The Sculptor

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 meadows cold and hoary;
Holds time’s determined march at bay
From fields of faded glory.

Ryan Stone

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Irish Fire

My grandmother called it
Irish fire, said it raged
through my father
hotter than Beli Mawr’s bum.
She was long dead
when it finally flared
fiercer than he could contain.
The embers of his eyes
scorched childhood’s
last leaves to ash,
left them smoldering.

Ryan Stone

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Boys in the Park

With the abandon
of two small dust devils
they swirl around me,
laughter and squeals,
before blowing past
and away. Twigs hug
their hair, one has sand
on his cheek–they’ll need
baths later–but for now
life is seesaws and smiles.
They tumble together,
mischief and giggles,
and the sun breaks
through clouds
for awhile.

Ryan Stone

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Mother’s Hands

image
Advertisement for Myers Gloves, by Margaret Watkins (Canada), 1920s.

Mother’s Hands

Strong enough to lift me
each time I couldn’t rise. Soft
as cotton wool, washing
dirt from scrapes and tears
from eyes. Firm enough
to model clay
and boys, to bowls
and men, yet fine
when stroking ivory keys–
FĂĽr Elise and Clair de Lune.
They’d curl through each long evening
around her only vice, in a holder
like Audrey’s, that never left her side.
I’m thinking of her hands now–
strong and wild and free; missing
her hands now, as I watch ashes
blow to sea.

Ryan Stone

Written for the 20 poem challenge at Ekphrastic, September 2016.

First published at Ekphrastic, September 2016

Interior

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Interior, by Edgar Degas (b. France), 1868 or 1869.

Interior

There’s a hollow man
who haunts me, a spectre
at my door, watching
from the shadows
as I slip from daytime
layers. Borne on the wild
flowering of my thirteenth spring,
he’s a constant invader,
a taker of things
not offered, a betrayer
of all I could have been.

Ryan Stone

Written for the 20 poem challenge at Ekphrastic, September 2016.

First published at Black Poppy Review, September 2016