"brooke" poems
Meticulous and true. They are so careful. So skilled. Deftly and with a swift and sure hand, the words,
Oh the words, they flow like a brooke. The one in the forest, you know the one. The one out there, out far. In the deep of the wood, over root, under canopy. Through the branches you have to look real hard. And the hard part is not knowing at all what youre looking for. And then there,
After an eternity and in an instant it is there infront of you. What you have been looking for. A vast clearing. Wide and open. The sun glints through the salt-and-peppered leaf roof. It crawls and stretches and lightly caresses everything you lay your eyes upon. Even matte mossy rocks, they seem to shine. You look down and it caresses you as well. Gentle and warm the embrace that you cant quite put your finger on. The location. The origin. It is everywhere, it surrounds you. Close your eyes. Embrace the sun back. But i digress my digression. The brook. It flows over, around, through. There is no stopping the water. It is relentless, it WILL get to its destination. You cannot change its mind. It is immovable.
That is what it is. It is beauty.
I know i should not compare. There is beauty in it all. But, goodness, the feelings invoked when reading others' poetry in admiration.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 1:22 AM UTC
Rugby town, of landlocked streets,
of wasted field and barefaced retreat;
I miss you now, in absence of a friend,
I miss you now, in the verse that I lend.
Suburb grove, of sleepy mist,
oh, battered housewife, oh blastocyst;
you will remain in place forevermore,
and forevermore, you'll become a bore.
Holding cell, of sporting fame,
you stole my dreams but gave me my name;
I think of you: a multi-storey view,
of happy faces, of which there is few.
Still, my town, in debt's nightgown,
the shop-fronts vacate, we're feeling down;
these streets are poisoned with names of the past,
each memoir to teach: nothing's built to last
Rugby town, of weary folk,
the private school is a private joke;
I miss you now, as I sleep through the day,
I miss the old walks, and all that you'd say.
Old market town, the aftermath,
of British summer, suicide bath;
of open mics and closing the shutters,
of waking graveyards, sleeping in gutters.
Hopeless climbs, of dreary times,
of childhood state and nursery rhymes;
each time that I come home, I know you less,
becoming a stranger in my redress.
Clock tower, chiming, chiming loud,
singing for history long and proud;
of Rupert Brooke and the question: “what if?”
What if I was born to some lover's tiff?
To some large and friendless town,
to some body of land, which I drown;
to some active place of pain unknown,
to some place that I'll not gauge that I've grown,
oh Rugby dear, stay with me,
let me live on the periphery;
and although this town seems terribly dull,
it could be worse – I could live in Hull.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
Tarry, the Heroine's Right Friend-in-Bond
After months of Letters un-comprehend
I should have noticed your Living Response
But my Character has long been pretend
Forgive my English, Naiad of the Plym
Your Side-Family has offered Remorse
I mean no Blood; Just a Puff and a Whim
To show you I am honest in my Course
And yet, these are just Words; And in your Kind
Physics is the Path most will understand
Yet given this Map which I cannot find
I Support you in the Best Way I can.
Once the Flame lights in this Kingdom's Great Hill
I bid my Salute whilst my Feet stand still.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 12:49 AM UTC
out of the blue you came,
and for that i was the blame.
the house was too crowded,
sweaty bodies and red cups enshrouded.
i looked and looked around,
but you didn't want to be found.
and then in the backyard i saw you,
noticed you right through.
i asked you 'what's the matter',
you said 'i would rather'.
i gave you a questioning look,
you asked, 'are you Brooke'.
i chuckled at you guess,
and straightened my dress.
you got up,
and pushed the red cup.
i opened my mouth to talk,
but further you walked.
you cupped my neck,
and gave me a peck.
i gasped for air,
and ran my hands through your hair.
your lips connected to mine again,
and realization hit me then.
i was too good for you,
and you were too good for me.
we didn't match,
we were a mismatch.
but just so you know,
i loved you all along.
even though we both said no,
we were wrong.
you were such a party destroyer,
you destroyed me, completely,
mind and body.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 12:17 PM UTC
I have seen this town grow
through the tides of my time,
to the low and call of the market men,
to all of my drinks laced with lime.
The cracks form in concrete,
as they do to my aging face,
but never are the streets unrecognisable.
No, here, I can always find a place.
And the clock tower calls,
just to signify the passing day,
oh, all of life’s sorrow falls
to the saying: “come what may.”
I know you all, I’ve seen you crawl
through these jobs; waiting tables,
pouring wine, and shooting pool
in the stagnant afternoons;
claiming your past as part of mine.
Rupert Brooke is now but a name,
some archaic poet of yesterday.
His name now naught but of drinking fame,
as all the customers line up to pay.
Oh, I miss my childhood, old friends now past,
only stark reminders that nothing is built to last.
