Choosing

a bit of doggerel

Choosing

Mary Anne or Ginger? they asked;
I told them I’d take one of each.
One for back in the hut,
One for down on the beach!

How about Rachel or Monica?
That very much depends,
but if they were to move in next door,
I’m sure we would all be good friends!

Deanna or Beverly, then;
with whom would you choose to trek?
If that Betazoid read my mind,
it’s going to be all hands on deck!

So Daphne or Velma? they reached.
(Did we save the best for last?)
If the Mystery Machine starts rocking,
they’ve added me to the cast!

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

Wholesome, a poem

Wholesome 

To make my writing as wholesome
as a loaf of whole-grain bread,
I stir in some moral fiber,
and keep the reader well fed.
Oh, I could feed them pastries
and sugary treats instead,
but I’d rather keep them regular
as it passes through their head.

Stephen Brooke ©2026

a bit of light verse I threw off in a couple minutes for a prompt on Mastodon 

Infinity, a poem

Infinity

Give me half of infinity;
you can take the rest.
We’ll compare the two and see
which one has the best.

Mine’s a really big amount,
big enough, at least,
that when I began to count
the counting never ceased.

Half’s enough for anyone,
everyone assures,
but I hope when all is done,
mine is bigger than yours.

Stephen Brooke ©2026

Got Up and Went, a poem

Got Up and Went

My get-up-and-go
all got up and went
and now I’m old
and tired and bent.
Some days I don’t
feel worth a cent — 
I used to be
such a dashing gent!
But so it goes
when your get-up-and-go
is all used up,
when you reap what you sow.
There comes that day
and now I know
I’ve seen the last
of my get-up-and-go.

Stephen Brooke ©2026

some more light verse 

Nickel, a poem

Nickel

A penny for my thought?
It’s worth at least a nickel;
yet it can be bought,
though you may find it fickle.
It does float here and there,
alighting as it will
then flitting off to where
it might find its fill
of what is and might be
and maybe what can not.
So I’ll let you see —
is that nickel all you’ve got?

Stephen Brooke ©2025

Work

Better

Yes, I do think I’m better than you
but I won’t say it out loud;
I’ll go about my virtuous ways
and quietly let you be wowed.
For I know I rise head and shoulders
above the common crowd;
my moral superiority
does make me rather proud!

Stephen Brooke ©2025

Indulging myself again with 'music hall' style light verse. To be taken however one wishes, as is all my work (and play, for that matter).

On the subject of work, the fourth Jack Mack science fiction novel, 'Blind Jump,' written under the Oliver Davis Pike pen name, is out today. Jack's adventures have been somewhat my focus this past year and that may continue a little while longer. Available from Arachis Press (arachispress.com) in print or as free ebooks.

ICE, a poem

ICE

Come join us in ICE
You needn’t play nice!
Take out your frustrations
On folks from other nations!
Forget past rebuffs
We’ll give you handcuffs!
Don’t even think twice
Come join us in ICE!

Come join us in ICE
Make them pay the price!
We know that you’re bitter
You said so on twitter
Before it went X — 
You might finally have sex!
Is that enough to entice?
Come join us in ICE!

Stephen Brooke ©2025

were I more ambitious I could expand this into a song though I don't normally do topical 

Programmatic, a poem

Programmatic

It’s certainly uncertain
and probably problematic;
undoubtedly quite doubtful,
statistically meaningless static.

Possibly just impossible,
but the doggedly dogmatic
must insist insistently
progress be programmatic.

Stephen Brooke ©2025

playing with words again 

Be Yourself, a poem

Be Yourself

‘Just be yourself’ is lousy advice;
you have loads of choices—invent yourself twice!
More if you wish, it’s all up to you—
nobody can keep you from starting anew.
If you are asked, tell folks that you grew
and you’ll become others before you are through;
this day a villain, tomorrow quite nice—
if you can’t decide, then just roll the  dice!

Stephen Brooke ©2025

Wish, a poem

Wish

He wished to be a dragoon,
in a colorful uniform,
but the faeries thought he said dragon — 
to them, that seems the norm!

He has no sparking carbine,
he rides no spirited steed;
instead his coat is of scales,
his heart is filled with greed!

Greed for what? Why gold!
And maybe a sheep or two
to snack on when he’s peckish — 
no one will miss a few.

Take care how you pronounce
when you make your wish;
you might want to be a cop
but end up a carp — yes, a fish!

Stephen Brooke ©2025

Bubbles, a poem

Bubbles

Hope for the best,
prepare for the worst;
assume you are blessed,
know you may be cursed.

