"afterimages" poems
And I’ve erred to try loving you
As I’ve dreamt of gazing upon your moons
For the smiles of your suns
Burn intensely through my intentions
Even in your shadows
Where my honesty becomes bitter
Within your cruel eyes
I’m blinded by a solemn light
Merely to follow afterimages, faint and frail
Leading to estranged pastures
Of masked sins basking in the meadows
Only a deceitful tranquility
As on these bladed dreams do I bleed in peace
Feeding my lustful hope
Of a fruitless love into the soil beneath me
Growing nothings short of
Forget-me-nots in a memory-less heart
© 2014
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 5:29 AM UTC
the laddering of my ribs creak
like water-stained cherrywood stairs;
tread lightly, lest you
stir the dust and the ghosts
that dwell underfoot,
‘neath the cracked floorboards
of my skin.
i have but a simple request:
rid yourself of your lungs
and fill up the empty spaces
with used coffee filters,
crinkled wrapping paper, and
forlorn hope. do
cast aside
the shroud of indecision?, for
that winding sheet will only
hold you down between
your shoulderblades, like
framed butterflies pinned on paper
with needles of stone and salt.
stay with me tonight.
we will be taxidermy birds
on marionette strings
with crumbled concrete
between our talons,
the afterimages
of neon diner signs
stamped into our inner eyelids
oscillating, phantasmic.
we'll sing elegies in spring
rock sugar on our tongues—
there are staves of music
written in the lining of your mouth
and in the webbing of your hands
––as Sappho might say:
girls, sweetvoiced.
oh! but to think
that the starfire in your eyes
could be extinguished
by the tears you shed;
i’ll return my heart to the constellations
for you
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 8:58 AM UTC
I see vivid, my vision flowered
All the colours, i call them ours
Afterimages and my poems
Branded on my eyeball's moments
Blue does spread like food colouring
Dropped in my vision spluttering
I close my eyes to escape the noise
But all it changes, is the background choice
I see the bright blue sky
With floaters, sparkles and vivid lies
And sometimes my hands are dissapear
Beneath shadows leftover from lights bright near
But all in all it is alright
After all i could lose my sight?
And that is without mentioning my ears
that have been ringing for years.
Aug 1, 2023
Aug 1, 2023 at 7:11 AM UTC
this is the color of sunshine and innocence,
of freckle-faced children running through the dry grass
as butterflies flit and grasshoppers bound.
it is the shade of the center of the daisies
their older sister plucks from the earth.
a reserved smile tugs on her lips as
one by one the petals fall to the whispered words,
"he loves me,
he loves me not."
it is the color of lemonade and buttered croissants,
and the dance the mother makes across the kitchen,
floral skirt swaying as she sashays to and fro.
a grin flashes across her face
as she remembers the color of the dreams she chased in her youth;
the color of her name up in lights
the color of camera bulbs and the afterimages
that creep across her vision
when the paparazzi descends.
this color makes it way down the hall and into the study,
where the father sits at his desk pouring
over numbers and figures while furiously
punching them into a calculator.
it is the color of post-it notes scribbled over with important dates,
of the faded coffee stain on the front of the man's shirt,
of the potted flowers doing their absolute best
to brighten up the austere space.
when the day reaches its end
this color seems to disappear...
but it persists
in the most subtle
of places.
it wraps around the tiny nightlight in the youngest son's room,
providing a barrier between him
and whatever goes bump in the night.
it chimes in the nervous giggles that attempt to dispel
the fear that comes with a late-night scary story.
it emanates from the glow-in-the-dark stars and planets
stuck to the older sister's ceiling--
there they remain
despite her insistence that she it too old for them.
this color is most certainly not the color of darkness,
but,
rather--
the moments that break its emptiness.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 8:19 PM UTC
Do you think that you’ll remember
washing your least crusty mug
in the cracked bathroom sink at four am,
blinking afterimages of Wiki articles
and Midwestern poetry out of your eyes?
(Always the Midwestern aesthetic–
what is it about starkness that drives people?)
You’ve spent too many mornings
watching dawn from the wrong side, pacing
up and down beneath the streetlights
as they go out one by one.
The earth keeps turning but
your thoughts scattered last night
and they never came home.
The percussion is
(you heart is)
pounding,
crash ratatatat thump,
ratatatat crash, time
slipping between your fingers
in fits and starts to the beat
fluttering in your chest;
no repeats or hesitations.
