Montreal
Breathing freedom, sewing oats
Montreal rode
unforgiving steel rails
from Québec down to Calexico, rolling,
grinding
metal all the way to Tepic where
train ties
stretched out like southern scars;
travelers
moving east caught transports—
ancient
busses—cut across single lane
highways,
well-worn wheels squealing,
leaving no
space to pullover or pass, just
steep granite
cliffs or a deep canyon drop.
Under a dark
canopy in a San Blas cantina,
shadows where
one’d expect to find Peter Lorri
lurking,
Montreal sat among gloomy silhouettes—
tossing back
tequila shots with mescal & cerveza
chasers,
laughing with Canadian comrades;
our eye’d lock intermittently while shades,
grew in depth
& size, then spotlights shed
on
alligators, surrounded by dry moats,
fenced off
from patrons with chicken wire, fed
rats released
by proprietors for entertainment.
Coastal city
hotels offered guests two sleeping choices,
a converted
brothel or a rejuvenated penitentiary,
I lodged in
the former, Montreal the purple prison; on
our second
chance meeting, the morning jungle cruise,
Montreal’s
magnificent bare breasts became legion
as her
practical joking friends from Lac-Delage
held her
bikini top tie while she clutched a rope,
jumped off a
log, swung over the lagoon,
& dropped
into the water amid uncompromising
approval,
delighted cheers, & lusty laughter.
Montreal
turned & winked at me as she climbed
out of the
water, never losing my gaze while she
modestly
walked past, arms covering boobs,
brushing my
own body with moisture on her skin,
stoking an
imagination consumed by aching desire;
our mutual
yearning signaled a tryst in the making—
Montreal and
I destined to quench longing’s thirst—
still, we
parted that day unrequited, uncertain, if
fate would
bring us together as one or when,
since the bus
back to Tepic left come daylight.
Two young
bodies Northward bound, alone
among many on
a train to Mexicali’s boarder,
engaging in
card games & insignificant conversation,
Montreal
romanticized U.S. liberties; teased by
her friends,
she ran the Pullman porter gauntlet, car
after car
through each exterior rear sliding door,
settled in
the buffet lounge—a caboose sanctuary;
I following
her footsteps after five, she met me midway
as I entered
the final car, ran into my arms,
cried, then
kissed my confusion full bore.
She wanted
me, yes—a companion with a purpose,
a yank she
might marry, no strings attached, just
a 6-month
hitch, quick divorce, & citizenship,
our pact
seemed fraught with fringe benefits;
Montreal’s
intrigue & beauty grew by the hour,
till I
marched through customs with Montreal
& fellow
Canadians, turned my back on U.S. friends—
suspected
smugglers—but then lost sight of my future,
my love, my
temporal wife with advantages; she melted
forever into
another throng of dreaming strangers.
Fireflies
Amid barn owl
hoots and coyote calls,
fireflies
spark up the night, flash
like blinking
Christmas tree bulbs,
create a
twilight wonderland, torch
pitch black
gloom where mystery
takes a back
seat to carnival gaiety.
Natural magic
teases our five senses
with
paranormal possibilities, secrets
hidden in
dark corners, ignored
by masses who
prefer line of sight
certainties instead
of Middle-earth skies
concealing
threats, cloaking impure intentions.
When lightening bugs take wing, they
zip between
tree branches, blink or appear
as
luminescent larvae—glow worms
gracing
woodlands, gathering in marshes,
blue ghosts
shedding minute moonbeams
where
dominate shadows once held court.
Aegis
“Sometimes you have to
burn yourself to the ground before you can
rise like a phoenix from the ashes.” –
Jens Lekman (Swedish Musician)
When spotted
leaves cling to branches
& muddy
shallows bake as riverbeds dry,
we’ll yearn
for apocalyptic freedom—
delivery from
decimation’s barren womb—
await
honesty’s action over deceitful
complacency
sans solution where
each
calculated risk breeds compromise.
Rise from the
ashes, be my phoenix,
Create
beginnings from dying embers,
dance in
enchanted forests, play
puckish
pranks or seek changelings
as the answer
to dysfunctional family
dynamics;
beyond crumbling ruins,
stone walls
stand battered by time
like a
merciless blitzkrieg, children
hazard wagers
against one another
toss dice
amid rubble, stake lives
on street
craps, roll six-sided cubes
like oracle
bones divining fortunes.
May our gambles
pass like cloudbursts—
fleeting
cells sprinkling & cooling hot asphalt,
evaporating
in heat, leveling uptight bodies
&
clearing minds; under temperate skies
kindling
renewal, we will tread paths
where flames
flicker & our combustion
sparks haloed
lives outliving nine ravens.
Naturalists’ Legendarium
From fields
of poppies to forests of elm
vacation
cabins silently sit, billowing smoke
casting
cotton film across azure skies.
The flagstone
fireplaces heat huddlers
within who
either spend time in each other’s
arms or
peruse yesterday’s scrapbook photos.
Sandalwood
incense wafts through all the rooms,
keeping time
with nature—somewhat removed,
the scent
evoking mythic memories with each breath.
So where are
the suitors with dozens of roses
or hunters
insistent that wild game will provide?
They wait in
abeyance, abide time quite content.
Reciting
historical fact & fiction, naturalists
value
glittering caves, grey havens, & the shire,
regard Lothlórien-like forests their immediate paradise.
Station Wagon Odyssey
Gliding down
the Kings Highway in a gold Dodge Cornet
big kids
fight younger siblings for
the
rear-facing seat
two full
rows
behind
Mom
and
Dad’s
eyes
alert
voices
sharp
singing
oldies tunes
blaring from
the car radio
motioning us
to join traveling karaoke.
As we watch Hanger 1 at Moffett Field
disappear,
David turns towards our parents
queries, “We there yet?”
knowing the
Dixon
Milk
Farm
had
not
been seen
this snail’s pace
two-hour drive from
San Jose to Woodland; I pull
an imaginary cord, urge truckers blow
air horns.
Meanwhile, my sister blows them kisses they’d catch
midair,
slap against sweaty, stubbled cheeks
clutch their hearts and smile
turning off
at the
Nut
Tree
for
snacks
leg stretch
toilet breaks.
Interstate bingo
shifts to license
plate alphabet
games, twenty minutes away from our destination.
Sterling Warner
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