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

We Go, a seasonal poem

We Go

Our seasons here are nearly run;
it’s time to seek the Southern sun.
In the fields the farmers mow;
we gather now in each fence-row.

We go, we go;
this is all we know.

Heeding Summer’s fading song,
telling all we not have long;
when the cold winds start to blow,
when the weather cocks all crow,

we’ll know, we’ll know,
it’s time for us to go.

Dawn comes late now, chill and gray,
as leaves scatter, borne away,
and we too must join the flow;
our world has been ever so.

We go, we go;
this is all we know.

In night’s darkness voices sigh;
brothers passing through the sky.
Far below us, stag and doe
make their passage through the snow.

we know, we know,
it’s time for us to go.

Stephen Brooke ©2026

possibly for a children's book, should I write any more of them 

Hill, a poem

Hill

Paradise is found beyond that hill.
I climbed it once, to look upon the golden

and secret distance of horizons I’d
not dare. It lies there, that land, in the mists

of every morning, in my stars of night.
A glimpse I had, no more, before descending

again to worlds known, those journeys never
begun. Climb if you will; climb, and cross over.

Stephen Brooke ©2026

The End, a poem

The End

The end of the world
has come once again;
was it just last week
it vanished in flame?

I’ve lived through it thrice
at least, I am  sure,
though I could be dead,
a ghost, nothing more.

We’ve scheduled the end
again for next month;
perhaps on a Tuesday
nobody likes those.

Stephen Brooke ©2026

doggerel of the day