Long Strobe light Poems
Long Strobe light Poems. Below are the most popular long Strobe light by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Strobe light poems by poem length and keyword.
Forbidden Chocolate
I was riding psychedelic,
Riding Electric Ladyland,
Inside
The long wheezing worm,
Riding easy,
Through the black snoring night,
Aboard the Amtrak Southwest Chief,
Roaring and rumbling,
Down the track for distant Kansas,
Heading east,
To silent Garden City.
I had donned white earbuds in Barstow,
Connected umbilically,
To my ITunes universe,
And stoned as Hendrix himself,
On forbidden chocolate,
I rode in the windowed lounge car
At midnight,
Observing the vast darkness of America,
At 90 miles an hour.
As Jimi dazzled me with Voodoo Child,
From 1968,
On his white Fender stratocaster,
I saw before me,
The imploding annihilation of the universe,
With passing strobe-light torpedoes,
Pelting my mind like exploding hail stones;
The distant country lights flying by,
And through me,
In a whirring surreal-like blur.
I was riding psychedelic,
Riding Electric Ladyland,
Inside
The long wheezing worm,
Riding easy,
Through the black snoring night,
Across the California expanse
Of wind and sand and stars;
Across the rich pallets
Of Arizona and New Mexico,
The upper tranquil reaches
Of southern Colorado;
The high flat Kansas plains,
Listening to Jimi tear apart the world
Like a rampaging Godzilla,
Coming into Tokyo with his fiery axe!
I saw colors and shadows,
And strange tracings out there,
Flickering like swamp bugs
In the dry darkness,
Aboard the Amtrak Southwest Chief,
Roaring and rumbling,
Down the track for distant Kansas,
Heading east,
To silent Garden City.
OH, CHRISTMAS TREE
Denial covers its tracks -
clouding the memory.
SILVER, it was freakin’ SILVER!!!
Glittering, glossy, garish, tin foil, SILVER!!
Required no ornamentation,
no tinsel tossing, no death
defying wiring, only a spinning
rainbow disk to splash
crayola colored lights
upon SILVER branches.
It resembled a fringed
strobe light hanging
from an inverted ceiling.
I would imagine
Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders
shaking silver Pom-Poms
cheering it on.
There would be therapy,
recurring dreams –
lost in a tinsel silver forest
on a distant Christmas Eve.
When we threw it out
I placed it in front of
someone else’s house.
Occasionally,
at Christmas,
someone will ask:
“Do you remember…..”
only to be pounced upon
and silenced -
Denial covers its tracks.
©12/8/2017
submitted to – Christmas Tree – Poetry Contest
I WILL CROON THE VOWELS
kneeling in church, arm around my angel girl.
my son’s propped up on pew, chewing gum.
the oldest tries to pray, the grownup way.
LIKE THE ANGELS DO
we belt out tunes for thirty minutes,
mama’s eyes closed, one eye strobe light blinking
quiet “sh sh” like the soft spoken wind.
WITHOUT THEIR HALO SWOONS,
those baby bonnets on sideways,
bent, just halfway toward sin,
but precious are those little hands,
look like steeples,
voice chaste as the trio say “amen.”
JUST PLAIN HALLELUJAHS,
“Jesus loves me this I know”
why do children sound heavenly?
especially with eyes closed and
silent snores, tears dripping from mama’s eyes.
WITHOUT THE SURROUND SOUND
swish swish goes the bridal gown -
losing daughters gaining daughter in-laws.
those once bubblegum popping boys,
dapperly dressed up, have made their choice.
EFFECTS, CERTAINLY NOT IN TUNE
and celestial hallelujahs, spur on the stars and moon.
silver spoons saved for christenings,
beneath angel’s wings,
veiling the scarcely innocent.
babies bathed in baptism, as grandma grins,
and prays, shushing the wind.
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
We all had homemade dresses for prom; well, nearly all of us.
This was back in 1970 while black and white Viet Nam War photos were on TV
Every night, we saw such sadness.
