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
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
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
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
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
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
Recreation
Though I destroy infinite worlds, infinite worlds remain. The goal is not destruction itself but the infinite joyous act of destruction.
Elsewhere, infinite others revel in the act of creation. Each of us wields our hammers to our own purposes and our own purposelessness.
We adorn the courts of timeless kings. See how well that illusion hangs? Tomorrow and every tomorrow it will be torn down.
Yesterday and every yesterday it will be recreated. The word erased remains written on infinite pages.
It may leap from the first book you open, ready to your desires. It may hide in fear of such gods as we.
Let it go. There are infinite others of its kind.
Stephen Brooke ©2026
