Long Bulb Poems
Long Bulb Poems. Below are the most popular long Bulb by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bulb poems by poem length and keyword.
In her bath tub
Was the perfume that rent the air
From petals spread in and around.
Under the beauty of a neon- light bulb
Embroidered with petals was her hair
From the room, played a solemn sound.
And to a wonderland she went
A cripple fantasy who on her had a crush
Eerie and with so much pleasure
Her soul, he had to rent
All her screams subdued with his hush
She was petrified without measure.
She pleaded herself to wake up
Knowing that she had been charmed
Upon a cliff, with him she danced
And both drank from a magical cup
She became intensively alarmed,
She died slowly as her eyes wore a gloomy sight.
Her reality ,in a tub of metals,
Found her dead upon a bed of petals.
I'm Mephistopheles, you, my Faust
I'm to your mind what a fluorescent bulb is...
To a fly. I take perverse pleasure
In trapping you in my undertow
I'm a tireless tease that will break your will
I live in your mind, rent-free. I'm tough to evict
I'm your friend with bad intentions
Always up to mean mischief
I show no mercy to my victims, and I have...
No remorse. I couldn't care less whether
You're a person of virtue or vice
I couldn't care less about your age...
Your race; your religious or political affiliation
Once I've seized plenary control of you
My sole aim is to destroy you, and take your soul
I'm that enticing demon that tempts you...
Minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day
Refusing to let you sleep or take a vacation
Wean me off at your peril
My name is addiction
Date written and posted: 05/30/2019
(William Hammer, Thomas Alva Edison's assistant,
has reached the end of his tolerance. His boss is
planning to electrocute an elephant for a publicity
stunt.)
If he goes through with this, the dam has burst.
I'm done with him. Of all the tricks he's pulled,
this is the lowest, cheapest, cruellest. Worst.
Yes, Edison. He can't be serious,
can he? To execute an elephant?
He's out there, grinning like a Barbary ape.
Where two or more newspapermen are gathered,
Alva loses all his self-control.
He'll be there now, perspiring, shouting, lathered,
excited to his flinty, vulgar soul.
I'm William Joseph Hammer. Who are you?
A quarter-century I've spent with him,
but now the scales have fallen from my eyes.
The man's a pirate and a charlatan.
Inventor? Him?
Well, since I'm stranded here
in shabby Coney Island in the rain,
ignored and slighted, spited yet again,
I'll tell you. Edison did not invent
the light bulb - that's what he employed me for.
Besides, I'll name a dozen scientists
who'd made a working lamp some years before.
What is he good at? He's a patent-mill!
He takes out patents like a dentist, teeth
(except that dentists never put their name
on what they've pulled). The man has got no shame.
The team has all the talent, he the grin:
we think the thoughts, and Alva cashes in.
I think he's met his match in Westinghouse.
The so-called war of currents. Who will win?
America will buy one set of goods,
and where this country leads, the others go.
To get his system in American homes,
He'd kill his grandma.
Hence this all-time low.
He's worse than Czolgosz. At the very least,
the latter had nobility, although
misguided. Alva has no other cause
beyond himself. Those motion picture-things
are here for Alva's glory. When the blow
extinguishes that poor beast's life, you'll know
whose self-promoting hand was on the tiller.
Saint Thomas Alva Edison's a killer.
My little phone touch gave brightness
As I saw moving shadows on the dark blue walls.
As quiet as a mouse,
I stared at my imaginary motley collection of furniture and painting.
I could hear footsteps slowly moving to and fro.
The sounds of vehicles miles away kept me lively.
I listened to the moan of the wind in the trees, as birds sings and peeks on them.
I stood motionless, as I gazed morosely out of the window, as moth gathers a bulb outside.
A touch on my hair brings me back to the realization of the dude on my bed.
His penetrating blue eyes captures and elevates my spirit, he whispers slowly into my ears.
I wants to kiss you lying on diamond pebbles in a pink sea.
He held me closely capturing my lips and elevating my breast with a deep, electrifying romance in the south.
It felt like england having a new Queen.
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
If I should die before I wake......
WHAT are you thinking...
telling me stuff like that
just before you tuck me in
and turn out the lights?
Whadda-ya-mean IF? IF?
I should .....D I E.....
Get back in here
get me a night light,
some demon repellent.
Tell the Lord to keep
his mitts offa my soul.
Ain't sleepin'
not tonight....not ever
Where can i hide my soul.
Damn....I don't even know
what a soul looks like.
Where can I hide?
Under the bed
in the closet....too easy.
Maybe...YEAH...
LAMPSHADE HAT...
HOLDING BULB...
John G. Lawless
1/24/2021
Now I lay Me Down to Sleep Poetry Contest
On an as is where is basis, we fell—
down the elevator shaft of the day,
into the buzz of a fluorescent hum, the smell
of reheated takeout in cracked Styrofoam trays.
The descent began when the train doors jammed,
and I was stuck staring at my own reflection—
the stale grime of the carriage, the paper ads,
my face mirrored against the strangers, expressionless.
I finally made it home, my shoes untied,
the hallway dim, someone’s dog barking through thin walls.