Prom was a reminder of childhood.
Back to the Bibbity Bobbity Boo of Cinderella.
We girls were wearing empire waist dresses.
It was the style, little bows at the top of our hair.
We were fancy poodles, primping in our two inch heels.
Not high ones like our mothers. We had already fallen off those.
Traded in our hip hugger bell bottoms that magical night
For dresses in chiffon, polished cotton, and satins.
We were so shiny, it is a miracle a murder of crows did not carry us off.
The boys had on their best suits; not tuxes.
We were in a small Iowa farm town.
Many of the couples would marry two weeks later after graduation.
I remember how hard the junior class worked to make it beautiful for us.
There were tin foil stars and crepe paper streamers everywhere.
A strobe light, and music piped in from the folk heroes of the time.
Peter Paul and Mary, Mama Cass, Simon and Garfunkel.
Sometimes a song by Cher or Bette Midler but not as often.
The food was fantastic. The company wonderful.
Our first semi-formal dinner. I have never forgotten it.
In one way it was like middle school which we called junior high.
The boys stood around talking and laughing, and the girls danced like mad.
It was such an innocent and fun time! Taking the Viet Nam War,
And the assassinations of John F. Kennedy, Robert Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King
Out of our minds for one magical bibbity bobbity boo night.
May 1970. A memory that uplifts me to this day.
The last time I spoke to some of my classmates.
As a few were sent to Viet Nam after graduation never to return.
I walked past my pantry
Late one Friday night
To the sounds of what appeared to be
The goings on of a party inside
I grabbed a hold the latches
Swung wide open the door
With absolutely no earthly idea
Of what was soon in store
Colorful lights were flashing
Somewhere in the back
I moved aside the ketchup and mayo
To see where it was at
I took out the pickles and saltine's
So I could better see
What all the commotion was inside
Of my food pantry
That's when I saw the flashing lights
Inside the jar of Nutella
I picked it up right away
Me being a some what curious fella
As I held it at eye level
It vibrated in my hands
In what felt like a driving rhythm
From a 70's Disco band
Can't say I wasn't nervous
As I loosened up the lid
No telling what was going on inside
What dangers lay ahead
With both hands slightly shaking
I removed the rounded top
There was a party in the making
And it was going on non stop
The Nutella had it's boogie on
Or if you prefer, it's groove
Whatever you wish to call it
A party was the mood
There was a strobe light and confetti
Even a tiny Disco ball
As I gazed over the edge of the jar
I saw banners wall to wall
I guess you could say Nutella
Is quite the party treat
That may cost you at the grocery store
But once home the cover charge is free
Disco Music
Strobe light looks like moon-sun.
Halo lights of red, blue, yellow, green.
He wears classic Saturday Night Fever white.
She has a white flower in her hair,
head and hips swivel;
one-strapped red dress.
He points with hands over head.
Ballroom floor bittersweet-blue.
Celebration of disco music.
I was dressed in strapless purple.
Burned my bra.
This stamp doesn’t nearly catch
the falderal - not the nasal and falsetto
of the Bee Gees, nor the confident swagger
of Tony Manero. I will survive, my motto.
The couple on this stamp look too happy,
too peppy, maybe preppy, almost ‘50’s.
I remember the crowds, the loudness,
the vulnerability, the period; that Mom
had me ask Dad for money to go.
They let me. Strobe light shadows
of chiaroscuro amidst flashy night.
The stamp is too clean cut.
I tend to think stranger in strobe light
Something about this floor isn't right
I keep seeing my woman waltz away
With my arch-rival
It's a great depression –
If you must dance, dance for survival
The show gets better the longer you look
I finger my philosophy book
And take a page from the age
Of piano recitals
It's a great depression
And if you must dance, dance for survival
Didn’t you know I could read your thoughts
Respect the whip, I was always taught
Speak softly and carry no stick
Or be held liable
It's a great depression and if you must dance,
Dance for survival
You push the rock like the tragic will
Good blood has been shed on many a hill
Give it a week,
And even God will feel suicidal
It's a great depression
And if you must dance,
Dance for survival
Let's give this baby a little juice
Massage the gears till the grease cuts loose
Make it your own, should the engine
Slip into idle
It's a great depression and if you must dance,
Dance for survival
Get off my continent, you fraud
And you dare call yourself a god!
