I am he who worships Spring
in moonlit mountain shallows.
I am he who watches you,
insubstantial shadow.
I am he who brings night’s ship
safe to morning’s shore.
I am he who loves you,
your servant, evermore.
Ryan Stone
Sneewittchen
Ten small moons
blank as bone,
not bright enough
to guide her home.
Five above, and
five below
in the land of Fae,
where cold winds blow.
A coffin, glass,
her beauty case;
asleep at last,
the maiden, chaste.
A mirror’s truth
first planted seed,
from poison springs
doom’s apple tree.
Cloaked in night
her hunter lies;
a queen deceived
by fourteen eyes.
Grim tales weave
through bloody looms.
In royal breast
a thawed rose blooms.
Ryan Stone
First published in Poppy Road Review, March 2016.
Ingénue
Ingénue
Raindrops –
steel drums, belting
roof tops.
Loud beats
unheard beneath
white sheets
where two
hearts shed one last
taboo.
Ryan Stone
The Grey Mornings
I start at the sound of each car passing
on midnight streets outside;
hoping it’s you,
knowing it isn’t.
Dreams fade with your warmth
as reality slowly intrudes:
it would be enough
to fall into your arms
and know I’d wake there, too.
I am only real
when you are near,
but you never stay
and the grey morning is close
and mine alone.
Ryan Stone
This is the winter of darkness
everything lead grey—heavy as storm clouds.
The trail I follow around the lake, swallowed
by mildew and mud. Branch bridges and detours
crisscross, from walkers bypassing flash floods.
A wind howls through weeping willow skeletons,
haunting my passage. Boots grow heavy with each
step. Treacherous soles threaten to betray.
Nestled among tree roots, wood ducks huddle
in sleepy pairs, wings folded—waiting.
This grey world feels like it’s paused, poised
on the edge of tomorrow—a lone yellow jonquil
fighting free of the detritus for a glimpse
of fleeting light. This is the winter of darkness.
Above me, storm clouds open. Ahead, the trail blurs.
Ryan Stone
First published at Eunoia Review December 2023
Wedding Poem
It’s a fleeting moment–
a red sky at twilight,
rushing to the long night;
the last russet leaf
clinging to bough
as autumn inhales,
breathes out.
You know this, you’ve felt it
in the grey light of dawn,
in that pause
between waking and finding.
You’ve heard it whisper
through the dry grass
of summer–a promise
tossed on the wind.
Yesterday’s smoke
blows over fields,
tomorrow hides
inside dreams.
This hand in your hand
is the one, the only
true kingdom
under the sun.
Ryan Stone
The Wind Whispers, The Wind Sighs
– after Longfellow
The wind whispers, the wind sighs,
the dawn light brightens, a magpie cries;
amongst the gum trees tall and green
a girl becomes a faerie queen.
And the wind whispers, the wind sighs.
Morning settles beneath silk skies,
her reign flits by like dragonflies;
deep shadows dress the naked hill
in dusk, as faerie wings fall still.
And the wind whispers, the wind sighs.
Night throws a cloak; a barn owl cries,
another answers, stars blink like eyes.
The queen is gone, won’t come again;
these woods forever will remain.
And the wind whispers, the wind sighs.
– Ryan Stone
first published at Poetry Nook, May 2020
felicity
embracing each day
arms stretched to the horizon
—forgotten scarecrow
Ryan Stone
Deek’s Golden Day
A chill October morning. Grey
Melbourne, 1982. Usually, we students
would be outside at recess
running ourselves warm. Not today.
In the close schoolroom we huddle
around a tiny tv screen,
watching the Commonwealth Games
in Brisbane. Watching, in colour
as marathon star, Rob ‘Deek’
De Castella, battles two rivals
in third place through Fortitude Valley.
Close to the 42km finish line
Deek lengthens stride, sails
past The Regatta Hotel
into history. In first place he flies
down Coronation Drive,
and the roar in our classroom
echoes around the nation.
Lessons are cancelled, our bland
teacher whoops, and we charge
out into the brightening playground.
Each of us soars that day—arms pumping, coiled spring legs. We race through the yard
to imagined cheers and screams.
Ryan Stone
Little Things
In the few spare minutes
between kids’ basketball games
I find myself
in the produce aisle
floating on a rainbow
of yellow, red, orange, green.
Vibrant and bursting
with perfection, promising
the flavors of earth and sky
and stream.
I pause—
unexpectedly
overwhelmed,
grateful to live in a time
where fifteen stolen minutes
allows me to gather apples and grapes,
squash, broccolini, avocado and rhubarb.
Grown by strangers, harvested
by other hands—a bounty
for my family to share.
Ryan Stone
days of stone 