Three Poems by Debra J. Nordyke

Debra J. Nordyke’s poetry appears in Oddball Magazine, Stone Poetry Quarterly, Lowlife Lit Press, and more, exploring darkness, resilience, and the human spirit.

Wine Moon

Ballymoon Castle draped in wine moon 
light, beams deep ruby, drip down crumbling
stone walls, like legs of swirled red wine, 
luminous Venetian goblet. I reminisce… 
years of moon and sun, pink cherry blossoms 
long dismissed from branches. Days young

Horace ran, laughter chasing blond waves, 
Queen’s prestige pristine.  She need not feign 
our rule, kingdom rode poor paupers as black
stallions upon dry earth, serving whims, 
flavorful opulence. Delicious power savored,
like plum wine, blackberry, tastes of vigor.

My purple mouth melts, musing stolen,
Horace stumbles, crashing silver tray of peacock 
pies, olives, cheeses, spewed across intricate
veneers, rich brown Walnut dining table.
Ejecting cacophonous words of drunkenness,
silent servants whirl swan raspberry tarts 

for honored guests. Monarchs, nobles,
Saint Peter suck air in horror, question
my diminished power, eyes of disdain
land on ancient family Crest carved of stone.
Lifting my goblet, toast, selecting my royal 
King’s fork, wafts of wild boar saturating

affluent air. Clinks of forks laid to rest. Queen’s
face ghastly white, walks on shattered air, 
caresses her son’s destiny. Wipes residue, stabbing 
need to drink off his face. Cradles him like the babe 
she rocked, now cloaked in shame, bids goodnight. 
I watch my kingdom shatter before my red-rimmed eyes. 

Slowly, chairs scrape flagstones, mass exit 
ornate dining hall, as wafts of music, bid
religious, political power marauders goodnight. 
Climbing spiral staircase to the highest turret, 
withdrawing black metal key, turning silent 
click, Prince Horace locked for eternity. 

A man craves unfathomable power, desires 
bubble, tickling the edges of his skin. Scorpions
as Kings devour their own, possessed
with gluttonous absorption of self.

Escaping Mist

Hazel eyes like a gazing ball
stare back at me. Black swirls of metal
encircle my silver-mirrored image.
Soft creamy skin, slightly wrinkled,
I trace my lip line,
lips, Marilyn Monroe red.
Smear colors of beige, 
down the side of my nose,
pink over cheek bones, 
eyes coated black,
conceal, camouflage.
Steam rises, blurs my face.
Remnants of yesteryear,
ghosts of my past,
rise inside me, they haunt
my disembodied spirit.  
Secrets seep through veiled eyes, 
like ethereal mist lifting off the pond.
I leak out like a thin line of 	
blood from a paper cut.
Through black tunnels of eye 
holes, murky innards displayed,
pain saturated flashbacks escape. 
“Grandpa’s hands. Hands used to slice 
me open like a butterflied steak.
His tongue. Used like a Glock. 
I watch me from the ceiling,
as he slits my throat,
plucks out my voice. 
Iron fist, he holds up his prize…
my silence.”
I close the lid of
Pandora’s box, locked inside
evil memories of my world.
Hazel eyes stare back at me,
mask I don today,
image is intact.
Slowly, I back away,
eyes still stare,
I click off the light,
I step out into the world. 
I am the hologram.

Ambush

Haibun


Soft creak, lifting of my back door’s latch, Coyote enters my home, silver knife in hand. Silent feet pad toward my bedroom. Eerily quiet silence. No rays of moonlight, predator hides in blackness of night. Eyes open slowly, something touched me. I stare. Monsters do come out at night. Fear races through my veins like sound shattering air. Legs flail, kicking wildly, coyote backs away. I spring from my bed, he circles, plunges toward my neck, ice cold steel blade, against my skin. His words like radio static, I will cut you. Frozen like artic water, legs straight as totems, hands limp as rope. Safety slashed. Voice vanished. I morph into a ragdoll. No mouth to scream. Blank eyes stare. 

Nature feeds on life
skilled predators consume 
hidden eyes ambush

Author’s note

Wine Moon shows the corrupting disease of one's soul to power and affluence. Escaping Mist and Ambush shows the consequences on a human life to men wielding self-absorbed power.

BIO

A retired office manager for a small family law firm in rural Missouri, Debra J. Nordyke lives on 80 acres of fields and timber, sharing the land with owls, eagles, and blue herons. An active outdoor enthusiast, Debra enjoys running 5K, 10K, and half-marathon races, as well as playing tennis, pickleball, and hiking.

Publications:

• Darkness of the Soul — published February 19, 2025, in Oddball Magazine.

• Convex Mirror — published in The Writer’s Place Yearbook 2024, available in 2025 through Amazon.

• Synchronicity — published May 2025 in Stone Poetry Quarterly.

• Not Anything at All, Black Hole of the Soul, Dark Place — published May 2025 in Lowlife Lit Press.

• Ghosts of the Hawk and Veins — published April 2025 for the annual Poetry Walk in downtown Rutland, VT.

• A New Hue — longlisted with Penstricken Press, May 2025; selected for publication in the Summer 2025 issue, Love and Hate.