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

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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

embers and silence..,

She skips stones o’er shallow darkness
that ripples ’round her bare ankles.
twilights trace her lorn shoulders and soul,
pale wristlets of sunset that grace her wrists
burn bright, searing like heartbreak,
yet smoulder forever like untiring love;
her eyes, grey like shadow, twinkle with wry mirth
o’er shallow darkness, like faery knights
of new moon, vows of pure sunlight
every dawn; her hair, dear as midnight,
curtains wistful smiles: gentle curve of her frayed lips,
gentle hope that never fully breaks with falling time;
her laughter wakes the melancholic night;
o’re shallow darkness, wishing stars shine bright..,

T. E. Pyrus

only rest,

I wrote this in response to a challenge: Write about what it’s like to live with a mental illness.

is that the music of time,
like the sound of rain
when tired drops that survived the storm
drip placidly from distant treetops,
through hollow darkness that shut-eyes and nighttime bring?
the absurdly enticing stars
fall out of the decorated sky
and shatter like twinkling ice,
like flakes of glass that yearn the stinging blood.
the soil beneath breathes and lives,
the wilting grass that roughly braids your hair
is damp, and slightly warm,
like the empty spaces in memory
where joy and laughter are faded dreams.
drip-drop, tick-tock, suns rise and moons set,
the air embraces the ground here,
don’t try to move your fingertips,
don’t raise your hopes,
don’t close your eyes,
don’t listen as the seconds fall, then melt away,
as if they steal your love and wonder and life,
feel your fingers claw into the soothing wind,
only rest and sink into the loving earth.

T. E. Pyrus

whispered songs

the vague whispers of the changing wind
sometimes pause –

then break into a hearty song
of red leaves softly rustling,
and bubbling laughter skipping over
stepping stones across the stream,
the closing of the oven door
and cinnamon and pumpkin pie,
and crackling in the fireplace,
quilts and blankets, lullabies,
and darker nights and halloween,
ghosts of christmas, trick or treat,
dreams to live and days to love,
family and friends to meet

– and quietens to a steady stream
of whispered songs of quieter things…

T. E. Pyrus

Quintessence

Tell them I’m a delightful child of six
crushing wild flowers beneath my feet
when I run free through light forests,
staying carefully within the reach
of warm campfire-light
lest stealthy shadow monsters come prowling tonight.

Tell them I’m a red-haired girl on the swing
soaring and falling, now soaring again,
laughter that flies far in the wind;
I look for a patch of sunlight blue
to weave into my necklace of beads
made of silver sighs of stars.

Tell them I live in an alley
where it’s quiet and no one passes by,
my eyes are quick, my heart is numb,
and fear of broken glass and stones
keep me wide awake at night,
I beg a little, steal a little, and live a little more.

Tell them I’m a lover with plain daisies
‘neath the pleasing moon,
my fingers fumble with buttons pale
and the shy smile of wry humour,
her dark blush and dark eyes
that burn through my echoing heartbeat.

Tell them I live in books,
and all the faerytales they tell,
I live in worlds of many folk,
and people cunning, people kind,
their lives of wonder, love, and pride,
they live, and leave me quietly behind.

Tell them I am a bride in white
awaiting precious years ahead
perhaps a little drunk on joy
and when I walk the aisle today
and look up through my nervous dreams,
I wonder what the sky might say.

Tell them I’m a father, then,
proud and shy, awkward and sure,
reminiscing innocence and trust,
winter snowmen never made,
and sandcastles that thrived instead
in snow-less winds of boyhood days.

Tell them I am a soldier, young,
desperate to live some more,
beyond these rainless storms of blood,
bitter taste of iron cold,
broken bonds with broken lives,
and numb disgust, and fear of death.

Tell them, then that I am old,
not graceful old I dreamt to be,
plain old: bright pills and walking stick,
sidelined among dark crowds of folk
with long and reckless lives to live,
sad smiles from loving family.

Tell them I travel far and wide
o’er sands of ruth and equity,
through woodlands dark and meadows light;
and traveling softly through the night,
I learnt to leave behind what’s dear
and walk bare of warmth and dignity.

Tell them that I am all they see
when they look into a mirror, and more,
I’m all that they fear, and dream to be,
all that they crave with hopeful heart;
when dark and sunlight fall apart,
they’ll find in stars quiet company,
Tell them, tell them that they are me.

T. E. Pyrus

Traveller,

Tell me a story, traveller,

of unwalked roads you walked alone
beneath the blue and sunlit sky,
paved with earth or cobblestone
and straying clouds that wander by.

of strange lands and stranger folks
and strange songs they sang with you,
in strange tongues they call their home,
that, in your dreams, was somewhere new.

of temporary loves you loved,
then set your broken lovers free,
and healed your broken, heartless soul
beneath the starry sky and sea.

of darkened woods and foreign sound
that haunt the night-time every night.
of moons that follow footsteps quiet
and stars that watch in silent light.

of stormy nights and thunderclouds
that failed to bring your childish fears,
and drowning rain that drowned the winds
and brought you melancholic tears.

of snowy golden sunsets high
on mountain sides, ragged and old
and tears of wonder, tears of joy,
love of stories left untold.

of rivers running swiftly by
your resting sleep ere break of day.
of twilights that blanket the sky
and sweep the orange clouds away.

of lost lanterns and memories
and aimless wandering in the night.
of faraway towns of scattered starry
homes so warm and hearts so bright.

of lone camp-fires’ dancing songs
and lonely faded quiet applause.
of longing and of selfish pain,
of losing love and loving loss.

Tell me a story, traveller,
of reminiscing in grateful shade,
and of your final travel home
before your loving memories fade.

T. E. Pyrus

Painting Memories

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I’ve seen the fiercely joyful constellations in your eyes,
Bright with wonder of the wandering starlight in the skies…

When you forget the fleeting moments in our golden autumn light
With your dreams that lay beside me in the quiet and starry night,

I’ll string our breezy laughter, twinkling crystal-still like stone,
We’ll watch sunsets paint the sea while I build sandcastles alone.

We’ll build that summer cottage, not too near the salty shore
And greet that snowman who’ll await you every christmas at our door.

I’ll fill my nights with legends ere I lose our mortal lie,
So we’ll live again in tales ‘neath the ever-starry sky.

T. E. Pyrus

[Featured image is the artwork of batensan. All rights belong to the artist.]
P.S. Thank you, batensan, for letting me borrow your art!

Firelight

The shy winds
of a late autumn eve
breezes over the tingling
warmth of my feverish skin
when they throw open the windows
to let in the dark.

Your shy glances brush my shoulders
and leave a burning warmth
on my golden skin under
quietly trembling lights,
my eyes seek yours in semi-darkness;
two can play a game tonight…

My shy blushes hide
beneath discreetly painted eyes,
trust me, pretty words don’t lie,
see me through the pretty lace,
and let me haunt your dreams tonight,
leisurely prowling to tear.

Your shy fingers tremble,
delicate and pale, shivering
slightly with my touch
‘though the night is warm,
your breath, shallow when
I kiss your palm and
each of your fingertips,
my prince for the night.

The shy music fades
into non-existence,
and all you can see is the silk
on my sleeves unravelling
as I glide around the room,
selling temporary love
to buy temporary envy in your eyes.

When shy lights flicker to shadows,
whisper sweet nothings in my ears,
your voice low and resounding
in my beating heart until dawn
steals my starlight…
I’ll miss you for a while, I swear.
Don’t you dream of constellations…

T. E. Pyrus