Artemis Lost

She comes in through my window, dripping
ambrosia and moonlight. I’m feigning sleep,
she draws me out with jasmine scented
kisses. She slips from innocence,
denim and satin, to writhe
down my spine as a shiver.
Promises born in salt and fire
roll with the swell of her breast,
die with the plea turned to ash
on my tongue, with the band
returned to her finger.
Nocking an arrow she raises,
releases; how deeply
her false overture pierces,
I never will,
never will

Ryan Stone



She dreams
of many things,
it seems –

of gold,
of love, to grow
not old –

the sea,
the moon; but not
of me.

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


Lost Frequencies


Next to ambitious colors of his image,
I remain amphibious,
lacking the sane view of reason,
embracing the alchemy of dreaming.

Pale and altered, her beauty,
grey strands of regret weave
through cornflower fields
whose scent I barely remember.

This past winter’s rime lingers in his eyes.
Droplets of subdued laughter
crystaled at the corners,
dipped in icebound summers.

Her worn out air of irresolution
hangs heavy; thunderheads
muster for battle, threatening
to blow me away.

Seeking hands belong to a stranger,
fervent perjuries to the crowkeeper.
Heart and mind adamantine,
enpierced no more by love.

I stand alone in shadow,
watching an Amaranth moon –
beautiful, undying; slipping
beyond my reach.

– a collaboration, written by Dajena and Ryan.

It was such a pleasure to have the opportunity to write this poem with Dajena from Moonskittles. I’m a huge fan of the grace, imagery and passion she incorporates into her writing and hoped some of her magic might rub off onto my own drab words.

I don’t know that my drawn-out writing process is particularly conducive to a collaboration, but Dajena was an absolute joy to write with and I enjoyed the experience greatly. If you haven’t had the opportunity to visit her site, please do so now – you will be blown away.


Ten small moons
blank as bone,
not bright enough
to guide her home.
Five above, and
five below
in the land of Fae,
where cold winds blow.

A coffin, glass,
her beauty case;
asleep at last,
the maiden, chaste.
A mirror’s truth
first planted seed,
from poison springs
doom’s apple tree.

Cloaked in night
her hunter lies;
a queen deceived
by fourteen eyes.
Grim tales weave
through bloody looms.
In royal breast
a thawed rose blooms.

Ryan Stone


First published in Poppy Road Review, March 2016.