A short poem I wrote called "Hermit Thrush" has been printed in the February 2017 issue of through the biKNOXulars, the formal newsletter of the Knoxville Chapter of the Tennessee Ornithological Society. A PDF version of the newsletter is available at their website (see link above). If you like birds, check it out!
Trying to get back into the groove by writing some short, simple poems. Birds be good subject matter for this. This bird, the Brown Creeper, is a personal favorite. Thanks to Jimmy Tuckerfor letting me use one of his photos. Cheers!
Botanist friends, check out this free, downloadable field guide to the rare plants of Chicago's Calumet region. Includes my photos of a Black Oak and the federally threatened Mead's Milkweed. You can download it at http://fieldguides.fieldmuseum.org/guides/guide/821
This morning a Hermit Thrush returned to our yard for the
season. I heard it — skreee! — as Garion set off on a mini-quest for rocks and
acorns. A falling leaf — russet, corner-curled, emptied of summer's light — floated
soundlessly over G's tiny shoulder. I stood, hands in pockets, listening to the
harvest-time voice of my favorite bird, and watched as my son absorbed all the
good of the world.
And then it started to drizzle. Indoor creatures we became, once
again. Human habitat within windows and walls, a jungle of wired, and
wireless, distractions, yet surrounded by boundless books and music. More good things of the world!
Outside I imagined the thrush, flicking rain off its wings,
perfumed by a northern forest of hemlock, engaged in a mini-quest for bugs and
berries. Though shy, hidden, and non-existent to most, this feathered thing is no
less important, or needed, in life. It, too, is part of all the good of the world. Something
my little man will one day come to know.
Yesterday I received my contributor's copy of the latest issue of MONOMYTH, in which my tongue-in-cheek horror story "The Hunchback's Captive" appears. Love the oldschool format, the A4 size paper, and, being a UK-based publication, the change of some of my words to the British spellings. Fun! A copy of the magazine can be purchased through Atlantean Publishing.
A limited edition chapbook of poems written or re-envisioned in the early 2010's, during Sturner's first few years in Tennessee. Love, nature, relationships, and the universe are just a few of the themes contemplated within these pages. Contains artwork and photography by family and friends....
PRINT version $5. Includes the cost of shipping. Contact the author for details.
Two of my wildflower photos have been used for an article in the Spring 2016 issue of The Conservationist, a quarterly publication of the Forest Preserve District of DuPage County (in Illinois). The article, called "Spring Woodland Wildflower Guide," was written by Scott Kobal, an ecologist I know from my days at The Morton Arboretum.
In birding there are, as some know, wonderful moments. They happen all the time. But sometimes there are multiple moments that accrete into a singular experience that defies words. "Magical," perhaps? Cheese. But why bother looking for words where none are needed? Anyway, such an experience was had this morning in Knoxville as I sat in my car at the end of a silent, forested road to listen for a whip-poor-will. It was just before dawn. And while I sat there, glancing at a dark blue sky bordered by black trees, I was lulled into a peaceful state of mind, my breath the only sound for a million miles.... I was about to close my eyes when suddenly a pair of Barred Owls began conversing in the woods to my left. The exchange was brief, yet energetic. Owl romance? Maybe. But I won't speculate as to what they were discussing; that is their business. For a time things were quiet again after the owls stopped vocalizing (with the exception of a cardinal, whose periodic yawning of a few notes sometimes broke the silence). And then, something unexpected—a low, confident hooting. A Great Horned Owl. I say "unexpected" because the Barred Owls were very close, and the former have been known to kill the latter. I found myself scowling at the bloody-feathered thought when suddenly a friend drove up and shut off her lights. I quickly got out of my car, and together we listened for the whip-poor-will. By now all the owls were quiet, and the dawn chorus was rising: cardinals, robins, a phoebe. I hated to check the time but I did anyway (I am what I am) and saw that it was 7:09, nine minutes later than when the bird was reported the previous morning. We cupped our ears anyway, kept listening. Nothing. And then, at the strike of 7:11, of which a nightjar knows nothing, we heard him: That unmistakable churning out of "whip-poor-will whip-poor-will whip-poor-will" into the purple air. It rose off the wooded slope and elbowed its way through the dawn chorus to greet our ears.... The song only went on for about a minute. But it went on forever, too. eBird report: http://ebird.org/ebird/view/checklist?subID=S28377954
I'm happy to announce that the new chapbook is nearly done and that orders are now being taken! The cost is 5 bucks, which includes shipping. I'm also happy to reveal that partial proceeds will go to Ijams Nature Center in Knoxville, a very special place in my community.
