When…

darkness dissolves into sunsets,
stars fall through midnight like rain,
flickering streetlamps sleep soundly,
seconds count minutes in vain,

the wind forest’s net catches moonlight,
the sunrise soaks into the land,
oceans are mountains of dewdrops,
mountains are soft breaking sand,

clear winds break clouds into laughter,
the blushing gold autumn is shy,
all of these moons burn like snowstorms,
the wanderer, quiet, tiptoes by.

T. E. Pyrus

Advertisements

Prison-souls

They put up grills outside the corridor
that idles before our classrooms.
The quadrangle trapped within
breathes beneath the open skies,
burning in the mid-morning sun,
and hiding in our imaginary mysteries at night.
The new paint on the grills is soft
and green like bluish boredom,
we sunk in our tense fingernails
into patterns of ill humour,
’til uncivil slurs of loud empty threats
shooed us back into shadowy classrooms.
Every time we stepped outside,
the glossy grills drew our leftover pride,
silenced our laughter, till all we could do
to look away from the hypnotic grills
was to gaze vacantly at the red lines,
and the carelessly scribbled words in red
that demanded clearer handwriting,
and red fractions over hundred
that sunk and never rose again.
Sometimes, between the ear-splitting lunch bells,
we’d push our hands out through the gaps in the grills
that ventilated the claustrophobic corridor,
with close-clipped nails, perhaps some spilt ink,
or an apathetic cut from a pencil sharpener,
as the rain poured, stormy and seething
and cold upon our skin, as we counted
in threes, first drops for another word,
bit back to save our mouths
that bleed from all the undeserved apologies
that they were made to speak,
second drops for notes passed under the desk
and crushed words of passion
that choked our wavering voice,
every third for dreams they mocked with skill,
and said we must outgrow, so we grew,
expanding and stretching, deflating and straining,
stifling and pulling, and pulling, and pulling,
until something broke,
and all the sunshine drowned
in these broken prison-souls.

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

Carousel

Coloured voices paint the world…

No one steals another glance
at the faery carousel
that crowns the gentle woods of time,
and spins to melodies of grace,
the melting spring and summer bloom
that flutter in the sun-kissed rain,
fiery golden autumn leaves
and snowflakes, pure, that hide their flame
in little baskets, full of dreams.

No one steals a second glance
but wistful dreamers, lovers true
who wonder at the carousel
as lifetimes come and drift away…

T. E. Pyrus

only rest,

I wrote this in response to a challenge: Write about what it’s like to live with a mental illness.

is that the music of time,
like the sound of rain
when tired drops that survived the storm
drip placidly from distant treetops,
through hollow darkness that shut-eyes and nighttime bring?
the absurdly enticing stars
fall out of the decorated sky
and shatter like twinkling ice,
like flakes of glass that yearn the stinging blood.
the soil beneath breathes and lives,
the wilting grass that roughly braids your hair
is damp, and slightly warm,
like the empty spaces in memory
where joy and laughter are faded dreams.
drip-drop, tick-tock, suns rise and moons set,
the air embraces the ground here,
don’t try to move your fingertips,
don’t raise your hopes,
don’t close your eyes,
don’t listen as the seconds fall, then melt away,
as if they steal your love and wonder and life,
feel your fingers claw into the soothing wind,
only rest and sink into the loving earth.

T. E. Pyrus

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

watch-Lamp

Another lamp at the bend towards the revived cathedral,
that one, down this elegant street,
with noble, white apartments on either side,
overflowing floral finery from every windowsill.
he watches over folk who wander by and comforts those who wander lost,
and those with mismatched clothes chasing down some dire fate.

Another cheery day runs past; a week follows with greater haste,
sunlit skies turn into shadow cushions for the lightning storms.
fresh white paint, lost and wanders down the painted top of the holy dome;
fresh wilted red petunia and thriving leaves quaver and glow
like fairy-lights and missing stars;
a child in drowned and heavy rags wanders in the darkened rain
parched for food and warmth and home.

Lamp wonders in puzzlement that on this bright, delightful night
pain still crushes loving souls, and sorrow takes their heart away,
and how they carry hopes along, veiling flaws from blinding light,
how they still know to love, and how laughter bubbles up inside;
the asphalt mirroring his shine is the darkest he has ever seen.

T. E. Pyrus

Time won’t tell…

(a sonnet)
Neath the blue and perfect morning skies
hidden under ash, a copper key
stained in green and grey like restless sea
glinting bold and silently there lies;
and craves the company of merry cries
that filled the cellars, once, with laughter free,
and frosted pitchers’ pleasant company;
and wisdom, rare, some brittle pride, unwise.
Now, time has lost it’s glamorous deceit.
The ever-charming, charcoal polished door
and dusty chairs still lean against the floor
like ghostly hopes that still renounce defeat.
Thunderclouds all rage and storm in vain;
the ashes here burn brighter in the rain.

T. E. Pyrus