Hunting the Honey Bee
Words and Photo Copyright Debbie Berk 2017 Lost in love and the brightly colored darkness of it all bare and barely aware of the danger I surrender my softly bruised flesh to the beautiful brutally of an intoxicating touch sweet as death and my echoed breath caught in the swelling silence of a passing…
Self Portrait, the Light and the Dark Half
“Because beauty is not always beautiful but mostly flawed and brief in its moments of glimpsed light at the right angels beyond the shadows of an unseen darkness”
The Endless Hunger To Be Healed
“Blood is the secret color for all honest art is nothing more than an open wound and poetry, the infection it seeps” All photos used in this image are mine with the exception of the wolf (half) face.
Midnight Dreamer
Dark as the night the moon in her eyes and poetry in her veins all mystery and bold a warrior and fallen angel full of pain an untamed spirit like a gypsy she roams letting her dreams guide the way, finds redemption in the words, lets them speak until the loss and the ache of…
Eulogies of Love
The words, they come like memory distant as the dawn waking within dreams whispering like grief and again the sorrows speak remembers the shadows that do not sleep, restless and deep in their longings black as the night where even the black birds weep for the ghosts already gone and still those yet to be…
The Dark
New poem and drawing (lame, I can’t draw but whatever) This will be the opening poem for the next issue of The Stray Branch, Fall/Winter 2017 which I have recently begun work on.
Mute
I am lost no words to guide me through this silence alone going deeper into the void no voices speak yet I wait without promise of rescue no whispers of hope ©Debbie Berk
It Watches……
A short story I glimpsed again the shadow, heard the sound once more, a faint, desperate cry……distant. There was a knock at the door, no one there. Turning away from the window I hear the crash of breaking glass and I could almost feel the sting of a freshly cut wound, the warm blood…
In this living that is not…
all that is left of the sacred are the sorrows lost to the mourning shadows of shame in the deep wounds of knowing of no tomorrows to come, of hearing no callings of death beyond, no voices of hope, not one to welcome us home but only the silence of a whispered prayer screaming into…
