Sterling Warner 

Poems

 

Bird Lady Talisman

 

Cindy carried her emotions around her slender neck

in a locket thrice blessed by a Dalai Lama mystic—

charged it like an amulet over sea salt, incense smoke, 

and spiritual chants facing the four winds—Cindy 

opened it only when ready to share an adventure, 

ingratiate her lovers, spellbind critical detractors 

that had written her off as just another burned out

hippie chick who cherished a brunet burlap bookbag

that bore her earthly belongings and impending miracles.

 

Oh Cindy’d rubbed her talisman day and night, hang

with carnival barkers, enter hallowed halls—synagogues,

mosques, temples, and churches from all religions

to pray, light incense, borrow collection coffer change;

solemnly, she’d sit next to Corinthian columns 

hold court on stone steps, of the justice department,

dispense streetwise wisdom to anybody who’d listen,

exalt nature and feed pigeons that commonly gathered 

like feathered disciples around her ageless sculptured legs. 

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Lit Up

 

Solar streetlamps illuminate dark corners

expose cobblestone steps leading to a museum

there relics rest behind bullet proof glass

& mischievous shapeshifters ogle, point, pontificate 

 

about the essence of classical art permeating

civilizations to advance tribal standing,

facilitate religious rituals, celebrate birth

& rites of passage in life & the hereafter.

 

Still even sun powered lanterns pale in comparison

to flickering mysteries hidden behind gaslight flames,

surreal prisms dancing inside encased beveled glass 

dancing rabbits encased in beveled glass cast surreal prisms

well sheltered from wind & inclement winter ice;

 

innovation’s holy manger cradles nimble wicks;

sidewalk flood beacons or well-lit cellular devices

showcase carefree pookas, drunken arms locked 

around metal posts, swinging in circles ‘til taverns close.

 

Dancing Duse Nightmare

 

Last night I dreamed about Bette Davis,

(or was it my sister?) atop a carved oak chair,

enthroned on a lacy pillow in front of a vanity

where perfume vials competed for space

with foundation, concealer, lipstick, gloss, 

highlighters, eye shadow, & nail polish.

 

Pulling a boar bristle brush through long, iron hair, 

she stared into a mirror, flirted with her reflection,

mascara applied thicker than Egyptian kohl,

powder white cheeks sported an abundance of blush,

her scarlet pursed mouth, repeated “Oh, My goodness!”

then tone deaf she sang, “I’m Writing a Letter to Daddy.”

 

Pouring her fifth snifter glass of Canadian whisky,

Bette toasted her faithful effigy, father, & fans; 

with nowhere to go, nobody to meet, she 

spent her evening dancing with an invisible partner,

embraced life size dolls of her eight-year old self,

capped off another evening teary-eyed, stone drunk, alone.

 

As she drifted off to sleep in a comfortable stupor,

Bette murmured to goldfish, “Don’t die ‘til dawn”;

tomorrow she’ll begin the familiar ritual anew,

always cloaked in Baby Jane Hudson clothes,

frequent raucous laughter escaping sad, tired lungs,

hoping to flirt, charm, & enthrall a gentleman caller.

 

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Eros Garnish

 

We fancied our love life an epicurean delicacy like caviar, 

aware that its fragile nature precluded a lengthy shelf life.

 

Carpe diem guided lunch breaks, early dinners, late nightcaps

activities cautiously handled with white-glove waiter purity

 

When we kissed your mouth tasted as sweet, tart, and tender 

as an apricot cobbler, dusted with cinnamon and nutmeg.

 

Wasting no time, we treated each crisis an opportunity unquestioned, 

allowed passions to speak, meal digested as if it were our last.

 

Raw emotions pressed rare coincidence like ill-fitting puzzle 

parts: forced tabs, bent corners, twisted knobs, curved keys.

 

Pushed to extremes quickly embraced as common, we

danced devoid of rhythm, sang songs out of key unashamed.

 

A commitment to uncertainty brought order to our chaos

emoted fledgling gratitude: rosebud fresh, springtime eternal.

 

Holy Exposure

 

Sun worshipers strip down except for

straw visors worn like laurels, then dance 

on sand & sea shells, arms welcoming UV rays,

preparing for a wedding celebration;

 

Far outside of stuffy churches, boasting   

gothic arch ceilings, stain glass windows,

& jasmine scented altars, nuptial guests

begin to clap hands & await bride & groom.

 

The ceremony commenced when all

parties arrived, the groom wearing only a

top hat, the bride adorned in a head dress 

fashioned out of wildflowers & woodland jewels.

 

The universal life church minister spoke

sparsely, allowing the couple to exchange

original vows; when they kissed, the groom

revealed a bit of excitement, so mood evolved.

 

Nudity had never been an issue for most of us,

hardly modest—we’re hip & resigned to nature’s

endowments—shortcomings & gifts—still, the

the groom made all self-conscious, mindful, aware.

 

The minister momentarily, rested a missile between 

her cleavage, arms crossing breasts, humble & austere

as the brazen bride laughed, her coquettish gaze swiftly 

sealed the ceremony au naturel, breaking insecurity’s spell. 

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A Washington-based author, poet, educator, and Push Cart Nominee, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared in such literary magazines, journals, and anthologies as the Atherton Review, Street Lit, the Shot Glass Journal and Metamorphoses.  Warner’s volumes of poetry include Rags and Feathers, Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Edges, Memento Mori, and Serpent’s Tooth: Poems. His first collection of fiction, Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories, debuted in August 2020. 

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