Enchanted Woodlands
Tall
Sequoias
branch out,
as majestic
deciduous and
coniferous cornucopia
all bow down to Methuselah, five millennia
master,
Great Basin bristlecone
pine
magnificence,
defiant
against
time’s
spoils.
Else
where,
opossum’s
nibble down on
pregnant magnolia
buds, ivory blossoms tightly
shut, petals softly caressed by early
morning dew
waiting like patient Ents for dawn’s
creeping rays, warming
signal to open
wide
bloom.
In
the
Mirkwood’s
beech and oak
forests, I gaze east
to Lórien’s stately Mallorn,
marvel as their green and silvery
leaves turn clear gold
each autumn, cling firm to branches,
and fall only come
spring when trees
blossom
fresh
sprouts.
Alfresco Temptation
Outside frosted windows
water crystals gather, hang
like diamonds from silken threads—
a sturdy geometric complex
of delicate cobweb arcs and patterns.
Beyond icy glass, snowflakes
cover cobblestones like
titanic, ivory comforters,
blurring the distinction between
flowerbeds and dormant grass.
Faint sounds of laughter draw
attention to people tossing snowballs,
adorned in fluffy down jackets,
wearing hand knit mufflers and hats,
sliding across frozen river shallows.
Inside, I bask within fiery flagstone heat,
then glance
outside to weigh present attraction
to open air
merriment against cozy corner
satisfaction
and my mature sensibility,
mollified by
a lethargic adventurous spirit.
Rising up for another cup of java,
I wiggle ten toes in my warm fuzzy slippers,
reflect on a lifetime of winter wonderland worship,
festivity, and play; tranquilly, I close venetian blinds,
then draw down the window shade at peace.
Rebellion’s Trek
Dreamlike, we climbed through
Capitola’s clammy storm drain
simply because it existed,
pushed forward through
spider webs, mossy walls,
fetid water puddles particularly
since we’d been strictly forbidden
to do so by city ordinance &
parents;
sloshing past the pattering of
scurrying sewer rats, furry feet
scratch concrete, splashing
mysterious
pools of filth
on rehabilitated
tunnel frogs & fearless young legs,
bare, oblivious to any impending
flash flood—or adult caution—
mission firm, epic journey
undeterred;
emerging victorious at New Brighton’s
hillside, a wooded bluff view
of the sandy beach near Seacliff’s
cement boat, a post WW I vessel
turned casino, dancehall, arcade…,
envisioned by legendary visionaries—
courageous young leaders realizing
an
ambition from a former day, another
time.
Mystic Web
Handheld
camera snapping Route 106 photos,
capturing
setting sun extravaganzas where eagles
fly in and
out of Walt Disney air castles,
blue herons
stretch necks, raise crests, attract
mates &
tourists while low tides reveal oyster beds.
Deaf to our
voices inside a wooden tower,
we pantomimed
potential subjects in a mirror
communing
outside like the Lady of Shalott
hoping the
photographer in a hoodie would notice
our tapestry
of thoughts and eye for substance.
We longed to
acquaint ourselves with the figure
clicking
Kodak moments shot after shot, shrouded
in mystery,
chronicling mother nature’s creatures,
yet had to
make ourselves scarce, hide in a wardrobe,
then meet a
stranger about a gift horse misplaced.
“Quasimodo’s Mermaids”
In Memoriam: Deborah
Lynn, My Sister (1952-2020)
Thumbing through rags in Quasimodo’s closet,
Searching for quintessential
motely—threads fashionable
For the King of Beggars: a medieval fool crowned April 1st
on Julian & Gregorian calendars, I fortuitously
discovered
Debbie’s ship in a bottle—surrounded by wily mermaids
resting on rocks, crying out for an audience with a tale
to tell.
Iridescent sea foam crested like fireflies flickering on
warm summer evenings, orchestrated night sounds,
touched inner pulsations. Waiting, watching, pressing
hands,
we gazed beyond tamarisk waves lapping sandy beaches—
enchantment’s doorway—where people, places, things,
sweet dreams & nightmares remain ever-present.
Perched upon rugged rocks that broke the glass faced ocean,
mermaids took coral combs, groomed exquisite hair—
amber, charcoal, golden, red, silver, sepia—luxurious
locks,
concealing bare breasts & firm, slim stomachs;
flashing emerald
fish tails, slapping volcanic thrones and aquatic mists,
they
consciously flirted with the world above and deep waters
below.
Sweet Siren voices beckoned as separate sea songs merged:
gulls cried, whales talked back and forth—accentuating
silent moments with majestic sonar blasts—while dolphins
chattered, waves crashed, & inanimate life forms
chimed in;
foghorns bellowed like long rag-dung Tibetan trumpets,
buoyed bells clanged, little lights glimmered through
fog.
Reclining on salt water pillows of peaking waves,
lounging atop skeletal ships & mariner graveyards,
relaxing on sultry, shimmering barnacle barstools, lovely
mermaids serenaded sea creatures, sailors, &
gulls—anything adrift;
rockweed laurels crowned innocence, cloaked mischievous
minds
in curiosity’s veil; they belonged to no person—no thing.
Alluring, compelling, disturbing: the inquisitive
caretakers swam into
mysterious sea caverns, sunken galleon treasures,
subconscious
depths where humans romanticize themselves feral sea
children—
watery soul mates never required to choose between fins
or legs,
graceful tails, knife piercing footsteps, muted life
& death whirlpools,
sombre, or querulous sea witch propositions:
unquestioned sacrifice.
Perhaps Quasimodo foresaw bottled beauty in visions
inspired by bells booming from Notre Dame’s Cathedral
as he sent Esmerelda love unrequited; maybe his spirit
guided
me to the prize? I returned to Q’s closet, a hunchback by
my own right;
bent, bruised, & grotesque, in presence of splendour,
I embraced
my ugliness & returned the bottled ship with mermaids
in tow.
A Washington- based author, poet, educator, and Push Cart Nominee, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared in dozens of literary magazines, journals, and anthologies such as In the Grove, The Flatbush Review, Street Lit: Representing the Urban Landscape, The Fib Review, the Atherton Review, and Metamorphoses. Warner’s has written five volumes of poetry: Rags and Feathers, Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Edges, and Memento Mori: A Chapbook Redux. His first collection of fiction, Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories, debuted in August 202. In 2021, Warner published his sixth book of poetry, Serpent’s Tooth: Poems in February 2021.
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