The key caught in the lock, metal snagged on silence—
inside, a burnt-out bulb flickered above the sink.
Bills were piled high, half-shoved in a drawer,
an eviction notice crumpled at the edges,
yesterday's dishes stacked like monuments of failure,
and in the fridge—two eggs, a leftover apology.
Then I saw it: a post-it, bright yellow,
crookedly taped above the empty fruit bowl.
A scribbled heart, in a child’s writing, "You're the best,"
the 's' in 'best' drawn backward, rushed—
a small love, pressed into a square of paper.
That night, I folded laundry in silence,
shirt by shirt, sock by unmatched sock,
finding something steady in the rhythm—
the sound of breathing is as good as sleep
when sleep is nowhere near.
I climbed into that feeling, inch by inch,
with each minute stretched, each dollar exchanged
for time, each deep breath drawn. The city
buzzed outside, the cars skating down wet streets,
but here, it was the small clicks of our life—
turning off the TV, the snap of clean sheets,
the drip of the bathroom faucet needing fixing.
I knew it was enough—this climb, this small scaffold
we built to hold us up.
Now I stand, the city alive beneath my window,
swapping scar tissue out for the heat of the moment,
for the feat of staying—my laughter penetrating
the cracks in the walls—a song that makes each broken
piece of the ascent worth saving.
This morning’s sunrise was a tacky and artificial affair.
The sun was played by a weak, 12-watt, refrigerator bulb
that looked wet and heavy as it struggled uphill like a drunk.
The horizon reminded me of a cheap, runny theatrical illusion,
the clouds were old cotton balls glued to cardboard silhouettes,
the birds sagged like dead puppets from uneven, coat hanger wires.
I don’t miss you. Everything’s fine. I hardly noticed you were gone, actually.
Things here are a laugh and a half. We’re doing fun girl things. Anna got new shoes.
I’m hardened by years of inescapable, solitary, covid lockdown. I’m immune to despair.
So go off, interview for that new, far-flung PhD life. Go fawn over Elon Musk for all I care.
I’m definitely not in my room eating spoons of peanut butter and crying to Tom Waits songs.
Its skeletal bones bare
Eyes still stare
All that remains is the soul
A drift as a shadow lingers there
A bare bulb blares
sways absently silently
in the chilled sliver nights air
Hollow eyes watch from this home
of ruined deeds
something struggles
Somewhere it roams
In the garden
In the weeds
It grows there
bare deep dark deeds
All that remains is a skeletal something
Feel the drifting breeze
Lightning strikes here and there
Blinding bright burning out the sight
In the aftermath only images remain
The door sways gently
The writing on the wall declares it all
Wallpaper tears,
Portraits stare darkly
I brace for the coming fury
A private holocaust
All that remains is a skeletal something
As a figure stands there
A room filled with sadness
Standing alone in a room filled with sadness
Photograph smiles in a frame on the shelf
Ashtrays are filled with a death wish still breathing
Lighting another in spite of myself
A hand full of pills and a glass of Jack Daniels
The tube shows a movie, Bogart and Bacall
Through heavy eyes, I am still thinking of you
Only the floor there to meet as I fall
When on the door comes a knock unexpected
Shattering plans that I must put on hold
Closing one eye as I look through the peep hole
A shadowy figure is there in the cold
Twisting the lock and then turning the handle
Chilled is the blast that runs into my face
There I find death with his sickle untarnished
Needless to say my sad heart starts to race
“What are you doing, you can’t be that stupid
It’s not your time for this world to depart
Just for some girl who has left you here crying
Wanting to die for a damn broken heart”
I stopped and I thought as I heard this thing speaking
Then shoved my finger inside of its chest
“I’ll do as I please you know not what you’re saying
It’s my time to go and I think it is best”
“God what a loser, oh wait, I meant Satan
Fine, suit your self, we’ve a place you can lie
Swallow those pills but I’ll take that Jack Daniels
I will get thirsty while watching you die”
I thought of us and what I would be leaving
How much it hurt you had found someone new
Then of my heart that was shattered in pieces
The sound of your voice when you shouted, “we’re through”
That you are happy with some other poet
How every scar of my life has now bled
Why would I want to give you satisfaction
Knowing you’d smile when you heard I was dead
Then like a bolt or a light bulb exploding
Came a decision as clear as a bell
I’ll stick around in this room filled with sadness
It’s got to be worse than that place he calls hell
This is one of two poems I have written for John Hamilton’s Lost Love poetry contest, but haven’t decided which I will enter. I will post the other in a little while. : )
Three sisters used to babysit
Back when my kids were small.
It's years since I have thought of them
But some things I recall.
Josephine, the eldest,
Was both gentle and subdued.
She liked to keep the lamps down low
To keep a peaceful mood.
Lydia, the youngest,
Was an energetic sort.
Each bulb was set to blazing
Like a night-time tennis court.
And Henrietta, in-between,
Was full of smiles and fun.
Some lights were on for brightness,
But not every single one.
My husband is like Josephine,
Preferring rooms near-dark,
While I resemble Lydia,
Her choices on the mark.
When we're both home we compromise
And just so no one's pissed,
We tap our Henrietta;
Light and dark thus coexist.