Sterling Warner

Quintetto

 

Callea’s Luau  

 

Over white virgin sand on Hanalei Bay

Callea shook elegant hips as firm as 

one-pound sacks of pure cane sugar; 

her fragrance softened winds & sweetened  

the breeze; as she glided over sea shells & kelp 

washed ashore, her graceful sway & dainty feet 

redefined Hawaiian Hula classic dimensions.

E komo mai… E komo mai  

(welcome, welcome).

 

Plumeria leis hung around Callea’s neck

floating in air then resting on breasts

that cried out, “Aloha!” yet modestly hid

behind interwoven okika, kepalos, pikake,  

ti leaf, & melia blossoms; revering tradition    

acknowledging Polynesian ancestors, an intoxicating 

scent of flowers & Callea drifted down wind.

Mohala i ka wai ka maka o ka pua  

(unfolded by the water are the faces of flowers).

 

Daring nighttime’s magic to steal her show

Callea’s sugary thighs continued to undulate;

as luau fire pits became burning red embers,

singing died down, & tiki torches flickered, 

she compromised graceful gestures & muted 

visual grandeur; still the luau pulse, Callea remained

true to her dance, invoked Pele & chanted to guests:  

A hui hou kākou… a hui hou kākou  

(until we meet again… until we meet again).

 

Raggedy Ends

“The grave’s a fine and private place, / But none, I think, do there embrace.”

–Andrew Marvell

 

Junkheap bound, defiled Mattel dolls—

a Child’s Play Chucky, Barbie & Ken

two Cabbage Patch Kids, a Chatty Cathy,

& three Betsy Wetsys—lay scattered among 

a field of unwilling amputees whose

decapitated heads, rubber limbs & naked torsos 

lay randomly tossed among Clorox bottles,

McDonald’s food wrappers, moldy egg

cartons, & brown paper bags: Rubbish!  

 

Enduring orphans passed over by time,

decorum’s evil twin treats them to treasures

golden—a hoarder’s delight—accented 

by wax milk cartons & empty Slurpee cups;

castaway objects provide a sense of belonging,

another temporary home for humanoid figurines

that had spent decades in various loving hands—

recipients of daily confessions, who listened

without judgment or urge to pass on gossip.

 

Wooden trailer slats frame their transitory existence,

bags stuffed with dry grass & autumn leaves

serve as makeshift mattresses—a luxurious,

spongy places to rest on the way to the dump;

a hydraulic arm lifts the bed, tilts the container, 

allows gravity to tug at tiny, defenseless feet & legs

suck them into a throwaway universe of random debris

where familiar items mutate into refuge strangers,

& nothing’s more certain than their future as waste.

 

The graveyard of dolls’ ephemeral reprieve has

come full circle as they & discarded counterparts

fall to the earth, their silent cries drowned out 

by diesel engines that power bulldozers & roll 

across the terrain like panzer tanks, groaning, burying 

inanimate childhood playthings, meaningful discards, 

& rotting garbage alike under buckets full of dirt,   

befitting permanent residents in the realm of landfill,

eternally absorbing carbon dioxide & methane gas.

 

Tipping Point Snapshot

 

Cars roll down the inner-city gullet

vehicle lights flashing as dawn’s early rays

part mist & unveil crosswalk shadows;

 

old school skyscrapers jut up towards heaven

protect flying rodents—portrait ready pigeons—  

that nest below stone-crafted window ledges—

 

scarlet scavenger eyes fixate on pedestrians below

looking for careless hands fingering croissants, 

& street vendors dropping hot dogs & soft pretzels;            

 

drummers begin beating empty 5-gallon cans

under concrete bank porticos; audible rhythms echo 

miles up and down Broadway, rebound off structures;

 

street singers & mimes soon join in the fray

destitute but happy, many homeless yet carefree,

hats & guitar cases welcome unlikely prospects

 

as the strip begins to buzz & people shuffle 

in line for blocks awaiting Starbucks to open,

fuel & task soul-fed inspiration with caffeine; 

 

meanwhile, escorts saunter home, recline 

on their own beds—sleep uninterrupted. Restful. 

Free of twilight visitations when overweight patrons

 

pin them with passion’s pretense allowing groans

to rise & fill voids like subway grate updrafts 

decelerating wind as noisy as traffic horn banter

 

Manhattan minstrels, hucksters, & saints

approach tipping points, regain equilibrium,

& embrace yet another good morning’s night.

 

Without a Stitch

 

Heat dried most tributaries 

in the Santa Cruz Mountains

earth & trees throbbed feverishly

like an unending hangover; 

streams that formerly filled 

the San Lorenzo River—

a liquid roadway for spawning 

salmon & steelhead trout—

shriveled up, so Anne and I took

refuge in the city’s clear reservoir

where peculation ponds safeguarded

drinking water for citizens far below.

 

Oh, Anne & I just loved “pulling chains”

especially her parents, both conservative

& soft spoken. Day after day, our

routine the same, we ascended the hill

to the top of the Boulder Creek grade  

where we stripped off all our clothing

scanned & admired each other’s nakedness

like a 20th century Aphrodite & Adonis,

swam in the treatment center’s invigorating

reprieve from unrelenting sunlit rays; busted 

by disapproving parents, Anne teased our

pubic hairs flowed from the kitchen faucet. 

 

Terra Trim: A Fibonacci

 

Earth

mom,

Gaea

showers ‘neath

a water can’s spout

applying Rogaine to teal limbs

like bath oil; raising arms, follicles respond sprouting

sprigs and fronds: grassy blades blossom,

lofty leaves flourish,

unruly

corkscrew

curls

grow

sky

high

or hang

free over

ear lobes, offsetting

her hookah bowl shaped cranium

striped pantaloons filling planter box legs, root bound webs,

elbows guarded with fingerprint

patches—chrysalis

for pupa

cycle—

more

life.

 

A Washington- based author, poet, educator, and Pushcart Nominee, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared in such literary magazines, journals, and anthologies as The Ekphrastic Review, Danse Macabre, The Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine, The Fib Review, the Shot Glass Journal, and The Atherton Review. Warner’s volumes of poetry include Rags and Feathers, Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Edges, Memento Mori, Serpent’s Tooth: Poems, and Flytraps. He also wrote a collection of fiction, Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories.

 

https://www.amazon.com/Serpents-Tooth-Poems-Sterling-Warner/dp/B08XL9QZJ9/

​

​