Girders

ballast blast
in fog rendered
Rembrandt grey
and brown

bird-girdered
bridges, damp
with smog and
expectation

soaking dream
reflects the mirror
of endless water

passing in the
steel soaked bay

the roar of copper
and spidery wire

to an arachnid
the web is a
fishing line
exponentially
strung

in the keys of
pianos are
remains of ivory
teeth, black sticks
of nightwatch,

strings and
hammers

I want to feel
your bosom thoughts
the humid streets
you take at night

there is new blood
to be invented
there are new words
for flight

hills

when the sun breaks clear
of its shackles
bareback reveries
memories of shame
hang in blackened frames

we disembark
watch the sun glitter
on the skirted hills

tetractys

I
pound with
hollow hands
wicked strawmen
swirling in the storms gradually clear

mighty oblivion invites me in
but I step back
and blow down
the dark
(what?)

I dreamed at my canvas in a dense blue
I drew a cloud
and from it
a thought
Grew

Whence
A phrase
Makes no sense
And will not rhyme
It’s time to make its meaning in reverse

Play with the words for a while, examine
The rise and fall
of phrases
in your
Mind

Putting on the dog was never such fun
A mystery
of barking
in the
Night

Day
brilliant
in its sky
shining proudly
As the tempest swirls in the blue distance

our
septic
night comes down
like eggplant skin
or something fine and easily embraced

it steams its butter in the waxy light
the only eye
not sleeping
under
dreams

I
behold
sleeping moon
open iris
down the night of smiles to the fierce violet

Doors barely open; sleeping in our greys
House of no smiles
Wind-drenched streets
black sun
Blind

Moon
In the
Fatal skies
I saw two clouds
walk on green water in the failing dusk:
Do I see where I am going? Look sharp –
This black curtain,
Timeless mask
Reveals
moon

Landay Land

I thought you were going to pieces
But it appears the pieces are all mine to give you.

When the flowers rustle in the night
You sneak away to see me; moon in front of my eyes.

Love is never as it appears, love;
No shutter-snap can capture its essential tonic.

Phases

New Moon.
I am the crater you cannot see
I am blind to war, to peace.

Waxing Crescent.
My first blade,
cut to precision.

Second Quarter.
Half is what you want,
Half I determine for you.

Waxing Gibbous.
My pregnant labors
yearn for completion, apotheosis.

Full Moon.
I am lone wolf roaring
in the sunset.

Disseminating.
Return trip; runaround,
a brazil nut. Egg.

Last Quarter.
Slow motion blink.
The second is my first face.

Balsamic.
Sitting back, eaten
slow

New Moon.
I am the eye again
that can see only itself.

Steven Stone has been writing for a long time and has worked with many styles. Steven writes about different subjects, but seems to always come back to metaphysical type work with a generous amount of imagery. 

You can find more of Steven’s work here on Ink Pantry.