Five Wonderful Poems by Sterling Warner

 

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 1^st

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.