An award-winning author, poet, and emeritus English Professor, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared in many literary magazines, journals, and anthologies, including Anti-Heroin Chic, The Galway Review, Lothlórien Poetry Journal, Ekphrastic Review, and Sparks of Calliope. Warner’s poetry/fiction 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, Abraxas: Poems (2024), and Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories. Presently, Warner writes, hosts/participates in “virtual” poetry readings, turns wood, and enjoys boating and fishing in Washington.
Engaged: February 14
Four-thirty in the morning
Valentine’s Day 1980
I lurked among stationary cars
Seventh Street slept as I waited
expecting—knowing—Carole’s return
from General Electric following
a twelve hour shift would be
only a matter of minutes—an
eternity for me to rehearse my
wedding proposal before she’d
roll-in and weigh my request
with her bohemian aplomb,
indisputable good manners,
and uncompromised etiquette,
while avant-garde intelligentsia
fueled and guided our conversations.
Encased in a blue felt box, the set
of ruby rings in my pocket sank like lead
fishing weights to the bottom of my Levis;
feeling frivolous, praying for word smithing skills,
dump truck shattered meditation—brakes hissing,
engines grumbling, reverse signals beeping—sounds
causing college coeds to peak out windows enroute
to the toilet and commence early morning cram sessions
for eminent exams at the nearby university. Abruptly,
the squealing suspension of Carole’s two decade old
Chevy Luv overpowered the racket of dump truck
hydraulics; she acknowledge me once parked, surprised,
somewhat perplexed; “It’s five A.M.,” she scolded,
“Sometimes—not Valentine’s Day—you sure can be
an ass,” she sighed; the keyring jingling at her side
resounded like brass tubes clanging from exotic windchimes.
When she question my presence, I asked for her hand…
she accepted, then we weathered emotional maelstroms as well as
celebrated future plans and insignificant achievements 4 1/2 decades;
Burnt Clay & Coffee
Cup of black coffee
homebound baristas rejoice
sans cream, sans sugar
I recall spending mornings
watching nature’s cinema.
Through red fired bricks daylight seeps
mortar around its base crumbles,
lime leeches from fine sand adhesion, nixed
results of slight labor, testimony to architects
cutting corners, increasing profit margins;
yet the wall’s decay offers insects reprieve:
cracks to escape noon heat or pounce upon prey.
Empty mug refilled
lips sip, eyes stalk outdoor wonders
like green panthers
caffeine bold, high on life and
brewed organic expresso plus.
Spiders anchor silk on ragged clay edges
launch bridge threads on winds catching
distant crannies and structures, spinning,
weaving, cradling clear dew drops at dawn
reflecting light through translucent filaments
until the sun set when vibrating webs signal
either leafy intruders or prospects for dinner.
Last pot of java
steeped during twilight hours
warmed tired belies anew
minute carnivals dwindled
I listened for morning songs.
Water drips from the fissures in early
September then solidifies like mini glaciers—
December’s children—pushing, widening gaps;
moonlight passes through the same fractured
crevices on breezy April evenings, gusts whistle
like a cicada/katydids symphony come August:
out of tune, time limited, yet still standing.
Earshot Transgressions Cadralore
I. Matching Coordinates
Synchronizing my pocket watch with an iPhone,
time moves forward a balanced, throbbing continuum.
II. Otter Odyssey
Sea beavers hold hands, hazard asphalt pathways,
cast watery shadows, lope enroute to rivers and ponds.
III. Votive Junkies
Palm ash penitents rub black ashes from foreheads, light candles,
inhale incense, make signs of the cross & pray to sanctify appeals.
IV. The Fixer
Shout out to Rayla’s generosity in a Brigadoon time warp
her greentumb effervescence presents past-future possibilities.
V. Consecrated Footsteps
May memories preserve my idealize self like a Dionysian sculpture
chiseled and polished out of Carrara marble—solid, bold, unchanging.
Captured Log
Amber waters hug driftwood
mirror heaven’s gate
energized
cirrus
clouds
curl
and
float
across
Hood Canal
gaining momentum
outlasting the setting sun.
Greenhead Offensive
Beyond the range of shotgun blasts, hound dog howls,
and lazar enhanced rifle scopes, ring-neck mallards
who escaped double-barreled barrages of birdshot
took to the sky, disappeared, and reemerged amid clouds
long enough to drop ranch dressing greeting cards
of their own making, soil the camouflage fatigues
worn by suburban hunters, taunt gutless gamesters
who fired shell after shell above their heads unaware
bb spread patterns decayed at forty-five feet, far below
Elmer Fudd lookalikes, menacing trigger-happy connoisseurs
enveloped by tulle fog while duck shit pelted leaky dinghies,
sportsmen insulted as old Magoos cursed retrievers
attempting to re-enter small boats after rolling in dead deer:
angry, frustrated, outsmarted and empty handed,
the numbing euphoria of chicory coffee laced with rum
dissipated for the first time since daybreak, leaving
sober minds hangover headaches, empty hands roleplaying
prowess, grim reality in lieu of sportsmen fantasies.
The Galway Review 