lace

Pine trees that lace the ridges
of snowblest mountaintops
lean against the darkened moon,
like storms that lean on precious earth
with open arms towards the sky;
lightning touches myriad stars
that wander through unbroken songs
and quietly fill hollow dawns…

T. E. Pyrus

daybreak

melting crystal waters flow
and sting with gentle ghosts of snow.
in fresh and blue-lit summer, shy,
o’er softened stones and shimmering sky,
pebbles, black and white and grey
mild as night and dark as day.
sunlight parts the mist again
and ripples with lost songs of rain.

T. E. Pyrus

singing stone

What is the colour of the night
that seeps through the rounded red bricks,
like rain spills over the broken stone fountain
with little stone angels, who bring oceans in
day after day in the sun and the storm?

The carving on polished black stone
by the crumbling wall, a thousand years old,
glitters with forgotten words,
maybe songs, maybe prayers
that once rung in silence;

perhaps faraway tales, words of farewell
to curious souls, yet centuries away,
rest numb within the curves and slants
of the chiselled night sky, and stars,
perhaps, tremble to the bone
with each feather touch of seeking thirst
when cool fingertips brush over lost words.

Voices strain to ring again.

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

lighthouse

When water’s all there is to see
and tired ships that steer your way,
what breeze of light lulls you to rest
when nighttime fades to break of day?

When purple dusk fades into dark,
what wakes your fierce and guiding light
to watch wide waters’ wavering still
and twinkle, twinkle through the night?

T. E. Pyrus

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

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

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

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