Slaves, a poem

Slaves

We are the slaves of death;
  its shackles may not be shed.

Run, and it will still catch you;
  hide, and it will still find you.

Yet one day, it will break
  our chains, saying ‘Go.’

Stephen Brooke ©2026

in a vaguely sijo-like form 

A Winter Poem

The kitchen becomes my world on these cold days,
  revolving around a book and a cup of tea.
Let the north wind call at window and door;
  let her voice lose itself among the trees.
These days come and go, clad in their darkness,
  and I remain until I may seek spring.

Stephen Brooke ©2024

not exactly a sijo but in the shape of one

Pears Sijo

The last pears of the season
   have proven the sweetest.

Share them with me in the orchard
   before the leaves also fall.

Too soon, the wind will carry
   both of you away.

Stephen Brooke ©2024

A poem more or less in the form of a sijo.

Messages, a sijo

Messages

Each wave leaves its mark,

erasing those before it,

and rolls back to the sea,

to be erased by the next.

Can you read what is written

before it washes away?

Stephen Brooke ©2024

Somewhat in the form of a sijo