I need you now, my lifelong friend;
to my soul, give warmth,
to my heart, please mend.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
I wish i had a daddy .
I wish i was the little princess of a daddy.
I wish i had a daddy to take me shoping
I wish i had a daddy to come in my bedroom why im
laying in my bed in tell funny storys then cover me up in give me a good night kiss on the check. Their was this one man how i realy look up to as my daddy he treated me like i was his own in like a princess in would sit in listen to how i felt in everthing eles he was the only man how i have ever look up to as my daddy in now i wont ever get to see him ever again he loved me as his daughter he would alwhys say how he more then a daddy then what jay is cause he dose more for me then what that jay guy has ever did 4 me . in his name was rohn he was gonna be my step dad in 2 moths but my mom in him brooke up now i am never ever oloud to see im again now so i am sad but maybe one day i will get to him again sincarly love me hayley >3
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC
I've always been told
That you should never let go
Of a person
Who can see the sadness
Behind your smile
And hear your screams
When you are silent
Three years it has been
Since I was introduced
To a person
Who rapidly became
My other half,
My panda child,
My best friend.
Up until then,
I was forever surrounded
By small talk
And friends without meaning
Through all the
*******
And
Heartbreaks,
She had been there
Along with
All the petty
Events inbetween
And
I know
In my coffee
And
Cacti
Scented soul
That she will
Continue to do so
For a very,
Very,
Long time.
And one day,
She is going to arrive home
To a place and a person
She loves
And then she will understand
That dying
Isn't necessary
In order to
Go to heaven.
And
If a boy ever
Borrows her heart
And returns it infected
I will personally
Destroy
What's left
Of his sad
Little
Life.
Because
Knowing her,
She will give him everything
And he **** well
Better do the same.
Brooke Roman,
You are beautiful
And I hope you enjoy this poem
That doesn't really make much sense
But
I thought it was necessary
Because
You mean the world to me
And
I would not be here
If you had not come
And saved me
And
You can truly say
You appreciate beauty
Because
You've continously stopped
To pick up the pieces
Of my insecurities
That self-identify
To a beer bottle
Smashed onto a rock
Probably by my father
You are perfect
And
I love you
More than I love coffee
And pizza
And that's saying something.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 9:29 PM UTC
“Doubt thou the stars are fire,
Doubt that the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love,"
He wrote.
"Never doubt," she whispered
As her foot hovered over the fallen tree.
Tentative and cautious she treads,
As if to make up for her blind trust
She had in his words.
"Never doubt."
Words, words, words, words.
"Never doubt," she choked
While her eyes hungrily stared at the water below.
To die, to sleep.
To drown, to float.
"Never doubt."
"I love I love I love I love," she sings
Sobbing.
She is here.
She is standing on the fallen tree over the water,
Flowers in hand,
Melodies in mind,
Her choice in her throat.
"Not to be."
She is there.
Her self
Fell in the weeping brooke,
her cloathes spread wide,
And Mermaid-like, a while they bore her up,
Which time she chaunted
snatches of old tunes,
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature Natiue, and indued
Unto that Element but long it could not be,
Till that her garments,
heavy with her drink,
Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay,
To muddy death.
Now tell me, my dear prince,
Would you call that "love?"
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 11:33 PM UTC
ARISTOCRATIC CHRISTMAS
The goose was plucked for Christmas
Not a feather was in sight
The butler cleaned the silver
Cook baked with all of her might
The aristocrats in the morning room
Sipped a sherry or two
Whilst waiting for their dinner
It was the thing to do
All dressed in their finery
The children there as well
All except for Grandpa
(The stories he could tell!)
No one alas was listening
And no one noticed there
He’d on one foot a slipper
And the other was quite bare.
Below stairs was quite hectic
Upstairs all serene
And all along the passageways
And sometimes in between
Servants rushed as servants do
To make things run with ease
Tending fires fetching things
Aiming just to please
And Grandpa sat and nodded
His head sank on his chest
He remembered long ago
The Christmas he’d thought best
With one foot in a slipper
The other one quite bare
He waited for his dinner
Sat there in his chair
And soon the gong it sounded
Its boom rang loud and clear
They all trooped in the dining room
With those they held so dear
The table was resplendent
The glasses gleamed and shone
The cutlery was sparkling
The goose it weighed a ton
The master carved the mistress smiled
The children looked in awe
The butler served the vegetables
(Cos that’s what they are for)
The pudding was amazing
The brandy sauce was ace
They ate and ate until alas
No more could they face
All except for Grandpa
He was sat quite still
And no one noticed him not there
As they all ate their fill
With one foot in his slipper
The other one quite bare.
On Christmas day he died alone
Sat there in his chair.
