Tag: poetry
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Death in Suburbia
Sometime past lunch when the housework is done a translucent lady sheds her husk. In her mirror the tricksy sun cajoles grey to gold, teases with wistful strokes. Like a vodka-chased pill she slides down a rabbit hole until soft fingers feel almost like strangers. With a methodical parting and functional probing, she dies another…
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The Weight
One drunken night, he lay on the coach road and she lay beside him. He pictured a truck descending–wobbling around corners, gaining momentum. They spoke about crushes, first kisses. He told her of an older woman who’d stolen a thing he couldn’t replace. He tried to describe the weight of lost things. She listened until…
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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…
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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…
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The Long Road
I drink all day and then strike out along that winding road, where shadows flit by leafy bough and twilight waits for no-one; where failing light births fickle fiends who writhe and tempt the absent mind. In deepen wood where mildew clings to night’s cool breath, a parting kiss for seasons long since flown. Ryan…
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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…
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Old Photograph
In the photo I keep in my wallet you’re smiling. No hint of ghosts in the glint of your eye. You’re sitting on a riverbank weaving a daisy chain I wore until it crumbled– linking flower to flower with the unblemished certainty that beauty and vows are forever. Ryan Stone
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My Love
-blazon after Woloch My love with her chocolate river of tresses, Her slow-flowing curls, polished mahogany. My love with her lips of tequila sunrise With her milky-skinned sin, spreading wildfire blush. My love with her hummingbird voice Her windswept dune song, her soul strumming hum My love with her eyes of moonstone and twilight, Her…
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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
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Dog Days
There’s a lot going on in the world today. My TV stays off for sanity’s sake. Another school. Child. Innocent. Betrayal. And fear, like a flag hanging over it all. When sorrow engulfs me, I almost feel guilty– how does an old paw print eclipse any of that? But my sphere spins slowly, the breeze…
