Street Light Press
Street Light Press is looking for poetry that moves us. We don’t care for elaborate use of language–give us your real, your raw, and your intimate. The work that you write and hideaway because it feels too fragile to share with the rest of the world, that’s what we want.
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A Guide to Lighthouses
By Ajay Kumar
The closest
I’ve been to becoming
a lighthouse
is when a firefly stumbled
into my wet mouth devoid
of planetary bodies
strength of sand mares
but full of sores I swallow
strepsils like a setting sun-
The second closest
I’ve been is when
the fireball avatar
of desire
climbed my body
like a lighthouse-keeper
climbs his temple
& looks bright towards the sea
through my eyes
I was glowing-
Now
I am yet to measure
the distance to the lighthouse
from it
solitary on a rock but dark
constellated questions in the shape
of questions-
at least I think I am
the closest I’ve ever been
to understanding
what a lighthouse really
means.
Ajay Kumar is a student and writer based in Chennai, India. His works have been published or are forthcoming in The Bangalore Review, ScarletLeaf Review, and The Medley among others.
Skyscraper
Heather Lee Rogers
While you work
I have eaten
the skyscraper
and the elevator
of your love is built
to slowly lumber
from my big toe up up
to our penthouse suite
my mouth is full
of scaffolding
the metal tastes
like blood. I
roll my tongue
around it as I wait
to hear you hear you
slowly climbing
each floor chiming
up the hungry distance
of my legs.
Heather Lee Rogers compulsively tells stories as a writer and an actor in NYC. Her poems have appeared in the following printed and online publications: The Rat’s Ass Review, Harbinger Asylum, Here Comes Everyone (UK), Leopardskin & Limes, El Portal S/Tick, Waterways, Adanna Literary Journal, Jersey Devil Press, and Adelaide Lit Magazine, etc. More of her work can be read at heatherleerogerspoetry.com
July 15, 2020
Planetary Orbits
By Ajay Kumar
Out of nowhere they appear
the Garba dancers
around October, around Dussehra
like slugs made sometime May,
or frogs, that incarnate in monsoon,
that you guess rode a raindrop
& fell from the sky. The dancers
are dressed in gold red black white
standing under the stars
in constellation-politics, switching
alliances but with finity, partners
reunite before the song ends-
The dandiya sticks clap tap & kiss
in rhythm, the girls they smile
in dance like nowhere else, the boys
feel like torchlight-discovered attic
dust. Did you know, dandiya is slang
for gay people? No, I didn’t
but can imagine, & the girls,
they are whores, I’ve seen their
faces under the red-light of Budhwar Peth
Really? Yes! & the big guy in the middle,
their pimp. Really? Yes! I look at the
octobery sky, the stars just are
unveiled now, otherwise cityfog-hid
in a distance, the shapes in them
are myths, their power divided by zero-
Imagine, if stars twinkled at heartbeat, how
bright would it be and then how dark.
Ajay Kumar is a student and writer based in Chennai, India. His works have been published or are forthcoming in The Bangalore Review, ScarletLeaf Review, and The Medley among others.
Ithaca Bus
Heather Lee Rogers
Oh you.
My drive-by kiss
my sweet ice cream
got me on this
bus-or-bust
to see your heart-work
hung up, celebrated
your mom, your kids,
the love-of-your-life,
and look-ma-ME
hanging together
by loose threads there
in your post-punk gallery
rain-stained but
smiling sunshine
we’ll adopt our
best behavior
for our sweet
imperfect savior
and this rag-tag band
will play your song
out loud (too loud)
in different keys
but all together
now 1,2,3
and all I really
need to know
is I love you
and you love me.
