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

trace

when lightning cracks across the skies
like cold and broken window glass,
who peeks through curtains of white rain?
who listens for spare hopes and sighs?

when hues of red stir empty skies
and bright stars draw the curtains wide,
who watches through cold, empty glass?
who listens for spare hopes and sighs?

when twilight charms wide starry skies
and fireplace glows safe and bright,
who loves the rabbit on the moon?
who sings clear haunting lullabies?

T. E. Pyrus

Ode to a Dinghy

Stray rays of darkness
fade beside the plain, veiled moon
that sighs over shimmering waters;
a resting dawn rubs charcoal dust off the curved horizon.
No whisper of the frantic wind
breaks the symphony of folding time
and how it melts and flows like crystal
in between the clear crickets’ tales,
overfilling holes that howling dogs bite into stifling stillness;
fluttering heartbeats of starlit egrets
who watch the offbeat silver fish
that flies for only a moment
before it splashes back to wordlessness.

When stars dissolve in melting time,
you drift into the lighter blue,
dinghy from the midnight’s side,
cutting through fine net of mist
that craves to trap the quieter moon,
the rainless, soundless, sunless dawn.
Time slips through like silverfish.
You guide them past the wired fence
half drowned, half trembling silver thorns
awaiting crows and kingfishers.

They fling the worn hand woven net,
mist and dew lace dark brown skin,
and watch it slice through shimmering mist
and morningstar-kissed rippled waves,
and speak no words in silence.
Like a sketch in charcoal
you blend in dark grey
and they live statuesque in bare black
and muslin white and shadow folds
knotted neatly at the waist, waiting,
watching grayscales break
into burnt reds, wondering,
perhaps, who watches from
behind the dusty window glass
where sleep still reigns
the passenger train that rattles,
yet whistles none, speaks lesser still
on railway tracks that rest by light
and wait by dark…

T. E. Pyrus

still life?

The water painted violets beside
the light grey rock and little stream
that worried past their faded fragrant lines
watch over silent corridors.
Sometimes footsteps shuffle by
without a word.
Only keen and careful gazes
fall for ancient things:
some by precious people,
some that watch through clear glass doors
at strangers from far future years,
modeled bones that stretch their lifeless joints
and yawn softly like thin air
when glaring, warming lights go dark
and no footsteps cross seven o’clock.
the porcelain milkmaid and her toddling son
call upon brass aunt queen of heaven and her loved tigress.
Fine china from the royalty four and fifty decades fresh
and indigo blossoms that lace prim cups of tea
and bowls of sweet punch at white weddings,
ballrooms with sky high ceilings,
painted glass windows
that burst into bloom
in midsummer sun.
Stuffed birds and labelled butterflies
flutter around to tunes of drawn and clashing foreign swords,
scimitar for the horsemen,
Bow and arrow for fort walls,
and flutes of bone, drums of skin
to light old silver candelabras
for haunting lamp-less wanderers’ nights.
Scrolls of parchment of fine hand,
crisp and inked in awe and mystery
of songs of love to moon and suns,
great skies, unseen, and timeless stars…

T. E. Pyrus

Blossom

like a painting in the sky…

Sometimes I watch the nighttime chase
the painted sun across the sky,
and rest upon the purple trail
of sprightly moons that flurried by,

while sunset birds carve glowing sounds
of windy calm on coral clouds,
and stars of dusk bring violet, coarse,
to softly blend into dark.

constellations wake the sky
and stir still wind and mist and trees
with precious dreams of morning light
and lilting song and laughing breeze.

T. E. Pyrus

more..,

how many salty waves must crash
upon the rocky ocean side
until it crumbles into sand
and, by moonlight, travels wide?

how many moons must cross the sky
’til palm trees by the ocean fall
into its ever-patient waves
that restless, craving, leaping, call?

how many constellations change
before all heartbeats, thoughts and sighs
blend into pale ocean salt
to live once more beneath new skies?

T. E. Pyrus

another side of midnight

The moon arose unflinchingly
upon the stormy sky.
Little drops of starry light,
misty songs of faery knight
and snowcloud maidens’ sigh
wander over field and lawn,
meadow gates they swing upon,
and leave soft laughter by.
They rest upon a bed of hay
until the wistful break of day,
and ’til then, shimmering lie…

T. E. Pyrus