Listen, hold your breath –

Can you hear faint rustling
of pen sketched words who wander
across new paper, sneaking
in between the pages when soft breeze
flutters in soft silence,
peeking underneath the lines
of rich creme paper, and gazing in awe
at words that dance with elegant grace,
timid commas tiptoe, slow,
and spiral ’round the hasty dots
into dizzy tales of mystic dreams.
Sometimes, they wake and watch the stars,
and listen to their wistful songs
of time like ’twere the fervent sea;
starry waves that sing to moons,
of storms and love and laughter, free,
drawing in lone, wandering souls
who know and listen quietly.
Listen, hold your breath, stay still,
to shy bells, clear and tinkling,
when soft wind turns the secret page
and stars pour into poetry,
infinite loops trace whispered words
with life and magic, endlessly…

T. E. Pyrus

singing stone

What is the colour of the night
that seeps through the rounded red bricks,
like rain spills over the broken stone fountain
with little stone angels, who bring oceans in
day after day in the sun and the storm?

The carving on polished black stone
by the crumbling wall, a thousand years old,
glitters with forgotten words,
maybe songs, maybe prayers
that once rung in silence;

perhaps faraway tales, words of farewell
to curious souls, yet centuries away,
rest numb within the curves and slants
of the chiselled night sky, and stars,
perhaps, tremble to the bone
with each feather touch of seeking thirst
when cool fingertips brush over lost words.

Voices strain to ring again.

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

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

rendezvous

The starless rock carves
a clean silhouette of a wilder sigh
in a red and burning sky
with faint feathers of pinker clouds
that lure fervor into gentle dusk.
The red wine ocean soughs and purrs
and, sometimes, wakes to gasp for breath,
scrambles up the softened side of starless rock
to reach for stars that softly come to life…

T. E. Pyrus

another side of midnight

The moon arose unflinchingly
upon the stormy sky.
Little drops of starry light,
misty songs of faery knight
and snowcloud maidens’ sigh
wander over field and lawn,
meadow gates they swing upon,
and leave soft laughter by.
They rest upon a bed of hay
until the wistful break of day,
and ’til then, shimmering lie…

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

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