when lightning cracks across the skies
like cold and broken window glass,
who peeks through curtains of white rain?
who listens for spare hopes and sighs?

when hues of red stir empty skies
and bright stars draw the curtains wide,
who watches through cold, empty glass?
who listens for spare hopes and sighs?

when twilight charms wide starry skies
and fireplace glows safe and bright,
who loves the rabbit on the moon?
who sings clear haunting lullabies?

T. E. Pyrus

sisters divided…

She sits behind her paper cup
by the sidewalk in the sun
and wonders with wide wandering eyes
at young missus with the bluest shoes
and the way the silver buckle
of her glossy red purse
dances even in the shade
like dreams of home she almost dreamt.
Young missus peers into her purse
and pulls out a silver coin or two
to drop into the starving cup.
With barely half a sideways glance
with eyes that look but never see,
young missus smiled and skipped on by
with sweet illusions of empathy…

T. E. Pyrus

Daily Prompt: Illusion

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


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


shadow play on the ceiling
reminds me of the sound
of your intoxicating voice.
there’s not a soul around

to watch you blue and golden
when you gaze into my eyes
and each tear drop warm burning
through my fingertips and lies

that i heard you whisper
through thunderstorm that night,
and here i wait listening
and hoping that i might

await you, moonless, in
the silence-swallowed dark.
your footsteps in the autumn
with every little spark

in the woods, long forgotten-
easy wind and downy flake
and harness bells now silent
between woods and golden lake

and in unforgiving darkness
i met my phantom green,
then never again, in daylight
were our heartbeats seen.

T. E. Pyrus

summer afternoon

sixteen miles until silence.
the train tick-tocks into
distant lands in summer afternoon.

red schoolhouses,
playgrounds that swarmed with bell and laughter,
die into whispers in summer afternoon.

the meadows run wild,
the purple headed mountain, the river running by
come to life in fiery solitude in summer afternoon.

come fly with me, in oceans over the sky-
hearsay, they are haunted by
impending sunsets in summer afternoon.

swirl the twilight with love and sweet sorrow,
blend in the darkness like vanilla and
soul past summer afternoon.

midsummer night- dark, windless and purple:
angels with bracelets of dreams
fly light-footed golden like summer afternoon.

T. E. Pyrus


how’s it going
on your side
of perspective?
i hear that
new flowers
blink sleepily,
blinded by
melting sunshine
on snow studded
meadows and
the breeze;
while silver
white winters
now burst into
springs, you
will look to
your right,
blink an odd
seven times
as you swallow
your love for
the wintry
snowman who
waited and wept
in your backyard
as you flurried
right by him
each morning,
shuffled back
without a glance,
left him in
the cold with
bitter kindness,
you grow up to
soon to worry
about sentiment,
too late to
hurry time;
why don’t you
lay back on
your new faded
red cushioned
seat by the
cold, sneering
fire ’til
snowflakes bring
wake at
your window at
night, you walk
to the starlight
and the leaves
hide your
faded red blush
on your cheeks
from the cold,
the snowflakes,
they come, kiss
your nose and
eyelashes, your
heartbeat, so
you never grow

T. E. Pyrus

ruby redress

if I had a
pretty penny for
every pretty heart
i broke, i’d be
a millionaire, a
billionaire in my
white marble prison,
green beryl to deck
the halls beside
the bloody ruby
footprints, bloody
hand prints on the
walls of them
who tried to mend
this icy heart, lay
shattered on the
floor, like glass
that cut through
pretty tales like
fingernails, and
then they were
no more; there’s
a person in my
closet, see a
broken soul behind
each door that
lines the throne room,
bloody trails that
line the floor so
i could watch you
shatter like i
broke and loved
the sinner for my
own, loved the
sin even more like a
drop in the sea,
no, don’t you look
at me, you’ll
have your train
of bloodied lovers
by your candlestick
at tea, with red wine
and old cheese as
they burn with
all your memory,
why don’t you see
that I am fatigued
by this game,
it’s the same
old confusion,
industrial revolution
like charlie chaplin
on replay forever more
in silence; but i’ll
repent, that i
will, and carve all
your names in
blue gold, white
sapphire, then
bring you by
hair and the fire
in your eyes,
reflecting my multitude
of pitch layered
lies, see rain
pouring in,
ragged glass,
bleeding skin, breathing
cherry blood
on the floor;
your ragged wrist
on my whip, ragged
name on my lips
pray, “forgive me,
forgive me no more!”

T. E. Pyrus