by
Jason Sturner
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2004 Jason Sturner
This book is available in print; see Sturner’s website for details.
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Before the Storm Wet the Earth
Dryad Weeping on a Fallen Tree
The Symptoms of My Envy (are clear)
In This Fragile Time Between Heartbeats
Love Will Glue These Br-oken Pi–ece-s
The Key to a Woman’s Heart is Within the Man
Holding Hands (a simple pleasure)
This is Your New Life (w/PIN #)
Kicking Sand in the Face of Indolence
It’s All Good (after the rain falls)
Note to reader: Due to the nature of digital formatting, some of the following poems may have lost their original structure. If you would like to see the poems in their intended design, please visit my website for reading options or consider purchasing a hard copy of the book. Thank you.
I feel like a stranger
to myself. Passionate for answers—
ones I may never know:
The bee gathers nectar, he knows!
The bird flies south, he knows!
The poet documents his soul, he knows!
that he knows nothing.
Before the Storm Wet the Earth
A ladybug landed on my knee
as I sat alone in a meadow
awaiting the rain.
With its tiny head cocked
and a trust in my silence
it seemed to ask,
“Do you think I am beautiful?”
But all I could do
was look away
and wonder what stories
my face was telling.
Becoming twilight softens another midsummer day:
stars spark up, the moon pulsates, oceans flinch,
day aborts, night reclaims dignity;
everything sleeps and everything awakens—
the sun has pulled away my shadow.
Blushing dawn ascends the misty green hillside:
stars flicker out, the moon hides away,
night departs, day reclaims strategy;
everything awakens and everything sleeps—
the sun has tossed back my shadow.
Morning—delicate
thirsty
the sky yawns
earth stretches…
You near the ending of a peaceful, romantic dream.
The silence of night subsides, you open your eyes—
two emeralds shine beneath the sun.
Another day is born,
another morning blessed.
Such simple truths are easily told
by the existence of you.
Night—romantic
alive
the stars shine
earth sighs…
You smile and all things are curious—
a shooting star passes over your essence.
Another twilight has come,
another night takes the stage.
Standing ovations are easily understood
by the existence of you.
I hear them…
I hear them whenever I’m around you—
the subtle, graceful heartbeats of angels.
They surround you like butterflies gone mad.
And all my love for this world,
all my love for beauty, for nature;
all my love for life was awakened
by the existence of you.
We do not need thoroughfares
when love seeks the heart
Such is the way of love—
always destined, never sought
We do not need gold coins
when love comes without cost
Such is the value of love—
always priceless, never bought
We do not need a wise man
when love speaks through art
Such is the beauty of love—
always instilled, never taught
And we do not need a ruse
when love surrenders to us all
Such is the enigma of love—
always mysterious, never caught
A silky aura
surrounds me
when I…
Lavender dreams
visit me sleeping
when I…
Golden extravagance
fills my every moment
when I am loved by you.
My nerves
come to ease
My tensions
are of no attention
My heart beats
with subtle integrity
when I am loved by you.
I see more than you know
about all you are,
and through my observations
and from my analysis
I’ve concluded that
I love you.
Not a theory
quite simply a fact—
I love you,
and that’s that.
Talk to me in the comfort of fresh morning
when a bird’s song I may enjoy
as the cold of night surrenders to the warmth of dawn
and there comes no sound from the telephone or door.
Hold me close as the sun plays with shadows
when the curtains of our room blow wide
as our hearts beat ever so quietly to the pulse of day
and seagulls scavenge across the falling tide.
Know me when the day is newly born, my love
when the spirit within this aging body is content
as I steal gentle kisses from your soft lips
and inhale the subtle fragrance of this moment.
It was surreal, now that I think back,
as if a dream had wandered over the boundaries
to deliver forth the shimmering light
that was you.
And for a time, time was lost.
A halcyon river became our guide.
Its tranquil flow, a symbol of perfection,
its reflection
casting wildly off our eyes.
Love sprang to life, life became love.
Every hue within this plane began to lighten.
Our hearts chased, our meaning held no lies;
our souls tingled with gentle electricity
beneath harlequin skies.
