too much coffee, too little sleep, a love of words…
for the ones who still wait
The rain begins slowly—
drumming
on stone markers.
I light a stick of incense.
It curls
like something trying to stay.
Even the cicadas
have fallen quiet.
A child’s sandal
drifts
down the flooded path.
Ryan Stone
The bowl is still cracked,
but gold glints
in early light.
Steam from the tea
rises—
a soft unravelling.
Outside, the plum tree
shakes off
a single blossom.
You are nowhere,
and still
I pour two cups.
Ryan Stone
We pulled off somewhere
past the edge of signal,
dust curling like smoke
behind the tyres.
She climbed the bonnet barefoot,
leaned back with a bottle of water
and a grin
like she’d stolen it from a god.
Said she used to be
an astrologer.
Said Orion was her first crush
and she still wrote him letters
when it rained.
I told her I didn’t believe in fate.
She said,
“Good.
The sky doesn’t care
what you believe.”
She pointed—
Scorpius.
Crux.
Something I can’t pronounce
but still dream about.
I kissed her
somewhere between Mars and regret.
She tasted like dust
and the end of something beautiful.
By morning,
the sky was empty
and so was the seat beside me.
I still look up
hoping to find
whatever she saw in the dark.
Ryan Stone
This poem appears in my latest collection:
Shady Ladies and Bourbon Highways
Available for kindle from Amazon Australia here or Amazon US here.
They meet there, still they meet,
Where sand gives way beneath bare feet;
No words are said, no vows are sworn,
Just lips that know what silence mourns—
They meet there, still they meet.
The moon bends low to kiss the wheat,
The stars hang close, the air smells sweet;
He brushes leaves from tangled hair,
She laughs as if no one’s aware—
They meet there, still they meet.
And when the dawn begins to beat
Its golden drum on every street,
They part as strangers, soft and slow,
And only night will ever know—
They meet there, still they meet.
Ryan Stone
It had no right
to be growing there—
in the cracked seam
between the house and the path,
where runoff pooled
and the dog pissed
and nothing green should last.
But there it was.
One daisy.
Tilting toward the heat
like it believed
in something.
Not blooming
exactly,
just holding on,
a yellow eye
in a world
that never looked back.
I could’ve crushed it
on the way to the bin.
I could’ve stepped wide
and not noticed.
But I stood there,
foot half-raised,
thinking of all the small things
we kill
because we don’t
call them beautiful
in time.
Ryan Stone
The butcher’s sign still swings,
though the shop’s been gutted
since Gaz ran a hose from the tailpipe
and left the lights on.
The school gate’s rusted open.
Wind sifts chalk dust
through cracked windows
where names once lined the roll
like prayers in hell.
Down at the silo,
kids mainline in the shadow
of grain that never came.
One girl carved a star
into her thigh—
the first scar
she chose.
The creek runs red when it rains.
No fish, no frogs,
no reason left to lie.
Dogs roam in threes.
Cattle follow fence lines
out of habit, not hope.
Even the sky
hangs lower than it used to,
like it’s tired
of watching us fail.
Mothers drink in sheds.
Fathers forget birthdays.
The baker feeds birds
because they still show up.
And under the rot
of pubs, paddocks
and cracked hope,
the town exhales.
Shallow and slow.
Waiting for someone
to mumble last rites.
Ryan Stone
some days
getting up is enough.
feet on cold tiles,
kettle humming,
a clean shirt pulled over last night’s ache.
you don’t have to shine.
not today.
just breathe.
just be.
let the storm pass without explanation.
let the sky rinse itself clean.
there’s no deadline
for feeling okay,
only weather,
moving through.
and when it does,
when the clouds crack open
and a thread of light finds your skin,
stand in it.
face to the sky.
you made it through the rain.
that’s what matters.
that’s the kind of strength
the world forgets to clap for.
but I see it.
I’m clapping.
Ryan Stone
Some days
the light forgets your name.
Doesn’t mean
it’s gone for good.
Even the sun
takes time
to climb the sky.
You don’t have to rise fast.
You don’t have to smile.
You just have to stay,
breathe once,
then once again.
There’s no prize
for pretending.
But there is grace
in holding on
when everything says let go.
You are still here.
And that means:
you are strong enough,
you are seen,
you matter.
You are not alone—
not now,
not ever.
Ryan Stone
Not the loudest,
not the first to arrive
or last to leave.
You are the steady warmth
between seasons,
the breath that doesn’t need to be noticed
to keep the body whole.
You are the chair pulled close,
the cup filled without asking,
the hand that doesn’t flinch.
You carry no banners.
You don’t demand.
And still,
you hold up the sky
for someone.
That is enough.
You are enough.
You always were.
Ryan Stone
The sky doesn’t hum like it used to.
We traded songs
for signal towers
and forgot the sound
of wings over wheat.
Benches sit empty
in parks built for someone else’s childhood.
Swings move only with the wind now,
no laughter to push them.
We speak in pings
and half-hearted hearts,
thumb-pressed love
and silence that scrolls on
longer than grief.
We taught our children
to fear the quiet
but not to cherish it.
We gave them passwords
instead of prayers.
And still,
the earth waits.
Somewhere,
a fox curls beneath a rusted fence,
a girl cups a candle like a secret,
and the wind remembers
how to sing.
Ryan Stone
days of stone 