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

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The House Next Door

Shadow called on the house next door
by wilted lilies on the garden floor
and rueful, pale daylight.

The doorbell watches the front door swing
and quietly welcomes anything
but Shadow past its sight.

Footsteps panic to and fro
with all to wait and none to know
‘neath haunted clouds, so white.

Lace hankies, frail and foreigner
in trembling fingers; faces blur
foretelling woeful plight.

A splendid dusk arises there
and stifled mourning fills the air,
breaking fine polite.

Shadow left with stunning grace,
left voiceless voice and faceless face
in memories’ fading light.

Mourners, dark with clouded mind:
with love in hearts, they left behind
Shadow’s sweet invite.

Shadow called on the house next door.
There’s none to call on anymore
but empty souls tonight.

T. E. Pyrus

ectoplasmic love

Hear me, folks of love and loss,
of heartbreak and of pain,
as I watch you from my window,
when you’re dancing in the rain.

I have tiptoed in your footsteps
through midnight and through snow.
I whispered in your shadows, hoped
you’d hear but never know.

Yet, I never bridged the river
of my sorry flood of tears,
and wrote poetry in silence
of your silhouette for years.

Hear me, dancing angel,
in your yellow rain boots bright,
while I melt into the gray-scale
of this ectoplasmic night.

T. E. Pyrus

last pennies

rippling pebbles beneath the fountain
fine sculpted of stone and grey,
blessed with a velvet green cloak of old honour,
hail the knight who stands tall today

on velvet stone horse, copper blue eyes,
rusty blue sword and blue skies.
my fountain sings a song of sorrow
of wishes unwhispered and sighs.

my fountain, wish me a world of white
paper cranes that melt quiet into snow.
fountain, wipe dark chalkboard clean, like night skies,
in starry dark fountain below

and begin again from nothing at all.
fountain, we’re swept into fears,
too far beyond tomorrows, my fountain,
there’s time now for sorrow and tears.

fountain, my white paper cranes are awaiting
for castles of pride crumbling down
fountain, when all that is gone, who’s waiting?
who, then, will balance the crown?

my fountain, when all is gone and returning,
and i stumble to you in the rain,
fountain, won’t you, over pale copper blue,
let me whisper to you again?

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

rainfall

if you could
create water,
drop by drop
until the oceans
overflowed,
and coral and
silver angelfish
conquered all
the land;
see the world
like a quavering
raindrop, still
in time,
you know, sometimes
you need the
cobblestones
to break you
when you fall;
and when you
flow into the
crevices by the
side walk, leaving
wistful oily
rainbows that
smile sorrowful
forevers at your
receding shoulders
into the distance;
and then you
forget to breathe
when you drown
into the night,
you’re too human
to be free, you
are too human
to be bright;
then you wait
in the shadows,
dry your eyes
from the rain,
you find that
you misspelt elation
again.

T. E. Pyrus

grace

once upon a
short while ago,
little diminished
star looked bright
in the mirror,
the while wistful
gold sunshine
streamed
soft mellow
day through
her hair and smiled
like the sunset;
eyes glaze
melancholy
into light fading
gone by,
when little star
was a puerile
glow lighter,
frolic around
the light of her
mirthful sun
as it floated
over waves in
the sea, and
glanced into the
enchanted turquoise,
and she looked
to her lee,
found herself
lonely again,
the wandering
star, now
loved the
pale moon
and wandered,
not musing,
naïve, refusing
to mull over
daylight again;
then the dusk
cloaked her
jubilant smiles,
then she hid
in the midnight
awhile; she built
her own little
twining thorn
woods, and
shrouded
it into dark
latitudes into
heartbeat;
grit her teeth
and she dragged
her torn dawn
into sunrise,
carved a weary
and worn crescent
arc in the grey
stony wall that
she built on
her own, and
waited for moonrise
again, like frolic
and innocent
memory, crescent
ark on the moon
sailed the ocean
of night, and
swayed, reeling
too soon, and
cast torn blinking
star to the
welcoming earth;
little firefly
wandered the
night, right
into the arms
of gentle daylight,
who embraced
her close and
warmed her
soul, and
braided her
hair pal and bright;
then one night,
the star dreamt
of treason,
hidden thorn
woods that
hid fading reason,
and discovered
fears and
dark, shrouded
tears, discovered
sin in her heart;
she held onto
hard gentle land,
silver sand,
sorrow on
her palm,
borrowed
sunlight:
merciful,
calm,
and stifling
anguish so
dark; stumbled
she into redress
and reflected
pain, coursed
cut real,
blue through
her vein, her
eyes burning
awe,
and watched
smoulder
forgiveness
burst
into flame.

