A Sijo of Passing Time

Men created clocks and calendars
but the hours and years pass without them.

I have waited, not counting the time;
someday you will return to the home I built.

Is that your voice I hear calling at last?
No, only a distant hiker echoing across the hills.

Stephen Brooke ©2026

Folded

I put summer
away, neatly folded,
and lay out  winter.

It does not seem too frayed
for one year more of use.

Stephen Brooke ©2026

sorta-kinda tanka-esque 

Accomplishments, a poem

Accomplishments

I feel I am accomplishing things;
it could be an illusion
but I’ll just keep on plugging away,
ignoring reality’s intrusion.

Each day another page gets written,
a bit more lawn gets mowed;
each day I grow a little older
and travel down my road.

I count up these accomplishments,
I add them to life’s sum,
while ever avoiding asking myself,
will there be more to come?

Stephen Brooke ©2026

started out as light verse but gained weight as I went along 

Come Forth, a poem

Come Forth

The monsters now come forth
in the noonday light,
seeking not the shadows,
the dark familiar haunts

of their ancient brethren.
These are the ones I most fear.
They wear our faces, yours,
mine, we who released them. 

They point into each mirror
they pass, blaming tomorrow
for our yesterdays,
and I hide myself

in the dark places they
abandoned. Will they call me
monster when I come forth,
into that noonday light?

Stephen Brooke ©2026

What Bird Calls, a poem

 What Bird Calls

I know not what bird calls across the dusk;
  seeking southern forests, it will sing there tomorrow.

Silent wings beat through my darkened skies; in dream
  only can I fly, to distant sun-lit lands.

Sleep now; morning comes and I must once more
  prepare for winter, not expecting spring.

Stephen Brooke ©2026

somewhat in the shape of a sijo 

Flat, a poem

Flat

Once, the Earth lay flat. Horizons marked
the rim of life; the world goes this far

and no further. Sail away, young man.
Seek out those isles that swim along the edges

of the sunset, following from star 
to star until the world rounds itself.

Stephen Brooke ©2026

Beard, a poem

Beard

This beard, I complained,
makes me look too old;
I shaved my chin clean — 
yes, I felt quite bold!

A glimpse in the mirror
should show a new truth — 
a face that revealed
my lost inner youth!

I turned and I twisted,
examined it well;
damn! I still looked
older than  hell!

Stephen Brooke ©2026