Author: Ryan Stone
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Muted
Clock hands circle lethargically. Heels clack, a distant speaker hisses – muted, surreal. I shift on a green vinyl chair, eyes trace an arc from clock to window. Outside, a succubus sun kisses children at play. At my father’s bedside, both of us wish I wasn’t. I despise myself for watching the minutes, and him…
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Dragonflies & Raindrops
It starts with a single languid drop, beating a hardpan drum. Cicadas warble a scorched-earth vibrato, rushing skyward, the long-dry undone. Rusty tears trickle their bullnose percussion on verandah iron and brass. While the red dusts of torment yawn and drink deeply, thirsty as fire-kissed grass. My hard-bitten mongrels, in Waratah shade, flick ears laid…
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Dying Light
From my porch I watch thunderheads battering high noon into bruised twilight. I see you climb from under eaves, awakened by a pressure change. As the storm inhales you leap and spin, leap and spin your web — knowing your time to build is fleeting. Ryan Stone
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In Fallow Fields
In my father’s field fledgling hopes are neatly hedged, sown in the soil of silent forebears. Beside a bourne, in chalk and flint, dreams are buried deep. The rasping of his shovel has slowed this season. Some furrows lie shallow, others run deeper. Through rustic panes I watch him bend, straining against the pull of…
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Mother’s Hands
Advertisement for Myers Gloves, by Margaret Watkins (Canada), 1920s. Mother’s Hands Strong enough to lift me each time I couldn’t rise. Soft as cotton wool, washing dirt from scrapes and tears from eyes. Firm enough to model clay and boys, to bowls and men, yet fine when stroking ivory keys– Für Elise and Clair de…
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Ethereal Planes
Above fields, bright paper planes fly While dark the shadows dance below. Like dreams released come morning’s rise Above fields, bright paper planes fly. In silence waits the blackened sky, The final pitch, night’s all star throw. Above fields bright, paper planes fly, While dark the shadows dance below. Ryan Stone
