Dying Light

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

Breaking Point

Pa, I see you in your shed–
unaware of dusk settling
over your garden, painting
your pink crabapple blossoms
grey. I see you bend, to squint
at some small imperfection
marring the wooden soldier
you’ve spent the whole day carving,
hands slow-dancing to a tune
no-one else can hear. Later
Ma will shake her head, dismiss
your need for perfect contours
and seamless joins as foolish,
not understanding a man,
a soldier or a husband
is only ever as strong
as his weakest part.

Ryan Stone

F = Gm1m2 / r2

It’s gravity, baby

and that’s how it started —
three whispered words
under the bleachers,
two bodies
thrown into orbit.

Almost as quickly,
those starburst nights
of lying thisclose
went supernova.

There’s a point
during free-fall,
a pause
to consider
whether to brace
or just to surrender –

for a heartbeat or two
it feels like you’re floating,
then the ground rushes up
to show you how endings
can sound like beginnings

but that’s
just gravity,
baby.

Ryan Stone

Lunchline Metaphysics

His smile dies unseen
by You’re Being Served By Eve

though he’s loved her
each lunch break,
in a year full
of lunch breaks–

one more lonely sapling
in a nondescript forest

where he knows should he fall
he won’t even make a sound.

Ryan Stone

It’s quadrille Monday at dVerse and today’s prompt is Sound Off!

In Fallow Fields

In my father’s field
my fledgling hopes are neatly hedged,
sown in the soil of silent forebears.

Beside a bourne, in chalk and flint,
I plant my dreams deep.

The rasping of his shovel has slowed
this season. Some furrows lie shallow,
others run deeper.

Through rustic panes I watch him bend,
straining against the pull of years
to pluck joy from the loam.

A moment’s pause to contemplate
a lone invader into precise ranks,
before his shovel resumes its dirge.

Discarding my pen, I fall in beside–
a forgotten page, unplowed.

Ryan Stone

First published on The Houseboat in August, 2015

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