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

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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

charade

they say their prayers here.
white marble stone arches
glow dutifully radiant,
imprisoning the crescent moon
like a painting of a holy night.

sunsets-ful of marigold
stripped mindlessly
into bruised petals for
a charlatan’s offering, wilted,
retreat into warm shadows.

pale staircases shimmer,
rich with obligatory faith
and schooled adoration,
ringing bawdy laughter amongst
idle scrutiny of blasphemous attire.

intricate shadow of branches
of a broad and blessed tree
in the halo of a generous moon,
flow across a courtyard
in rivulets of darkness.

they chant their empty verses
here, dizzy amidst scented oil lamps
that fade into coarse daylight,

a little girl, barefooted, belled anklets,
peeks through a rift in the mob
to study a house crow pecking
at an abandoned broken coconut.

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

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

Mosaic

Moon gazes fondly at frolicking oceans,
mosaicked with pieces of our ancient sky,
Still like a painted glass globe, with a heartbeat
like thunder that echoes with secrets of storm.

Mirrors that tremble with undrowning sunsets,
with winds that ring distant of unbroken dreams,
smoulder like memory, still, unforgotten,
when crayon sketched mountains crave skewed yellow suns.

Stars love like silence in soft, hollow darkness
between newfound wonder and forgetfulness,
the Love that carves time into crystals of ever
where our flawed and broken hope ever resounds…

T. E. Pyrus

Listen, hold your breath –

Can you hear faint rustling
of pen sketched words who wander
across new paper, sneaking
in between the pages when soft breeze
flutters in soft silence,
peeking underneath the lines
of rich creme paper, and gazing in awe
at words that dance with elegant grace,
timid commas tiptoe, slow,
and spiral ’round the hasty dots
into dizzy tales of mystic dreams.
Sometimes, they wake and watch the stars,
and listen to their wistful songs
of time like ’twere the fervent sea;
starry waves that sing to moons,
of storms and love and laughter, free,
drawing in lone, wandering souls
who know and listen quietly.
Listen, hold your breath, stay still,
to shy bells, clear and tinkling,
when soft wind turns the secret page
and stars pour into poetry,
infinite loops trace whispered words
with life and magic, endlessly…

T. E. Pyrus

Prison-souls

They put up grills outside the corridor
that idles before our classrooms.
The quadrangle trapped within
breathes beneath the open skies,
burning in the mid-morning sun,
and hiding in our imaginary mysteries at night.
The new paint on the grills is soft
and green like bluish boredom,
we sunk in our tense fingernails
into patterns of ill humour,
’til uncivil slurs of loud empty threats
shooed us back into shadowy classrooms.
Every time we stepped outside,
the glossy grills drew our leftover pride,
silenced our laughter, till all we could do
to look away from the hypnotic grills
was to gaze vacantly at the red lines,
and the carelessly scribbled words in red
that demanded clearer handwriting,
and red fractions over hundred
that sunk and never rose again.
Sometimes, between the ear-splitting lunch bells,
we’d push our hands out through the gaps in the grills
that ventilated the claustrophobic corridor,
with close-clipped nails, perhaps some spilt ink,
or an apathetic cut from a pencil sharpener,
as the rain poured, stormy and seething
and cold upon our skin, as we counted
in threes, first drops for another word,
bit back to save our mouths
that bleed from all the undeserved apologies
that they were made to speak,
second drops for notes passed under the desk
and crushed words of passion
that choked our wavering voice,
every third for dreams they mocked with skill,
and said we must outgrow, so we grew,
expanding and stretching, deflating and straining,
stifling and pulling, and pulling, and pulling,
until something broke,
and all the sunshine drowned
in these broken prison-souls.

T. E. Pyrus

Patchwork

Summer meadows stain her vibrant patchwork pants green
and racing winds sting her twinkling eyes
as she scampers down the valley side.

It sounds like that tiny patch of pale blue
upon the golden hay and sunshine, more sunshine,
and grandma humming lullabies in words she will forget.

The red of her back pocket sings of rain and shadow clouds,
the bright red of her umbrella and mother’s nimble fingers,
and dark purple stitches trace its sides like burning raindrops.

The soft patch of purple looks fresh
like lavender in the backyard and loud and merry voices
that fill up the garden at midsummer tea.

The tangerine yarn lines the black patches on the left
with sparks of flames and ghosts of halloween,
jack o’ lanterns and mother’s vexed grumbles
while she patched up the singed knee.

The orange cat, she’d clumsily stitched in the middle
of the crooked navy blue triangle.

Pink like her cheeks and walking with snowmen
on winter afternoons, grandma’s cookies
and little Cinnamon purring by the fireplace.

Brown like hot chocolate and marshmallow thread
to stitch it firmly to sweet coffee patches right by the ankle
like daddy’s bedtime tales and kissing the stars goodnight.

sixty years away, she’ll run her fingers over weary thread
of overwhelming shades of nostalgic love,
and little children in brighter patchwork pants will listen
to patchworked tales of her patchworked memory…

T. E. Pyrus

Daily Prompt: Scamper

Carousel

Coloured voices paint the world…

No one steals another glance
at the faery carousel
that crowns the gentle woods of time,
and spins to melodies of grace,
the melting spring and summer bloom
that flutter in the sun-kissed rain,
fiery golden autumn leaves
and snowflakes, pure, that hide their flame
in little baskets, full of dreams.

No one steals a second glance
but wistful dreamers, lovers true
who wonder at the carousel
as lifetimes come and drift away…

T. E. Pyrus