What secrets…

What secrets linger, hovering
over the silver mirror lake?
What secrets drown in ripples
when leafless boughs
bow towards the underwater sky?
What secrets echo
beneath the mirror, and gaze up
as stillness waits, still?
What secrets bring storms
when forever lake trembles
and thunder drowns forever skies?

T. E. Pyrus

Carousel

Coloured voices paint the world…

No one steals another glance
at the faery carousel
that crowns the gentle woods of time,
and spins to melodies of grace,
the melting spring and summer bloom
that flutter in the sun-kissed rain,
fiery golden autumn leaves
and snowflakes, pure, that hide their flame
in little baskets, full of dreams.

No one steals a second glance
but wistful dreamers, lovers true
who wonder at the carousel
as lifetimes come and drift away…

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

brighter times

candlelight dances on the old silver pendulum clock.

lightning rips dark lilac clouds
like headlines rip the front page
of the dusty newspaper from brighter times.

the pendulum lights and shadows printed names
in bold and black, and a photograph of smiles,
eleven- twelve- thirteen times-

’til thunder cracks through counting wind
like the cold, brass lock and key
that locked away those brighter times.

T. E. Pyrus

Daily Prompt: Paper

lighthouse

When water’s all there is to see
and tired ships that steer your way,
what breeze of light lulls you to rest
when nighttime fades to break of day?

When purple dusk fades into dark,
what wakes your fierce and guiding light
to watch wide waters’ wavering still
and twinkle, twinkle through the night?

T. E. Pyrus

Snapshot

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

blink.

The small and tender hands
that once crushed fresh lavender
on windy days
and gathered shiny stones for luck,
skip cold and barefoot
by the stream,
now clench a weathered walking stick,
fingers soft and wrinkled, kind
beside lost meadows, beautiful,
and all the dreams that lay behind.

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

Time won’t tell…

(a sonnet)
Neath the blue and perfect morning skies
hidden under ash, a copper key
stained in green and grey like restless sea
glinting bold and silently there lies;
and craves the company of merry cries
that filled the cellars, once, with laughter free,
and frosted pitchers’ pleasant company;
and wisdom, rare, some brittle pride, unwise.
Now, time has lost it’s glamorous deceit.
The ever-charming, charcoal polished door
and dusty chairs still lean against the floor
like ghostly hopes that still renounce defeat.
Thunderclouds all rage and storm in vain;
the ashes here burn brighter in the rain.

T. E. Pyrus

Musing…

What is normal?

In a universe of mystery
where reality is uncertain,
what is mundane?

In dark empty space that glides on forever
like paper-thin ice
that keeps reason from reason,
what is drab?

With spiraling glossy strings of time
that fall into knots of destiny
through tired, childish hands
that play with worn and precious marionettes,
what is dull?

When lack of darkness settles in
and paints a bright, imperfect sky,
when bamboo flutes bring shadow-play
of laughter down the mountainside,
when salty oceans rise and fall
with artless waves, breathless peace,
what then is bleak?

When the mirror finds your searching gaze
and brings your fading thirst for life,
you learn to love the stinging rain,
with newfound awe, crave cloudless skies,
sometimes you wonder
if your memory and name are really yours
and maybe, wonder half-amused,
if all that’s true is but a dream,

What is despair?

T. E. Pyrus