age of Irony by Fred Wilbur
What is the color of irony? This may be a silly notion, but we have given color designations to various kinds of writing. Yellow Journalism (today’s Clickbait) was a term given to (mostly) eye-catching newspaper headlines and sensationally exaggerated stories. Purple Prose describes overly ornate or elaborate writing which draws attention to itself by excessive use of adjectives, adverbs, and contorted metaphors to the detriment of the message. Blue Prose is writing of a decidedly vulgar nature relying on overly sexual suggestion. But there are some positive colors as well! They may not be as … Continue reading Our Age of Irony by Fred Wilbur
Emily as She Ate the Flower by Darren Demaree
If you can fit the beauty in your mouth what makes you brave, to spit it out or to let the giver of gifts see you make it yours forever? I’m not afraid of disappearing, but Emily shows me all the time that when I make an offer she will accept it until one of us has empty hands extended & the other counts lips as a promise to the bloom. Darren Demaree’s poems have appeared, or are scheduled to appear, in numerous magazines/journals, including Hotel Amerika, Diode, North American Review, New Letters, Diagram, and … Continue reading Emily as She Ate the Flower by Darren Demaree
Asa Fowler by Miles Fowler
I am leery of ancestor worship, but the more I research the history of my great-great grandfather, Asa Fowler, the more I find admirable about him. He was born the youngest of a dozen children on a farm in Pembroke, N.H. in the year 1811. A sickly boy, he was only able to do light farm work, and it was determined early on that he should become a teacher. So, he was sent to the local academy in Pembroke, where he turned out to be an excellent student. After leaving the academy, Asa went to … Continue reading Asa Fowler by Miles Fowler
My Husband Texting by Maureen Clark
he texts me a photograph of the bear scat he found under the chokecherry bush which is bent to the ground stripped on one side of all its red berries but a black bear in our civilized back yard does it mean drought in the foothills does it mean boredom and the need for adventure does it mean the smell of those little red berries can travel for miles or does it mean apocalypse who can say perhaps it means we aren’t alone here perhaps it means we need to clear the vines from the … Continue reading My Husband Texting by Maureen Clark
Cicadian Rhythm by Quincy Gray McMichael
Quincy Gray McMichael has earned an Honorable Mention in Streetlight’s 2024 Essay/Memoir Contest As I stretch my shoulders, arms aloft, the Monongahela Forest yawns through a narrow split in the trees. Across the road from where I sit, the tranquil understory draws my eye past the weathered porch railing, my ever-growing grass, baby blueberries, high-tensile farm fence, and the last lilac bush. I spot a fiery flash among the scrub and shadows, a thin flag of tabby-tail above the green. Shredder, the orange cat, shoots from the underbrush and across the gravel—a one-lane road … Continue reading Cicadian Rhythm by Quincy Gray McMichael
Becoming by Bill Glose
When the ceramic tile shattered, I was ashamed I hadn’t cared better for this piece of art created by a friend, one part of a quadriptych. All I saw was the void beneath two nail holes in my bathroom wall, beauty of the other three tiles lessened by more than a mere fourth. When I swept the floor and gathered shards on a plastic plate, I was reminded that all vanity is temporary. We consist of borrowed parts, atoms born in distant stars that comprised a billion things before becoming us. Who was I to … Continue reading Becoming by Bill Glose
Comfort in the Unknown by Emily Littlewood
Like a lot of people, I’ve dealt with health issues my whole life. I have cystic fibrosis, which comes with a cornucopia of symptoms, like deteriorating ability to breathe, IV antibiotics, collapsed lungs, port-a-caths and, oh right, a double lung transplant. I’ve done my best to roll with the punches, especially after being given a second chance at life, but then, a few months ago at forty-two, I woke up completely unable to control my hand. I’m not sure if the fact that my limp hand was completely useless was just so weird, or because … Continue reading Comfort in the Unknown by Emily Littlewood