Fabrication
I imitate the intimate,
taught each thought I share;
love becomes another glove,
worn until worn through.
I misstate my each mistake;
would you wound me now?
Come again to the same sum,
naught will not make true.
I fabricate, I recreate,
the song I once heard wrong;
my voice become another noise,
ash to ashes new.
Stephen Brooke ©2026
playing around with words again
The devil is God’s evil twin,
both equal so neither can win!
They argue each day,
as they strive to sway
mankind to do good or to sin!
Stephen Brooke ©2026
Impostor Syndrome
I am a proud impostor,
an actor on a stage;
today I play the author,
pretense on every page.
And if I play it well,
then I become this role,
another character
I have created whole.
I lose who I once was,
the lines begin to blur;
then who can tell who’s who?
Not even I am sure.
Stephen Brooke ©2026
Wednesdays
The streets slept on those Wednesday afternoons,
the eyes of every shop closed, as some napped
and some prepared for church. Some would nap there
as well. In the unhurried way of then,
if some should choose to fish, instead, that was
okay. Come Thursday morning, salesmen, grocers,
and barbers would come back and doors would open.
and small-town life did very much go on.
The world little noticed as things changed,
as Wednesdays faded into all the rest
of life, and every day became the same.
No one now sleeps away the afternoons.
Stephen Brooke ©2026
a bit of poetic nostalgia
Unbidden
Unbidden come these dreams,
wending roads of night;
let them hang themselves
by waning lantern light
at each crossroad gallows,
as the moon unbars
all the darkened gates
of the tombstone stars.
Calling to the tempest,
every word a pact
with tomorrow’s demons,
sunrise will diffract
echo into echo,
each into its lies,
facets of the wind
promised to the skies.
Sing my midnight riddles
until the answers change;
pluck the corpse-white blossoms,
seeking to arrange
bouquets for loves forgotten,
in graves I’ve long hidden,
for the roads of night,
for these dreams unbidden.
Stephen Brooke ©2026
Change
All things change.
Not for the better, mind you,
not for the worse. Just different
from the way they were.
I, too, change.
This way, that way, slowly,
imperceptible
even to myself
sometimes, changing
none the less. Each morning
must be made anew;
each man must wake changed,
as all things.
Stephen Brooke ©2026
Here's the take on Wayfaring Stranger, as performed by niece 'Mean Mary' James and appearing in the film 'Hellfire.'
