Author Jay Sturner

And then the angel said, “Congrats on your passing over! The Afterlife welcomes you, it’s going to be great! But first, a word from our sponsors . . . ”

Officially autumn, but the leaves have only just begun to change: a splash of red here, a wisp of yellow there. It’s as if an uncountable number of dripping paintbrushes are poised over the land, silently waiting to angle down and start their work.

Below are three poems that were hand-written in the back of my copy of Way of the Peaceful Warrior . I wrote them while reading the book. Speak what is true Through mouth or mind or dream Through action, poetry, intention Speak what is true And truth . Your truth. ________ An albatross Glides across the water Visits islands now and then Mostly stays at sea _______ Did I ever meet you? Will I ever, again? Beyond the mist, the veil, I hear the heartbeat of the universe. Yes, I've always known you. And you, me.

When I saw how hurt you were I turned away, buried it inside. Today I felt it. Today I finally understood. I'm ashamed it took so long. I'm sorry for that, wherever you are.

Sometimes you go to the mountains. Sometimes, the mountains come to you. We certainly didn’t expect to find a mountain range out on our front porch this morning. But we did, stretched across the back wings of a moth. Say, is that an eagle I see soaring through the peaks? Is that Frodo over there? so much happens in the intricate beauty of a moth’s wing Photo: Red Twin-Spot? My son and I consulted our field guide and that’s what we think it is.

Hermit Thrush sticks to the shadows. When he steps out, it's to remind us that the ghostly voice coming down from the trees truly does belong to a living thing; that yes, he does exist. Mortal or immortal, he doesn't say, and I don't press. Then back to the shadows he goes, perhaps deeper this time, to that mysterious realm where the songs of all thrush kin are born. Painting by Art by Alyssa Gallery at  www.alyssawatters.com

for Chloe Viner Collins Sometimes the day begins and ends in a bloom of gray: a static ceiling of clouds, our minds too paralyzed to imagine the sun. No colorful birds pass the window, none pierce the silence with music. We’re sunk then, you and I, like stones at the bottom of a sea. Melancholia dances about us, grabs us by the hair, grins in our faces. Tomorrow he may be gone. But then again, probably not.

In birding there are 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 searching for words where none are needed? Anyway, such an experience was had 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, almost dreamy state of mind. 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, somet...

Morning untangles her silver blue hair from the sepia thorns of complacent night. The moors, the mountains, the rivers, the seas . . . All bow in the wake of her stirring. People throw open their shutters and children run out to play. All is well and time is kind; our hearts have suddenly come to life. We kiss in the tall, wavy grass as morning light flows all around us. I am the sunrise, you are the sun— We are one. Twilight pirouettes into the sky and spirals beyond our curious sight. My heart, my soul, my envious eyes . . . They watch diamonds fall from your smile. People swing closed their shutters and children saunter home. All is well and time is still kind; our love has suddenly come to life. We sleep in the tall, wavy grass as daylight flows quietly away. You are the sunset, I am the sun— We are one.  

We were at better days: buckled down to the trenches, uplifted like plucked flowers born inside a dream; no façade—just pure truth at its fullest intent to invade.   Stealth mattered: paws on the moist soil, lucid stripes: orange, black; white belly low; whiskers feeling their way, brushing aside flowing leaves.   In these intense green surroundings and echoes of unseen life nothing human ever saw, or wept.   I am a boy all over again: buckled down to a world of possibility, creativity tossing mother in the back seat; full of strange questions, seeking my own answers.   Mother doesn’t cry: I am partly her; she knows herself enough to get it. Father never fully understood himself, but he’ll drink enough to get over it.   Understanding only lasts until the voice changes, until music is explored and girls abound; intensity heightens. Then it’s “Are you on drugs?”   I began thinking doors were mad...

What creates my insatiable need to love? To linger around, to loathe my own trampled heart? Contentment shines on the tongue tip of my destiny, but chimeras and weeds flourish on its unlit path.   Yet I continue to search out the possibilities for love. I have built it a shrine but it does not come. When I check for my reflection in the hearts that go by, I search for the face of it, even just a trace of it.   It’s not like a bird has never landed on my shoulder or a flower not bloomed before my eyes, but the songs and scents were not alike mine. Too often, perhaps, I’ve sent good things away.   Today I am here, once a lover, once loved; but that was sunsets and sunsets ago. The moon has wept a silky glow over this quiet night— where one man sits, and longs for two shadows.

