Rescued Poems from 2008

In 2008, I was in a dark place, writing poems and stories thick with horror themes. I was making some headway with publishing...but I was losing myself along the way.

The poems are worth remembering. They could still find markets somewhere, but I do not want to invest my time in seeking those markets out. I went looking for one poem in particular today. I didn't find it, but I found several others that I decided to post both here and at Author's Den for the simple sake of preservation.

Reminders of dark places best left avoided....

Surrender

Surrender

by Debra Kraft

c 2008

Trapped in a circular room, 
a large room

palatial

the ceiling is far, too far. It towers,

hovers over my head.

My shoulders feel the weight, heavy

and black --

incongruous.

Before me all is white 
wisps of white curtains, 
sheer light curtains, so

delicate so clean, so

soft.

They sift past a distant breeze

and then shift

forward,

toward me

until I am surrounded.

A hundred hands, a thousand fingers,

pressing at the fabric, 
pushing from beyond, 
from without, from an out

side that does not exist, that cannot

exist.

All that is

is here, is this, this white room,

this round room, this merry-go-round

of white curtains and reaching hands,

this menagerie

of hands.

I spin around; I twist away and still those

hands encircle me, still those fingers press

and push and reach through sheer white silk,

through fine fabric so soft, so sheer, so

sharp,

as sharp as death, and

as dark as the dead sky, the forgotten sky.

No.

I remember.

I can still see the blue.

I can see the blue and white, 
wispy white

refuse

from passing jets from jet engines, from

monsters made for pushing, for pressing,

for reaching beyond. I can smell the fuel

burning, that oppressive, thick aroma, so

dark, so thick, so black, as

black as espresso.

I can taste the smooth silk on my tongue,

as grasping fingers reach me, as

they wrap around my arms. I can feel

that silken, smooth grip tightening, 
pressing down upon my shoulders, 
exploring the silk

of my breasts,

and the drip of warm espresso, so smooth,

as chocolate fluid glides along my thighs,

and all hope dies in longing

surrender

Extreme Decor

This one was inspired by a visit to the tiny village of Comala in Colima, Mexico....

Extreme Decor

by Debra Kraft

c 2008

Just off the town square -- a tidy

square of white washed walls dominated

in the east by a towering, white church,

its bells so green and thick they cough,

hour after searing hour in regular scorching fits --

there is a place that calls silently

to unwary travelers, to gringos

who smile like children,

oblivious

to the warning in the six o’clock cough:

Evening comes,

good people.

The sun fades.

To home,

good people,

to home.

So while the townsfolk pay heed, the

travelers still come. They come looking

for adventure, for local culture, for

dinner.

They come far off the main road to find

quaint, cobblestone streets, narrow and tight.

The drive is unpleasant. Still they come.

But the restaurant has closed, respecting

that six o’clock cough; there is just one

man sweeping. Chairs are up off the floor;

service is done for the day.

And so the travelers wander, walking

around that square, that tight, tidy square,

until they stumble upon a welcome fountain,

its bubbling waters a reprieve from the heat,

so cool, so pleasant, so

inviting.

Drawn in by the fountain they can almost ignore

the dead man stuck on the wall,

hanging

like a piece of art,

mummified remains of someone from

some-when, a mummy borne of time,

product of the weather or other forces

unknown to our travelers.

They find it disturbing, alluring and

quaint. 

And so they venture inside.

They capture a corner, a small open room

where the lime trees almost reach in and

roosters crow from the gulley below.

And in their corner they drag rough hewn tables

together, scrape heavy log chairs, petrified

chairs across the dry, wooden floor as they

gaze at the décor, at the white walls dripping

with red, with blood-red

paint?

– “Like a scene from Helter Skelter,” someone jests,

jokes, laughs –

and at the candles, thick globs of melted

wax clinging to the railings, waiting

for the night, for the dark, for whatever

the good people of town will wait out

behind locked doors.

And our travelers joke and laugh and begin to

wonder.

Growing nervous, they order nothing

more than bottled beer

and a side of nachos.

Outside, the sun begins to set.

A lone cowboy casually rides

across the cobblestones,

his face hidden in shadows.

Inside, the candles are lit.

And all eyes fall upon the travelers

as the regulars begin gazing, joking,

laughing at these fresh, new

pieces of art.

There Was a Young Woman

There Was a Young Woman

 by Debra Kraft

c 2008

There was a young woman who lived like a mop.

She had too many children but could not seem to stop.

She let men control her, even call her a whore.

She’d just lower her eyes and clean up the floor.

Then one day her children grew up to be men.

All tall and broad shouldered, they came to defend

Their much beloved mother, the queen of their nest.

Until justice was served, they just would not rest.

They targeted cowards who called women whores.

They pummeled and beat them ‘til blood soaked the floor.

When mother found out she did not make them stop.

She just lowered her eyes, and picked up her mop.

Prophecy's Drum Updated

Lots of stuff added tonight, explaining the history

Prophecy's Drum

PD has been updated with an added bit for chapter 3 and a new post with chapter 4

Prophecy's Drum Updates

For those of you who are reading my private blog to help me gauge reader response to my novel, Prophecy's Drum, I will provide notification here to let you know when a new chapter has been posted. I cannot activate "Follow by Email" or "Subscribe to" functions on a private blog, but I have added those functions here.

With that said....

Chapter 3 is posted. Chapter 4 will follow in a day or two.