The topic is–
Magpie, bird brain,
you line your nest with tinfoil
to keep the world at bay.
You’d say “I want to believe”,
but instead you just play the song again,
hoping that maybe this time—
Did it take this long to realize
you’ve answered your own question?
You have to run
when there’s nowhere to stay.
Maybe you should take a vacation
to the desert yourself,
get some dust under your nails
so you’ll stop chewing them off.
Quit glancing at the clock, sweetheart;
you’re on a timer here.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
The nymph steals glances from behind the glass
Bright blue, sharpened stare
Between bushes, amidst the grass
Fingers so nimble, they slipped through the cracks
Slid down the molding,
Dyed the carpet, stained the cat
Her smirk lived within speckles of paint
The hush of the floorboards
Breath that made the fruit a sickening sweet
But only in afterimages do I see her face
A late night mirage
In the bathroom, in the closet, in the eggs
In the sticky, wiry ink in which she'd signed her name
Her ghostly whispers calling out
From behind trickles of rain
A permanent spot in the recess of the window frame
Did she lay, nuzzled close
Silently, to wonder, watch and wait
A forever presence even the wind cannot displace
Only one day had she entered
But a thousand she'll stay
Mar 22, 2020
Mar 22, 2020 at 10:13 PM UTC
Wide eyes wandering,
To settle upon such an empty space,
Yet willingly, they must trace,
That vast collage,
The most toilsome jigsaw,
How loving that imagery,
Our hearts pieced together,
To accept you,
As my beloved forever,
Though,
A puzzle untimely broken,
Lost to a box,
Eternally unspoken,
The flicker of afterimages,
The best pieces of you,
Inhabiting such bare space,
This forsaken heart,
An utter disgrace.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 4:03 AM UTC
To my best friend, for everything. I love you.
definition seems to elude the soft smile and eyes (the teenage dream desperate to run)
stunned by lightning flashes and ghost hands waving in the dance that--
measure for measure--her limbs follow
how easy it is to love a monolith
where the sour limelight mocks the sweet
rough and uneven and sugared over with the words
echoing in my ears like the thudding thunder that our voices obscure
torn and laughing on the checkerboard we mock
the storms drag on in her eyes while she teaches me
glints of possibility trailing off in abandoned thoughts
poems rising in the night air she breaks
her glow streaming admiration onto our tongues
while the afterimages dance and touch and sing behind my eyelids
the whispers may die and stay stranded on the tile floors
the light ripping holes into the long-dead words
but
suddenly the words are loud
and they float from the unknown and mingle with the revolutions softly dancing
between us
she saved me
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 8:25 PM UTC
I died in the womb of despair, the umbilical
cord of desperation suffocated me.
I was floating motionless in afterimages
Of what took me to this place.
My thoughts were stillborn in the aftermath
Of what I had tried what I failed to do.
As I came in to the world of clear minded reflection
I breathed where there was none.
I was neither here or their but now I breath, from
Still motion I inhale life once again.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 3:37 PM UTC
Traveling at night surrounded by
a chrysalis of light, I rush
through a soft world, indistinct
except in brightly illuminated
pools at intersections and towns.
Few distractions, no landmarks other
than road signs, mileage markers. Quiet
melodies drift through the car,
reminding me of love unrequited and
love that washed through my heart like
a flood that no banks could hold.
When I reach my destination I sleep.
Those mornings I leave early,
the chrysalis dissolves as the
sun meets the horizon then climbs,
slowly at first, changing night skies
from indigo to dark then pale blue.
Platinum light emanates from the
morning sun. The world comes
alive with forests and pastures, with
rivers and towns, with farmers and
livestock. I see them. I watch them fly
past as the car cuts the air in its headlong
journey. Among the trees and landscapes
that drift in and out of my periphery
I think I see other things. Ghosts,
her ghost, a trailing scent like
perfume mingled with sweet sweat.
Wafting, swirling and clinging as she
rises, billowing from memory and loss.
I drive the highways and streets through
dynamic landscapes that never look the
same and seldom seem to change. Like
the memories that suddenly appear and
run along the roadsides, that reach out to
embrace me as I drive. Are they
echoes, maybe afterimages of a
person who passed through years ago? Of
thoughts or dreams that flew out an open
window to settle in the old eucalyptus
trees and hedgerows growing along the
roadside, even among the frame of an old
bridge over the dusty riverbed and quiet,
abandoned buildings? She waits vague and
vaporous to reunite us for fleeting, vivid
minutes, to linger as sigh, a smile and a
chill of recognition.
