Two Poems by Marie C Lecrivain

 

Why My True Node is in Pisces

the most vivid dream 

I had was at age 11

water flowed over me

my dark hair streamed

like a flag behind my head

I remember the feel

of hips that propelled me 

into the space between

the waves that inevitability 

crashed against the shore

the joy I felt as the sun's rays

penetrated the water

to shatter like golden shards

that slipped between 

my eager fingers

I swam past shipwrecks

and silent drowned cities

whose souls slept 

peaceful and quiet

past schools of sharks

who knew to keep

their distance 

and breached the air

in time to see the stars

ascend before my eyes

I never wanted this to end

but all journeys do

and mine ended

in the morning

beached on my bed

where I woke to a cruel day

filled with the dessicated

reality of being human  

with the evaporated tracks 

of salty tears on my face

Sweet Peas

You are

so whimsical

with your profundity

transcending

from maiden pink

into elderly lavender 

in the space of a day.

I realize

there is nothing

more candid

than your

dessicated pale tendrils

spiraling

into themselves,

as a final prayer of thanks

for living the dream 

of one stretch of life

perfectly undisturbed.

Marie C Lecrivain is an author, and curator of two literary blogs, Al-Khemia Poetica: A Women’s Arts and Writing Journal, and Dashboard Horus: A Bird’s Eye of the Universe. Her work’s been published in Gargoyle, Nonbinary Review, Orbis, and various journals. She’s currently writing her first novella.

Five Poems by Sterling Warner

 

Mumtaz Mahal & Carole Jean

1. Tribute Fulfilled

2. 
   

Carole and I knelt before the Taj Mahal 

like dual immobile whirling dervishes 

meditating on India’s jewel of Islamic art 

mesmerized by the passion behind constructing  

a monument that would match the immeasurable 

love between Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal—

one of the worlds grandest resting spots, 

the mausoleum dazzled lovers and poets, 

architects and designers, pilgrims and politicians,

truth-seekers, mystics and spiritual aspirants

who looked upon the Charbagh Garden

with artistic shock and awe in equal measure

as they contemplated how exquisitely 

earthly hands sculpted its four-part pathways 

and crafted sacrosanct, reflective water channels 

equaling a divinely inspired paradisiacal abode.

 

II.  Alternative Homage

Carole and I left the ivory white sepulcher

different, wiser harbingers of a menacing 

secret that mere tourists had left back on Agra’s 

left bank of the river Yamuna. We sauntered 

away from Mumtaz’s marble tomb all the better 

for experiencing its splendor, comprehending 

futility since love’s most impressive tribute paled

next to persistent grief, loss, and bereavement—emotions 

that haunted Shah Jahan long after Mumtaz Mahal’s death.

Before my beloved passed a few years later,

Carole assured me neither a human nor ethereal

memorial shrine could replicate depths of our

unparalleled passion and commitment; in memorium 

I shot a bottle rocket of her cremated spirit into heaven, 

floated her ashes down our brook, sent a blazing 

miniature longship bearing her bones into the Salish Sea.

Nana’s Creations

Thin

wax

paper

napkins sat

on Nan’s kitchen shelf

overlooking her ceramic

fruit bowl she’d thrown on a potter’s wheel when just a teen

as remarkable as the lace

tablecloth crocheted

by a hearth

until

bed

time.

When

cocks

would crow

and dawn’s dew

danced upon flowers

she’d gather eggs and make breakfast

before anyone else had a chance to brush their teeth;

a munition’s plant welder in 

World War II, he’d work 

till sunset

and toil

back

home.

Sand Mandala Labyrinth, Adagio

Hopelessly lost in a sands of time, labyrinth  

silica granules immobilized my arms and legs

dared lungs to deeply breathe, choke on oxygen

exhale in gasps, helplessly attempting

to maintain form while accosted by micro-grains

of grit that filled unconscious empty spaces and 

tightened a dead sea graveyard’s grasp.

The mandala engulfed me further, adagio, 

teased me with a glimpse of evenly crafted 

concentric circles—a spherical North American 

counterpart to Peru’s Moray Circular Terraces, 

offering unlikely potential escape routes 

through native landscape depressions, yet hinted 

at deliverance though a consecrated pathway.

Ah, but every thought and movement intensified

nature’s reptilic grip on my body as it squeezed

me like a boa constrictor, cutoff blood flow

induced a cardiac arrest, crushed a beachfront 

desert maze of no return, as I fixated on a mirage

that carried me away on a time signature as the theme 

song for Lawrence of Arabia played in the distance.

Epileptic Sleepwalk

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation 

where they will not be judged by the color of their skin 

but by the content of their character. —Martin Luther King, Jr.

From a dream that sent me back to 1963 where I

walked beside others in a March on Washington  

I awoke to the congenial sound of a choir

as brazen as Donatello’s cherub angels;

never leaving my bed, I Astro projected 

downstairs, discovered classical art paintings 

and marble sculpture reproductions of spiritelli

animated, alive, fully engaged in musical

pursuits, laughing, dancing, cavorting.

Some raised flutes to the heavens, others

strummed mandolines, plucked lutes,

sang ethereal psalms and harmonious tunes;

my wide opened eyes beheld mischievous creatures

from glory’s realm who cheered on my psychomotor

seizure thereby capturing a secular imagination’s

mystical music via pristine renaissance beauty

aware angles sought firmament equity through the end 

of hierarchies and flew freed from artisans’ restraints.

Resolute Black Dahlias

Inspired by Elizabeth Short

Blinded only by shut eyes of choice

I buried my face in an Arbian Night bouquet

of black dahlias; I deeply inhaled 

and reveled in its aroma although I’d

forfeited sense of smell for the gift of life

following a compound fractured skull.

Dark maroon bled wine-red plasma that mixed

purple pigmentation color upon velvety ebon

pedals intoxicated me as I bit thick hollow stems 

like succulent grass blades on midmorning hilltops; 

I imagined my blood mixed with Aphrodite’s tears

that sprouted each spring commemorating my own loss.

A boomer in the 50’s, flowerchild of the ‘60s

my mind favored optical illusions to truths uninspired,  

details soon forgotten, or toxic warnings only 

shared because ERs measured undisclosed secrets 

and medical side effects the same terminal culprits 

behind aspiring starlets or victims of chance. 

Oh I have been far more fortunate than Elizabeth Short

yet never sought opulence, notoriety, or stardom; we both

our lives lived in mysteries undesired, exploits unspoken always 

at the mercy friendly gossip and savage tabloids who explained

the absence of color to explain ragged social harmony, adding 

unresolved layers of betrayal, sadness, and misery to outcasts.

Sterling Warner is a Washington-based author, poet, educator, and Pushcart Nominee, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared in such literary magazines, journals, and anthologies as The Raven’s Perch, Lothlórien Poetry Journal, Ekphrastic Journal Review, and Verse-Virtual. Warner’s volumes of poetry include Rags and Feathers, Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Edges, Memento Mori, Serpent’s Tooth, Flytraps: Poems, “Cracks of Light: Pandemic Poetry & Fiction, Halcyon Days: Collected Fibonacci Abraxas: Poems, Gunilla’s Garden, Seaboard Magic (2026) as well as Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories. Warner still hosts “virtual” poetry/fiction readings, turns wood, and enjoys fishing along the Hood Canal.