Heather Lee Rogers compulsively tells stories as a writer and an actor in NYC. Her poems have appeared in the following printed and online publications: The Rat’s Ass Review, Harbinger Asylum, Here Comes Everyone (UK), Leopardskin & Limes, El Portal S/Tick, Waterways, Adanna Literary Journal, Jersey Devil Press, and Adelaide Lit Magazine, etc. More of her work can be read at heatherleerogerspoetry.com
Umbrella
By Heather Lee Rogers
The water bottle
is not an umbrella
still it rains
despite my thirst
since you happened
I forget things
I meant to grab
the umbrella
a bleak, Fall rain
the seasons
must have changed
when you undressed me
now Summer’s cooled
and you have cooled
remember now
that moment when
the happy patter of
words keeping pace,
the easy rainfall
of your songs
broke silent
cold
now broken Fall
Heather Lee Rogers compulsively tells stories as a writer and an actor in NYC. Her poems have appeared in the following printed and online publications: The Rat’s Ass Review, Harbinger Asylum, Here Comes Everyone (UK), Leopardskin & Limes, El Portal S/Tick, Waterways, Adanna Literary Journal, Jersey Devil Press, and Adelaide Lit Magazine, etc. More of her work can be read at heatherleerogerspoetry.com
Winter
By Lisa McMonagle
Through the window
I watched you kiss her,
relieved to finally see
what you told me
I was only imagining.
My hands shook
so hard I could not
turn the door knob.
I sat on the gray
porch step that Saturday
night in early November,
the wind blew from the west
through the eaves
of the little bungalow,
swirling under the raised
wooden porch floor
where stray animals
sheltered during the winter,
and you only knew
they were there
by their tracks,
though that year
there wasn’t much snow.
How could I know
how mild it would be
when the cold came
so early?
Lisa McMonagle’s poems have appeared in The Women’s Review of Books, West Branch, Word Fountain, the Ekphrastic Review, Third Wednesday, and Eclectica Magazine. She lives in State College, PA.
By Lisa McMonagle
Derelict
After countless summers
going to seed, in a yard
wild with waist-high weeds,
the abandoned farmhouse
sits forlorn. Clapboard siding
stripped by wind and rain,
sun-bleached, grain carved
like bone. A screen door,
tethered by one hinge
to the frame, slants,
off balance. Shutters hang
on either side of windows,
jagged rectangles boys
lobbed stones through,
just for the joy of hearing
glass break.
Lisa McMonagle’s poems have appeared in The Women’s Review of Books, West Branch, Word Fountain, the Ekphrastic Review, Third Wednesday, and Eclectica Magazine. She lives in State College, PA.
Bastica y Convento de San Francisco
By KJ
KJ is a poet and short story writer who has recently moved from Pacific Northwest to Arizona. KJ is a published writer whose work can be found in such publications as Burningwood Literary Journal, Cirque, and Shark Reef, and anthologies such as Last Call.
I.
half-block cobbled courtyard crowded with Catholic
school children, identical in sweat suit and stature.
Indigenous women pushing two-sol burnt peanuts, dried banana.
Pigeon flocks startle, settle, feathers float down
decorating all length of hair. Inside, the Monastery walls
in blue-glazed Moorish tiles, wooden stalls where Monks
stood for hours, leaned against carved heads
with crotch level tongues hanging, waiting. Two-story
fantasy library, twin spiral stairways leading to shelf
upon shelf of dust colored books, the DNA of centuries
crumbling their pages. Giant calligraphic music books
fonts to be read by cantors 20 feet away. De la Puente’s
Last Supper a table of guinea pig, potatoes and chilies
Bordered by apostles, innocent children, faithful canine.
II.
