days of stone

Tag: time

  • Red Wagon

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    I pulled my dog through summers,tongue lolling in the heat,ears twitching at beesand things only he could hear. The wagon rattled like laughterover cracked footpaths,and I—captain of that small red ship—knew no world beyondthe corner storeand the shade beneath our tree. It was enough. Now I carry more—keys, deadlines, debt,the ache of wantingwhat I used…

  • Magpie Morning

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    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    Fifty soon.Strange how that numberfeels both heavier and lighterthan expected. I wake before the house stirs.Kettle on.Dogs at my heel—the old one careful on the tiles,the young one waiting for the daylike it might break open just for her. A magpie sings on the powerline,low and fluted—not calling,not warning—just there.Like me. The track behind is…

  • you left before the bell

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    we were sixteen,all collarbones and restless hands,kicking gravel behind the bike shedslike we knew the world owed us somethingand we weren’t afraid to ask for it. your name lived in my throatfor years afterlike a word I never learned to sayout loud. we never got a proper ending—just a Tuesdayand a late noteand a suddensilence.…

  • Unburied Hatchet

    Unburied Hatchet

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    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    Until I saw those wasted hands, brittle as chalk, I hadn’t thought how fast the years make ghosts. I heard them once called brawler’s paws. For me, they were always more: cobras, poised to strike. But his brawling days are gone now; I could kill him with a pillow, if I cared enough to try.…

  • Dissembling

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    captive cicada, rattling terrible music in the granite hill Ryan Stone

  • Pulling Back the Sheet

    Pulling Back the Sheet

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    It started as a scribble in my yearbook and ended with an apology, of sorts: I wish I’d been more, held your hand when it mattered and even when it didn’t. Ink lasts longer than schoolyard dreams, wilted before their bloom. Notes we wrote lend breath to ghosts, long after pens fall still. In this…

  • Tidesong

    Tidesong

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    Warm sand between our toes, your hand belongs in mine, until our songs are sung; our instruments unstrung. Ryan Stone Written for National Poetry Month 2016 @ The Music In It – Aging.

  • I’ll not tread lightly

    I’ll not tread lightly

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    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    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…

  • The Long Road

    The Long Road

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    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    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…

  • The Sculptor

    —

    by

    Ryan Stone
    in

    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…