Graham Stone

Graham Stone Poems

I see it, the dead dirty doll
There between the sleepers of tracks,
And the creepers of weeds
I see it with its weathered cracks,

Diluted pupils
Stare and burn holes in the sky
Ragged breath rips the air and silence
I crumble where I lay.

I fell in love with the feel of the soft damp grass,
And its caressing flecks moving Between my toes,
The moist damp soil felt cool against my bare skin
As the sun bent so low upon the horizon,

Smooth skin,
So pale it seems to gleam
As if in florescent light,
A glancing blow

(more an idea i'm slowly begining to appreciate)

I see, I think,
Unclearly, but sill I see,


Late one eve
whilst conversation runs loose
of a weave, thanks to family food and booze.

only now does the sun come,
Only now do the scales melt
From my hand
Like gleaming frost in the morning light

The morning sky so desolate, silent...
Drenched a bloody red,
Clouds like wads of soiled cotton packing a messy wound,
The pathetic fallacy apt I think, the day we lost ourselves.

On distant and beleaguered horizon flocked a solemn crow,
Silhouetted against the dank and beaten blue bars of sky,
A frantic haste abetting its flustered and frustrating flap of feathered wings,
That stirred the icy air in sickening gusts about its shivering carcass,

There she stands in silhouette,
There in shadows and sorrow
She stands, back to the world,
Hunched shoulders bearing

A stalemate struck,
Conceiving a stagnant state of affairs.
A putrid in-conclusion
Fuels a stubborn frustration,

Ashen sticks,
Propped, burning in the glass,
Acrid smoke and splintered wood crackled orange in
The smothered heat,

It’s late, I’ve lost track of time,
So enthralled with the novel at my hands.
I yawn, I blink, I pop the stiff bones in the crook of my neck.
I look over the thumbed paper pages,

'I think of it like a book,
I dont care for your self-authored words

An odd time for me.
So used to the cut of wind and sting of rain
That my skin hardens

Another of life’s mandatory processions.
I lose rapid patience
With the portly vicar who speaks
As though she knew my uncle.

Remember, a sight I once did gaze in early dew and hum,
Bathed in beams and reamed in rays of early summer’s sun.
In that fresh cold glow I took a stroll in solace, and silence, and contemplated thought.
A walk along a beaten path; my feet trod on grinding earth and stone,

I remember all
The soft summer morns.
I remember all
The supple sweet suns,

I see not physics in my glass.
I know no equations or angles,
Nor technical terms for what I see.

My cat came bounding in one day,
As I heard the flap in the door
i too heard a sharp, strangled caw.
‘The hell was that? ’ I mused,

Graham Stone Biography

'poetry is emotion recollected in tranquility' ~William Wordsworth, Preface to 'The Lyrical Ballads')

The Best Poem Of Graham Stone

A Dirty Toy

I see it, the dead dirty doll
There between the sleepers of tracks,
And the creepers of weeds
I see it with its weathered cracks,
A deadening perhaps, of some child’s luckless dream.

I see it, stained with filth and rain
Some rag of fabric clung about its chest
With knees grazed by the passing train
Faded plastic, warped and stressed.

Some child I think loved it once
And must have cursed the day she let it go
But more I think in natural cruelty she threw it
To watch with curious guilt it crushed by the train below.

I think that dirty doll,
That poor broken toy is so much
Like the strewn graveless sorrows
It is like so the crutch of cruel curiosity
To exhibit this humiliation in its morbid hollows

I think that battered bald toy once was alive
And might as well be a dead, decomposing child.

Graham Stone Comments

Meghan - 09 March 2007

I love your writing. Every single poem I read I liked. I can identify with alot of the themes and opinions you have, your writing is truly something unique, not to mention for your age. Look forward to reading more. Meghan

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