I trip coming into every room, tiles, bricks and stones
uneven, deceive my feet. I am pushed against rope, against
plank, against glass surrounding exhibits. I breathe
centuries old air, while some wear masks. And then
the catacombs. I skipped them in Rome, but am inexplicably
drawn here in Peru to view what I think will be the remains
of saints. Stooping through an even smaller doorway,
we descend into a monochromatic world. Somewhere
between dusty gray and beige. The dirt, the stones, the bricks,
even the bones are shades of the same. We walk carefully
on the path between square graves, all crania, all long bones,
all pelvises separated and resting together. There is an ossuary
where a thousand bodies were tossed, but now bones
lay arranged like a giant sun, femurs and tibia the rays, skulls
creating geometric exclamation points. The bones are now
decorated for the church, our guide explains, but I see group
burial sites from concentration camps, find my steps slowing,
my own spirit belabored. I turn to see my daughter-in-law,
swollen with her first child, and worry about this cavernous air
carrying a millennium of disease, of despair, of religious rot
and deceit. She motions me over and takes my left hand in hers.
Placing it carefully on her abdomen, she whispers, “Wait.”
I feel a small pulse, a slight quiver. “He is happy,” she states
and at that moment, beneath a convent in Peru, so am I.
Ghost Peppers
By Carolynn Kingyens
By Carolynn Kingyens
Never Look Back
Let’s string up some lights,
the red chili peppers,
she says, so I go and
retrieve the Cinco de Mayo box
from the stacked boxes
of decorations
in the corner alcove
of our Harlem apartment.
But it’s January, not May,
not even March,
when the color of my face
goes somewhat back
to normal, a little less pink.
The sky – a perpetual
ghost, and here we are
on a Saturday night
stringing up lights
around the fireplace,
around windows,
inside glass vases;
these fat-looking fingers
of diablo – everywhere.
.
Let’s make guacamole,
she says next, so I head
out to Mr. Melon, a 24 hour
health food store
at the corner, to buy a few
soft avocados, and a lime.
Outside, my Nordic nose
goes numb in a matter
of seconds; my face
for sure - pink.
I look up at the far right corner
of our pre-war building
to see the windows of our apartment
already aglow in red;
inside - a January inferno
Oh, the drudgery of nostalgia,
the sentimental - strange hoarders of ghosts.
Carolynn Kingyens’ debut poetry collection — Before the Big Bang Makes a Sound (Kelsay Books) — is now available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Greenlight, Book Culture, and Berl’s Poetry Shop. Today, Carolynn lives in New York City with her husband of 20 years, two beautiful, kind daughters, a sweet rescue dog, and a very old, chill cat.
[to swell, gush, spurt] / [that which bursts out]
By Sue Scavo
Sue Scavo is a writer and dreamworker, living in Vermont.
Ogechi Umez-Eronini is an International student at Valencia Community College and currently taking up an associate degree in Business Administration with a specialization in Marketing.
She is an accomplished brand and communication specialist with over 13 years’ experience. She has a bachelor’s degree in chemical engineering and a postgraduate diploma in Business Administration from the University of Leicester. With a flair for writing and graphic design, she is a well-rounded individual who lives with passion, dedication, and grace.
How shall we speak when we come to fear river. This kind of river – not-water river, not-fluid river, not-cleanse river. How shall we speak of spurt, split. Shall we speak at [of] such a river at all. Shall we launch words on this river, this one, here. This a time for naming. Or will we let the words boil in our throats, in our bodies, in the core of our white bones until we are gutted and nothing is simple any longer. Not awash, but splattered. Not afloat, but plunged. How stained when we do not speak of [at] this river? Feet only? Legs, pelvis, chest, throat? Even the look on the face, the whites of the eyes. Flushed. When I say throat, I mean this throat, here. How shall we [I] speak, stained thus?
Doubts of Love
By Ogechi Umez-Eronini
If on the morrow
I find you left at dawn with your things
my shock will reverberate through the city.
Perhaps, I will devote time to rearranging my life
I will persuade myself to believe
that I can live without you.
I will socialize and party,
in the bid to have a life without you–
I will leave this place
and redefine my ideas
change my beliefs.
Perhaps I will feel youthful.
Don’t know when
don’t know how
but if on the morrow
I discover tolerance was what we were doing
I will decorate the walls
and ceilings.
I’ll say all the thing I should have said before
Are you there?