Cover photo by Ken Greenhorn
The majority of my work is written specifically for the stage, but here's some poetry (with visuals!) you can enjoy on the page!
You can also view my greeting cards at my Corby.Cards website.
You can also view my greeting cards at my Corby.Cards website.
Self-Portrait Poem - photo and poetry by Ryan J. Bradshaw
Selfie at Takakkaw Falls, Sept. 13/2022
He is a Virgo
He is a planner Before leaving home he has carefully chosen routes and stops for the entire thirteen-day road trip from Saskatoon to Kelowna and back again each direction a completely different journey He has printed road maps visited tourist websites looked at destination photos read reviews booked all of the accommodations Yes, he is a planner But this place this place was not on his itinerary Stormy weather is forecast for the day’s planned destinations so now he is here After taking a very steep and very windy road he is standing in front of Takakkaw Falls Canada’s second tallest waterfall His smile is genuine He is happy |
He loves waterfalls
Their mesmerizing movement their thundering sound their power “Takakkaw” is a Cree word that means “It is magnificent” a perfect description And there is so much more here to love The trees and mountains and river the chill in the air the adorable Mountain Chickadees He loves everything about this beautiful, unplanned place and he will remember this as one of his favourite experiences of the entire thirteen-day road trip ~ He is a Virgo His birthday was three days ago and he is now 42 He did not have this many grey hairs on his head and his face a short time ago It’s been a tough few years in more ways than one But his smile is genuine He is happy He’s happy with his life right now and he’s happy with the direction he’s going He knows that life is unpredictable that he can’t map out his whole future And he wouldn’t even want to But he is a planner And he has made certain plans for his life that seem unshakeable He is blissfully unaware of the storm that is coming before year’s end a storm he could not forecast that will lead him up a very steep and very windy road that will shake the unshakeable and could drastically change the course he has mapped out for himself And he will look back on this place He will look back on this experience thankful for the reminder that a change in plans a change in direction can lead you to magnificent places |
Walking at the Northeast Swale - photo and poetry by Ryan J. Bradshaw
The snow reveals the story of life here.
Pawprints of coyotes. Hoofprints of deer. The plentiful tracks of partridge or grouse. The cute impressions of a tiny mouse. Wildlife searching for food. Or passing through. Now, my steps are part of the story too. Could the boot prints I leave behind reveal how much lighter this walk has made me feel? |
Little Pigeon - poetry by Ryan J. Bradshaw, photo by Aurora Milbrandt
Dedicated to Living Sky Wildlife Rehabilitation and Sharon Wacker (Please consider donating to Living Sky!)
Inspired by a personal encounter with an injured pigeon, and by the pandemic experience. Based on Little Blue Pigeon by Eugene Field.
Inspired by a personal encounter with an injured pigeon, and by the pandemic experience. Based on Little Blue Pigeon by Eugene Field.
Be calm, little pigeon, and rest your wings --
Little blue pigeon with fearful eyes.
You’ve been poisoned. You’re bleeding. But your heart is still beating.
And I have reached you just in time.
Be calm, little pigeon, and rest your wings --
You are safe here, wrapped in my sweater.
No more poison. No traffic. No more reasons to panic.
It hurts now; but you’ll get better.
Be calm, little pigeon, and rest your wings --
This is the time, and the place, to heal.
You’re stuck inside. Feeling trapped. You want your other life back.
Exhausted by this whole ordeal.
But be calm. Little pigeon, rest your wings --
The poison has nearly been beaten.
Your appetite is returning. The world is still turning.
Patience. You’ll soon have your freedom.
It’s time, little pigeon, to stretch your wings --
Little blue pigeon, take to the air!
You’re resilient. You’ve endured. You’re an astonishing bird.
Take care, little pigeon! Take care!
Catalpa Tree - photo and poetry by Ryan J. Bradshaw
I wish you could see the Catalpa tree
That towers in Tower Grove Park;
To admire its size with your own two eyes,
And the artistry of its bark.
I wish you could hug the Catalpa’s trunk,
Press both your palms against its skin;
And then you could sense the mighty presence
Of the spirit that lives within.
Yes, I wish you could see beyond the wood,
To regard it as your elder;
To accept its shade on a scorching day
And then thank it for its shelter.
To give it respect. To never forget
That it creates the breath of life.
To listen. Its leaves rustling in the breeze
Would offer you peace, and insight.
I wish you could see the Catalpa’s leaves,
Stand beneath them, gazing upward,
With your mouth agape as you note their shape
And the brilliance of their colour.
Every green part is shaped like a heart.
If all could see those leaves above,
Then the world would know: just one tree can grow
One hundred thousand acts of love.
The Catalpa tree has so much to teach;
I wish I could be its student,
Devoting my days to learning its ways
In Tower Grove Park, St. Louis;
To master the skill of just staying still,
To connect with the earth and sky.
To be like the leaf-crowned Catalpa tree
Who is gentle and strong and wise.
That towers in Tower Grove Park;
To admire its size with your own two eyes,
And the artistry of its bark.
I wish you could hug the Catalpa’s trunk,
Press both your palms against its skin;
And then you could sense the mighty presence
Of the spirit that lives within.
