melting crystal waters flow
and sting with gentle ghosts of snow.
in fresh and blue-lit summer, shy,
o’er softened stones and shimmering sky,
pebbles, black and white and grey
mild as night and dark as day.
sunlight parts the mist again
and ripples with lost songs of rain.
T. E. Pyrus
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
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
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
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
once upon a
short while ago,
star looked bright
in the mirror,
the while wistful
her hair and smiled
like the sunset;
into light fading
when little star
was a puerile
the light of her
as it floated
over waves in
the sea, and
glanced into the
and she looked
to her lee,
to mull over
then the dusk
then she hid
in the midnight
awhile; she built
her own little
it into dark
grit her teeth
and she dragged
her torn dawn
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
ark on the moon
sailed the ocean
of night, and
too soon, and
cast torn blinking
star to the
into the arms
of gentle daylight,
her close and
hair pal and bright;
then one night,
the star dreamt
hid fading reason,
sin in her heart;
she held onto
hard gentle land,
she into redress
her vein, her
T. E. Pyrus