Eddie the yeti was quite a hairy sir, with an abundance of leaves and twigs and berries all stuck in his fur.   He did a dance and tossed flowers to the sky, for he was in love with a girl— one quite pretty to his eye.   But ever so sad did Eddie become, for his love was all in vain. He was thought a monster, a pitiful monster, and for this he thought the gods insane.   Till one night, one wonderful night, as he watched her with a curious stare— dancing and howling beneath the moon, covered in a thick coat of hair!

The heart longs to love and to be loved by its fellow man. Yet in a world of Religion, Consumerism, Politics and War is it any wonder my heart lies shivering on the floor ?

She came down in feathery waves of light, her electric-blue eyes clearing the fog of his day. Her hands opened, fingers alive with music. In that moment her touch could have felled evil. “I’ve come,” she said, “to love you unconditionally.” The man stood silent, heart lifting in a dance. A barrage of tears huddled in his eyes. Without judgment she waited for his reply. “Thank you,” he said, smiling away the tears. Then he turned and walked away.

Since nothing of us remains, and the angels have gone silent. Since my heart beats regular, and the world’s much more plain, I’ll live my days quietly and never speak her name.   I made a fight where destiny prevails; my blood pumped with disdain. And it may be assumed that good things are for good people, but there’s a lesson much deeper than that, for me.   Now, since my eyes are icy, and the landscape pulls my attention, what’s left on the table is of no concern. One thing I’ve learned to do is not provoke the pain.   And to avoid pain maybe we should avoid love, or so I’ve often preached. Yet my heart always cries NO—for it continues to seek, with or without me— knowing that without the longing, we cannot appreciate the having.   Moral is: life goes on, with our without the things we desire. But we must always remember to leave open the door to our hearts, for the heart is fond of sweet visits.

She walks beneath a starry sky spewing about the latest trends, and I, looking up with admiration, do not hear a word.   Annoyed by my waning interest she exhales a long, dramatic sigh, and so, digging her nails into the moment, kills it.   So I yank some inspiration from above, forage a weapon of quick, romantic wit. Hoping to turn the moment into momentous, or at least something a little more surreal:   May I say, your personality has moved me tonight. It’s as sweet as nectar on a hummingbird’s beak; honey on the breath of a sleepy bee.   You’re the human equivalent of eternal starlight. Just look up, and you will see, a million reasons your beauty affects me.   She smiled wide, bug-eyed, like a kitten had licked her face. I feigned innocence and took her hand to enhance the moment.   But she pulled away, a zealot of gossip, when her purse began to ring. And I knew then that our potential...

I stood at the mirror until I saw what I liked, then grabbed my coat with a childlike smile. (God, days like this are so rare.) On the table a daisy the perfect flower; a guaranteed kiss. I take it, take a deep breath, grab the keys and head for the door. There, I catch myself happy. It feels strange, a bit alien, is it really here to stay? I think of my father who died a stranger to me. Still, I am happy. I think about poverty, racism, war. Still, I am happy. I think of how let down I’ve been, how love has abandoned me. Still, I am happy . (God, days like this are rare indeed.) I turn the doorknob and the phone rings. I am terrified .  

I called to be sure you’re well, because breaking up is a painful way to start over.   I called to thank you for all the tears you made me cry, for all the love you put inside (no poem is worth a damn without it).   I called to forgive you, to forget you, to let your last words be the eraser against my heart.   Because I’ve never needed anyone like I once needed you. And now that you know, you are free to go.   So please—go.

Dreams of a Garden for Kelly K. Moran   Always, in nightly dreams of you, two eternal worlds shine, side by side.   Where they meet blooms a garden, down the center flows a stream.   No borders show by the flowers that grow, and skies of all seasons blend overhead.   Here, where the sun sets inside its rising, our heaven takes the shape of a promise: to love each other always.