Biography of Ryan Cole
Ryan Cole was born in West Los Angeles, California, and raised in the canyons of the Santa Monica Mountains. His father is an artist, who taught him to see the world through an artist's eyes, to see the beauty in the mundane, and his mother gave him the gift of words.
Ryan Cole Poems
I Know Nothing About The Rain (With Apol...
Do you still love me, she asks fragile moment, simple words Fear and longing mingled like our breaths hanging precariously in the air
Dawn In my youth only seen as the end of the night As a challenge to be faced in the hours between last call and someone’s bed
The Parts You Saved
The parts you saved were not the things you valued most It was just the stuff that was close at hand And the things you lost
Lets Get Lost
Lets get lost Lets run away though there are no circuses left to join We'll create our own
She moves across the heavens passing Venus and Mars with her fingers crossed Unbound by any laws known to Newton or Einstein Eclipsing sun and moon
Russian women, she says, Learn young how to move their hands
Another Tuesday Morning
Another Tuesday morning up before the sun
The Beauty Of The World
I hate the beauty of the world The moon, the stars, and all the spaces between Hell is not a place, it’s an absence And all the beauty just reminds me
The Bouncer's Lament
I can laugh It comes easy to me And I smile readily enough They say I have a nice smile
I try not to say her name As if it held some power To cast a spell I don’t say it aloud
Looking away from Eden's Gates with a long road before me and an empty place growing where once there was... what?
All The Different Places
I think of all the different places we shared So far from where I am now
Contemplating Emily Dickenson On An Unse...
Thinking about the thing with feathers that Emily spoke of so long ago as she sat, alone, in her curtained room
I try not to say her name
As if it held some power
To cast a spell
I don’t say it aloud
Though it is in my thoughts all the time
in the empty corners of my head
Resounding like a bell on the door
Of an old shop