days of stone

Tag: thoughts

  • 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

  • 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

  • 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

  • Numb

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    In empty spaces echoes fade to silent grief, whispers on the wind Ryan Stone

  • Sleep

    Sleep

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in ,

    on silvery trails thru the night we tripped, past the wall into the sky— swallowed by infinity Ryan Stone

  • The Journey Home

    The Journey Home

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in ,

    She tells me her pain is a squall, sudden and vicious, like a flash storm whipping in from Bass Strait to batter King Island. Do you remember our Island, Garth? Her doctors build shelters; nurses batten hatches, but this tempest won’t blow over. She says her pain is a vulture now, circling the desert on…

  • In Passing

    In Passing

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    After all the years, the heart-shaped promises, a Ponts des Arts love lock one Spring, it has come now to this — a sterile room, too-small-for-two bed, plastic flowers, faint urine smell. Standing bedside, she strokes and hums, remembers a warm night by the sea. The setting sun kisses white hair golden. Tremors become twitches,…

  • Depression

    Depression

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    Pitch black, careening down a track in vain before a dark freight train blasts past. Underneath, peace at last. Ryan Stone