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 Feb 2018 AfterImage
Lior Gavra
Am I just a wheel?
Consuming meals?
A speck in blue sea?
Bound by what I see?
Life amongst trees?
Breathing means free?

Am I my beliefs?
The truth I seek?
Flag of a country?
Defined by currency?
A liability?
Part of society?

Am I what you see?
The way you judge me?
The values you pick?
First impressions stick?
Norm defined by you?
Do I dare to be rude?


I am who I choose.
I fill my own shoes.
I win when I lose.
I create my own views.
I see black beyond blue.
I pick me over you.

Who are we?
I am me.
Who are we?
Depends on you.
 Oct 2016 AfterImage
Light House
Like the light
coming through a window,
through the glass -
on a brisk day
-- a cold day --
on a day that bit…

Her beauty,
the glow,
her bite,
the cold,
her soul,
the part,
you come to know….

He decided to stay; he looked her way,
in her direction, like he was looking at light
coming through a window….

Its shine screamed, “Warmth!”

It lit up everything it drenched; he pressed his hand against the glass,
as his skin tightened, his other hand clenched…. His thirst addressed,
himself then quenched.

But he was curious, perhaps too naive, or perhaps it was greed …however, he was curious. ....He opened up that window,

which burnt upon touch.
His fingerprints singed,
frostbitten fingertips.
Her broken bones healed,
as they were now needed;
no longer needed,
was her crutch.

Her temperature rose;
waves & particles passed through
still, but now joined by heat.
Life now, in her heart -
not bitterness; life,
in lieu....

Not death....
Not even death....

From ice & frost -- not risen --
but still, progressed...

"Look, upon the blades.
   That’s not blood. It’s morning dew."

Not quite as frozen, now -
a bleeding heart, warming, thawing through.
Notes for now.
 Oct 2016 AfterImage
SE Reimer

i stand before this kneeling bench,
no sanctuary of our making;
its walls here open thrown,
on stained glass windows found
strewn upon the sand,
its tide-washed, polished glass,
my feet find holy ground;
my sandals left at driftwood door.
incense burns upon the wind,
its salty spray is mingled,
with my own upon
these joy-stained cheeks.
the worshippers that went before
have built a temple out of wood,
hewn, untouched by human hand,
a steeple to the sky is lifted,
and within its shelter,
remnants of a ring of fire,
smoke once lifted to the
heavens by believers true;
this church i see through salted eyes,
this scape awash in teeming life,
here i drink this living wine;
its ebb, its rush, its living in
each moment without need,
to connect each dot, or even speak.

i long to live at razor's edge,
where sands and tides collide;
the rocky shoals where dungeness,
find sustenance and shelter;
the coves where seabirds feed their young,
above the sandstone cliffs;
the bar beneath a setting sun,
in flames awash in waves;
find comfort ‘neath
the storm-shaped pine,
feel longing in the stinging air.
these cheeks that weep,
though want of tears,
not in sorrow mind you,
but in joy of freedom,
the lure of siren alter call;
of a close horizon on a misty morn,
the haunting breath of orca,
just beyond my sight;
the bark of ocean’s lion,
the roar of distant waves;
with these my prayers i send,
as i offer this my praise;
this church of no man’s making,
here i come for cleansing,
to breathe the life that i am given!


*post script.

by nature we are spiritual creatures;
spiritual... not religious.  reading your
sea-scaped prose inspires me; planning
changes in my own life even more so!!
it is said that we return to what we know
best... the ocean calls...
 Oct 2016 AfterImage
Simone Zona
My name is signed between my skin
In ink for words we say but don't take in
They write a new name on every whim
And my blue ink skin it blends right in

We break out of our cages in succession of escape
Say words lacking meaning but then we mean them in the end
They shove us into paper boxes and leave ***** agape,
Yet with possibilities of freedom we lay eyes shut and pretend.

A box and a pen in collision of our thoughts
Until we become one with the blue ink they sought

 Sep 2016 AfterImage
some believe in the deity
others in the sanctity of self
I think poetry is a religion
a soul unto itself
not a god
but close
and I seek her his its
calming words
to get on my knees
and worship
every night
in my sanctuary
like any
true believer
 Sep 2016 AfterImage
Lora Lee
All strung
empty shells
of needles
      that injected
the next defense
      to keep me going
splayed upon
the coldness
            of metal
somewhere in a place
lower than
the floorboards
of the nether regions
of a private hell,
where no one sees
      the truth behind
the doors of
           beaten swords
of silken pictures
in frothy shades
of effervescent green
a smiling happy family
in which the
sounds of drowning
can only be
             vaguely heard
a faded gurgle
       in an ocean of sighs

Somewhere, there,
the pain in my veins
spreads like
a self-administered
only it's not
my prescription, at all
just a parody
from the very
    sick doctor
who shares
          this house,
meant to
be a home
one who thinks
he knows it all
but knows nothing

In this dreamlike weaving
of staring blankly
into alternative spaces
when all is so heavy
that even breathing is a task
I suddenly remember
   who the **** I am
and push my gaze through
the ceiling cracks
to look up at
         the stars,
receiving their
           of light
      like a blessing
   upon my
Thank you so much for all of your wonderful support! Your comments and responses touched my heart all day long and I felt all the spirit-hugs. I am sending those hugs right back to each and every one of you! <3 <3 ~ Lora

Words may not be fists
but they can still destroy
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