11 aug 13
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 7:38 AM UTC
I want to make love to my buried self.
I want to draw her up.
I want to kiss her on the lips,
put her head against my *******
I want to say
“It’s safe to come out now,”
fingers uncrossed, inviting.
Then
If she’ll let me
I want to press her so close
that atoms merge,
flesh swells;
The afterimages will float before my eyes
And she will stitch into my surface
like a second skin-
a shift in posture,
in the angle of my jaw.
Feb 19, 2011
Feb 19, 2011 at 5:50 PM UTC
For the last time let me linger through those memories
That ruined my peaceful evenings, stole my slumber and infused the resuscitation of my long forgotten dreams.
I need to let the afterimages burn in my tired eyes, one at a time,
Until it causes fire within my rueful stare
And only then will it turn into dust.
And if the dust must find a home behind the comfort of my heavy eyelids,
What cruelty must it try to convey?
I will wash myself free from my beloved agony
So that my arms will eventually untie itself from this forlorn fantasy.
The gray clouds will soon pour tears down into the earth where I scrawled your name.
I will send away my disregarded affections in forms of stardust with every step I take as I walk away.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 8:25 PM UTC
Dear Rebeka,
Is it the same for you?
Anxiously bouncing your knees
while furiously scribbling notes.
Always taking glances
out the library windows.
Looking for nothing.
Nothing in particular.
just anything... ANYTHING OTHER
than a laptop screen
or another god **** lined piece of paper.
Upon exiting the prison, you find the outdoors enticing.
The sharp breeze flushing your cheeks,
The soft glow of evening
soothing the afterimages of fluorescent lighting.
So cold your breath is tangible,
Hands tucked safely in your pockets,
Inhaling the night's air
like your drinking a tonic.
Thinking about home, and it's all so romantic.
Trying, but failing, to be more pragmatic.
**** it.
**** it.
**** it.
Let's drop everything...
... and hop in the Prius.
All my love,
Jill
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 4:38 PM UTC
Sublime beauty hidden within the clinging walls
of a residence that had secrets unbeknown to the
outside world. Melodies were assuage in there
pristine composition, clinging to the wall writing
a brevity of afterimages beyond the veil of sight.
Luminescent webs were weaving within like a prism
conquering the veil, magnifying with each reflective
joining. Flourishing deep within were blossoms that were
wording literal petals of beauty. But not everything
alluring is beckoning, dangerous are thorns untouched.
All things luminance aren't always the intention of bringing
light to the world. There are different hues audacious in
there devouring of the voids. Abstract in there gentle rain
of reflective hunger. Their behaviour that of a spoilt infant
wanting more than what is given. But light always fades.
But these flowers were the seeds of the universe droplets
of luminosity that breathed light on the worlds.
Before suns shone in there cradles these petals shone
in the void. Some reflections still linger hungering for
thorns to pierce the void for eternity that sleep in twilight.
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 9:16 AM UTC
alabama sun, it's almost hot here in a sad soggy way
i knew a kid in california who lost all her teeth on a pink plastic skateboard (we were all carrying garbage bags filled with computer cables and ipods and cube-shaped monitors)
there was a girl in england somewhere, too, she was bright bright navy blue and i couldn't stop staring at her glittery skin. my grandma told me it was impolite so i decided to grow antenna eyes like those banana slugs clinging to my neighbor's window.
(i think i'll shave my head and rename myself after the moths that come out once the afterimages of the sun leave the corneas.)
she told me we could live in thailand one day, now look what you've done! i want to live again for the first time since my tiny cells began to divide!
Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 3:51 AM UTC
Like a puddle of conciseness I gazed within, I saw something,
not of reality, was this a nightmare in a teacup of reflections?
But as it evaporated I saw that wondering gaze among the
blind effigies that looked into nothingness.
I wondered my view upon the multitudes of shaded white,
what I hadn't seen as my overlook of what was inner most
close to my perceiving. Then I saw it, how did I not envision
this before? Was my gaze swollen with the shallow husks of
those clambering around me. Like an afterimage fleeting.
It was as if it was jumping in shallow puddles, for just a time
not to make waves in a sea of nothingness. For even the slightest
motions collected on the shores of others perceiving.
I was in a chess match, in a board of rookies..
