The Last Leaf

Last yellow leaf on Oldesong tree
that looks over the valleyside,
sways golden in the sunset wind
like a silent sigh that echoes
like soft, fading laughter
ringing through the hollow sky.
Last yellow leaf on Oldesong tree
gazes at the half-moon like a question.

T. E. Pyrus

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still life?

The water painted violets beside
the light grey rock and little stream
that worried past their faded fragrant lines
watch over silent corridors.
Sometimes footsteps shuffle by
without a word.
Only keen and careful gazes
fall for ancient things:
some by precious people,
some that watch through clear glass doors
at strangers from far future years,
modeled bones that stretch their lifeless joints
and yawn softly like thin air
when glaring, warming lights go dark
and no footsteps cross seven o’clock.
the porcelain milkmaid and her toddling son
call upon brass aunt queen of heaven and her loved tigress.
Fine china from the royalty four and fifty decades fresh
and indigo blossoms that lace prim cups of tea
and bowls of sweet punch at white weddings,
ballrooms with sky high ceilings,
painted glass windows
that burst into bloom
in midsummer sun.
Stuffed birds and labelled butterflies
flutter around to tunes of drawn and clashing foreign swords,
scimitar for the horsemen,
Bow and arrow for fort walls,
and flutes of bone, drums of skin
to light old silver candelabras
for haunting lamp-less wanderers’ nights.
Scrolls of parchment of fine hand,
crisp and inked in awe and mystery
of songs of love to moon and suns,
great skies, unseen, and timeless stars…

T. E. Pyrus

Blossom

like a painting in the sky…

Sometimes I watch the nighttime chase
the painted sun across the sky,
and rest upon the purple trail
of sprightly moons that flurried by,

while sunset birds carve glowing sounds
of windy calm on coral clouds,
and stars of dusk bring violet, coarse,
to softly blend into dark.

constellations wake the sky
and stir still wind and mist and trees
with precious dreams of morning light
and lilting song and laughing breeze.

T. E. Pyrus

more..,

how many salty waves must crash
upon the rocky ocean side
until it crumbles into sand
and, by moonlight, travels wide?

how many moons must cross the sky
’til palm trees by the ocean fall
into its ever-patient waves
that restless, craving, leaping, call?

how many constellations change
before all heartbeats, thoughts and sighs
blend into pale ocean salt
to live once more beneath new skies?

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

copper white

the fire white
sky sneers down
the horizon and
stares through
the window glass
at white and
yellowed shoes;
pretty little
feet scurry up
and up the
stairs, rising
high and spiraling
to nowhere in
particular;
footprints cover
footprints and
the voices in
their heads,
racing against
time unto forever
to the top;
drop a penny
in the fountain
dare you: come,
turn around,
then stop.

T. E. Pyrus