An award-winning author, poet, and emeritus 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, Cracks of Light: Pandemic Poetry & Fiction 2019-2022, Halcyon Days: Collected Fibonacci (2023)—as well as Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories. Presently, Warner writes, hosts/participates in “virtual” poetry readings, turns wood, and enjoys retirement in Washington.

Feathers

Tossing darts at Dick Turpin’s,

we watched tavern tables fill

awaited Yorkshire karaoke

knocked back tankards of imported ale.

Scarlet orbs glowing at the tips, 

Players Cigarettes hung-off

our lips like engorged toothpicks—

smoke billowed toward the ceiling,

hovering, swirling, spreading

like horizontal mushroom clouds

traveling unencumbered, lingering

from the British pub’s doorway

drifting over stacked chairs and shadows

shoved against oak veneer walls.

 

Outside drizzle gathered in pools

moisture clung to patrons’ heels and brollies

as they stepped inside to warm, drown troubles, 

finesse songs, toss feathers, hit bullseyes.

Portico Quiet

Sunrays peeked through Lattice work 

glaring light softened by crisscross lath 

zebra striped shadows curled at the top

like a Moorish archway where slats

moderated bright beams overhead 

screening semi-sheltered children, lovers,

& elderly couples from summertime

heat & El Niño’s autumn wind gusts,

providing a sky-high footing for winter

rainstorms , silently drip, drip, drip, 

dripping as temperatures plummeted 

& frozen moisture created foot-long 

ice cycles on the cedar trellis; wrapped 

in a winter coat, I watched frozen beauty

brave solar fire above and earthly chill below

refract light & cast prisms on a porch pending spring.

Powder Down

Half-closed eyes witness blue herons 

alight on the wooden pontoon

gangly long toes touch down 

exert diaphanous pressure 

spread the same sparse webbing 

that navigated salty marshlands

only moments before the siege

took to the sky resting on a raft

long enough to stand motionless 

then stab fish with switchblade beaks.

Friends and I coax conversation, skreich

kut, kut, kut-kaaaoh…kut, kut, kut-kaaaoh!  

from the shoreline, distorting our arms

flapping imagined blue plumage on wings  

engraving wet sand with temporal footprints.

We marvel at their uncanny behavior,

mimic feathered digitigrade skeow calls

anew—muted by restless, crashing tides, 

fall face first into surging waves 

attempting to emulate the flock’s

balance, poise, and equilibrium

standing peg-legged, posturing, posing

like gender neutral Bolshoi divas 

locked in graceful Pirouettes, bouncing 

Ballonnés and breathtaking Arabesques.

Nude Canvases

We removed our clothes like seasoned performers

scrubbed each other’s backs in the shower

then sauntered through Angela’s spotless house

in the buff, entered her studio, and began to mix

paints to highlight our figures, color our curves.

Angela pulled my hair, tied it in the back,

brushstroked a bridal bouquet—forehead to chin;

I painted her face half azure, half maroon

placing crescent moons on her cheeks, duplicating 

giraffe spots adorning my neckline.

Wavy lines, Viking Runes, geometric shapes

covered our torsos, while bright bows showcased

sexuality above our privates, knot ends flowing

down our legs decorated in Māori tribal stamps

body art filmed & shared—with other outsides.

Sunday Song & Dance

 Brandon wore his dancing shoes to church

each week, ready to stand when others

sat down, anxious to praise his lord

with the old soft shoe while mumbling

mantras invoking the spirits of Bo Jangles,          

Rudolph Nureyev, Isadora Duncan, Gregory Hines,

& Margot Fonteyn—turning pivots, feeling 

the fury of careening feet shuffling across floors

or standing on pointe, at one with a universe

cavorting in a sanctuary where parishioners

sang hymns in syncopated time, rollicking