Where those before me once me? I collected myself.
*"Was I a pawn or another player in a field
of knights who had fallen,*
I was weaving like spider silk, afterimages of where I
had once been. I had become accustom to the intricate
notions of what could and could not be grasped upon.
The blank ones even though of momentary emotions,
when it or they perjured upon them.
Then I noticed, they became more than just chandeliers of
static light. Emotions were collecting in the corners of what
were vacant sockets of vision. I was no longer alone in this
place of shaded memories. Knowing that they were not of
the purring kitten collections, more of the great white playing
in a kinder garden of seals.
I watched as they consumed each pool, that which was
vacant now fell dissolving into tears of memories fading
beyond there contemplation. But as each painting of
memories was dissolved they were smirking as if they
or it knew I was watching the destruction of their actions.
Knowing what I had seen, I was the knight on a field of
pawns. They were innocence in playground of land mines.
Each step was unconditionally their continuation or the
inevitable disillusion to extinction. My morals were as in
life as in death, never to let harm befall those of needing.
To Continued in the final part 4
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 11:52 AM UTC
I was a shadow that sneaked upon the twilight
A glimmer of consumed images.
Neither seen or guessed upon a mirage on a fluttering
Of eyes lids concealing with each foreboding closure
Of what is really seen.
I weave in the afterimages of conceived vision an echo
Of what and is their but never recognised for what
Is if noticed ever really seen.
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 7:12 PM UTC
Tainted perception, afterimages scream out
Upon the world. Her essence bleeds bleached
From her lips filling the void of silence.
Her pain is upon strings, vengeful melodies
Scream upon the air. Her stick of bone plays
Upon the hairs of those taken with vengeance.
Notes invade the heavens pulling them down
One note at a time, her suffering will be heard
As her soul haemorrhages upon a cold chorus.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
My well of thoughts have dissipated,
beneath the murky waters
lie
slumber
secrete
the afterimages of what had evaporated.
repetition now swims in the vapour
of reflection.
Duplicated
Reproduced
Imitations
of a droplets that seem to be deja-vu on the
surrounds of my reflections that are evaporating.
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 3:48 PM UTC
Abstract illustration,
for likened is neither
words or form.
Were just memories,
silhouettes
of then and before, afterimages..
Thinking were real, but were diodes
of light fixed re-watched...
observed a thousand times..
We never realise that we weren't here,
just a replayed moment...
Look behind you,
to late..
were not really here..
"Just a moment being rerun,
did you hear me when
I said that, yes that's me not you..
don't worry, just sleep. Shhhhh….
Everything will be fine in the morning...
May 27, 2020
May 27, 2020 at 6:27 PM UTC
I pulled my colors from their storage
Red, blue, yellow, purple, green, and orange
The case they sat was old,
With rust and squeaky hinges.
Painting fruit: Grapes, apples, and oranges
******* the colors up through syringes,
Precision causing anxious twinges.
Picturing perfect afterimages
But my art just makes me cringe.
I rhyme well but, shouldn't try to paint an orange,
Placing my supplies back in storage.
Feb 23, 2020
Feb 23, 2020 at 9:54 PM UTC
I took for granted
Something i once knew
A world of color, a mixture
Of beautiful shades and hues
I realize now how pretty it was
A world of color, now fading
Slowly being engulfed by gray
Water washing away its meaning
Everything is black and white now
Lifeless but easier to understand
I ran, panting, desperate for air
Exhausted and unable to stand
Winded, unable to pace myself
Frantically chasing, there it stood
Trying to hold it with my hand
I extended my arm as far as i could
Still not within my reach
I desperately move onward
Taking every step in the hope
Of finally reaping that reward
If roles were switched
It might even look funny
But it wasn't, so here I am
Smirking and laughing at me
Trying to breathe once more
I realized it way too late
That the world of color I love
Was something that I used to hate
That all I've been desperately chasing
Was a scenery beautifully unfinished
On a washed up battered canvas
Of lines previously drawn and cherished
Of the colors and hues painted once
Afterimages, of the picture we used to make
That I kept reminiscing in my dreams
And kept haunting me while I'm awake
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 3:53 AM UTC
Vivisection of now sunken residue
even though woven in unsighted glares
She graces her surrounding with afterimages
of what was, but now only sees inwards.
All is witnessed without viewing reflection.
Perceiving the world through hands of oblivion.
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 2:30 PM UTC