symphony

flecks of pure morning light
accent her coral-red cloud feathers;

when she unfurls her wings,
embracing the leisurely warmth
of a new sky, golden
wingtips touch skylines
at sunrise and sunset.

shimmering like mist
they span horizons;
anxious winds breathe
with every rise and fall;
fledgling storms wake quiet
in spaces between bright feathers
in soft silver pools of shadow.

sprightly lightning she adorns
like ornaments of laughter,
diamond rain, she sprinkles
on this burning land,
she decorates nighttime
in a gown of mauve dreamlight,
she bears on her forehead
in a starry circlet
a new and ancient moon.

T. E. Pyrus

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Resonate

Listen.

Can you hear
the Bell
resound?

When you are lost in that book
of a stranger’s dreams
and memories of a distant lifetime,
recognising a piece of your own self
on every page, can you feel it
reverberating on your fingertips
when you trace faded words
of hope, and watercolour paintings
of joy and precious tears?

When she shows you
her first paper boat,
fresh white, with shy, joyful pride,
when she asks if you would
come with her to the waterside
to watch it drift into a new sunset-
greying softly in golden waters,
can you hear it in that silence,
rich with vulnerable excitement,
in the moment when you tell her
you’d love to?

When an old man, dressed in his best
dusty brown coat limps, smiling,
past you on the sidewalk,
can you feel it in his trembling hands;
can you see it in his newfound grace;
can you hear it in his tired,
gentle voice, in the steady rhythm
of his well-worn walking stick?

Can you hear it resonate,
like true laughter that rings clear
with your exasperating humour,
your heartful of love,
through the merry chaos of your mind
with what makes us
human?

T. E. Pyrus

paused

a three-legged table leans
against faded wallpaper
beside silent window
trembling in candlelight.

golden dust-faeries
play hide-and-seek
in shadowy folds
of threadbare curtains.

an old dreamer’s bookshelf,
brittle-paper and vanilla,
broods lonely, uncreaking
on yellowed mosaic tiles.

an assortment of paperweights:
spirited chess-pieces,
hand-painted pebbles
watch over unfinished letters.

a polaroid picture of joy,
timeless vows, gazes fondly
at the dark side of
their dream-tinted globe.

T. E. Pyrus

surreal

her pale, sweatered wrist
smudges a pastel orange sky
on snow-white paper, tucked
beneath her newest masterpiece.

her other hand rests on
the pencilled birds,
like arching ‘V’s,
that fly through a fluttering
blue paper-sky and into joyful wind.

a frown of blissful concentration
brightens her gentle face
when she blends in
shadows on mellow plains
of purple snows on mountainsides.

i idle beside her
on an old and weary wooden bench
beside our tranquil lake
where distant hum of traffic
sounds like lost music
from a perplexed stranger’s dream,
and she swings her little legs.

wind, inconstant wind
that ruffles her sunlit hair,
paints the clear blue waters
a soft, shimmering silver.

her vibrant pastel world,
seeps into my partly-cloudy sky
and rich freshly-trampled grass,
while i savour the crisp
spring-winter chill
on a wistful afternoon
as it blurs into a reverie.

T. E. Pyrus

Sojourner

she sneaks in through our open window,
barefoot on the starlit floor,
quiet in mild summer wind,
like whispered secrets of a child
and dew drops on fresh grass at dawn.

she paints our whitewashed wall
with fleur-de-lys and window grills
in clear shadow, then wanders
through the resting home,
humming like sweet springtime rain;
when she traced grey names of every book
with pale and gentle fingertips,
they glittered fresh in crystal frost,
as if winter lost her way again tonight.

she peeks into each mirror-
now braiding a dream into her hair,
now fixing a star on her shoulder-
then hides tiny clouds of spare laughter
on the ceiling, behind the couch,
in between coffee and breakfast time,
and silent afternoons.

she climbs onto the windowsill,
her wistful smile lit softly
in waking twilight, she steps
onto a purple breeze
and floats into another perfect night.

