The Woman … What does she seek? (Poetry and Watercolor)

What does she seek?

Her vision is intense and defined.

Is that stone wall rising before her eyes

Really there or only in her mind?

I can feel the pressure in her breast as she sighs.

The tree behind her has lost its leaves.

Stark weathered branches reaching to the sky.

Is that a symbol for whom she grieves?

Does she even know or wonder why?

The pine brings life into her reach,

But she is looking away from the greenery.

What is above her that she doth seek?

What turns her away from the luscious scenery?

Is it real or is it merely how she feels?

Grief … the consummate, ultimate thief. 

–Deborah A. Bowman



The Future …

woman in black long sleeved cardigan

Some days I feel like I have come so far, done so well

Since a year ago, when my world literally ended for me.

But then, I get a heavy feeling in my gut and the bells of doom kell

Their heavy tolls, awakening me to the emptiness within my heart.

I look around and watch sadness creep in like waves

Through my soul, my mind, my body, showing me the grave

That I do not have the courage to visit.

How do I keep the feeling of accomplishment and resist

The bells that ring in tandem to random thoughts of loss?

There is no way to shine from heaven the unknown gloss … of forever, together.

Deborah A. Bowman

Lost in reflection…

Looking back, could I have done something more?

Something different?

Something besides staring at the floor

Covered in needles, adrenaline vials spent?

Plastic wrappers tossed aimlessly

My life shattered shamelessly

But I didn’t even think about me

His body, now removed, was all I could see

I did no wrong

But he was gone.

I bent down and cleaned up the mess

Left by those who took him to his final rest.


The Owl … Caught In Flight

Owl Painting
Owl in Flight on a Moonlit NIght

Creature of the night

Caught in flight

Hunting among  redwood trees

No one knows what those eyes see

In the faint moonlight in the breeze

Long, sharp talons extended

Reaching for small prey, life-ending

The balance of the hunted and Hunter

All must live and die in shrieks of thunder

Large flapping wings overhead

Filling small hearts with fear and dread

Nestled under the earth or scattered leaves

The tiny family grieves

As the owl takes to the skies

In the dark of night, eyes that hypnotize

In the glow of the moon, caught in flight

The owl with his nocturnal sight

(Painting and poem by Deborah A. Bowman)

© 2017



I Tend to Love the Melodramatic In My Writing and In My Creativity…I Think I Was Born in the Wrong Century!

Once upon a dark, dreary night, chaos reigned in the sky. I took up my quill as the thunder roared and the lightning blinded my eyes...
Once upon a dark, dreary night, chaos reigned in the sky. I took up my quill as the thunder roared and the lightning blinded my eyes…

I do not know exactly where I come from or why I am so sad and dramatic

There are times at night that I see a different world…by candlelight, draped in shadows

I lift the feather and dip it into the pitch black, thickened ink

I watch the fluid drip like blood from the glare in darkened windows

It is always storming, the candle flame flickering from cracks in the ancient mansion

The fire in the hearth has expired and the chill is almost unbearable

But I turn my thoughts inward in a closed fashion

To ponder on the melodramatic and scenes that are terrible

Murder whispers through the night and I continue to write

Each scratch upon the tanned skin of an animal

Reminding me of death, of ruin, of horrific sights

I think that I am safe within, yet I am so gullible

As I live my poem within my mind, my body racked with pain

I hear footsteps in the empty room and chuckle at my absurdity

It’s just the rain beating unmercifully against the leaden panes

I glance up, expecting nothing, but emptiness and levity

A figure looks down at me, standing tall and broad

How did “she” get in here, soaked with blood and shivering?

I did not hear the latch open the door; no one spoke aloud

The look on her face is horrific, and I begin quivering

I look down at myself. I’m totally reconstructed

From a modern woman of the 21st Century

To a man, dressed in finery, frightened–reluctantly

Wondering where I am and what kind of monster I must be!