Sterling Warner

Five Poems

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Chicago Riptide

 

Deep tissue masseuse, a Chicago siren,

placed heated stones on my chest, feet, and spine

tapped knotted muscles, kneaded engorged vessels

energized me with the Swedish treatment 

reserved for high rolling insomniacs, 

stressed CEOs, and socially numb addicts;

yes, Chicago called my zen present chi in silence, 

promised shiatsu euphoria—Gently. Firmly.

 

Pressing my body like a clove of garlic, musky 

sweat rolled down arms and legs unhindered.

 

Pulling me asunder like a riptide, 

I uttered embarrassing bedroom moans;  

ooohs and aaahs of sex communication,

met approval and encouragement from she

with magic hands and serene Enya voice—

justified frequent trips to the windy city

untouched by programed manners and inhibitions, 

where uncensored responses escaped relaxed lips.

 

Badass Schwinn

 

Free as a senior Hells Angel, bare back in blue jeans, 

I straddle my Schwinn bicycle,

pea gravel and dirt

spin under

tires,

hit

my

legs

and

safety

helmet as

I roll down tar roads

to the amusement of couples

dressed in leathers who sit breasts to back on a Harley

Sundowner seat; rubber side down

on two-day retreats,

they escape

waiting

rooms,

desks,

courts—

white

collar

vocations

as dentists, lawyers,

CEOs, engineers, surgeons;

wind slaps my face in thunderous applause; at home in

the elements, I carve black ice

hydroplane across

rainy roads

year in

and

year

out,

stark

spot-on     

keeping it

real, cruising lanes with 

mid-life savoir-faire, avoiding 

weekend warrior pratfalls like flashing chrome exhaust pipes.

 

Gumdrop Ltd

 

Sidewalk splodges on the downtick

textured lumps beneath café tables decline;   

 

sipping caffè latte dreaming a green future

meditation centered on near-naked walls,

 

a single sign boasts how eco minded

proprietors place pink pumpkin shaped

 

receptacles on street posts, encourage

pedestrians to recycle their chewing gum—

 

be it Bubble Yum, Wrigley’s, Black Jack,

Chiclets, Dentyne, Trident, or Beemens;

 

an imaginary scent of spearmint shoots

skywards as steamy menthol clouds mingle

 

with my java’s nutty, smoky aroma 

filling nostrils with memories mystical

 

removing lips from the edge of my cup

I could taste a burst of flavor (another’s chew)

 

that quickly disappeared as my jaw

bit into nothingness expecting renewal:

 

coffee cups forged from saliva, spit, drool

& globs under desks, benches & chairs—

 

remaining inventive—mindful reprocessed gum

create wellington boots & mobile phone covers.

 

Surreal Belvedere

 

Mad

man’s

eyes sternly

gaze beyond plate glass

gilded with numbers upon a

grandfather clockface; his moustache

rotates like surreal arms at three & thirty-five

contemplates The Persistence of 

Memory’s terrain

of melting

watches

hard

soft.     

 

Dali’s

glance

invokes

imagery

of toreadors

& masturbators exposing

subconscious desires, guarded thoughts, vest held secrets

captured on canvas & sculpture;

time in abeyance

limply hangs

like stark

branch

fobs.   

 

Roadhouse Chic

 

Explosive energy resounds

as the Ford Mustang’s bias-ply tire 

blew, sent open containers flying

a jarring thud, thud, thud, thud

pushed Anne and me closer…

sooner than planned or desired…

forced an abrupt reckoning 

our salacious tryst brought

to a premature pause.

 

Dressed to the nines, 

we had ushered in the night 

all sixes and sevens

long before lightning struck, winds 

picked up, rain gushed over my 

cousin’s borrowed convertible

and began to seep through top pads, 

tacking strips, and hold down cables.

 

Leaks became s torrential deluge,

saturated Anne’s apricot evening gown—

a strapless jaw-dropping garment

forever etched in my memory 

as eerie and nightmarish as

Carrie’s senior prom dress 

drenched in pig’s blood.

 

Not far behind us, closing-in

on the rear bumper, threatening 

our tail lights, a collapsed levee 

surged over the parched terrain

like whitewater rapids ideal

for adrenaline junkies, aqua hobbyists, 

or death-wish rafters blind to hidden rocks

most certainly unsuitable for autos.

 

We climbed on the steel pony’s

roof top to hail passing cars;

high beams blinked and flashed 

as distant police sirens shouted

under angry, storm skies

and semi-truck air horns 

expressed open road rage—

demanded space to pass

with cargo or empty shells.

 

Still, drivers sped on by 

no assistance offered until…

Anne tossed her locks as wet as

Janis Joplin’s hair on stage

winked like Claudette Cobert,

pulled up her silk skirt,

shimmied in the leather bucket seat,

pushed her high cut thong

down generous, thick thighs,

hooked the mesh lace

to the stanger banger’s

AM/FM radio antenna….

 

Thirty seconds later, the downpour 

parted around us like the Red Sea,

countless cars pulled over, and we 

fought off hordes of Good Samaritans.

Exodus seemed certain as Anne

shrugged her shoulders, winked

at me, then jumped into a jet black

Lamborghini; waving through

an open window, she insisted I 

keep her thong for remembrance.

 

An award-winning author, poet, and former Evergreen Valley College English Professor, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared many literary magazines, journals, and anthologies including Danse Macabre, Trouvaille Review, Lothlórien Poetry Journal, Ekphrastic Review, and Sparks of Calliope. Warner’s collections of poetry include Rags and Feathers, Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Edges, Memento Mori: A Chapbook Redux, Serpent’s Tooth, Flytraps, and Cracks of Light: Pandemic Poetry & Fiction 2019-2022 (2022)—as well as Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories. Presently, Warner writes, hosts/participates in “virtual” poetry readings, turns wood, and enjoys retirement in Washington. 

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