But we awoke one morning, heartsick to find,
pink mist off the river had turned gray.
Suddenly our angels were selectively blind—
Was divinity so busy that it left us behind?
I screamed into a shower of diamonds.
I’d lost you inside this sudden despair.
Through the downpour I heard no reply,
and soon discovered myself alone there.
No one ever told us
that the weather changes in paradise
or that the flowers can cry.
The voice in the clouds never confessed
that true love could die.
And so troubled waters made their way down the river;
somewhere far off the ocean tide had raged.
The dream cracked, then fell to pieces—
leaving us broken
and forever changed.
Words I’m frightened to say
dangle off deep breaths
and gentle voice.
I listen to every syllable I speak to you,
making sure no bad judgment in word
or accent escapes.
And they fumble from my thoughts
as the thoughts rumble:
I want you back
I can be different
better
this time
Why I think my carefully selected
phrases might persuade you I don’t know.
But if to get you back were possible
with my arrangement of speech,
Then I wish to be king of words,
or poet of my time.
Since you went away,
I’ve been exploding
all through my body.
I’m a catastrophe.
Since you went away,
I’ve only got the world to blame.
Isn’t it a shame?
It’s such a shame.
Since you went away,
life is dizzy and earth is spinning.
Electricity fills my alcohol,
but it never jolts me happy.
Since you went away,
I’ve been bitter and complex.
A mind drifting through space
unable to face its artistry.
Since you went away,
I have lost me.
A dimness has poured over the bright of her day,
where dirty light tightens around the body, squeezing
bitter truth from lemon-flavored karma.
An infant’s voice bounces and plays inside her head,
where love is a pale, frozen rainbow; shining
just faintly above an empty playground.
The choice came with the crystal air of a cruel winter.
The day was cold – unforgivably cold – but heat danced through it.
No one would come close to understanding this.
Now, she is rigid; severely pensive beneath falling white.
Acrobatic thoughts dissolve within her stillness
as winter coils around her, ready to strike:
And in the icy wind, a baby cries.
Tiny footprints in the snow fade away.
Where once was a life is now empty space—
empty space with a fading lullaby.
Tonight, wanton moonlight.
Stars cold and listless.
Angels take human form
to vent their sorrows—
Imperfection.
Stillness, bowed head of a goddess.
Gold sobriety stained with sour wine.
Sugar-coated flawlessness now
full of cavities—
Imperfection.
Fervent dreams trapped in a subconscious box.
Shiny green lizards dancing
on clouds full of rain:
Imperfection rears its beautiful, exotic head—
and we are all sublime again.
When storms unleash a thunderous might
across the urban scenes of busy life
and our neighbor cleans his grill;
when warblers pass
and the air smells like grass
I know it is spring again.
When leaves shine healthy green
across woodlands where robins sing
and the flowers return to glory;
when the sun warms our cheeks
and the chipmunk peeks
I know it is spring again.
When lovers create sparks
across blooming city parks
and we run through fields simply to run;
when bitter cold has gone away
and warm days resume our play
I know it is spring again:
And all of nature rubs its eyes,
stretching an eager frame.
Send me up, to the clouds;
bring me there, hold me there,
tell me not to go. Keep me,
if you love me—kiss me hello.
If, upon her wandering,
she befell upon such a sight
as the burning of pale blue stars
over the soft skin of twilight;
And fancied sleep, at meadow’s edge,
of proud and myriad flower,
where quetzals dazzled forth
in displays of regal, enchanted power—
Would she…
If, within her dreaming,
she inhaled magic and exhaled strife,
where a celestial voice whispered hope
of a loving, happy life;
And saw many wonders
cascading softly in ballet,
while stardust and moonbeams
entered her soul to play—
Would she…
And if, upon her awakening,
standing near her grassy cheek,
was a fawn drinking quietly
from a silver-pebbled creek;
With sonnets coming ashore
as fish bubbled the words,
while a new life walked towards her
from beneath a rainbow of birds—
Would she still want to die?
Would she weep and send away
those painful days into the earth,
and walk down new paths of sunlight
holding the jewel of her worth?