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

transcending dimensions

Do you ever lie on your back under the sky and think about all those sunsets you missed and the beauty in the word ‘exhaustion’? It’s one of those rare words that sounds exactly like it should: like a sigh after a long day’s struggle through social etiquette and accidental sarcasm and you’re wondering if eyelashes are supposed to be heavy.

Thinking about heavy, you notice the ever-so-light clouds that seem to be absorbed in their frolic, soft pastel sketching as they form and reform. You watch their light-hearted caper evolve into profound shadow play and the princess rides a young dragon to battle against the reptile-headed tiger cub to rescue her childhood friend who turns into (literally) her lover who falls behind the veil and leaves her a patch of starlight with his final breath as she falls to her knees, watching her own self dissolve into a rearing unicorn.

The unicorn looks at the starlight with slight concern before she decides to take a look into the past. the crocodile pulls the fairytale woodcutter into the lake and leaves his axe for his daughter who cradles it as if it were a child, and so it was. And then it wasn’t…for the boy had been taken by the dragons. The wind echoed with the young mother’s sorrow.

Little boy and his best friend crawled out doors and followed the firefly in the dark and found themselves in the dragons’ lair. Thrill replaced the blood in their veins and little boy asked little girl to wait until he signalled. Tiptoeing wasn’t nearly enough. Terror washed over him as he stumbled into a baby dragon who barely reached his elbows and gazed up at him with a vaguely amusing blend of curiosity and amazement.

Little boy called out for little girl to run, run home and stay indoors, for the clouds were growing dark and the wind, fierce. Little girl ran back home only to find the town deserted. The dragons would strike again, they thought, and no one wanted to risk it. No one would take them back. The dragons offered to let them stay. Little boy graciously accepted while little girl quietly took to the forest instead.

Time always has the last word. When the great war between the dimensions began, not-so-little girl hears that not-so-little boy lives not so far away with his family of dragons and between tears and ecstasy, hurries over to meet him. Minutes grow into weeks and companionship grows into love.

Not-so-little boy urges not-so-little girl to try to stop the war. A spy has powers. Not-so-little girl reluctantly reveals that their entire town, among millions, had been wiped out by the other dimension.

A thunderclap finds her vulnerable.She had been discovered and she knew she was as good as dead. The reptile-headed tiger cub swipes straight for not-so-little boy and he cries out, again, for her to run, run home – this wasn’t her fight.  They only wanted the dragons. But she charges into battle alone and not-so-young dragon joins her with equal ferocity with all her hopes tied to the slightly increased probability that she could save everyone.

Hopes and spirits soar high but fate decides otherwise. Not-so-young dragon blows enchanted fire right at reptile-headed tiger cub but the winds shift and it blows towards the edge of the Mist Lake instead; silvery and pretty though it was, the mist was deadly. As chance would have it, it was exactly where not-so-little boy had been trying to steer the youngest little dragons towards the safety of the forest. Not-so-little boy stumbles and falls into the misty veil, almost in slow motion, as he flings the little dragons away from the mist; they would survive the flame.

The reptile-headed tiger cub had fled. Not-so-little girl reaches out in vain, then,with a cry of deep anguish, falls to her knees.

The tears that flow, soothing, are a little too real. ‘Rain’, the little-too-real folks called it.

Exhaustion is a beautiful word.

T. E. Pyrus