In his debut poetry collection, Paul Bernstein takes stock of a life, experiencing the richness and despairs of this material world and anticipating his soul's inevitable transmigration to the next. Like the owls in the title poem, Bernstein voices wisdom that others may fear, as he and the night birds "lurk in gloom / for ghosts to rise up / from their graves." These are poems from a man who has seen life stretch both before and behind him, both a youthful traveler "romp[ing] in the cowboy west" and an older, more disillusioned presence "stuck with you, / a dead lump of stone / I can't move," a Sisyphus of the heart who awaits eventual relief. Come join Bernstein in his astute poems, which snatch moments of sly joy, meaning, and possible redemption like seeds scattered throughout the rocky ground of a fully-lived life.

-John F. Buckley, Author, Sky Sandwiches

Paul Bernstein's impressive collection offers a strong sense of self, (Prodigal, After Hours), a sometimes caustic view of relationships (Bed Spread, The Years Fall Away With the Rain, ) and a realistic appreciation of our inevitable encounters with mortality (Grandmother Teaches the Child About Death, The Eye of the Storm, Shadowfall). His work invites contemplation; each piece is worthy of thought. Serious students of poetry will appreciate the diversity of themes and styles displayed here; the inclusion of cinquains is particularly intriguing. At the same time, the author's delight in birds (What the Owls Know, Sparrows), kids (Chasing Shadows), myth (A Prayer for the Departed), and dreams (Night Mares), provokes refreshing and splendid shows of imagination.

-Glen Phillips, Publisher, Front Porch Review

What the Owls Know, it turns out, is what we all know but we try to avoid looking at directly: none of us are getting out of this alive. Rather than bludgeon us with that stark fact, however, Paul Bernstein takes us by the hand as he sifts through quietly honest snapshots accumulated over miles and years, and reassures us that lifetimes are contained in the smallest of moments. The titular feathered harbingers may "stretch, strop / their beaks, and wait" for us to reach the end, but by the time we do, these poems have reminded us that to be human is to make mistakes and that even regrets can contain an element of solace.-Karrie Waarala, Poetry Editor, The museum of americana