days of stone

Tag: poem

  • Dying Light

    Dying Light

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    From my porch I watch thunderheads battering high noon into bruised twilight. I see you climb from under eaves, awakened by a pressure change. As the storm inhales you leap and spin, leap and spin your web — knowing your time to build is fleeting. Ryan Stone

  • In Fallow Fields

    In Fallow Fields

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    In my father’s field fledgling hopes are neatly hedged, sown in the soil of silent forebears. Beside a bourne, in chalk and flint, dreams are buried deep. The rasping of his shovel has slowed this season. Some furrows lie shallow, others run deeper. Through rustic panes I watch him bend, straining against the pull of…

  • Mother’s Hands

    Mother’s Hands

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    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

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    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

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    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

  • Stuff Cops Know

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    Lunacy lives in the full face of the moon, blood has infinite shades of red. The perfect crime doesn’t exist. Every contact leaves a trace. When there’s nothing to gain, people can still be evil. When there’s everything to lose, people may surprise you. Occasionally there is honour among thieves. There are multiple truths, perspective…

  • This house

    This house

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    never recovered from the storms of ’93 when lightning stroked shingles, shorted out circuits, left one side wind blown and sagging. Tufts of moss sprout from the bowed memory of taut boards. A plague of crickets lurk beneath stairs, creaking their arthritic chatter. From a threadbare recliner in a ramshackle room I gaze over fields…

  • Drought Break

    Drought Break

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    The first splash, a drum crash on hardpan. Tin roof hiss, a slow kiss that grows into rushing percussion. New voices rise, warbles and sighs, from beneath the shelter of tree ferns– a chorus begins, magpie trills and woodwind, as sound to the outback returns. Ryan Stone Another bite at dVerse quadrille #33 – Sound…

  • The Walk

    The Walk

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    I wake a full hour early for the rare gift of a walk in the woods with my father. He is a silent giant among misty ghost gums. I tell him, Watch! See how fast I can run. He doesn’t yell when I trip and fall, but lifts me with unfamiliar, calloused hands. At the…

  • Like Grass

    Like Grass

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    I’ll bend, you know. Each time you kick or stomp me underfoot. Though sustenance is rare as winter sun, I’ll thrive, you know and grow to cover every corner of the meadow where you lie. I’ll rise, you know. Rise and rise– I’ll rise. Ryan Stone