The Westerfield House: A Dramatic Monologue
"Up at Fulton and Scott is a great shambling old Gothic house, a freaking decayed giant, known as
The Russian Embassy." —Tom Wolfe from The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test)
William Westerfield, don’t doddle; let’s
revisit servant’s quarters in your Stick-Eastlake
Victorian whose rooms that once administered
a rites of passage, engendered rumours,
confirmed twisted truths your own shade
lurked between shadows without exception
every time a wolf moon filled night skies
and Houdini sealed himself in the tower
trying to transmit telepathic messages
through 1928 portals to his wife in Oakland.
Ah, it’s all coming back in confectionary glory,
Right Mr. Westerfield? Still, you're a long time gone,
dying shortly after the Fulton house completion
yet your meandering spirit remained fuelling tales
future owners died in their forties allowing
czarist “white émigrés” to purchase and transform
the ballroom into Dark Eyes, a speakeasy nightclub,
where patrons drank, waltzed and recited urban legends
regarding back stairwell poisonings as well as consequences
for desecrating a pentagram etched on dancefloor parquets.
Might memories move you, Mr. W? Place your ear
against wainscoting; let’s reimagine blue notes
guiding jazz improvisation as they rise and echo
off ceilings vaulted like cathedral towers as elegantly
painted as the Sistine chapel, but cease senseless wandering
morning, noon, and night causing bare wooden steps
to creak and groan while wailing like forlorn spirits
reluctant to haunt the living face to face yet unable to transition
into another realm where hell’s prospects promised
relief to your feeble enigma and questionable karma.
Ah there’s too much to recall—so many offbeat occupants…
don’t wander off, remain by my side; leave questions regarding
The Family Dog and Calliope Company for another evening’s
stroll through this ghostly haven; legend confuses dark figures
with fancy—as do you! Abandon inquiry into the occult filmmaker
make peace with the Church of Satan’s founder; neither he
nor his lion club will perform witchcraft rituals in the tower.
(Ah! But do check-out the feline’s claw marks on the doorframe!)
Again, let’s quit discussion of the structure’s shadowy past.
Look across the street! Alamo Square! The painted ladies park….
Tintinnabula
(Or Wind Chime Carole)
Sasquatch windchimes sway
in the Pacific Northwest breeze
copper tubes clang, pressed metal
catchers, Big Foot airstream
facsimiles sail as zephyr’s gusts
move suspension cords, clash clappers
against cylinders like angelic hammers
that resonate a cornucopia of tonalities
from baritone groans to high pitched peals.
Scattered notes gleaned from “Ave Maria”
depress and enchant, drawing tears
from those still locked in the present
yet causing stiff lips to grin as time whisks
them back to fields and forests where bad
memories fade allowing golden recollections
to dominate lifelong reflections fortissimo
tinkling, plinking, jingling, clinking, ringing
picking up speed then drifting into silence.
Solar lights showcase sleek slender pipes as shade
consumes daylight yet neither dawn nor dusk
day or night quell their vibrant, hollow timbre
ever at work rearranging melodic measures
while northern winds blow south, eastern winds
drive west, and mini tornados twist, turn, persuade
impromptu descants harmonizing with hanging chimes
or swinging on seven foot Shepard’s hooks anchored
to red cedar porch planks and slate grey patio blocks.
A Nocturnal Fête
for Carole
Neither Gods nor Goddesses
could elevate Carole skywards, accept
her spirit into an afterlife of pain, pleasure,
or existence beyond confrontation
after she departed this world life’s weary soldier
yet there she was—8 bottle rockets later—
a ballistic fiesta sparking an inky welkin;
as starbursts and peony blossoms flashed,
rising tails shimmered, spider brocade
patterns glittered, danced, and swirled
scorching nightshade’s ebon countenance
like luminous fine lace, persistently
punctuating her heavenly blast
with stratospheric, explosive bangs,
sonic booms, and whistling lead atoms
honouring Carole’s preference for spectacle
to a passive celebration of her life ashes
incarcerated inside a sealed silver funeral urn
where silence mourns loss in muted darkness.
Cyclic Cadences
I.
Open sepulchers
grapevines burst buds and leaves
Easter wings alight
Mary Magdaline witnessed
Dionysian rebirth.
II.
Cicadas rub wings
world solstice declination
zenith of summer
bonfires blaze, wiccans dance
solar rites augment romance.
III.
Crimson carmine leaves
harvest altar equinox
balance candles lit
corn dolls weaved from last grain sheeves
Mabon flaming pyres abound
IV.
Hibernal solstice
shortest period of light
Wild hunt commencement
Concludes with light reversal
Yuletide celebrations rule.
Starting Gun
Leaving victory rolls to scrapbooks
waves and curls to Hollywood’s finest
21st century Olympic swimmers
gather hair into tight messy buns express
feminine vigour through nonchalant top knots
gracing their heads like Pebbles Flintstone.
Fearless, pensive, competitive, indifferent
to commentators who extoll their skills
on one hand, noting their lumberjack
shoulders and sun starved complexions
observing snugly fit locks under rainbow
tinted caps that reduce drag on the other.
and prevent chlorine bleach from leeching
natural hair colour…highlights…hues.
Entering off blocks, contestants take flight
stroking water like passionate, aggressive lovers;
as pale as earthworms, racers shoot across
fifty-meter pools resembling Spearfish torpedoes
clothed in figure-hugging lycra suits swiftly
propelling towards a touch-pad finish targets.
Sterling Warner - A Washington-based author, poet, educator, and Pushcart Nominee, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared in such literary magazines, journals, and anthologies as the Galway Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Lothlórien Poetry Journal, Ekphrastic Journal Review, and Medusa’s Kitchen. 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 (2023) and Abraxas: Poems, Gunilla’s Garden: Poetry (2025)—as well as Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories. He currently writes, hosts “virtual” poetry/fiction readings, turns wood, and enjoys fishing and boating along the Hood Canal.
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