an emerald ocean
aches for the clear turquoise
of dreams and picture books,
and leaves green glass pebbles
like teardrops on moonlit sands.
T. E. Pyrus
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blue and white
Summer, 06:30 am
the painted parapet wall
of an empty terrace
is not subtle mauve
like twilight and whispered love,
nor the blushing gold
that only sunsets
and dusty filament lamps can hold,
but pearl white
like the icy moon at the zenith,
lofty, luminous,
under a brilliant tepid blue.
T. E. Pyrus
moonlight sonata
ankles crossed
on bare sun-warmed rock
and midnight sky,
we watched a full moon
blossom on a bare oak tree…
T. E. Pyrus
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
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