Send me back, to the world;
bring me there, hold me there,
keep me from the sky. Leave me,
if you love me—and kiss me goodbye!
She knelt down by the creek
cupped her hands and began to drink
the fish gave her a wink
and she began to think:
Oh lover, off running from the sun
let me be your reason again
your reason to hold a hand
let me show you the strength of a friend.
And she stayed for many hours of the day
collecting flowers and giving tears away
all the while mother nature would say
Your heart needs soothing, my dear
This is the only way!
So she pulled away those burrs of denial
tossed them aside, rank and file
inhaled the breath of life all the while
and soon her heart began to smile.
Then with rejoice she thanked the fish
danced around butterflies, blew them a kiss
felt her heart had gotten its wish
and picked a mushroom to make a dish.
Sunset came and soon it was twilight
so she hurried on home like a wren in flight
thinking to find her lover that night
hoping that he just might…
And whether it was feather or song
flower or fragrance
the earth or its sky
she doesn’t know
she can’t decide.
But during that day
more had become clear:
Your heart is soothed, my dear.
A tree
is a treasure burst forth into the sky;
a fissured relic covered in emeralds
that change with the voice of equinox.
A tree
is a benevolent caretaker for the wild;
a framework of weathered arms
holding nests, refuge, and insect treats.
A tree
is a teacher of patience and endurance;
a primeval soul bearing the fruit and labor
of the illusion we call Time.
A tree
is our third parent of unconditional love;
a haven of cool shade and wonderment
beneath a sentry of leaves.
Dryad Weeping on a Fallen Tree
Sitting under the spell of living oaks,
dryad sits on a tree fallen and dead.
Through the canopy falls the sun’s gold;
empathetic warmth and just so bright.
She is dressed in a splendid mourning gown,
sewn with chlorophyll and splendors’ fingers.
Her large green eyes are crystal-like;
scenes of a tree’s life play within.
Mist rises like fairy soldiers’ ghosts
beneath her dainty and barefooted feet.
Tears merge into silent waterfalls
and her heart beats low like owl wings.
A rustling puts a crack in the silence
and dryad looks down at the petite sound:
Leaves covered a seed, covered a growing tree;
nature is cycles, is fairy spuds to winter snow.
And young tree sprouts where mother spring
and father sun foster new life.
Such lessons come to each dryad in youth;
they have come to her in this ephemeral light.
A nearby butterfly takes to air,
its dazzle and frailty the wink of beauty’s eye.
With compassion it alights upon dryad’s shoulder;
a gesture of fresh happiness to a broken heart.
Dryad slides from the lifeless oak,
aglow in the hue of newest wisdom.
She dances off to darker wood, and butterfly ascends;
reverie folds up and fades from her brightest eyes.
Falling-away darkness—a curtain
screaming with silence, pulled
off a globe where thoughts are
blind fish swimming inside light.
Across the finish line: a revelation:
rain is creek, is river, is ocean, is rain.
Gone is the concrete mask, chipped
away with keys that would fit:
The hurricane’s eye sees the sun.
The window of tomorrow is open.
These invisible gifts are wrapped in experience.
Denial like dust kicked up
and blown away by integrity—and finally, too:
in these stone eyes is a beating heart.
I could swim out of that subterranean light.
I could walk on land.
Somewhere,
hooks and chains
hang amid
peeling
olive wallpaper
on
rusty nails
once hanging
pictures
of
other times—
(before
the walls
shrank
and took
all the
air away).
Somewhere,
the
gentle
tapping
of fingers
on the
sharp
edge
of a
machete
leads
up to the
shadowed body
of a man
whose
head
is a
broken
light bulb.
Charcoal spines burning,
men dethroned of valor,
a raven-dropping thunderstorm.
Mold on fruit,
decay on bones—
lifeless life.
Pale sunlight,
tired universe,
hope stuck in quicksand.
Humanity scorned by God:
disappointed Father.
Now, as we prepare to be forgotten,
dressing formal for the End
will be
unnecessary.
The
bleak hour
when uninvited
shadows
gather
over one
to pick up the
fallen hand
that lay
still.
Two worlds
touching—
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