Biography of Graham Stone
Graham Stone Poems
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 Silent Scream Screeched Across Eternit...
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 A Summer's Evening
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
Folds And Circles
(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.
The Regret Of Regretting
only now does the sun come, Only now do the scales melt From my hand Like gleaming frost in the morning light
A Poisoned River
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,
Nothing but a clone, Another brother with arms to hold. So set in terror and grief, You refuse to question the
Look! This passive thing, This idle spot, this empty vessel! Where is this man’s mind? To think this passive thing once knew,
A Wind Of Life
Chaff on the wind I float There is no direction in me And on me shall nothing dote The current carves my path
Roots I Onced Spied Clinging To A Soiled...
I know no shrub, Nor tree or blade of grass, Of shrunken stub scarcely strewn That isn’t a mere misplaced mass,
Wheels roll over rust-run steel, As they slip along the beaten tracks. Reflections fly past, a blur,
Rain Upon A Window's Glass
Haunted by the thought of sleep I refuse to lay my head to the pillow. Instead I leave a dull lamplight on, Its blunt birth of light bursts pathetic lurches of illumination
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