Forget every test,
each role you rehearsed;
we all come to rest,
the last as the first.

And all we invest
is likewise dispersed,
so laugh at life’s jest
when your bubbles burst.

Stephen Brooke ©2025

A bit of light verse; little more than playing with words.

Goblins, a poem

Goblins

The goblins are hiding somewhere in your house;
they’re spying on you, your kiddies, the spouse.

Nobody will see them, for they’re far too quick,
quite likely to disappear in one flick

of anyone’s eye, save maybe the cat
(I’m really not certain even of that),

for I suspect mine once did catch a glimpse
of the elusive, diminutive imps.

Her fur stood on end, she hissed and she howled,
but never caught one, though all night she prowled.

Those goblins had melted into the thin air —
that doesn’t mean they never were there!

The goblins are hiding somewhere in your home;
they skulk and they scramble, they sneak and they roam.

From this room to that room they search and they seek,
they peer under beds, into boxes they peek.

They’re eager for any loose loot they can pilfer;
look out for your jewelry, your watches, your silver!

When things will go missing, I know who’s to blame —
the little folk playing their favorite game;

so when people wonder who could be the thieves,
I tell them it’s goblins — but no one believes!

Stephen Brooke ©2024

 

Boredom, a poem

Boredom

Excitement is nice
for a day or two,
but I would prefer
sharing boredom with you.

We’d let the days melt
one into the next,
and not be bothered
and never be vexed.

Ah, such a life
has its appeal,
to sail through the years
on an even keel.

So, come join me,
we’ll make an accord
to avoid life’s turmoil—
would you be bored?

Stephen Brooke ©2024

Not of course, to be taken seriously. Or too seriously.

Double Doggerel

A couple pieces of light (to say the least) verse:

Argue

I never argue,
I never fight;
what’s the point
when I’m always right?

I’ll ignore you,
if you persist;
block you, if
you won’t desist.

But then again,
please feel quite free
to nod your head
and thoroughly agree!

Stephen Brooke ©2024

Drop

One can not drown in a drop of water
nor cross so tiny a sea;
yet that mote holds in liquid promise
all the oceans that be.
Yes, all the waves and all the storms
wait to be set free;
but, alas, I drank that drop
and now they surge in me!

Stephen Brooke ©2024

This one started out with the intent of being a serious poem (as serious as I get, anyway) but wandered off in its own direction.

Resolve, a poem

Resolve

I once again resolve
to make no resolutions,
to take no vows of vengeance,
to lead no revolutions.

Tomorrow comes a new year,
but it looks  quite the same;
I’ll leave my books unbalanced,
I’ll score not one game.

Whatever sprouts in Spring,
I’ll harvest come the Fall;
I’m thoroughly against
making plans at all,

for if I did, I’m certain
I’d watch them all dissolve;
I’ll make no resolutions —
this I do resolve.

Stephen Brooke ©2023

Bucket, a poem

 Bucket

When I kick the bucket
I want to make it fly,
and maybe knock a star
or two out of the sky.
Then folks who see them falling
will stop and wonder why,
if only for a moment,
on the day I die.

Stephen Brooke ©2023

Silliness and mortality are always a good match. A bit of light verse that, as usual, grew from a phrase that popped into my head. No forethought or agenda on these, nor do they particularly express my own view of things. My poems are always written by the fictional characters cavorting in my mind.

Coming, a poem

 A bit of light verse for the Halloween season. Not new—and one can probably note the impact of the Covid pandemic on my thoughts.

Work, a poem

WORK

 

Long ago, work was invented

to keep us all at home,

when we’d much rather be hunting

and through the wild hills roam

in search of mammoth and aurochs—

not that we’d scorn a rabbit—

as did our fathers’ fathers;

oh, work is a nasty habit!

For now we are civilized,

some of us plow and reap;

others gather things up

and take them somewhere to keep.

Forgetting the past, we toil

through each and every day—

long ago work was invented

and at home we stay.

 

Stephen Brooke ©2023

 

In the first draft of this bit of light verse I blamed work's invention on women...but thought better of it!

Chopsticks, a poem

 Chopsticks

I tried to play Grieg

but was out of my league,

so ‘Chopsticks’ it must be.

I’ll bang on the keys

as loud as I please;

there will be no stopping me!

My left and my right

are inclined to fight

though I try to make them agree;

but one finger, each hand,

makes much less demand,

so maybe I’ll stay in key!

 

Stephen Brooke ©2023

I was moving some music books from one shelf to another and there were some Grieg piano pieces among them. That was enough to set me off.