Keep talking this way and I swear,
I'm gonna go tribal
It's a great depression
And if you must dance,
Dance for survival
Now I'm all settled to do my part –
Altamira, with a place for my art
From this point in time,
I can perceive the onset of a cycle
It's a great evolution
And if you must dance,
Dance for survival
big bulbs flashed like a discotheque strobe light.
it’s always midnight.
his breath filled the cavernous abyss.
his heart at risk of jumping to its death.
the shell of his flesh colder than a poikilotherm.
shudder of his lens.
a missing eye, a snake besides.
the hair on his arms like spikes.
why’d he follow trouble below the Patapsco River?
his eyes blood orange like the eagle owl.
too late to remember that curiosity killed the cat.
the narrow way wolf gray and white.
the body left in the open. the killer knew
he attracted an extra hide, and Justin
knew he was being hunted. this tunnel abandoned
since the lockdown. he followed the dodge
which had a hand hanging out through the brake light
red and waving.
he witnessed the whisk,
away the icy serpent flew.
Justin could feel his hot breath
the beast with centipede eyes.
he knows he’ll never make it out alive
even as he takes shot after shot.
the scream, the screech
of a van down the street.
he jumps in.
Go! Go! Go!
the tire wheels spin and smoke.
no time to choke.
van stops —
the director yells cut
1/26/2021
MURDER IN THE TUNNEL
SPONSOR: Kai Neumann
The crust is a percussion of tectonic plates,
grinding basalt teeth against a jaw of liquid iron.
Here, the air is not air–it is thick, violet syrup tasting of burnt sugar and ionizied ozone, clinging to the back of the throat like wet wool.
The Atmosphere
Listen to the wind: it doesn't whistle, it screams in a minor key,
shredding the silence into ribbons of static.
The clouds are heavy with suspended mercury,
shimmering like oily opals, dripping
fat, metallic rain that rings against the rocks— clink, thud, hiss.
The ground is a vibrating hum, a low-frequency fever.
Every horizon is a neon fracture, an overexposed photograph.
The smell of a dying star—sulfur, wet copper, and cold ash.
Deep down, the gravity is a physical weight on the eyelids,
pulling the marrow toward the center of the world.
Everything is too bright, too loud, too close.
The light here doesn't just hit the eyes; it vibrates the skull,
a strobe light synced to a heartbeat that isn't yours.
The planet is a bruise that never heals,
a kaleidoscope spinning until the colors bleed into white noise,
until you are nothing but a raw nerve wrapped in a coat of stardust and static.
Goblins dance across the wire
With blood red eyes and wings of fire
They beckon me to join their game
Join in the buzz and kiss the flame
My journey’s only just begun
The purple sky ignites the sun
We’ve chased the dragon – he’s on the run
Now flying high and having fun
The strobe light penetrates my brain
As music pulses through my veins
Got no more cares- Got no more fear
Coz everything I needs right here
I’ll take you where you’ve never been
Beyond the boundaries of all dreams
A mystery tour – enjoy the show
We’ll cut a line and share some blow
Enjoy the buzz – the music’s loud
Escape the madness of the crowd
But first of all let’s score a hit
Follow me – enjoy the trip
I’m flying high and looking down
In freefall now – I hit the ground
The spider laughs and spins her web
There’s no way out – she’s in my head
My body heaves and starts to shake
This nightmare dream I can’t escape
The spider whispers “your time has come
You’re in my web – my turn for fun”
The goblins’ stare – they point and jeer
Now relishing my wretched fear
We make a deal – I pay their toll
My life now spent – They take my soul.