blue and white

Summer, 06:30 am

the painted parapet wall
of an empty terrace

is not subtle mauve
like twilight and whispered love,

nor the blushing gold
that only sunsets
and dusty filament lamps can hold,

but pearl white
like the icy moon at the zenith,
lofty, luminous,
under a brilliant tepid blue.

T. E. Pyrus

Advertisements

nostalgia

Burn these city lights 
                  into my memory:

the way they reflect in midnight waters
                 like a diamond necklace in the sun;

     the way traffic lights sometimes fall asleep 
amidst an unscripted musical -

          cars decked in red brake lights,
             joyful yellow taxicabs,
                  awkward blaring trucks
           and tourist buses in tacky pastel hues
                like cheap synthetic frocks;

          monstrous machines breaking down 
            battered sidewalks,
              strangers’ silences mirrored 
          in bright green glass bottles 
       that wait quietly in the rubble;

the way young trees, 
  leaves lined silver with fallen smoke,
    still dance with the winds
       of accidental summer thunderstorms.

    remind me of prideful skyscrapers,
air-conditioned waiting rooms,
  imitation leather, prim paper-cups
    and coffee machines - precious raindrops
                    on a high sunburnt window glass.

remind me, then, 
      of forecasted weather,
 scorching ultraviolet, partly-cloudy skies;

imagine a smudged-lipstick sunset -
    warm dust of a bare cemented terrace 
        beneath your bare feet,
            sundried wind in your hair-
   then paint me a memory,
like an ever-changing faerytale…
          and another…
                    and another...
until their world dissolves 
            into an airplane-studded sky.


When these whitewashed walls crumble - 
         when, perhaps someday, the earth 
              wakes into a new, breathing era,
    a foreign, vibrant, intoxicating warmth
           of a world that echoes with wonder;

when I fall in love with clear blue sunlight
     and mellow moons that sketch our silhouettes 
on unbound lands,
     remind me, one last time, 
          of my home.

T. E. Pyrus

a dream full of Sunsets

When I am blind,
you’ll find me listening to daybreak
one distant birdsong at a time.
Tell me, then, how purple dawns
fade into soft waking red, how
golden cloud-feathers of a dragon bird
warm my trembling fingers, tell me,
about blue sky and blue wind and bluer sea-
when i scour my memory with each deep breath
of salted breeze for its overwhelming majesty
and listen to blue breaking waves of an ocean
I once knew by heart, tell me
how they rise tall into blinding blue skies,
then crumble into salt and foam, like sandcastles
at my fingertips; remind me
of laughter every now and then, so
i’ll remember breathless joy
in the crinkled corners of your bright eyes,
golden-snow sunshine in the wind.
And don’t ever let me forget
crystal waters of mountain streams, bubbling
in faery-tongues i will recognize no more, please
tell me, again, about sun-painted pine-cones,
sunset-lit valleys, carpeted in cool and glossy pine-needles,
memories of running and slipping and falling
and laughter, and tell me, again, about sunsets –
the windswept, the clouded, the feathered, the pastel,
the fiery, and tell me all the stories of
coral red clouds and golden skies;
I have a soul full of words, a dream full of sunsets,
and stars, they keep me alive; do
help me remember these ever-changing curves of o,
offset-dotted i, and T that branches out into our stormy sky,
soft glitter of scribbled pencil marks
by candlelight and sweet coffee,
and temporary darkness; when you find me
by an open window, cool drops of ink
obscuring my trembling hands, I will be
gazing, unseeing, at a falling half-moon
who will watch, blind as i, over my
paint-stained memories of a lifetime-
do tell me, then, how our starlit inked words
now sink quietly into white paper.

T. E. Pyrus

the Sculptor

then she twirled around
beneath her dizzy sunset
and forgotten moon

like torn autumn leaves
that circled golden stormwinds
spiralled home to earth;

eyes, burning like snow,
summer raindrops on her lips
quivered with new mirth,

and i carved her breathless silhouette
with paper hands into the burning sky
ere they crumbled into breathing ash;

wishing stars burn quietly tonight.

T. E. Pyrus

Mosaic

Moon gazes fondly at frolicking oceans,
mosaicked with pieces of our ancient sky,
Still like a painted glass globe, with a heartbeat
like thunder that echoes with secrets of storm.

Mirrors that tremble with undrowning sunsets,
with winds that ring distant of unbroken dreams,
smoulder like memory, still, unforgotten,
when crayon sketched mountains crave skewed yellow suns.

Stars love like silence in soft, hollow darkness
between newfound wonder and forgetfulness,
the Love that carves time into crystals of ever
where our flawed and broken hope ever resounds…

T. E. Pyrus

When…

darkness dissolves into sunsets,
stars fall through midnight like rain,
flickering streetlamps sleep soundly,
seconds count minutes in vain,

the wind forest’s net catches moonlight,
the sunrise soaks into the land,
oceans are mountains of dewdrops,
mountains are soft breaking sand,

clear winds break clouds into laughter,
the blushing gold autumn is shy,
all of these moons burn like snowstorms,
the wanderer, quiet, tiptoes by.

T. E. Pyrus

When shadows spill over…

When shadows spill over
the purple-flowered edges
of the sidewalk,
they trickle into the alley
right next to the
newspaper-decked playground
and the stranded fountain.
The library across the road
sprinkles secrets, unexplored,
whispers lost in faerytales
that live by sunset firelight;
then shadows climb the dusky walls
then cities twinkle into life.

T. E. Pyrus

melting masks

We polish our masks
with the broken pieces
of our starry skies.
When it rains, the paint
runs down their cheeks
like tears, as if masks could feel,
and souls could fall like melting clouds.
When they’re broken, lost,
colours washed into white afternoons,
we scour the sunsets for our names;
by twilight we drown
in oceans of our boundless hope,
breathing like springtime,
bleeding like salt, silver
like your moonlit-mask;
and you, never knowing
how your lonely eyes
hold all the storms that light the skies…

T. E. Pyrus