Poetry by Simon Brooks


Age is wasted on the old.
Folks reclining in living rooms
expound on how folks should be.
Respect your elders’
beliefs. They carry wisdom.

Wrinkles and white hairs, cast by old truths,
declare possessed history.
Some rage against the dying of the light.
Others describe how the light looked.
That good night is surely gentle sometimes.

I have seen what wisdom is.
Unapplied knowledge is extraneous,
words and actions are disparate,
and you can’t make an omelet without
counting your chickens before they hatch.


Sonnet 34

Save me, heroic couplet! I’m distressed.
Speakers around me are not making sense.
These words should, or I will be unimpressed.
Remarks must lead to richer recompense.
The man in me burns fierce upon the page
and yearns to divulge all there is to say.
The child in me knows not passionate rage
and enjoys rhyme schemes, riddles, and wordplay.
Without sentences, this paper is blank.
Some problems popped up, so I improvised.
There’s meaning in this sonnet, to be frank.
Of gleaning past perceptions, it’s comprised.
‘Til now, you were not in the equation.
It is a bandage and an abrasion.

The Big One

Tyrannosaurus rex rips
dripping flesh with dagger-like teeth
from the carcass
of a stegosaurus.
A pterodactyl soars overhead,
indifferent, aloof.
Far off, magma oozes
down a mountainside.
Its smoke and ash are commonplace.
Something appears above the pterodactyl,
a little to the magnetic north.
The asteroid bursts through atmosphere,
barreling at a diagonal
through greyish sky.
It is engulfed in fire
and trailed by particles of itself.
Nearing the ground, it becomes apparent
that this one is different.

Hiroshi puts on his jacket
and looks in the mirror.
His tie is straight,
his haircut looks nice,
and another day of diplomacy
doesn’t seem so daunting.
German fascists, the imbeciles,
surrendered two months ago.
Giving up on the war has never been so enticing.
Hiroshi’s bus to his city’s shiyakusho, where he works,
is right on time.
A plane can be heard overhead,
its droning engines somehow comforting.
Looking through a window, Hiroshi sees
unfamiliar markings on it.
The aerodynamic cylinder drops from its belly,
It all ends with confusion.

Fish in Alaska, wild as plants,
have tasty flesh.
A man sits in a small boat,
drifting a little,
his pole bobs up and down.
Fishing line is hooked up
to a jig about three feet from the bottom.
He is relaxed, meditative, at ease.
Bobbing motions give his bait lifelike qualities.
Another light beer is cracked open,
vapor pouring upward out of it.
Breezes are cold.
Sunlight isn’t cold.
A small jiggle on the pole,
and his line begins a slow unreeling. It’s on!
The enormous halibut is not being cooperative.
An hour of tiring sly strategy
brings the 300 pound beast out of its watery home.

Beauty, embodied, glances
with tired eyes
and furtive eyebrows.
You think
she might
have looked
at you,
and she turns away.
Intangible suffering
is written all over her lovely face.
You tear your eyes
away from her.
Either she doesn’t need you,
or she is not
what she appears to be.
Your figurative paths cross.
She grins.
The tension is malleable.

UntitledSimon M. Brooks was born in Alaska. He went to high school there. Then, he went to college, but not in Alaska. He still lives in a place that isn’t Alaska.


One thought on “Poetry by Simon Brooks

  1. This is the best poetry I’ve seen on this site so far. Well done, sir. You are a step above the rest (or several steps, as the case may be).


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