Hi Annabelle,
I like this poem and I'm intruiged by the way the lines work!
There's "always" been a pattern of stressing the last words of lines in 
poems (in free verse poems as well as in rhymed and often in formal stanzas 
the last words get most emphasis). But I'm starting to notice more and more 
poems (particularly, I think, from the US) where lines haven't much 
independant autonomy because there's words like (to, while, and) and the 
line breaks, the enjambements, are to emphasise the first word on the next 
line far more than the last word on the preceeding line.
And here, with using Caps at the start of each line, you're also emphasising 
the first word of a line very strongly. (That's rare, these days, too).
And I'm thinking the word "Ladybugs" feels kinda lonely on a line on its 
own!
Bob
PS I writted "always" at the start of this - but I know there's other 
traditions in the long, long, history of writing poetry that haven't done 
this (but you/I have to look hard in most bookshops to find even a mention 
of those poems!)


>From: Annabelle Baptista <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Re: New Sub:Longest Lasting Lightbulb
>Date: Tue, 13 Jan 2004 11:19:07 -0500
>
>
>
>   The Longest Lasting Lightbulb
>
>
>   My grandmother cleaned out the closet every Spring.
>
>   She would make me carry the laundry outside to
>
>   Dry in the sun.  We worked side by side to
>
>   Make the beds and fold the clothes.
>
>
>
>   Her fingers were thin but strong.
>
>   I had seen them ring a turkey’s neck at thanksgiving
>
>   And dig into the earth, come palms up, filled with roots.
>
>   She baked life into her cookies and I carried them
>
>   Off, like hungry playmates.
>
>
>
>   We listened to country music on her am radio,
>
>   I sang my heart out to her, while she washed
>
>   The dishes in the sink, still singing I pulled up my chair to dry.
>
>   When my imagination started to burn out, she gave me
>
>   A dishrag, with a rubber band around its neck, named Annie.
>
>
>
>   In spring we cleaned all the floors and
>
>   Polished the tables and the silverware, while
>
>   She told me the story of how she got a star
>
>   under her eye, turning her hair from brown to blue.
>
>
>
>   She smelled of dark molasses after dinner,
>
>   But at noon she smelled of rose water and I pressed
>
>   Myself under her arm like an unfolding petal.
>
>   Trying to fill her pockets with gifts of rocks and
>
>   Ladybugs.
>
>
>
>   Exhausted by nightfall she ran my bathwater
>
>   And fill the tub with essence and bubbles
>
>   Scrubbed me from head to toe, talcum, and placed
>
>   Me on pristine sheets, and as my eyes filled with sleep
>
>   In the hallway, from her room, light from afar.
>
>   [Annabelle Baptista]
>
>
>

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