T. E. Pyrus

a dream full of Sunsets

When I am blind,
you’ll find me listening to daybreak
one distant birdsong at a time.
Tell me, then, how purple dawns
fade into soft waking red, how
golden cloud-feathers of a dragon bird
warm my trembling fingers, tell me,
about blue sky and blue wind and bluer sea-
when i scour my memory with each deep breath
of salted breeze for its overwhelming majesty
and listen to blue breaking waves of an ocean
I once knew by heart, tell me
how they rise tall into blinding blue skies,
then crumble into salt and foam, like sandcastles
at my fingertips; remind me
of laughter every now and then, so
i’ll remember breathless joy
in the crinkled corners of your bright eyes,
golden-snow sunshine in the wind.
And don’t ever let me forget
crystal waters of mountain streams, bubbling
in faery-tongues i will recognize no more, please
tell me, again, about sun-painted pine-cones,
sunset-lit valleys, carpeted in cool and glossy pine-needles,
memories of running and slipping and falling
and laughter, and tell me, again, about sunsets –
the windswept, the clouded, the feathered, the pastel,
the fiery, and tell me all the stories of
coral red clouds and golden skies;
I have a soul full of words, a dream full of sunsets,
and stars, they keep me alive; do
help me remember these ever-changing curves of o,
offset-dotted i, and T that branches out into our stormy sky,
soft glitter of scribbled pencil marks
by candlelight and sweet coffee,
and temporary darkness; when you find me
by an open window, cool drops of ink
obscuring my trembling hands, I will be
gazing, unseeing, at a falling half-moon
who will watch, blind as i, over my
paint-stained memories of a lifetime-
do tell me, then, how our starlit inked words
now sink quietly into white paper.

T. E. Pyrus

agony

thunder echoes softly like an offset heartbeat
as a storm gasps for breath in between
greying treetops, trembling like senility,
raging like broken white lightning
over prim, painted homes,
arching, groveling, begging, pleading
for hollow recognition
through these crooked curtains;
i watch silent candlelight
reflect in cold window glass
and softened stillness.

T. E. Pyrus

cityscape

the great cloud-whale
wanders idly through the blue mid-winter sky
gazing at the silent city.

fading yellow school buses
cut through restless streets
and grumbling traffic lights,
plucking out fine stitches
of this vehicle embroidered city,
one by one,
like a countdown.

a curious kitten peeks quietly from behind
the tall sack of fresh green lemons, uncannily perfect,
at clamouring people: unpractised smiles,
meaningless sweet-flowing words,
clicking their tongues in the ever-flowing rhythm of
‘sweet oranges! two for ten!’ echoing faintly
over a hundred, four hundred distant voices,
and the hovering cold tinkling of polished new coins;
a sunburnt breeze breathes deeply
with the flaking, blue tarpaulin roof,
unnoticed, like innocence, painting the marketplace
in light sunlit dust.

golden-winged kites circle high in slow motion
above asphalt roads- burning, melting
into hushed murmurs of late afternoons.
paint crumbles off cemented walls
into stray winds in surrender
to oversized names and brand new
windless elevators; grey pigeons
now ventilate a dozen flights of lonely stairs;
rusted railings chuckle and sigh
when grandmotherly grumbles
about “this generation” and “back in my days”
echo down the corridors,
a sweet breeze of homely spices
and faint clinking from the curtained kitchen
spill over the oil-stained window sill.

cracks that spread like veins
along tall ancient fortress walls
that watch over their timeless city,
smoulder like charcoal in the sunset;
they cradle their dear cloud whale
and the winking evening star
each time they fall apart over the city.

the golden moon
floats into the starry mid-winter sky
gazing at the silent city…

T. E. Pyrus

the Sculptor

then she twirled around
beneath her dizzy sunset
and forgotten moon

like torn autumn leaves
that circled golden stormwinds
spiralled home to earth;

eyes, burning like snow,
summer raindrops on her lips
quivered with new mirth,

and i carved her breathless silhouette
with paper hands into the burning sky
ere they crumbled into breathing ash;

wishing stars burn quietly tonight.

T. E. Pyrus