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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melting masks

We polish our masks
with the broken pieces
of our starry skies.
When it rains, the paint
runs down their cheeks
like tears, as if masks could feel,
and souls could fall like melting clouds.
When they’re broken, lost,
colours washed into white afternoons,
we scour the sunsets for our names;
by twilight we drown
in oceans of our boundless hope,
breathing like springtime,
bleeding like salt, silver
like your moonlit-mask;
and you, never knowing
how your lonely eyes
hold all the storms that light the skies…

T. E. Pyrus

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

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

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

faery dust

i conquered Latmos at sunset.
wind flew swift and secretive.
gold-orange leaves had songs to give
my triumphant silhouette.

my fingers held misty stardust.
the purple paintbrush flickered hues
of flaked and rosy multitudes
of soft and silent lust.

the evening star twinkled so bright.
my tip-toes rippled the moonlit lake
and watched the spell of daylight break
to mysterious twilight.

wait until faeries arrive
and slide into an evening, still.
like lantern on the windowsill,
the night sky came alive.

the willows wept of heartache.
a night owl glided softly by.
beneath a billion suns i lie
for evermore awake.

T. E. Pyrus

tracing paper

sunset through
fading, dark rain cloud
like a blushing
thunder, like
lightning with
a warm heart of peach,
look down upon
rust covered
unsightly creatures
of dust; they
paint their uneven
faces with uneven
lies, their
souls, made of
dry tracing paper,
strike a flame
through your sky,
with their bitterness
fly, our mirthless
and unending caper.

T. E. Pyrus

the happy

have you ever
loved the moon
and wednesdays
and afternoon
with binding
bland daylight
and footsteps and
bland folks with
good souls that
live gold in
loved land of
canned old –
all fresh blanched
in sentimental
saccharine,
brushed lightly with
light salted
flag-waving reverence
at room temperature,
garnish generously
with harshly picked,
warm negotiation
and sweet peppered
hypocrisy?
every wing that
you could grow
to hypnotize
democracy is
criticized. now
realize that all
the world’s a
happy stage for
happy folks with
happy dreams,
come now, they
burn their pretty
lace, come now
they light their
pretty seams
of wedding gowns,
ornamented pretty
crowns, for the
happy, happy
diamond ring
to callowness,
with love. with
heartbeat, you see,
they don’t care what
you’re thinking of.
come hither, fiery friend,
come you, come hither
fiery foe,
to lands beyond amend,
come you, to dream
beyond the know,
love mediocre lovers
in their mediocre lie,
you fire, burn the sun,
you mortal star, you
burn the sky.

T. E. Pyrus