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

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a breathful of ginger

With a scrap piece of tin for a roof
and a rickety wooden table
to rest glass jars of vibrant sugar candy,
salty-sweet cookies that melt in the mouth,
and unbranded crisps of rice and potato
for little people with cold coins
in their warm, playful pockets,
the store thrives when the sky
begins to lose it’s evening reds
’round the corner of the duty street.
The spiced aroma of masala chai
that brews in the dented pot beside the jars
blends with muddled gossip
from the day almost past,
with hearty folks and simple words
in foreign, fading clothes
that hang awkwardly off their work-hardened shoulders;
little girl in a once-bright orange frock
gazes fondly at its laced edges
as mother sips tea
with the other women in faded sari
on the broken sidewalk.
A man with a resting walking stick
and a smile as charming as
diyas that have deck the darkened windows
every diwali in all his eighty-one years
gazes at the dozing sky that fades and fades
’til stars come out to play again.
the wisps of steam from his little steel glass
that quietly steal a breathful of ginger for the breeze,
touch his silvery hair in greeting,
then curl slightly in farewell
before they fade into the skies…

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

spirited

trace lullabies in snowy sands
in empty parks on a full moon night
with naked feet that long outgrew
those printed socks with rabbits bright,

the seesaw squeaking thoughtfully
and weighing storm and wind and breeze,
the slide that twists into the air
aspires to mimic the trees,

horses on the merry-go-round
whine soft and restless, bound and free,
the broken giant blue-green globe
runs worn and spinning endlessly,

the swing set that once loved to fly
now smells like rust and tastes like rain,
like crumbling yellow paint, heartbeat
that’s creaking through the night again…

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