R.D. Stone uses the clay of life to create what humans must and what no one can keep from using. Destiny leads us, strange enough into hills or coral, into the locks of a city or the stone of an angel, whose light and dark miracles come by way of choice-or-chance beyond the stark nakedness of yesterday’s days and nights.

“Poetry is like thumbing through pages of dusty little strangers in the seeds of existence, the fruit of years, the winning days or home to death, each moment a portrayal.”

R.D. Stone’s chapbooks contain these moments; interminable ends of memory, overtones feasting with emphasis holding dignified gusto to take our minds off ourselves with forefingers extended and fists loosely clenched.

“We’re the sum of all moments in our lives—all that is ours, us in them, those in which we cannot escape or conceal.”