Precious
Fibonacci
Truly a blessing not a burden, a solid gold
wedding band hangs round my neck
braided Elven chain
secured, with
a hook
and
eye
clasp
held
close to
my heart,
kept it from slipping
off a creased, withering finger,
helped my dampened spirits soar like castles in the air.
Still, I waste away, my body morphs invisible
like emaciated Ringwraiths,
my perceptible
form’s now a
shadow
shroud
whose
shrill
scream,
cries like
a tortured
Nazgûl silhouette
although I cling to my precious
above Mt. Doom’s fires, below airy palaces.
Timeless Painted Ladies
—Remembering Mom and Her B & B
Embassy
Somewhere between high fashion and
extravagance,
behind wrought iron gateways and wind-swept
terraces,
bay windows peer over manicured gardens,
watch
joggers huff on by while pedestrians walk
dogs below.
Randomly located in San Francisco’s lower
Haight
extending to near identical Alamo Square
constructions,
Victorians range from Gothic Revival to Queen
Anne,
Second Empire and Italiante to Stick Eastlake
style.
Clustered
Painted Ladies prudently sit ten feet
apart.
respect
mini-yards chaperoning intimately spaced edifices;
wearing
regal oil and latex artifice, these architectural trollops
visually
flirt with onlookers awed by majesty and splendour.
Boundless Victorian homes—opulence along Postcard Row—
symbolize wealth accrued through the 1849 Gold Rush,
tease tame eyes with vibrant colours
accentuating pastels—
garish polychrome brushstrokes igniting
visual explosions.
Legend holds the Fulton/Scott Sticklike tower
inspired Tom Wolfe
then appeared in The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test—mom’s B & B—
nearby, the Grateful Dead and Jefferson
Airplane, counter-culture icons,
turned-on, plugged-in, cultivated music
within inert gorgeous shelters.
As the 21st century struts
forward, ever tall SF Victorians stand
while fish scale shingles, lavish spindles,
buttons, knobs, finials,
angular scrolls, sculptural friezes, and
belvedere rooves endure,
eclectic structural details enhanced with
each fresh coat of paint.
Prodigal
Driftwood
Chain me to drifting timber
washed up on the sandy shoreline
of Anna’s Bay; real or imagined.
I want to breathe in deeply—fill lungs
with the aroma of a Douglas Fir as its
pine-like scent wafts over the beach.
I picture the wooden cast off now salt water
heavy,
bark weathered, an evergreen trunk once long
and erect, as vigilant as a watchtower sentinel.
Bending in wind gusts, whistling past
alluring
needles that beckon me like conifer sirens.
Seductive. Disarming. Persuasive. Enchanting.
Free me from self-chosen bonds, saturate my
body
in wet sea arms, let me float like a fallen
log
from Lothlórien, drift among rogue sweetgums, firs,
redwoods, and sycamores— Apollo 14 “Moon
Trees”
germinated on earth from an orbiting sack of
seeds
relegated—as am I—to a buoyant, endless odyssey.
Dubious
Belief
Freefalling
from ghost memories,
I
question faith like a doubting Thomas
railing
against inequities, wondering
why
apocryphal thoughts swell & fester
like
open wounds just inviting inspection?
Spirited
nuances dance around altars
honour
sacrificial martyrs, pay homage
to
the blues players & street hustlers
locked
in mistrustful comradery;
hesitation
abounds & scepticism reigns.
Disciples
of dawn engage in vespers
worship
possibilities, question dust
that
floats on light beams sanctifying dander,
aeolian
fibres & mite remains as suspicion hangs
suspended
like luminescent halos over holy icons.
Circus
Sands (Or Bring on the Fledging
Jugglers)
—Dedicated to Neil Young
Return
us now to the black tar carnival,
appearing
each August without exception,
alongside
Barnum & Bailey pavilions, spread
out
across Sears Roebuck’s vast parking lot
like
a homey, boardwalk arcade, blocking
off
streets, encouraging foot traffic,
sixty
years prior to social distancing.
We
licked pink cotton candy which melted
on
our eager fingers, while inhaling toxic,
friendly
air that smelled like oil fumes from
smoky
frames of flaming hoops, mixed with
an
aroma of stale burnt tobacco, fresh roasted
peanuts,
hot buttered pop-corn, & ripe animal
dung…swept
far out of sight beneath bleachers.
Under
the big top, anything could happen,
crimson
clad ring masters introduced acts:
bears
danced in time to organ grinder jigs,
two
women chomped down on thick leather bits,
twirling
in circles, increasing momentum,
as
tightrope walkers tread lightly across narrow wires,
&
death wish trapeze artists flew over
crowds without net.
Still
clowns, glaring clowns, the grease painted clowns,
forged
an antidemonic alliance—the children’s resistance—
unified
against red smiling terrorists—common threat;
sucking
gas from helium balloons, we chastised hostile
harlequins, spoke in high-pitched
voices like defiant
Oz
munchkins, until white sweat rolled down slimy faces,
collectively
negating their menacing, spine-chilling smirks.
Some
spectacular shows reached climaxes unplanned;
during
a massive coronary, a behemoth’s trainer
grimaced,
fell onto his back—a signal Tina the
gymnast
elephant recognized; placing her skull
on
his chest, breaking twenty-two ribs, Tina
stood
on her head, applied bestial CBR, resuscitated
the dead, bowed down on modest knees, her trick error
free.
Let us float freely back,
traverse crowed canvas tents,
when stakes uncertain
provided awesome adventures,
& Cirque du Soleil
prototypes received unqualified applause,
approved glitter & danger,
delighting in exotic animal routines
fearing smelly phantoms,
Ronald McDonald’s forefathers;
say hello to vanishing
circles of sawdust, yesterday’s
theatre ever present, as
long as our memories allow.
Sterling Warner - An award-winning author, poet, and English Professor, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared in such literary magazines, journals, and anthologies as Ariel Chart Magazine, Danse Macabre, Scarlet Leaf Review, The Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine, The Fib Review, and the Shot Glass Journal. Warner’s collections of poetry include Rags and Feathers, Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Edges, Memento Mori, Serpent’s Tooth: Poems, and Flytraps (2022)—as well as Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories. Currently, Warner writes, turns wood, participating in “virtual” poetry readings, and enjoying retirement in Washington.
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