The Lesson in His Fist
In the Shade of the Tree Ferns
No path here.
Just damp earth,
moss on stone,
and the slow, deliberate hush
of growing things.
Tree ferns arc overhead,
fronds wide as arms,
filtering light
into something sacred.
I brought my sons here,
when their legs were small
and full of mud.
They squatted in the black soil,
drew patterns with sticks,
found joy
in a single wriggling earthworm.
The ferns, the filtered light—
none of it mattered.
Only dirt,
and the way it stuck
to their knees,
their laughter,
my heart.
Now I pass alone.
The moss is thicker.
Their prints long gone.
But I see them—
the shape they made
in that moment,
still held
in the hush beneath the fronds.
And I smile,
because some things—
mud,
love,
the wonder of being their dad—
cling forever.
Ryan Stone
This one is from my new poetry collection – Love, and Other Ordinary Miracles – soon to be released on Amazon.
Letter to My Sons
Boys,
When the fire comes—and it will—don’t run.
Stand your ground. Feel the heat. Know what’s worth burning.
Not everything you carry needs to be saved.
You’ll be told to move fast, talk loud, win more.
Don’t listen to that.
The quiet men are the ones you want near when things fall apart.
If your hands shake, that’s fine.
So did mine.
Do the work anyway.
Let yourself be broken by love at least once.
If you’re lucky, it’ll teach you where you end and someone else begins.
But leave them space. Don’t take what isn’t offered. Ever.
When loss comes, don’t try to beat it.
Feel it. Let it hollow you out clean.
Then build something inside the space it left.
The world will try to make you hard.
Let it make you solid instead.
Be unmovable when it counts.
But stay soft in the places that matter—your hands, your eyes, your heart.
People will try to name you.
Let your actions do it first.
Carry stories.
Especially ones that don’t paint you as the hero.
And remember: pain handled right becomes a kind of map.
Look out for each other.
That’s not advice, that’s bedrock,
even when you disagree, especially when you don’t speak.
You’ve always got each other’s back. That’s blood. That’s the deal.
And when no one notices you did the right thing—
good.
That means you’re growing into your name.
I’ll see you on the ridge.
Love,
Dad
Magpie Morning
Fifty soon.
Strange how that number
feels both heavier and lighter
than expected.
I wake before the house stirs.
Kettle on.
Dogs at my heel—
the old one careful on the tiles,
the young one waiting for the day
like it might break open just for her.
A magpie sings on the powerline,
low and fluted—
not calling,
not warning—
just there.
Like me.
The track behind is long,
marked with all the right things:
mud, fire,
boys with scraped knees and full bellies,
a wife who still sees me
when I go quiet.
The years haven’t made me wise,
but they’ve made me slower to speak,
and better at listening—
especially to my sons,
who keep handing me pieces of myself
I didn’t know I’d dropped.
There is more life to come.
I can feel it humming in the floorboards.
Not louder—
just steadier.
And if this is the halfway mark,
it’s a fine place to pause.
To stand with the sun
not at my back
or in my eyes,
but warming my chest.
The magpie sings again.
Not a beginning,
not an ending—
just the middle of a good song
I still get to hear.
Ryan Stone
Unburied Hatchet
Until I saw those wasted hands,
brittle as chalk, I hadn’t thought
how fast the years make ghosts.
I heard them once called brawler’s paws.
For me, they were always more:
cobras, poised to strike.
But his brawling days are gone now;
I could kill him with a pillow,
if I cared enough to try.
Thin sheets press tightly to a bed
more empty than full, his body broken
like the promises of childhood.
Haunted eyes betray last thoughts
of a dim path, spiralling down.
He hopes to make amends.
“Forgiven?” he croaks,
barely there, as always,
and I’m wishing that I wasn’t.
With the last rays of day as witness,
I turn my back with purpose
and hear the silence roar.
In a late-night bar I catch my reflection
swimming in a glass of bourbon;
but I’m staring at a ghost.
Ryan Stone
First published in Writers’ Forum Magazine issue 163, April 2015 – first place
Self-portrait
And these are my failings:
a wild smile always leads my mind
to the kiss hiding behind it
and sometimes to plot
the shortest route there.
Did I say sometimes? I lie a bit, too.
And I tend to zone out to small-talk –
there are enough idle words
in the world.
And I can’t warm to people,
despite how I try.
I’m lying again – I don’t try at all.
I’d much rather hide
with Lana Del Rey,
alone in the dark
drinking vodka,
ignoring that night
in my fourteenth year
when my father got drunk,
made me drive his ute home –
the soft bump and loud bark,
the crimson accusation,
coagulating on his tyre
next morning.
Ryan Stone
Written for National Poetry Month 2016 @ The Music In It – Failures
First published in Poppy Road Review, May 2016.
Irish Fire
My grandmother called it
Irish fire, said it raged
through my father
hotter than Beli Mawr’s bum.
She was long dead
when it finally flared
fiercer than he could contain.
The embers of his eyes
scorched childhood’s
last leaves to ash,
left them smoldering.
Ryan Stone
Breaking Point
Pa, I see you in your shed–
unaware of dusk settling
over your garden, painting
your pink crabapple blossoms
grey. I see you bend, to squint
at some small imperfection
marring the wooden soldier
you’ve spent the whole day carving,
hands slow-dancing to a tune
no-one else can hear. Later
Ma will shake her head, dismiss
your need for perfect contours
and seamless joins as foolish,
not understanding a man,
a soldier or a husband
is only ever as strong
as his weakest part.
Ryan Stone
Muted
Clock hands circle lethargically. Heels
clack, a distant speaker hisses –
muted, surreal.
I shift on a green vinyl chair, eyes
trace an arc from clock to window.
Outside, a succubus sun
kisses children at play.
At my father’s bedside, both of us
wish I wasn’t. I despise myself
for watching the minutes, and him
for teaching me to. Broken
conversations keep awkward vigil
for something long dead.
Ryan Stone
days of stone 
