Art by Frank Messa. Site design by Artisan Studio.

The following poems by Debrah Kayla Sterling appeared in Mark Everett's (this) poetry site:

Devine Repose
Ring of Doubt
Breakfast Is Served
Blowtorch
Swimming

Divine Repose

Stepping into the clear
autumn air,
I felt a rush of sensation--
as though an unseen
host of angels were whispering
secrets against my skin.

Turning up the collar
of my coat,
I casually began
to count steps taken--
perhaps merely to know
how far it was
from here to there.

Daylight had found me weary,
with no time to dream
and far too many
concerns clouding my vision...
burdening my thoughts.

In catching sight of
a smiling, sleepy moon
hanging overhead,
shining brightly
against night's canvas--
suddenly, all else
was forgotten.


(issue 3, Sept. 1999)

Ring Of Doubt

I can be my best defender
or worst opponent,
and like a prize fighter 
who stalks the ring
I come flailing off the ropes
to plunder myself
over things I could never change,
and yet, I raise my hand in victory
over things no one else
will ever notice.

Shadow boxing my own reflection--
at war with words,
at odds with reason,
spinning in circles
until I make myself sick and dizzy;
ever determined
to have the final swing,
though I may be knocked senseless
and counted out in the end...

I must confess,
so far in this battle
I can only conclude
that it's simply too early
to tell.   


(issue 4, Dec. 1999)

Breakfast Is Served

Thirsty souls of night
drink the amber light
at the end of day;
dragging down the sun
behind the horizon
crushing it flat
like an orange flavored
flapjack
to be served covered
in nocturnal syrup.

Smiling,
clutching their forks,
they each claim a slice
of the sun...
trying not to burn their lips
on that first bite,
nor to scorch their throats
when they swallow.

Dancing in darkness,
warmed by this perpetual meal,
they light their torches
exhaling a single breath--
pounding ghostly drums
in celebration...
another day has come and gone.

Ebony growing paper thin,
the hours of night
quickly fading;
torches slowly dying
but not the fire in the belly.

Scurrying on their knees
in prayer at the feet
of the waking horizon,
still full of flame...
the souls of night begin to sing,
coughing up the sun.
 

(issue 5, March 2000)

Blowtorch

He split me open
with a cobra tongue,
then explained
how I had to feel my pain
to understand his pleasure.

Painted my body scarlet red
then cast me against a wall,
raging I had to taste crimson
to understand what a diamond
I truly was.

He ordered me
to close my eyes,
spewing how dragons would come
marching and spitting fire...
that I had to bathe
in his temple of flame
to realize how soothing
my aura was.

He prepared for me
a faithless cross
that I should atone
for his collection of sins...
declaring I would never know
the true worth of my soul
until I'd hung twisting
in the wind.

He stretched me
to my limit,
teaching dance steps
I'd never known--
hailing our routine
a somba with the devil,
from flame to fiery end. 


(issue 5, March 2000)

Swimming

Bourbon is his medicine;
the ocean
where he learned to swim...
rolling up his sleeves
to dive in deep,
he flails his fists
across her skin.

Her screams,
his shouts,
measured shot glass,
by shot glass...

she falls limp
like a rag on the floor,
when he just can't swim
anymore.

Those bleary eyes,
that fiery breath...
his anger,
the missing ingredient
on the label of contents;
as stroke by stroke
he's making good time,
on his way
to no man's island...

fingers
crooked and curled
around the neck of another
dying bottle...

while everyone he knows
tries to stay down wind,
when the tide of alcohol
is rising--
when they know
the surf is up.


(issue 6, June 2000)