Ideas
that I have yet to form
are already at the tip of my tongue.

So, so close
am I to finding out what my next imaginary tale will be.

There it is,
I see it.

I'm reaching out,
the tips of my shaky fingers graze the warm glass.

I stretch,
and stretch,
and stretch.

I fall,
it falls and shatters, too.

So, so close
was I to finally knowing what my next dream would be.

condense my brilliance
down to a single switch
because you were raised in
a world that taught you to
use me before you ever thought
to learn to understand me

There was a
lone light
hanging above
the butcher block
in the kitchen and
when the wind would
blow too hard
against the cedar shake shell,
the house would let out
an exasperated sigh—swinging
the bulb hanging beneath
the metal lampshade from
the cord where it sprouted
from the ceiling.

“20 ways to repurpose a light bulb”

It tells me I need to start with a good grip around the bulb,
give the solder point a twist and free the brass contact
from the wires leading to the filament. If I make it that far,
I have to break the insulator and pull the filament out
from there. Grabbing the fill tube, I need to empty out the bulb
and wipe it out to get it ready.

I guess I could channel my childhood and turn the bulb
into an aquarium—dropping a little bloodfin tetra in with
a sprig of sea-grass or even make one of three small hanging vases
to put on my wall in the kitchen. If I want to get crafty,
I have directions for a glass sculpture, a holiday ornament,
and seven different size centerpieces.
The real surprises on the list are the light bulb necklace
and the concrete molds for light bulb handles.

Here I am, 4 A.M. on a Saturday morning planted on the couch
peering at the screen through my Jim Bean bottle eyes
and all I see are ways to repurpose this broken bulb
for something new—something it should have never been—
and I wonder why I can’t just grab the oil and a wick and
turn it into what it always wanted to be.

I will praise the flickering you give off before
you start to die down, and finally
the one burst of light like an explosion
that startles the room.
Then, light no more.
They toss you before you can retire,
but maybe the dumpster is your home.
Night comes to place a gentle hand on you,
with light no more.
The other ones are buzzing, busy,
giving off a harsh glow.
Night comes to turn them off,
and then, light no more.
But they are not defective, as long
as when the night melts into day,
they still glow.
But you,
you will always be under night's force,
light no more.

Life is a light bulb.
We begin this life as children,
fresh out of the box,
faithful that the light will always shine.
Smiling faces are illuminated
with careless smiles.
As we age,
the flawless glass embarks on a journey
to dusty, *****, darkness.
Flickering on again, off again.
Flicker, flicker, flicker.
The more we grow,
the dimmer life becomes.
Gleamy turns to gloomy.
Bright ideas fade into obscurity.
Slowly but surely it begins to fade to grey.
The warmth gradually dissolves.
We desperately, frantically search for
the childish light we once held,
and shared to mightily with the world.
We soon realize,
there is no more light to be shared.
Flicker, flicker, flicker.
Suddenly,
All too suddenly. . .

The bulb burns out.
We are left in the cold.

My life is a light bulb
and it's flickering away.

They say I’m a burnout,
they say I’m brain-dead
but I’m proud I turned out,
with a light above my head.

© Matthew Harlovic

How Edison and Tesla warred
To be the first to capture light.

A replacement for fire
And an ode to the sun.

Guiding travelers
Across sky, land, and seas.

Balming my hungry skin with rays
When I’m jonesing for the sunshine.

Bringing life to what was once still
Shadows dance across glowing plains.

Illumination to our world
No longer constrained by dawn and dusk.

The power of storms harnessed
To fuel our weapon against the dark.

Transcending to be hopes beacon
Against all fear.

Miniaturized to be as small as a dot
Oh how we hunger for our light.

LIGHTBULB.

Lightbulb; the moths flutter
and beat themselves to death against an idea.
A thought, vivid like glass, bright like tungsten-
glows.

I am reaching out to my mind again,
my wings burned and burdened...Wait.
I have lost track of my metaphors again...
But then again, like the moths,

I have lost track of many things-
except for the unknown light in front of me.