If you’d met him on a Greyhound bus in 1962 he’d have asked you to look out for Kerouac on every corner or find Mickey Mouse beneath a palm tree sweeping streets with brooms that danced themselves to life at parties just for you If he was drunk he’d drizzle Steinback over Shakespeare, float O’Casey’s Irish brogue on top of Tennessee, and wait for Godot with you if you got lonely on the carpet in your underwear and cowboy hat. Later he’d pour method into Montague, muddle warnings up with wanderlust, be once again Big … Continue reading My Father the Mixologist by Mara Lee Grayson→
The portraits of Nigerian artist Sholanke Boluwatife Emmanuel reveal his empathy, respect and sensitivity to his subjects. “The suffering and resilience of every African child raised from a poor family background is a theme that resonates deeply with me. I aim to highlight the struggles and triumphs that define our lives,” he says. Initially, Boluwatife says, he didn’t plan to pursue art, discouraged by the street artists he saw. Then, in 2011 in primary school at Holy Trinity School in Ogun state, his teachers and classmates encouraged young Boluwatife to draw. In secondary … Continue reading Portraits by Nigerian Artist Sholanke Boluwatife Emmanuel→
Etymology uncertain. That is how the dictionary deals with the origins of the word gradoo, tip-toeing lightly around a word you wouldn’t want to step in. Pronounced graw-doo with the accent on doo, as in Scooby-Doo and Yabba Dabba Doo, a colloquialism from the South, the dictionary says. Ahh! No surprise there. It’s not Connecticut yankees throwing a word like that around if classier terms are available. Which brings up the question of what, exactly, is gradoo. Back to the dictionary again: crud, filth, garbage, gunk; burnt mess stuck to the bottom of a pot. … Continue reading Gradoo by Richard Key→
Nonna tends Dad and Auntie in three room railroad flat; Bathtub in kitchen, 3′ x 5′ plywood tabletop, fridge at foot of bed, toilet in outside hallway with overhead waterbox and cold, wet chain hanging for the flush that suburban cousin Gina never could figure out how to use. Nonna fork-kneads one-inch pillows of dough filled with cheese, parsley, and beef. Tasted wonderful, even if too-many eggs and over-cooking meant they fell apart in grease-speckled broth. “Al Dente” could have been an opera singer, for all Nonna knew. She could not cook Italian: The ravioli … Continue reading Love Not Cheaply by Giancarlo Malchiodi→
You and your wife are sitting in your therapist’s waiting room. You look at the door, paranoid that someone you know will come in and you’ll attempt to cover up your embarrassment with small talk—small talk in a small town—your voice quavering in that high-pitched lilt that broadcasts your self-consciousness, with your oblique attempts at humor that only you chuckle at. And not talk about why you’re here, though you’ll know that he’ll know why you’re each here, and you will both wonder what, precisely, is the other’s why. And then you will have … Continue reading We All Have Our Problems E. H. Jacobs→
The train whistle trumpets its warning. I watch the woods, meadows and marshland slowly morph into urban views and city skylines. Washington. Baltimore. Philadelphia. Newark. New York will be next. The best of memories surface as I approach Manhattan, the captivating city for which I feel a claim and abiding affection. What, I wonder, does it take to be considered a New Yorker. My first memories of the city date from the 1940s, a formative time and closeness to my parents. We lived on Seventeenth Street near Stuyvesant Park where my mother took me … Continue reading To Be a New Yorker by Elizabeth Meade Howard→
Because we didn’t ask Abraham to do anything we wouldn’t do ourselves. We don’t owe him any explanation. Let him think it’s revenge in advance for when kids snitch on parents. We know it’s a kid who kicked off the Salem witch hunt. We knew Shylock’s daughter ran off with his ducats, that kids would accuse their mothers’ boyfriends of all kinds of crime to keep them apart, then set fire to City Hall: We already planned to replace it with cheap dwellings all the way from South Street to High. We knew revenge in … Continue reading We Need Appointments to See Friends by Gerald Yelle→
With all due respect, Mr. William Carlos Williams, it’s not the red wheelbarrow on which so much depends. It’s the cinder block car wash glazed with rainbow foam beside the Handlebar Grill in Great Bend, Kansas. I’ve seen it in the setting sun as I watched Red River Valley clay, carried up from Texas, make runnels off my rented pickup. You don’t go having mystical experiences in Kansas. At least that’s what I’d heard. What was it Dorothy said when she opened the Technicolor door? “I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.” By which … Continue reading To See the Universe in Cinderblock by Alex Joyner→
My father stared at me like a rose full of lint. He was wondering how living haunted me, spreading through my face and body, how it serenaded me like a black shadow, this slice of stench, this mound of nausea. I told him that I would get married to her, the love of my life, the lint of my universe, the one whose smile cracked Heaven open, the only woman whose carcass cleaned me. When she lived, my parents hated her; my mother believed she had no home training; my father thought she did not … Continue reading A Dead Love by Chibuike Ukah→
We are excited to announce the Streetlight Poetry Contest winners for this year. But first, several observations: we are pleased with your response of 106 entries comprising 290 poems. As we have previously noted, all poems are read by each of us independently. Then, through consultation and often multiple re-readings, we arrive at the most poignant and well-crafted poems. But we also want to emphasize that, being poets ourselves, we recognize and appreciate the creative effort of each entrant and in a sense, each poem. We want to encourage each of you to persevere … Continue reading Poetry Contest Winners for 2025 by Sharon Ackerman and Fred Wilbur→
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