Debra J Harmes-Kurth
"It is not the blows in life we receive that matter, but the fact that we survived."
I started wrting as a young girl and subjected my siblings to stories and poems while "playing" teacher. (I was always the teacher.) My uncle was a major influence in my life as a teacher and mentor, although to this day I do not think I have ever written anything that he has simply said 'good job', to. I will however, at least that is one of the things that keeps me going. I write not because I want to, or always enjoy it, but because it is a major part of who I am and I cannot imagine a life without writing.
Editor/Owner of Art With Words Poetry Quarterly, published in several anthologies, Katrinia, a book to benefit the thousands left homeless by the hurricanes. "Coal," a Poetry Anthology put together by Marshall University, WV, Mobius, prize winning poetess on both state and national levels. First Vice President of the West Virginia Poetry Society
Click here: Art With Words Quarterly Literary Magazine
So Says The Fish Eyed Girl
by Debra Jean Harmes-Kurth
Momma she bent backwards,
never known' what to say,
cuz daddy was next to God.
Words can be hard
an' sometimes mean,
but daddy's word was law.
"Child you just wait,
'til your daddy gets home."
Momma used to say that,
cuz daddy was next to God.
There is the fist of power;
it's served by the hand of wrath.
"Don't look at me like that,
with fire in them eyes."
In innocence or ignorance,
he borned the fish eyed girl,
who learnt to know her place,
cuz daddy was next to God.
Momma she took a beaten,
cuz daddy was next to God.
Said he didn't mean it
jus' shine talking outta him.
Birthin' the fist of power,
Enforced by the hand of wrath.
Cuz daddy was next to God,
he borned the fish eyed girl;
with the fire in them eyes
whose Momma took a beaten'
an' laid bleedin' on the floor.
Rag rug covers up the stain.
Brand new garden in the spring.
Cuz daddy ain't next to God.
Postscript: this is part of a series of poems; Voices from the Teacup, about local women. These are both historical and present day voices. Each poem reflects a true story, and the strength of the women involved. There are so very many voices hidden in the beauty of the surrounding hills that need and deserve to be heard.
Archery Class
by Debra Jean Harmes-Kurth
Arrows flew
missing bulls-eyes;
black and white.
Nothing was ever
that clear.
Colored center –
red like mine, untouched
by wayward shafts,
fire, passion, or
blood that was blue.
I had hoped
to do better.
Calvin the Dermatologist
by Debra Jean Harmes-Kurth
I have decided
to live inside your skin
not beside, not with you,
but instead of you.
You held me
in a strangle hold
too tight … I forgot
how it was to breathe.
In your skin
I crawl beneath covers
of an un-made bed
where I take your
last breath.
Hold it too tight.
In the dark.
Where we are equals.
Chimera Years
by Debra Jean Harmes-Kurth
Fallacious fabric
benighted dreams
flavorless feelings
of fraying seams
Traveling timepiece
stolen soul
visiting heaven
hidden shoal
Mercenary mesh
spiderweb strings
fungous confusion
as lyre sings
Effluent ego
assumed delight
cavernous hinderance
of ostrich flight
Sacreligious salt
raveling tears
existing limbo
chimera years
The Gift Of A Blue Bottle
by Debra Jean Harmes-Kurth
I stood at the end of the world;
edged by the sea … beckoned
closer to its rhythmic song
and white skirted dancers.
I searched the horizon;
then beyond for a sign,
evidence of what I knew.
I could not walk on water,
it would devour me,
swallow me as it did the beach
with each grain of sand.
A hint of blue,
carried, gently tossed
from living waters
by fingers of green
laid at my feet.
Wax tightly sealed
a tiny mouth
in aged glass.
Hidden a gracefully scripted note
on delicate parchment, meant
for my eyes, on that day.
My Dearest Sister,
When I release this missive into the hands of fate; I will say a prayer of: thanksgiving for having loved, forgiveness for having sinned and deliverance from both.
Please my little sister; do not think that I ran nor believe me a coward. For in truth it is my bravery that brought me here to face the unknown and the wrath of my creator.
I know how you love the sea and that you walk in naked feet, letting tiny tongues of water caress and kiss your legs when you believe that you are unseen. I will pray with my last breath that the god of fate will lay this message at your young feet; that you may understand my leaving and learn from the error of my way.
I shall not say who it is that I am; because you know. I can not let this quill leave evidence of my transgression upon such finely pressed parchment. I shall however leave you a warning, as I venture to those shores beyond our own.
Beware of the hawk that takes its prey in folly, his talons will pierce your heart. Dear little one never allow a hawk to quiet your life’s song. You are precious.
With letter clutched
I embraced the memory
of a sister … Because I too …
Knew the hawk.
Voice and Moon Jelly
by Debra Jean Harmes-Kurth
It swam . . .
unfelt . . . unseen . . . unknown
from thoughtless trickle to creek,
stream and river, until it met the ocean
through the open mouth of god.
One microscopic razor clawed mole
sharpened itself on terracotta walls
as it marched in the dry valley.
Without harmony, boat, or little boots.
Tiny feet grew spikes and claws
became talons which dug and burrowed
in the back-waters of you.
Without pre-knowledge or permission
you were trans-mutated
into test-tube, milk-donor
incubator of disposables.
“
rolled sheepskins, white
coated worms. “Flush it
you filthy girl it’s retribution,
plague, scourge,
illness of consumption,
defective mole and embodiment
of evil. You will be crowned
as moon jelly . . . Aurelia . . .
chrysalis of consummation.
Scrub and flush, filthy girl,
dirty woman.”
Then said the girl, Chrysalis Woman:
be the blood of its body?
Could I become evil and
evil come through me?
Do you exist in a hedonistic slit Mole,
and where you spat from god?
Will legacy pass with constriction,
constraint, without consent?
Could I keep you as a molten fish,
slippery to hold and grow you wild?
For absolution of antiquated sins;
I must remove the secret
of closed doors, wrap you in cloth
not of biblical weave, but new, taut
and armor perfect that you never
know your birthright of scars.
My curved swell.
My innocent.
I have buried the legacy.
