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

Imagine, a poem

Imagine

I asked Camus should we
imagine Prometheus happy.
He wasn’t sure but felt
the eagle might be, his daily
pecking filling his life.
I wondered if he even
liked liver and if it mattered.
I wondered if he told
the titan of all the things
he saw, winging above
the world on his way
to work. I could only
imagine such things. 
I could imagine the eagle
and Prometheus
and even myself, happy.

Stephen Brooke ©2026

Dance

Dance

God sings in each of us
however differently
we dance. And if we tread
on one another’s toes
some times, it’s no great deal.
The music will go on.

Stephen Brooke ©2026

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 

Flat, a poem

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, 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

We Go, a seasonal poem

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, a poem

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, a poem

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, a prose poem

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

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 

Wild, a poem

Wild

The wild words can be observed
in their natural habitat, yes,
but I pen them with fences made
of meter for you. Lines and rhymes
(at times) hold them, the monkeys in
their house, the reptiles safely behind
their glass. They can not hurt you, reader.
You can say you saw them, one
Sunday afternoon. The kids
read the signs explaining each.

Stephen Brooke ©2026

Easy, a poem

Easy

Forgetting is too easy. All the faces
I painted, all the women I loved, have blurred.
Yes, even yours. Do you still have that portrait?
Perhaps I could remember should I see
it hanging on your wall. Or even tucked
into some closet. For a little while
I might remember then. You know I shall
forget again, though, don’t you? Nothing lasts
and soon I find forgetting is too easy.

Stephen Brooke ©2026

this started out as a bit about my aphantasia but grew into something rather different 

Fade, a poem

Fade

Love will fade until you are not sure
you ever loved. Try to believe you did.
It is the lesser of hurts. Believe the moon
remembers. It, too, kissed her once and passed
on into the night. It whispers names
you have forgotten. Names that fade like love.

Stephen Brooke ©2026

Passages, a poem

Passages

You may wander my rooms,
yet not find the secret
passages. Believe
they are there, Believe
they lie hidden. Tap
paneled walls. Seek
cryptic clues along
dim-lit cobwebbed halls.
Any traps you find
are of your own setting.

Stephen Brooke ©2026

Shape, a poem

Shape

I really don’t exist,
I’m merely an illusion
I imagined once,
a moment of confusion.

Each forgotten face
is held up for inspection;
every mirror holds
its own fun-house reflection.

I looked into a room
with my name on the door,
but found that it was empty — 
who was there before?

Memories of morning
mist obscure tomorrow,
whisper who I’ll be,
illusions I might borrow.

Am I just the shape
I saw once in a cloud?
The wind took but a moment
to wrap me in its shroud.

Stephen Brooke ©2026