Whalesong

for the ones who sing into silence

Somewhere below the shimmer line
where light forgets itself,
a whale turns slow in a cathedral of salt—
each scar on her skin
a stanza.

She sings,
not to summon,
not to find—
but to remember.

A song older than shipwrecks.
Older than ropes and sails.

The deep drinks it.
Holds it like breath.
Lets it echo
along trenches where no eyes go,
only ghosts
and pressure
and time without hands.

We used to think it was a beacon,
a call to others.
But not all songs seek ears.
Some are memory
made into sound—
just one creature
telling the dark:
I was here.

Ryan Stone

May 15, 2025 8

Night Leaves the Latch Open

The sky forgets its thunder,
clouds fold their arms—
somewhere,
a moth dreams of moonlight.

Your breath slows.
The world blurs
like ink in rain.

Stars peer
through curtain cracks,
gentle voyeurs
to a silence
all dreamers know.

Let clocks keep time
without you.
Let the weight fall
from your shoulders,
like moonbeams.

You’ve done enough.

Close your eyes.
The dark knows the way.
It will carry you now,
wherever you need to go.

Ryan Stone

May 14, 2025 4

Tearing Sunshine

Mum moves like rinse water—
warm, grey,
going where she’s poured.
Hands red-raw
from bleach and bones
she can’t scrub clean.
She hums when she’s bone-tired,
not for tune,
just to keep from cracking.

Dad says work is hard—
but only ever sits,
rail grease on his boots,
beer in hand,
trophy beside him:
Highest Goal Scorer,
1983.

He holds it like a wound
that never scabbed.
Says he could’ve been something
if Mum hadn’t—
if I hadn’t—

Doesn’t say the rest.
He just drinks.

Then one day—
a yellow dress.
Hand-me-down.
Sunlight sewn into thread.

Mum steps into the yard
like she’s forgotten
someone might be watching.
Strips to the greying cotton of her
and pulls the yellow on—
slow, soft,
like trying on a life
that didn’t happen.

She twirls once.
Eyes closed.
A ghost of a girl
smiling through the cracks.

Then boots.
The back door slams.
Slut
In a voice like wire.

The dress tears in two directions—
fabric, then her.
She clutches the scraps
to the parts of her
he once loved.

And shrinks.

That night—
beer cans breathing,
trophy glinting
under weak kitchen light.
He slumps.
Mouth open.
Gone.

I take the trophy,
glass warm from his hand.
Step barefoot through bindii
to the path.
Raise it.

It catches moonlight
for a second.
Then gone.

The sound is clean.

I lay the shattered pieces by his chair,
like they fell
when he groped
for the past
and missed.

Ryan Stone

May 13, 2025 11

First Smoke

I lit it behind the shed
with a match I struck on the tin—
my thumb raw from trying.

The cigarette trembled
between fingers that still knew
Lego and scraped knees.

I didn’t cough.
Didn’t blink.
Just held the burn in
like I was keeping a secret
only smoke could understand.

The dog watched,
head tilted,
like he knew I’d crossed
into something I couldn’t uncross.

By the time Mum called for tea,
my breath was fire and hush,
and I’d decided
not to be a boy anymore.

Ryan Stone

May 12, 2025 6

New chapbook on Amazon

I’m excited to announce that my new chapbook is published and available for kindle on Amazon. Paperback to be released shortly.

Book overview

Things That Shouldn’t Be Beautiful (But Are)
Poems by Ryan Stone

A jellyfish that never dies.
A swan that stays after love is gone.
A beetle with mirrors for eyes.
This quietly astonishing collection brings together strange truths from science, nature, and myth—each transformed into a lyrical poem that finds beauty in the unlikely.

Spare, mythic, and emotionally resonant, these thirty poems explore what it means to survive, to remember, to reach for connection—even when no one is listening.

For readers of Mary Oliver, Ross Gay, or Ada Limón, Things That Shouldn’t Be Beautiful (But Are) is a poetic celebration of wonder, smallness, and the strange.

May 12, 2025 0

The Stack

Miss Carr was the strict one—
hair wired tight,
skirts to the shin,
a voice of rules
and overdue fines.

The library breathed her name.
Quiet, please.
Return on time.
Hands to yourself.

I once saw her shush the deputy principal,
and he apologised.

We said she slept in the archives,
alphabetised her dreams,
quietened ghosts for sport.

She didn’t see me—
tucked in Fiction,
in the hush between Neruda
and Nietzsche.

As she reached for a book,
her blouse rode up—
bare skin,
lace black as ink,
the kind of secret
you never give back.

Then jazz—
low and slow—
slipped out like sin,
swirling with smoke
and memory.

She swayed,
hips in slow orbit—
a moon
shedding gravity.

I held my breath.
Watched her eyes close,
her mouth curve—
not a smile,
something primal
and wild.

She looked like someone
who once belonged
and wasn’t sure
if she missed it.

She smoothed her blouse,
buttoned calm back into place,
and turned off the music
without looking my way.

But as she passed,
she paused—

“Alphabetical,”
whispered
soft as dusk.

Ryan Stone

May 11, 2025 7

Out Here, the Light Fails Slower

Above us, the wind leans into nothing.
Below, fenceposts mark the long retreat
of boundary lines no one remembers drawing.

Somewhere beyond this paddock,
a child flicks a torch on and off—
signalling to no one,
or to the stars.

High overhead,
a satellite drifts,
blind but listening.

Closer in,
a man stacks firewood
by feel alone,
his breath silver
in the cold.

He doesn’t look up.
Not at the planets
looping like tired horses.
Not at the slow-failing light
that’s taken years to reach us.

He just finishes the job,
wipes his hands on his jeans,
and goes inside—
leaving the porch lamp on,
a small promise against the dark.

Ryan Stone

May 11, 2025 12

Southern Cross

Some nights,
when the wind shifts
and the silence settles deep,
I step out barefoot
onto the cold veranda.

Above the gum trees—
the Southern Cross,
low and steady,
like it’s waiting for me
to notice.

It doesn’t blaze,
just holds its shape,
a quiet thing
pointing the way
I’ve always known
but needed to remember.

Not a map.
Not a promise.
Just a reminder
that home
isn’t something you reach—
it’s the walking,
the choosing,
the light you carry
when the dark won’t lift.

Ryan Stone

May 10, 2025 11

Red Wagon

I pulled my dog through summers,
tongue lolling in the heat,
ears twitching at bees
and things only he could hear.

The wagon rattled like laughter
over cracked footpaths,
and I—captain of that small red ship—
knew no world beyond
the corner store
and the shade beneath our tree.

It was enough.

Now I carry more—
keys, deadlines, debt,
the ache of wanting
what I used to have
before I learned to want.

My wagon rusts in a shed somewhere,
still red beneath the dust,
still waiting
for a child who doesn’t need more.

Ryan Stone