You won’t recall that ride through the walnuts,
one fey afternoon in fall — a city boy
on penance in the country, I’d never ridden before.
You were kind in a time of rough edges,
shared your saddle along spice-scented rows.
I swayed behind you, astride your palomino,
never more aware of a girl. Heat rose
in places where the lines of us blurred,
flared when my hand brushed your breast.
I almost kissed you when you turned to talk,
wish I’d kissed you instead of still guessing
just what you meant when you told me
not to let go.
first published by Algebra of Owls
Hi, gang. I apologize for being absent for awhile – a nasty wrist injury has kept me away from my computer and in a bit of a slump as I’m forced to consider the effect it will have on my career.
Thankfully a ray of sunshine arrived in the form of a new poem – For the Girl in the Grove – published on one of my favourite poetry sites – Algebra of Owls.
This link will take you there if you’d like a look – For the Girl in the Grove
I’d also like to thank Paul and his editorial team – Algebra of Owls is a wonderful site and the staff do such a great job reading and responding to submissions. Definitely a site to check out if you haven’t visited before.
Enjoy your weekend 🙂
Wind, blow –
lift me high, don’t
far, above sand
take me, let’s chase
– Ryan Stone
long years I mourn
her loss –
her laugh with each
her smile in each
soaked skies, sunrise
woke her –
seas lilt behind
On morning’s grace
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 —
before the last curtain falls,
leafless, I’ll trip into the wold.
First published by Wolf Publishing June, 2015
A silent witness crests the hill
to place a kiss on coves
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.
never recovered from the storms of ’93
when lightning stroked shingles, shorted out circuits;
left one side wind blown and sagging.
Tufts of moss sprout from the bowed memory
of taut boards. A plague of crickets
lurk beneath stairs; creaking their arthritic chatter.
From a threadbare recliner in a ramshackle room
I gaze over fields at a familiar view,
distorted by windows now broken and rheumy.
Some are named for children,
taken by the government.
Others, after the glittering stars
who litter her magazine carpet.
A patchwork blanket in settling frost
to warm her hibernation.
If you saw them that way – cats and their lady –
you’d never guess what they’d do to survive
through all the long weeks as mail piles,
high enough for someone to notice.