Tag: ryan stone
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After the Rain
some daysgetting up is enough.feet on cold tiles,kettle humming,a clean shirt pulled over last night’s ache. you don’t have to shine.not today.just breathe.just be. let the storm pass without explanation.let the sky rinse itself clean. there’s no deadlinefor feeling okay,only weather,moving through. and when it does,when the clouds crack openand a thread of light finds…
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Still Here
Some daysthe light forgets your name.Doesn’t meanit’s gone for good. Even the suntakes timeto climb the sky. You don’t have to rise fast.You don’t have to smile.You just have to stay,breathe once,then once again. There’s no prizefor pretending.But there is gracein holding onwhen everything says let go. You are still here.And that means:you are strong…
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You Are Enough
Not the loudest,not the first to arriveor last to leave.You are the steady warmthbetween seasons,the breath that doesn’t need to be noticedto keep the body whole. You are the chair pulled close,the cup filled without asking,the hand that doesn’t flinch. You carry no banners.You don’t demand. And still,you hold up the skyfor someone. That is…
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All the Birds are Gone
The sky doesn’t hum like it used to.We traded songsfor signal towersand forgot the soundof wings over wheat. Benches sit emptyin parks built for someone else’s childhood.Swings move only with the wind now,no laughter to push them. We speak in pingsand half-hearted hearts,thumb-pressed loveand silence that scrolls onlonger than grief. We taught our childrento fear…
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Shaping a Poem
It’s a quiet thing, a word foundin the stillness of dawnwhile dreamers slumberand the new moon succumbsto day. A fading thought,soft intake of breathin the long pause between sleep and wake.Sometimes it’s hopeenduring wildfire, flood,or the dusts of time.Maybe dinosaur bones,a lost tomb, or scarecrowsguarding lavender fields. Perhaps a dew-drizzledcobweb, a jonquil, cloudor song. Most…
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Red Shack Triptych
I. Red Shack, White Silence (His Voice — Then) We climbed past where the trees give up,boots sinking through hush and drift,wind at our backs like a warningwe chose not to hear.The red shack waited—tilted, rust-kissed,half-swallowed by snow. Inside,a match struck light against the cold.One flame,then another,until the dark softenedjust enough to hold us. There…
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Daughter of the Plains
Ochre soaked skies, sunrise woke her – blue grass seas lilt behind stained glass at dawn. On morning’s grace she’s borne. Ryan Stone
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If I Could Write
If I could writethe best poem ever written,it wouldn’t be carved in stoneor read aloud to thunder. It would be quiet—just your namefolded into a lineonly you would notice. It would knowhow your hands shookthe day you held someonewho didn’t stay,how you once criedinto the collar of your coatso no one would see. It would…
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Blacktop & Burn Marks
We hit the highwaylike it owed us something—two beers deep,one taillight out,her boots on the dashand my name on her lipslike a dare. Pickup rattledwith the sound of bad wiringand worse music.She tuned the radioby punching it,and it worked. She lit a jointoff the cigarette lighter,passed it without looking.Said,“If we crash,don’t bother calling my mother.”…
