Tag: moon

They Meet There, Still They Meet

They meet there, still they meet,
Where sand gives way beneath bare feet;
No words are said, no vows are sworn,
Just lips that know what silence mourns—
They meet there, still they meet.

The moon bends low to kiss the wheat,
The stars hang close, the air smells sweet;
He brushes leaves from tangled hair,
She laughs as if no one’s aware—
They meet there, still they meet.

And when the dawn begins to beat
Its golden drum on every street,
They part as strangers, soft and slow,
And only night will ever know—
They meet there, still they meet.

Ryan Stone

2

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

19

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

4

Riders in the Night

Outside, in the distance
a wild cat did growl
two riders were approaching
the wind began to howl. -Bob Dylan

Hoofbeats on the tundra!
Beneath a mage’s moon
she draws her shutters closely,
prays morning finds her soon.

Thunder shatters silence,
a rapping at her door
tears the night asunder–
a wild cat’s chilling roar.

All along the cornflower
rows, shadows dance with glee,
seeking answers as the wind
howls by a lone oak tree.

Dawn finds an empty homestead–
bleeds in through broken panes,
across spilled dill an’ fennel
and spattered, rusty stains.

Ryan Stone

first published by Poppy Road Review, August 2017

24

Bonnie & Clyde

On a Monday I met her, but should’ve known better-
moon days bode ill for new friends.
Lunar sea tides with light and dark sides
make Monday trysts wane to weak ends.

Aphelion eyes, dark hair and toned thighs
presaged a blue moon ascending.
With a wink and a gun, she blocked out the sun
in total eclipse, never-ending.

Said, taking my hand: you’ve the look of a man
who’d rather not sleep ’til he’s dead.
I refuse to work harder or pay for my Prada,
let’s dance with the Devil instead.

We ran for a time on a dream and a dime,
both stolen and hard to sustain.
At the trail’s grim end, a posse of men
machine-gunned love’s final refrain.

Ryan Stone

First published at Poetry Nook, May 2017.

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