too much coffee, too little sleep, a love of words…
Your flame flickers briefly—
a parting whisper.
Some trick of the river
mimics your laughter.
We stand apart at sunset,
lost in natsukashii,
come together in darkness,
to watch the dead pass on.
Your light has fallen now
to shadow
beneath the bridge.
Ryan Stone
First published on Napalm and Novocain, January 2016
Published at Poetry Nook, October 2018, Nominated for 2018 Pushcart Prize
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 flayed under Cheshire moons.
Wooden sword fights and valiant knights,
pirates, the Pan and his Bell,
faded from dreams,
rowed ungentle streams,
to where the real monsters dwell.
I’ve climbed faraway trees, seen fair Honah-Lee,
never never thought I’d grow old.
Now the pied piper calls —
as the last curtain falls,
leafless, I’ll trip into the wold.
Ryan Stone
Pa, I see you in your shed–
unaware of dusk settling
over your garden, painting
your pink crabapple blossoms
grey. I see you bend, to squint
at some small imperfection
marring the wooden soldier
you’ve spent the whole day carving,
hands slow-dancing to a tune
no-one else can hear. Later
Ma will shake her head, dismiss
your need for perfect contours
and seamless joins as foolish,
not understanding a man,
a soldier or a husband
is only ever as strong
as his weakest part.
Ryan Stone
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
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
Pitch black,
careening down
a track
in vain
before a dark
freight train
blasts past.
Underneath, peace
at last.
Ryan Stone
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
A wail
of sirens makes
her pale
with fear,
returns her to
the year
she stole
a cub from his
foxhole.
Ryan Stone
I am he who worships Spring
in moonlit mountain shallows.
I am he who watches you,
insubstantial shadow.
I am he who brings night’s ship
safe to morning’s shore.
I am he who loves you,
your servant, evermore.
Ryan Stone
I start at the sound of each car passing
on midnight streets outside;
hoping it’s you,
knowing it isn’t.
Dreams fade with your warmth
as reality slowly intrudes:
it would be enough
to fall into your arms
and know I’d wake there, too.
I am only real
when you are near,
but you never stay
and the grey morning is close
and mine alone.
Ryan Stone
days of stone 