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