He stares from the front,
in Edwardian bloomers,
a midnight coat of wrinkles and
a boy’s bowtie that dips to the left.

She stands next to him,
hidden under an enormous ribbon,
drowning in a heavy Sunday dress
with a waist that drops.

He doesn’t reach for her,
instead, he puts his hand behind
his back as if this act will
break the twin connection.

I don’t know this girl frozen
in age spots but I love the woman
who lived her life. The other,
I know only from this moment.

He lives on stained paper
from decades of yesterdays,
a fading reminder of
a part of you I didn’t know.

Susan Stone



The Critic

webfinalfacealienArtwork copy

The Critic

She sits in the window
blocking me
from the world

bouncing crumbled
half-finished art
off my head.

“draw, draw, draw,
and still, alien eyes
and a nose that blows
stale air.”

I say to her,
“you’re quite pale today,
go now,
and play in the sun.”

art and words

copyright Susan Stone 2018


Free Sample


after I accept your tiny
packet of potion,
you’ll pull me in your
den of dabs
with sights set
on slathering
my well-earned
wrinkles —in exchange
for my hard-earned

copyright Susan Stone 2018

The Pain of Making Art


It’s All Connected

tingles and throbs
travel fingers to hand
up an achy arm
down a hot shoulder
to a kink in the neck
attached to a forward
tilted head
what the hand
is making.

Susan Stone copyright 2018