The Walk

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 end of the trail
I study my grazes—jagged
and bloody. He tells me
he’s leaving my mum.

On the walk home
I gaze at the gum trees
and fragmented clouds, thinking
they should look different somehow.

Ryan Stone

first published at Poetry Nook, 1st place Week 185

April 26, 2024 42

Like Grass

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

April 25, 2024 33

Stand To

A silent witness crests the hill
where bloody rain once fell.

The sob and clubbing fractured now –
hearts beat on distant shores

where brothers wait with shaking hands
to charge into the dawn.

Across the Sea of Helle they came,
from many different ports,

to lay down cold on foreign stone,
enlisted on some other front.

Flags hang low and I am borne
by a bugle’s mournful calling,

as first light joins eternal flame
“stand to!” cleaves the morning.

Ryan Stone

April 25, 2024 8

Hope

so dark
each winter night,
then dawn

Ryan Stone

April 24, 2024 5

Divorce

From this bridge of sighs
They watch the chasm sunder
Here, where dreaming ends

Ryan Stone

April 23, 2024 11

Reflection

Above the still lake
A smoke and pepper patchwork
Birds entering clouds

Ryan Stone

April 23, 2024 11

Blue Sky

spring clothesline—
purple penguins dancing
on a breeze

Ryan Stone

April 22, 2024 24

Back Road

In this threadbare landscape
where patchwork fields
stretch to the horizon,
a red barn slouches—
weathered and worn
through all the long days,
paint flaking under the sun.

Surrounded by wheat husks,
each stalk croaking secrets,
forgotten, a scarecrow slumps—
guardian of a dead land.
Tattered garments hang limp, button
eyes gaze sightless. Last sentinel
against encroaching shadows.

And still, there is beauty here.
Where barn, field, and scarecrow
converge, where eagles cry
 on the wind—a tale of courage
and heartbreak. A tale
of life’s simple grace.

Ryan Stone