Tuesday, January 31, 2006


Do I miss her? Oh sure,
sometimes. Those were
the best and worst of times,
a Dickens of a time.

She wouldn’t get that
and there it is. That was
the divide I could never
cross, no matter how high

we flew. Hell, yes, I miss her.
I miss her when fireflies
spell our names in the hollows
of a soft Spring night.

Uncork the wine; I’ll drink
my solitary toast to memory.

Stephen Brooke ©2006

As winter gives way to spring, it is time both to harvest from the past and to plant for the future.

Friday, January 27, 2006


I’m with the piano player.
You’ve seen me now
and then at gigs, haven’t you?
I fetch her a plate from the buffet,
stand in the background,

and I’ve had these hesitation blues
far too long. Oh, yes, I’ve had them
but I’m with the piano player
despite the water that’s run
under every bridge between us.

That’s a lot of bridges and a lot
of water and too much time,
some would say, to hesitate.
Let God have His mysterious ways;
I’m with the piano player.

Stephen Brooke ©2006

In part, I decided to play around a little with trying to take a fresh approach here to some very hoary cliches (water under the bridge, God's mysterious ways). Don't know if I succeeded.

Thursday, January 26, 2006


Of course, I could be in love. It happens,
has happened before. But you know me,
I’m the cautious guy. I’m the guy who has
to be sure before he hands over his heart

and even then, ah, even then it has
been handed back once or twice. No different
than you, right? So here comes that day again,
that mid-February hearts-and-candy day,

when I suppose I should say something and maybe
mean it. Or maybe not; if any day was right
to test the waters of romance, it’s this one.
I’ll buy a card or three and throw them in.

Something ventured – but not too much –
and something gained, perhaps. And my heart?
I could hand it over some other day, lace trimmed
and pasted on crimson paper.

Stephen Brooke ©2006

Valentines Day is not too far off and that thought led to this bit of conversational verse.

okay, so it's not what you hoped...

Monday, January 23, 2006


Every year they journey forth,
the annual migration,
Streamin’ down from all points North
bringin’ irritation!
We try our best to be pleasin’
but it’s mighty hard to suit ‘em;
Why is it called tourist season
when we can't even shoot ’em?

Motor homes in front of me,
fill up the passin’ lane;
Why, Southern hospitality
can barely stand the strain!
They creep along for no good reason
though our horns, we loudly toot ’em
Why is it called tourist season
when we can't even shoot ’em?

Oh, maybe I’m just a little cranky
and they do put food in my mouth
But does every solitary Yankee
have to come down South?
Could we send ‘em back to where it’s freezin’
do you think we could reroute ‘em?
Why is it called tourist season
when we can't even shoot ’em?

Let me ask y’all another thing:
whether young or old,
Does every tourist have to bring
along a northern cold?
Each place I go, I hear them sneezin’,
their noses, they loudly toot ‘em!
Why is it called tourist season
when we can't even shoot ’em?

Stephen Brooke ©2006

Words toward a song of the sillier sort. I came across the 'tourist season' phrase on line and decided to work something up around it.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

"Friends With Low Wages"
see the video!

This year, I resolve
to give my inner curmudgeon
freer rein.

This year, I will throw more
rocks through windows.

This year, I will read less
bad poetry, unless it is written
by pretty girls.

This year, I resolve
to tell more interesting lies
about myself.

This year I will revisit

This year, I resolve
to drink even more coffee.
I can sleep in ‘07.

This year, I resolve
to become more famous
than you.

Stephen Brooke ©2006

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

LET THEM GO (revised)

The night swallowed stars
like sugar in strong coffee
until the skies swam
in storm and darkness

conversed with the wind.
Could you make out the words?
Did our names become
leaves upon the gale?

Let them go.

How long could we believe
the hidden stars yet shone?
How long could we offer
our hearts to the sightless sky?

The night swallowed the scraps
of yesterday, each spent,
hoarded passion loosed
from a wearied grasp.

Let them go.

I summoned all my dreams
for you, became your hero.
I bore the very lightning
of my soul to you,

brought down my guarded towers.
I am done; I have
thrown myself away.
The night has swallowed me.

Let me go.

Stephen Brooke ©2006

yeah, yeah, decidedly melodramatic, etc etc...I thought I'd throw up this very first-draftish piece anyway. (after posting this, I added the 8 middle lines. an improvement, I think. The jump was too long between the first and last stanzas)

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

I feel more than usually pessimistic today...give me two half-empty glasses of water.

Monday, January 02, 2006

Want to mention a couple changes in my vast blogging empire --

First, I closed down the Xanga 'Deadman Bay' blog where I was trying to keep my recording diary. But I now have a different Deadman Bay at My Space which is also related to music but is a bit broader in focus, being intended to showcase friends and associates and such.

Second, I'm playing around with an embedded Word Press blog at my site, which at the moment I'm calling the insolent news. That name might change...it already has several times! Anyway, it will probably be what the name says, mostly -- news.

This will continue to be my personal blog and all this other stuff is linked up over there to the side.