days of stone

Tag: alone

  • Mother’s Hands

    Mother’s Hands

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    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…

  • Roulette

    Roulette

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    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    Awake! A slate grey, cold daybreak – blood clot sunrise, I take a shot and miss. Life must hold more than this. Ryan Stone

  • The Walk

    The Walk

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    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    I wake a full hour early for the rare gift of a walk in the woods with my father. He is a silent giant among misty ghost gums. I tell him, Watch! See how fast I can run. He doesn’t yell when I trip and fall, but lifts me with unfamiliar, calloused hands. At the…

  • Like Grass

    Like Grass

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    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    I’ll bend, you know. Each time you kick or stomp me underfoot. Though sustenance is rare as winter sun, I’ll thrive, you know and grow to cover every corner of the meadow where you lie. I’ll rise, you know. Rise and rise– I’ll rise. Ryan Stone

  • Divorce

    Divorce

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    by

    Ryan Stone
    in , ,

    From this bridge of sighs They watch the chasm sunder Here, where dreaming ends Ryan Stone

  • Back Road

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    In this threadbare landscapewhere patchwork fieldsstretch to the horizon,a red barn slouches—weathered and wornthrough all the long days,paint flaking under the sun. Surrounded by wheat husks,each stalk croaking secrets,forgotten, a scarecrow slumps—guardian of a dead land.Tattered garments hang limp, buttoneyes gaze sightless. Last sentinelagainst encroaching shadows. And still, there is beauty here.Where barn, field, and…

  • Numb

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    In empty spaces echoes fade to silent grief, whispers on the wind Ryan Stone

  • After

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in ,

    funeral flowers wilting in quiet corners… so hard to let go Ryan Stone

  • In Passing

    In Passing

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    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    After all the years, the heart-shaped promises, a Ponts des Arts love lock one Spring, it has come now to this — a sterile room, too-small-for-two bed, plastic flowers, faint urine smell. Standing bedside, she strokes and hums, remembers a warm night by the sea. The setting sun kisses white hair golden. Tremors become twitches,…

  • Depression

    Depression

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    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    Pitch black, careening down a track in vain before a dark freight train blasts past. Underneath, peace at last. Ryan Stone