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

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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

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

Snapshot

Curiosity stares through tinted glasses
at railway tracks that glint darker in the sun;
the house crow that pecks on the ties in between
looks only slightly greyer than its shadow.
The diesel smoke and incense mist
lie faintly over red painted benches
that infrequently decorate the station platform.
Glass doored cabinets in miniature stalls
hold jars of hard candy, myriad pan filling
and sugared tamarind sweets to charm the mouth,
brightly coloured foil packets of biscuits and sweetened milk cake
lie sulking on the icebox, liberally filled
with ice cream and badam milk, mishti doi and lassi,
chilled soda in orange, brown, and green,
sealed bottles of water for people to please.
People and more people with stranger clothes and faces
scurry and stumble, then scramble and hurry
up the overbridge and down to platform number four
with sari and suitcase, toddler with a missing shoe.
Cartons of fresh iced fish to be sold a thousand miles away
settle comfortably on the floor of the parcel compartment,
painted blue, like all the thirty and one passenger coaches
tailing the rusty red engine that punctuates the chaos
with sleepy sighs and anxious whistles.
Footsteps and wheels run briskly here,
yet time runs ever slowly still
in rhythm with the ceaseless chant –
“cha~i coffee! co~ffee chai! cha~i coffee!…”

T. E. Pyrus

Time won’t tell…

(a sonnet)
Neath the blue and perfect morning skies
hidden under ash, a copper key
stained in green and grey like restless sea
glinting bold and silently there lies;
and craves the company of merry cries
that filled the cellars, once, with laughter free,
and frosted pitchers’ pleasant company;
and wisdom, rare, some brittle pride, unwise.
Now, time has lost it’s glamorous deceit.
The ever-charming, charcoal polished door
and dusty chairs still lean against the floor
like ghostly hopes that still renounce defeat.
Thunderclouds all rage and storm in vain;
the ashes here burn brighter in the rain.

T. E. Pyrus

Musing…

What is normal?

In a universe of mystery
where reality is uncertain,
what is mundane?

In dark empty space that glides on forever
like paper-thin ice
that keeps reason from reason,
what is drab?

With spiraling glossy strings of time
that fall into knots of destiny
through tired, childish hands
that play with worn and precious marionettes,
what is dull?

When lack of darkness settles in
and paints a bright, imperfect sky,
when bamboo flutes bring shadow-play
of laughter down the mountainside,
when salty oceans rise and fall
with artless waves, breathless peace,
what then is bleak?

When the mirror finds your searching gaze
and brings your fading thirst for life,
you learn to love the stinging rain,
with newfound awe, crave cloudless skies,
sometimes you wonder
if your memory and name are really yours
and maybe, wonder half-amused,
if all that’s true is but a dream,

What is despair?

T. E. Pyrus

Painting Memories

tumblr_odbri9a0ak1sufel9o1_500

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!

magic

i believe in magic.
i believe that dewdrop pearls
on spider web necklaces
make the world go ’round;
and every ray of waking light
in between the stars tonight
blessed with night owls’ song
brings dreams to sleepless souls
and hope to those whose
tears run like little streams
reflecting the morning,
born quiet from its cocoon
of purple darkness;
i believe in waking sleep
when light and shadow
play in between the curtains
at dawn, and coffee and
the painting on the wall
of beauty and childlike joy;
i believe in laughter
when you step out the door
and it spills onto the side walk,
down the street, replacing
mundane with imagination;
i believe in silence and afternoons,
the birds that lose their way
in the warm winds,
travelling across blue skies
like the quiet before a storm;
i believe in sunsets that sprinkle
hope in the eyes of
young forlorn lovers,
intertwined fingers,
memory in minds
of those who feel heartbeats
and heartbeats before
they fade to a dull,
aching memory of
heartbroken love,
home in the hearts
of travellers who fade
like ghosts into the dusk;
i believe in storms
that light the evening
in magenta and fairy lights
that burn into the skin
of the sky: the hour for tears
that melt from souls
of wrinkles and comforting smiles,
the cool drops that sting in the wind
and fuse into hope,
a wistful joy of crushing
bitterness in your fingers
right before it takes over your soul;
i believe in stars,
a billion burning lights
in the sky that twinkle
like slow, breathless passion
that paints instinct
over thought, ecstasy
in her fingers in my hair,
and no one to care for
seconds that countdown to silence;
i believe in midnight,
the quiet, ticking clock
and cinderella’s hurried
footsteps down the staircase,
fingertips that almost don’t touch,
eyes that whisper in silence;
i believe in words, silent love,
i believe in magic.

T. E. Pyrus

coal mining

he leaves his
window open
so the rare
wind whistling by

through a dust-coloured
day; in a
dust-coloured cell
on a dust-coloured
treasure chest lie

his faded blue
attire, worn and
patched by gentler
days,

greyed gracefully
to dusty black;
new wrinkles
on his face

weigh him down;
a faded
treasure chest
stares at a cement
coloured wall

over his head,
and the lonely
voiceless mist,
blinding; hear it
call

to rusty,
dark and sunless
sky, reflected
in his eyes,

when a bright and
impish countenance
eclipses tired
sighs;

the tired rusty
treasure chest
five decades
hibernates,

to feel the stirring
light of grey,
to feel new
hope, awaits

the cold and
stinging storms
that pour, taste
salty youth again;

the dusty
yellow rain boots
melt, ecstatic
in the rain.

T. E. Pyrus