Friday, February 06, 2009


I'll craft you a war of carnelian
and spilt promise,
strung upon the golden
hair of children.

Wear it when the wind
has carried my name
away, carried it from even
the ear of God.

The towered clouds once bowed
to you and me;
we were a king and a queen
upon love's throne.

And there was rain that night
and the truth
of summer's heat was told
by distant lightning.

In the bazaar, priests bargain
for misplaced souls,
the cut-rate remainders
no one will read.

Bid me up a little,
won't you? The stacks
of heaven and hell are full
of such already.

The trees were thick with stars
and tomorrow
when the breeze filled night
with your song.

My heart's become no more
than shadow against
the sky; an urgent wind
has scattered me.

The ink of regret is dark
as the new wine;
drink deeply its promises,
the taste of someday.

I'll craft you a book of moonstone
and desert wind
that only your sleeping eyes
shall ever read.

Stephen Brooke ©2009

One of those poems I could explain in part but never fully -- but if we only write what we know and understand, I believe we will be unable to move forward. Loosely metered, for those who care about such, as is much of my stuff.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

mmmmmmm... great poem!