untouched

Don’t gift a writer a pretty notebook

with beautiful cream pages
that feel expensive between fingertips;

with fine chocolate lines that rule
and frown upon plain pencil marks
and erasers that offend their handmade finish;

with hardbound frame
like royalty in synthetic leather robes
and gold engravings, like polished crowns;

with satin ribbon page-markers
anchored to the spine
demanding profound words and lines
worthy of its memory;

with sharp, flawless corners
of each page, ridiculing first drafts,
second thoughts, a third line
that strikes out a muddled word –
perfection, perfection, refined and bold;

with a plain first page
and a single word: “Name:”
printed precisely at the centre
in elaborate calligraphy;

and who are we
to blemish such breathtaking finery
with trembling words and petty fears
that we never deserved this privilege
of tinkering with imagined worlds?

and who are we
to blemish subtle finery;
to curb the possibilities
of marvels these pages might hold
if it were someone else’s hand that held them,
and not ours?

 

Don’t gift a writer a pretty notebook.

Perhaps gift them a conversation
about the weather, or a busy day,
or a failed brownie recipe.

 

We’re not too particular.

 

T. E. Pyrus

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until

maybe i’ll watch a sunset
float leisurely up to the polished rim
of a wineglass full of cool water.

maybe i’ll taste
shy rainbows on sunlit waterfalls
on peaceful afternoons.

maybe i’ll watch mid-mornings
fade into matted shadow
on broken sunglasses by the sea.

maybe i’ll gaze at a hundred moons
that wait soundlessly
in dewdrops every dawn.

maybe i’ll stay there,
watching forevers flow
like clear raindrops
through the spaces between my fingers.

maybe i’ll wait,
until time feels real again.

T. E. Pyrus

window-side

two cups of sweetened tea
rest half empty
on a low glass table
by the open curtains.

sometimes, a passing breeze
disarranges crumbs of softened biscuits,
or ripples the pale reflection
of a streetlamp in each teacup
like polished half moons.

dishevelled cushions
on a weathered couch
smell like lonely conversation
and wistful incense smoke.

the rusted window grills
listen quietly to another dusty night,
filtering through strangers’ dreams
and intertwining memories.

T. E. Pyrus

nostalgia

Burn these city lights 
                  into my memory:

the way they reflect in midnight waters
                 like a diamond necklace in the sun;

     the way traffic lights sometimes fall asleep 
amidst an unscripted musical -

          cars decked in red brake lights,
             joyful yellow taxicabs,
                  awkward blaring trucks
           and tourist buses in tacky pastel hues
                like cheap synthetic frocks;

          monstrous machines breaking down 
            battered sidewalks,
              strangers’ silences mirrored 
          in bright green glass bottles 
       that wait quietly in the rubble;

the way young trees, 
  leaves lined silver with fallen smoke,
    still dance with the winds
       of accidental summer thunderstorms.

    remind me of prideful skyscrapers,
air-conditioned waiting rooms,
  imitation leather, prim paper-cups
    and coffee machines - precious raindrops
                    on a high sunburnt window glass.

remind me, then, 
      of forecasted weather,
 scorching ultraviolet, partly-cloudy skies;

imagine a smudged-lipstick sunset -
    warm dust of a bare cemented terrace 
        beneath your bare feet,
            sundried wind in your hair-
   then paint me a memory,
like an ever-changing faerytale…
          and another…
                    and another...
until their world dissolves 
            into an airplane-studded sky.


When these whitewashed walls crumble - 
         when, perhaps someday, the earth 
              wakes into a new, breathing era,
    a foreign, vibrant, intoxicating warmth
           of a world that echoes with wonder;

when I fall in love with clear blue sunlight
     and mellow moons that sketch our silhouettes 
on unbound lands,
     remind me, one last time, 
          of my home.

T. E. Pyrus

hush

quiet pearls of candlelit wax
melt into cool shadows
         like sunset 
                  after sunset...

T. E. Pyrus

they wait beneath their willow tree.

they wait beneath their willow tree.

     quiet leaves, like painted stars,
     tinkle in soft melodies
     of silver bells that never touch.

they wait beneath their barren tree.

     a familiar painted sun
     vanishes as midnight comes
     with lingering eternity.

they wait beneath their hollow tree.

     they chant their unforgotten word:
     “reminiscence”, “reminiscence”,
     like beating hearts, perilously.

they wait beneath the resting tree.

     through many thousand clockwork lives-
     their own hope-tied absurdities,
     they gaze, like lonely children, 
                                                                 at their moon.

T. E. Pyrus

rainforest

clear streams of rain
flow over red soil
of a crumbling path.

cool droplets,
tinged with tears
of a joyful tamarind tree,
fall into pools
of quiet wonder.

softened rhythm
of a cuckoo’s song
fills the sky
with the fragrance
of a forest
in the rain.

T. E. Pyrus

toast

raise a fistful
of sand
into the sky,

and let it spill
through the spaces
between your fingers

into winds
that taste
like salted sunlight.

our imperfect ocean glitters
like a lifetime of joy.

T. E. Pyrus

pristine

a pine forest
carpets the mountainside.

soft mist
folds like silk
into amber pinecones
on the forest floor.

a woodpecker
perches on a hollow bough.

he wakes
the forest’s
stammering heart
and laughing wind.

his scarlet crown
brightens a rising dawn.

T. E. Pyrus

prelude

The air is full
of greyed birds
and quiet leaves.

Soft chimney-smoke
over red roofs
stands dark and still.

Our crumbling earth
makes home for pools
of rippling sky.

These restless winds
hide, trembling, tense,
within tall trees.

Lightning startles
nightstained clouds;
white winds sing.

Clear rain rings
in shivered hymns
of a perfect storm.

T. E. Pyrus