Shaping a Poem

It’s a quiet thing, a word found
in the stillness of dawn
while dreamers slumber
and the new moon succumbs
to day. A fading thought,
soft intake of breath
in the long pause

between sleep and wake.
Sometimes it’s hope
enduring wildfire, flood,
or the dusts of time.
Maybe dinosaur bones,
a lost tomb, or scarecrows
guarding lavender fields.

Perhaps a dew-drizzled
cobweb, a jonquil, cloud
or song. Most often
it’s your breath,
soft and steady,
promising one more day
in which I will belong.

Ryan Stone

May 25, 2025 19

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

Almost Eden

You knew.
She knew.
It was thick in the air —
like rain that never falls.

Her hand on the doorframe.
Yours in your pocket,
clenched around nothing.

The storm had passed.
But the heat hadn’t broken.

She looked at you
like you were the answer
to a question she wasn’t supposed to ask.

And you looked at her
like a man
measuring the cost of heaven.

Her lips parted—
not an invitation,
just a fact.

You could’ve.
She would’ve.

Instead,
you stepped back.
Said something soft.

She nodded.
Closed the door
like it meant nothing.

And Eden
slipped away
behind her.

Ryan Stone

May 10, 2025 8

Night Dancing

Dusky pink moonlight
Cherry blossom arabesque
Dreaming tomorrows

Ryan Stone

September 24, 2024 42

I’ll not tread lightly

Remember school days and how we would play
like there was no tomorrow?
Now the castles we made
are the price we must pay
or flounder in oceans of sorrow.

Roaming wild and free, building houses in trees
as worlds waltzed to discordant tunes–
like a zephyr through grass,
gilded summer days passed,
left us flayed under Cheshire moons.

Wooden sword fights and valiant knights,
pirates, the Pan and his Bell,
faded from dreams,
rowed ungentle streams,
to where the real monsters dwell.

I’ve climbed faraway trees, seen fair Honah-Lee,
never never thought I’d grow old.
Now the pied piper calls —
as the last curtain falls,
leafless, I’ll trip into the wold.

Ryan Stone

July 3, 2024 74

En Passant

It wasn’t a spectacular leaf:
rather drab, too long from tree.
Yet, the life it clutched
in its five trembling points
turned my strides into steps
into stasis. I watched
as it danced,
sucking more from a gust
than nearby leaves
better suited to flying.
It spiraled away
to a lazuline sky
while I remained rooted;
going nowhere.

Ryan Stone

June 29, 2024 44

The Sculptor

On Sunset Strip the lights have dimmed
And silent now their siren’s call.
A fading starlet’s eyes are brimmed
With tears–one more forgotten thrall
Who keeps her locks of platinum trimmed,
Awaits her call to glory,
Lays bare her soul to cheat decay
And rewrite her life’s story.
He sculpts her in immortal clay,
In meadows cold and hoary;
Holds time’s determined march at bay
From fields of faded glory.

Ryan Stone