they wait beneath their willow tree.

they wait beneath their willow tree.

     quiet leaves, like painted stars,
     tinkle in soft melodies
     of silver bells that never touch.

they wait beneath their barren tree.

     a familiar painted sun
     vanishes as midnight comes
     with lingering eternity.

they wait beneath their hollow tree.

     they chant their unforgotten word:
     “reminiscence”, “reminiscence”,
     like beating hearts, perilously.

they wait beneath the resting tree.

     through many thousand clockwork lives-
     their own hope-tied absurdities,
     they gaze, like lonely children, 
                                                                 at their moon.

T. E. Pyrus

spirited

trace lullabies in snowy sands
in empty parks on a full moon night
with naked feet that long outgrew
those printed socks with rabbits bright,

the seesaw squeaking thoughtfully
and weighing storm and wind and breeze,
the slide that twists into the air
aspires to mimic the trees,

horses on the merry-go-round
whine soft and restless, bound and free,
the broken giant blue-green globe
runs worn and spinning endlessly,

the swing set that once loved to fly
now smells like rust and tastes like rain,
like crumbling yellow paint, heartbeat
that’s creaking through the night again…

T. E. Pyrus

like a painting in the sky…

Sometimes I watch the nighttime chase
the painted sun across the sky,
and rest upon the purple trail
of sprightly moons that flurried by,

while sunset birds carve glowing sounds
of windy calm on coral clouds,
and stars of dusk bring violet, coarse,
to softly blend into dark.

constellations wake the sky
and stir still wind and mist and trees
with precious dreams of morning light
and lilting song and laughing breeze.

T. E. Pyrus

more..,

how many salty waves must crash
upon the rocky ocean side
until it crumbles into sand
and, by moonlight, travels wide?

how many moons must cross the sky
’til palm trees by the ocean fall
into its ever-patient waves
that restless, craving, leaping, call?

how many constellations change
before all heartbeats, thoughts and sighs
blend into pale ocean salt
to live once more beneath new skies?

T. E. Pyrus