Wednesdays, a poem

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, a poem

 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, a poem

 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

Wayfaring Stranger

Here's the take on Wayfaring Stranger, as performed by niece 'Mean Mary' James and appearing in the film 'Hellfire.'

Mexico, a poem

Mexico

A fringe of sea oats and yes, some sand-spurs
separated manicured lawns
from white sand. Beyond, the Gulf,
whispered soft onto our shores,

as it did on distant beaches,
in languages we’d yet to learn.
Texas was that way; Mexico
a little to the left. We would

not swim that far today. Tomorrow
we might seek those shores, swimming,
swimming, into oblivion.
It and Mexico were waiting.

Stephen Brooke ©2026