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

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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

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

half a moment

I do not deserve to be remembered, don’t spare your beautiful mind for such frivolous fancies. Yet do not forget me, I do not deserve that honour; let me fade into ghost-memory until you cannot place my name, cannot hear the breathless laughter that cut through apologies like a knife cut through water, cannot taste a single word of the girl who wrote so recklessly. Only spare me half a moment, where you nearly recognize that achingly familiar space in your heart, before you shrug, and shake your head with a puzzled laugh, and acknowledge one last time my weary existence.

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

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