Graham Stone

Rookie - 20 Points (19/1/90 / birmingham (England))

Graham Stone Poems

1. A Poisoned River 4/15/2009
2. A Silent Scream Screeched Across Eternity 4/15/2009
3. An Idle Musing 4/15/2009
4. Bitter Berries 4/15/2009
5. Dead Fag-Ends In The Snow 4/15/2009
6. How The Light Gets In 4/15/2009
7. Landscape Bereft 4/15/2009
8. My Cat 4/15/2009
9. Rain Upon A Window's Glass 4/15/2009
10. Rolling Past 4/15/2009
11. Roots I Onced Spied Clinging To A Soiled Gutter 4/15/2009
12. A Wind Of Life 4/15/2009
13. Passive Thing 4/15/2009
14. War Machine 4/15/2009
15. Where Melancholy Lies 4/15/2009
16. Doppelganger 4/16/2009
17. Hate You 4/16/2009
18. Feckless 4/16/2009
19. I Fell In Love With A Summer's Evening 4/18/2009
20. Incandescent 4/18/2009
21. Refraction 4/18/2009
22. Carcass 4/18/2009
23. Grinning Wound 4/18/2009
24. Saying Goodbye To David 4/25/2009
25. Folds And Circles 4/28/2009
26. Your Stop 4/28/2009
27. The Grimy Cupboard Of An Art Class 5/6/2009
28. Train Of Thought 5/7/2009
29. The Beggar's Scapegoat 5/26/2009
30. Smile 6/1/2009
31. Flesh And Burns 7/5/2009
32. Pepsi 9/14/2009
33. A Dictionary Full Of Words 9/14/2009
34. The Common Man 9/14/2009
35. Discord 2/25/2010
36. As The Crow Clawed The Earth 10/14/2010
37. Against The Wall 10/25/2010
38. Petty Games 1/22/2011
39. The Burning Glass 1/22/2011
40. The Peace In Sleep 3/31/2011
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, ...

Read the full of A Dirty Toy

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,
But no sound bore up from the crunching pound,
As nearby my destination, I focused upon a sweetly whispered sound.
A river. A ravine. A stream.
A flow of water as shaped as none that had a name.
Its rush and gubble

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