Short Bulb Poems
Short Bulb Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Bulb by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Bulb by length and keyword.
Oh!
the lite-bulb
blinked
it did
I felt it
but what was it
and where is it now
or light is too fast ~
or truth never lasts
Every Idea Won’t be a Light Bulb Moment
But Great Ideas Can Begin with You!
1/15/2018
Generally, a great idea,
Is worth no more that its core thought’s,
And no less than the elation associated with it.
Tom
Every Idea Won't Be a Light Bulb Moment,
1/15/2018
Tom
Every idea won't be a light bulb moment,
But great ideas can begin with you!
Generally, a great idea,
is worth no more than it's core thoughts,
and no less than the elation associated with it.
(Haikus from my short poetry collection in Greek: Se ?????? st????? ??????asµ????, Perched on a few verses,
translated by me.)
A broken light bulb.
It’s dawning. The naked street.
A butterfly.
---
Upon the branches
of dawn, the day’s rustling
silk dreams.
dainty scavenger floats down
onto a mystery orb
peeks through her pretty window
wondering at the sheer beauty
of this effervescent petal
something mystical about her
An anomaly in the woods
Possibly grown by the
Felled tree
Never saw a full grown oak
landing in this spot before
A magic moment
Edison bulb
Instine formula
calling bet’s
to the last three
a crazy intense formula
with pimples wild
set up now golden age
it was like a deck of card’s
down to the last three
with a gofey pimple on top
what appears now
what happens now
the last two heads
now he says drink
he wants you gone
YOU THOUGHT IT WAS SPRING
Charlie, a Christmas elf found his bulb at a quarter to two
The rest of the elves kept working, they were not through
Get off your duff and help us, his brother Jim said irritated.
Charlie was fearful of losing his bulb, so he procrastinated.
At the end of the tree trimming, he tried to take the bulb with him.
Who told Santa on him? Of course it was his brother Jim.
_Scene: John comes home drunk, midnight_
Car door slammed at 11:58.
Keys sang like broken bells.
Heavy feet dragged the dust in,
Almost slumping.
"The night rider is back,"
Sonia said to the empty room.
He knocked anyway.
"You reek of alcohol," she told the dark.
"You never listen to advice."
His hand lifted.
Her eyes did not drop. Still.
"I won't back down, John."
The bulb buzzed between them.
Light Bulb Thinker settled down to concentrate on work
Ideas were parading, from his job he did not shirk.
Librarians hushed their clientele, so LBT could think.
Phrases and vocabulary came to him in green, yellow and pink.
Wonder what is happening? Another thinker asked.
Not sure, said the book worm, is he comfy and masked?
Does he have to be? A patron asked in a hushed tone.
They watched the amazing thinker, as he sat still as stone.
A light bulb
that when turned on
is faint and low, range amber flow
then as it warms
the given light
glows bright and strong
filling the room.
A love
born of friendship
inspires and gives life to each other
that questions the whys and wherefores
to become more
of understanding and acknowledgement
that one is nothing without the other.
With time,
it grows
or dims
as the source allows.
Cab door slams.
Midnight bleeds.
Keys jingle like broken dreams.
“The night rider is back,” she sighs.
Beer breath fills that one room.
“Who?” she asks the ceiling.
“Useless woman,” he spits low.
Single bulb shows a man unmade.
Hand rises. Her eyes don’t move,
Fixed like a viper before its prey.
“I won’t back down, John.”
Pot hits floor.
Emptiness reverberates.
Days numbered, he growls.
She stands, it's sure.
Door turns to flag.
Not do bright after all
Glowing like a bulb
Covered way down deep in manure
Misrepresented and posing
as fertile soil
Backed up by so called expert
quasi intellectual bright sparks
types armed with clipboards
pie charts and endless statistics
To keep us all firmly in the dark
Using flattery as a conniving
erstwhile tool to make us all feel
Ipso - facto
De- facto
Tik - Tok - Toe
Aren't we therefore
Er- Go
Also so very , very smart as well
_Scene: After the fight_
His snore filled the room now,
Like air inside a balloon.
Thoughts run like sprinters in her mind.
Steady. Distant. A retreat.
Sonia stood. Always standing.
Her eyes locked on the door.
Not wood. Not paint.
An exit.
The course was set,
Like the stubborn August breeze.
Purpose sharpened in her chest.
The bulb still buzzed.
The night was almost over.
For two who once joked they were lovers.
She breathed. She was ready.