Don’t gift a writer a pretty notebook

with beautiful cream pages
that feel expensive between fingertips;

with fine chocolate lines that rule
and frown upon plain pencil marks
and erasers that offend their handmade finish;

with hardbound frame
like royalty in synthetic leather robes
and gold engravings, like polished crowns;

with satin ribbon page-markers
anchored to the spine
demanding profound words and lines
worthy of its memory;

with sharp, flawless corners
of each page, ridiculing first drafts,
second thoughts, a third line
that strikes out a muddled word –
perfection, perfection, refined and bold;

with a plain first page
and a single word: “Name:”
printed precisely at the centre
in elaborate calligraphy;

and who are we
to blemish such breathtaking finery
with trembling words and petty fears
that we never deserved this privilege
of tinkering with imagined worlds?

and who are we
to blemish subtle finery;
to curb the possibilities
of marvels these pages might hold
if it were someone else’s hand that held them,
and not ours?


Don’t gift a writer a pretty notebook.

Perhaps gift them a conversation
about the weather, or a busy day,
or a failed brownie recipe.


We’re not too particular.


T. E. Pyrus


maybe i’ll watch a sunset
float leisurely up to the polished rim
of a wineglass full of cool water.

maybe i’ll taste
shy rainbows on sunlit waterfalls
on peaceful afternoons.

maybe i’ll watch mid-mornings
fade into matted shadow
on broken sunglasses by the sea.

maybe i’ll gaze at a hundred moons
that wait soundlessly
in dewdrops every dawn.

maybe i’ll stay there,
watching forevers flow
like clear raindrops
through the spaces between my fingers.

maybe i’ll wait,
until time feels real again.

T. E. Pyrus


two cups of sweetened tea
rest half empty
on a low glass table
by the open curtains.

sometimes, a passing breeze
disarranges crumbs of softened biscuits,
or ripples the pale reflection
of a streetlamp in each teacup
like polished half moons.

dishevelled cushions
on a weathered couch
smell like lonely conversation
and wistful incense smoke.

the rusted window grills
listen quietly to another dusty night,
filtering through strangers’ dreams
and intertwining memories.

T. E. Pyrus

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