The Wind Whispers, The Wind Sighs

– after Longfellow

The wind whispers, the wind sighs,
the dawn light brightens, a magpie cries;
amongst the gum trees tall and green
a girl becomes a faerie queen.
And the wind whispers, the wind sighs.

Morning settles beneath silk skies,
her reign flits by like dragonflies;
deep shadows dress the naked hill
in dusk, as faerie wings fall still.
And the wind whispers, the wind sighs.

Night throws a cloak; a barn owl cries,
another answers, stars blink like eyes.
The queen is gone, won’t come again;
these woods forever will remain.
And the wind whispers, the wind sighs.

– Ryan Stone

first published at Poetry Nook, May 2020

Daughter of the Plains

Ochre
soaked skies, sunrise
woke her –

blue grass
seas lilt behind
stained glass

at dawn.
On morning’s grace
she’s borne.

Ryan Stone

Cyclone

Toasting Marshmallows

Pierced by a willow spear, the marshmallow blisters; bemoans
its heated rush towards metamorphosis. A Phoenix, unborn,
the pink skin ruptures, sloughs off to flare briefly; returns
to the ashen dreams of a ghost gum. Freedom dies
with your smile and I find myself colder; wishing to stand beside you.
Always. But that would betray wings as yet unfurled.

Overhead, the cross hangs low. Four nimbus globes dance below,
across a lady’s mercurial skin. Your hand withdraws to discover
a soft mallow heart, licked by the inner flame. Released.
Framed in that introspective light I see you hurtling forward,
a stellar memory of lost radiance and I wish to tell you:
it’s the novas that define us.

– Ryan Stone

Christmas Bells on Ash Wednesday

I.

Birthed in a blood-orange haze,
a torture of sound batters my ears; 
the front-running wind – that howling dervish,
whipped into a firestorm frenzy.

II.

Potato-and-earth invades our tub, drifting down
from wet sacks above.  A fort, Mum said,
before she left.  She’s thrice returned, 
refilling her bucket to battle the Embers. 
I hold my wooden sword close
in case they come for my brothers.

III.

As I wander the rubble, a stone chimney topples; 
my boots are cloaked with death.  By one cracked toe,
life pushes through: a red-orange hood, 
tipped with gold. Christmas Bells ring 
in my playground of ash.

Ryan Stone

Inspiration: I was just a boy when the Ash Wednesday bushfires tore through the hills of my childhood, destroying everything in their path. On a blistering hot summer day during one of the worst droughts in Australia’s history, fierce winds stripped about 50 thousand tonnes of topsoil from Victoria’s Mallee and created a huge dust cloud that blanketed the sky, plunging everything into darkness. The wind’s roar and eerie glow of the sun are forever etched in my memory.

It was a very strong sensory experience. In particular, I have always been struck by the similarities between the colours of destruction and those of rebirth. The sun’s blood-orange, bushfire haze and the colours of the Christmas Bell flower, with their red, orange and yellow hoods that herald rebirth and renewal are both similar and worlds apart.

When Giants Fall

Trapped beneath the fallen gum
in whose branches I’d learned to climb,
I marveled how its limbs still clung
to shattered treehouse bones.

That night when father stumbled home,
he found me deep in mother’s fold;
blood and tears run dry.
Adrift in dreams on Thunder Road,
I missed the words but heard the tone.

As Springsteen traded wings for wheels,
a second giant fell. In the space of a song
my father was gone; mother and I were left alone
to ponder how a tree seemed strong
while rotting at the core.

Ryan Stone

Regrets 5-7-5

For National Poetry Month 2016 @ The Music In It – The Color Red

Season 5-7-5

Whispers

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

Stormrider 5-7-5