Tag: death

  • Mother’s Hands

    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…

  • Roulette

    Roulette

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

  • Ethereal Planes

    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

  • Stand To

    Stand To

    A silent witness crests the hill where bloody rain once fell. The sob and clubbing fractured now – hearts beat on distant shores where brothers wait with shaking hands to charge into the dawn. Across the Sea of Helle they came, from many different ports, to lay down cold on foreign stone, enlisted on some…

  • Numb

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

  • After

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

  • The Journey Home

    The Journey Home

    She tells me her pain is a squall, sudden and vicious, like a flash storm whipping in from Bass Strait to batter King Island. Do you remember our Island, Garth? Her doctors build shelters; nurses batten hatches, but this tempest won’t blow over. She says her pain is a vulture now, circling the desert on…

  • In Passing

    In Passing

    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

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

  • Hourglass

    We walk the tide line barefoot on the morning sand, your steps close by mine. Later, I return alone but no trace of us remains. Ryan Stone