Please email me if you are interested in purchasing the book.
FYI: The book contains 20 randomly themed poems (love, nature, happy, sad, etc.) as well as other bits of writing. To make up for the relatively small amount of material, the book also contains wonderful artwork by Stephen Lyn Bales, Vickie Henderson, Bryan O'Blivion, and Kyle Sturner, along with photographs by Melinda Fawver, Bill Foster, Barry Spruce, Kelly Sturner, Jimmy Tucker, and myself. Thank you to everyone who preorders the book. I REALLY appreciate the support!
I love this time of year, when first-of-spring things mingle with last-of-winter things. This morning I've juncos, finches, and siskins zipping about the yard, winter birds not quite ready to return to their breeding grounds. Beyond them, down in some wet spot in the woods, newly awakened chorus frogs and peepers are crying out for mates. They'll come, and an orgy will ensue--you can be sure of that. And then there are the less noticeable beauties (all around us, if we're looking) such as this Brown-shaded Gray moth, watching me silently from the patio window as I go about my morning. Soon this cryptic critter will flitter off to do whatever it is such quiet, mysterious things do (probably sleep on a tree somewhere, if I know anything at all) and I'll be sorry to see him go. Thankfully he'll return at dusk--along with the bats and Barred Owls--when he and others like him cling to the house like little impermanent ornaments to bask in the artificial lights. Call me crazy, but I really look forward to seeing them.
Tonight, we sense him, hiding in the sunken shadows of
the bedroom: a ghoul creeping silent, forcing quiet the other monsters. Chunks
of enamel, grooved by nightly gnawing, fatten his belly. And our own teeth tighten
in the jaw, fight the urge to drop and slip away, to escape his gluttonous rage.
You see, the foul thing broke from fairy law: took to ripping out the loose teeth
of children, a calcareous shit slipped beneath their bloodied pillows in a gesture
of defiance; a jab at us proper fairies. And though imprisoned for a time in
the amber caves, he broke free—saber arms flapping and chipping with madness. Now we wait within this toy-box, scanning the room for residual
energies: the moans of bloody roots, the chattering of crowns, the hissing red of
severed nerves…. Such things betray his whereabouts. At last we fly and crawl from the moonlit box, our eyes
narrowed and our tongues writhing with an invocation. How swift, how sweet the
coming of revenge from its ancient lair! Soon the children will sleep soundly; none
will recall the ghoul’s attack. Money will distribute where due, and the status
of the tooth fairy will once again be restored to its innocuous state. Because tonight
we are going to pounce on the fiend. Unravel his existence. Shred into his
stomach and take back what is ours.
First published in the Summer 2015 issue of Spectral Realms.
There are men in the sky,
and we call them the gods. Their beards shine with the light of rejected stars,
harbor failed empires and the wailing souls of extinct hominids. Always their dark,
playful eyes are hot with mischief. They delight in a belief that the goddesses
are impressed by their creations, amused even. Surely they got a kick out of Homo sapiens, that inferior clay fumbling
wildly over the layout of design. Such fodder for comedy. But in dull pockets of
timelessness, when the bearded ones are idle, the goddesses—because it is their
way—have been known to nurture Earth’s fetal spirit, to channel love there, to fire-open
seeds of art and philosophy, to spark the ambitious theories we never prove. Myriad
tasks are assigned to fairies, mystics and angels; demons too, if it should lead
to a truth. Much then becomes nurtured in the hidden spectrums of our souls, in
the heart of posterity. There are men in the sky, and there are women. These are
First published in the Spring 2015 issue of Tales of the Talisman.
UPDATE: I am currently on a hiatus from writing while I raise my son Garion (he's just over 5 months old). I now spend much of my free time leading nature hikes in East Tennessee, mostly around Knoxville and in the Great Smoky Mountains. At this time I do not know when or if I'll return to writing.