Yes, I wish you could see beyond the wood,
To regard it as your elder;
To accept its shade on a scorching day
And then thank it for its shelter.
To give it respect. To never forget
That it creates the breath of life.
To listen. Its leaves rustling in the breeze
Would offer you peace, and insight.
I wish you could see the Catalpa’s leaves,
Stand beneath them, gazing upward,
With your mouth agape as you note their shape
And the brilliance of their colour.
Every green part is shaped like a heart.
If all could see those leaves above,
Then the world would know: just one tree can grow
One hundred thousand acts of love.
The Catalpa tree has so much to teach;
I wish I could be its student,
Devoting my days to learning its ways
In Tower Grove Park, St. Louis;
To master the skill of just staying still,
To connect with the earth and sky.
To be like the leaf-crowned Catalpa tree
Who is gentle and strong and wise.
To a Piping Plover - poetry by Ryan J. Bradshaw
Poem inspired by Alfred Lord Tennyson's Flower in the Crannied Wall. Photo is in the public domain, photographer unknown.
Untitled - photo and poetry by Ryan J. Bradshaw
I see the branches of Silver Birches Where Squirrel jumps and Chickadee perches. I see Birch leaves turning yellow from green. I think of Birch roots that cannot be seen. I see the silver of a chain-link fence; Beyond it, Birch Forest grows wild and dense. Why does it stand between Birches and me? I think about roots that I cannot see. |
Adam - poetry by Ryan J. Bradshaw, photo/design by Ken Greenhorn Photography
Tapestry - two sonnets by Ryan J. Bradshaw
(Inspired by Kain Seremonial Menari, pictured left)
I stood in front of a large tapestry recently, on display in Saskatoon from an Indonesian island called Sumba. The white cotton had been skillfully coloured with red dyes from the roots of trees, and blue, from Indigo plants. On a loom it was woven, threads connecting and blooming into spectacular imagery. On this tapestry, there were depictions of animals and mythical creatures. There were birds, deer, flying horses, dragons. And four people, dancing, in the centre; each one holding a sword in their hand, and joined with ancestors in the spirit land. As I stood in awe of this tapestry, it struck me: before that day, I had no knowledge of Sumba Island. I had no thoughts of its people or their history; no questions about their ceremonies, their beliefs, their way of life. I had no awareness of Sumba’s traditional dancing or incredible artistry. This tapestry, like poetry, like dance, like music or theatre or sculpture, this tapestry had given me a chance to connect with a different culture. Standing there, I believed more than ever: The world needs art. Art weaves us together. |
Bench by the Lake - poetry by Ryan J. Bradshaw
(Inspired by an oil painting of the same name by Bessie Lowenhaupt, c. 1963)
This is how I picture us in autumn: crossing over the muted space between our bus stop and our bench by the lake. When we reach our perch, you take your place on the edge. And I, as always, settle in next to you, close enough to hear your thoughts. Memories of spring and summer find us in the stillness, sadden us and make us laugh, the tones of our past more vibrant than our present. When I picture us in autumn, our eyesight has faded into shapes and lines, colours lost, details unimportant. But we know every inch of each other's face without looking and have never forgotten the shade of our bench by the lake. We watch ducks dabble and dip our toes in the water, even as the days grow cold. When I picture us in autumn, we are not afraid of winter. |
Bench by the Lake by Bessie Lowenhaupt, c. 1963
I saw this painting while on vacation in St. Louis, Missouri. I connected with it immediately, easily one of my favourite pieces in the very extensive and impressive collection of the St. Louis Art Museum. |
My Body - poetry by Ryan J. Bradshaw
I have eczema all over my body.
And I’ve been losing my ability to cope. I have eczema all over my body, and it’s so effing itchy, and red, and swollen, and spotty, I’ve been losing my ability to hope it will ever really get better. My body has been prescribed steroids by every doctor. My newest hobby is popping Prednisone until I bloat and get headaches, my medicated body becoming restless and my mind foggy. |
But I’ve been losing
my ability to cope. And I’ve started forgetting that my body is beautiful. And (did I mention?) I’m so effing itchy. And I’ve been sobbing. So now I’m taking steroids to keep me afloat, ‘cause I’ve tried so many other options that don’t. And I’m sure my body is trying to tell me what it needs, but the prescription is sloppy and I can’t read it. I’ve been on this downward slope for a year, and I have no idea when (or how) my skin will clear. My body (the human body) can be such an a-hole sometimes. But it’s still my body. And I’ll continue to love it. |
Walk in the Forest - photo and poetry by Ryan J. Bradshaw
Learn how to walk in the forest.
You will need water, hiking boots, and a desire to coexist with the natural world. Resist texting. Put your cell phone on mute. Hear the voices of the forest; peeping of young birds in their nest, the squirrel’s chatter, the owl’s hoots, the rustling of leaves. Coexist with the trees and they will assist you, provide you with shade and fruits to feed you. Walk in the forest and learn to be a gracious guest. Respect its insects, toads and newts, its plants and flowers. Coexist with the forest. This place has missed you. You are still part of its roots. Remember how to coexist and how to walk in the forest. |