© Pamela Brooke 2009
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 9:32 AM UTC
Off to 'The Orchard' for afternoon tea
Beautiful and quaint, filled with history
Rupert Brooke, the poet, started the trend
Taking tea in the garden 'til the days end
Virginia Woolf, a writer, with a troubled mind
Enjoyed the bonds of friendship with a group so kind
It goes as far back as the year 1897
Cambridge students found a pocket of heaven
Blossoming fruit trees arranged in rows
Scattered seating, cushions and colourful throws
Crumbling moist Scones with jam and cream
Carrot Cake and Cordial an Elderberry dream
Horses in the distance and cows by your side
Cool Emerald grass where the insects hide
A wander by the river hand in hand
The most peaceful day that ever was planned
I visited The Orchard yesterday, a most gorgeous place. I hope this poem gives you a picture of this idyllic little corner of England x
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
The stereo lights are neon and remind me of a book
I read in middle school. I can't remember the title,
Only that nostalgic comfort of a book that relates,
dictates your own inner workings and schemes. It's
Difficult to find this emotion in modern-day fiction;
Do you ever miss the moss behind your ears when
You're watching an actress snort her way to gold?
Amelia Earhart has always inspired me. I like to
Associate with the theory that she chose to lose
herself in that triangle, immerse herself in a lost
Island life style. Even Brooke Shields made a life
stranded, and though it's just a movie, aqua water
And sandy hips appear, reappear in my dreams. I
can build a fire with a palm tree and the palms of
Your hands. I can build a home with leaves and the
beauty of your blink. A coconut kiss is precious.
Amelia's an explorer, a woman who understands
her destination. Surely she couldn't resist the dusty
Beaches once she flew miles above them. Friday's
are perfect for losing past transgressions, so I can
Comfortably pretend this ***** stream is the Mississ
-ippi and I'm floating on a raft made from the peach
Core. Is there anything better than a high?
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 12:52 PM UTC
I dream awe less . collected. composed.
sewn together perfectly like pedals onto the rose.
I sit straight up, with my corset.
paper thin black lace.
I stretch my legs on to your chest.
give me every pastel color, every beautiful waterfall
and singing brooke.
I will bend for you in every magical way that I can.
I will give you the most tender and womanly parts of me.
sing with me my beautiful
and let us dance.
Mar 9, 2011
Mar 9, 2011 at 8:17 AM UTC
i feel that in some places
physical apologies only
make things worse, and
for all the times I tried you
always dismissively waved
your hand and shook your
head, pacifying me with a
simple smile, no, Brooke,
this was my fault.
But the truth is, I'm at fault
too, so one day I hope you
don't look back on me
in dismay, somehow find it in
your heart to forgive me for the
way I am or was. Because love
does not boast the way I did or
refuse an embrace from someone
so confused.
(And although this
wheat field is grand and seemingly
endless I'm thankful to run through
again and again if it meant learning
more from you)
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
/ sitting on your leg
almost ingesting a tongue-like
presence into your ****
on a window-sill?
miracle, when it comes
to bowel movement;
and what a pristine piece
of **** that was...
i hope homosexual ***
feels... just as good.
p.s. esp. while listening
to brooke c's drum covers...
and to think...
some people read books
on the throne of thrones...
on the odd occassion a game,
but sometimes:
watching videos,
thinking to myself:
this takes the bollocking -
it's d'ah ****
i guess that's what you might
call cognitive massage parlour
additive to compensate
for...
the deconstructive
post-modernist, derrida spreschen
of modern lawyers...
brick is a brick isn't a brick
type of scenarios...
i thought they stopped
as a thesaurus sensibility?
guess i was wrong, all along.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 8:06 PM UTC
you say it's up to me
to do the talking,
you get a phone call from school.
you answer,
nothing but silence at the other end.
*"hello, i have your daughter in the
counselors office.
may i speak to brooke's mother?"*
you take your finger
and wrap it around the phone wire.
"yes, this is her speaking."
you take a deep breath.
"hello how are you? i have brooke here in the counselors office, i'm sorry to bother you at work today, i'm sure you are busy. but do you have a few minutes to talk with me? i am very concerned about brooke today, her teacher says she wrote her persuasive paper on.."
-she pauses-
"cutting herself,"
you stare at the blank computer screen in front of you, frozen.
"i am very worried about Brooke, she says you knew about her harming her self-"
she stops speaking, waiting on a response.
you take a deep breath, scared, hurt and confused.
"i don't know if you would possibly agree with this, but i think Brooke needs counseling."
you drop the phone, in tears.
little did you know,
that your daughter
was fighting her own demons.
little did you know,
that the little brown and white
snakes tattooed on her wrist,
were a cry for help.
little did you know,
that she wanted
to be saved from herself.
-b.m
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 6:16 PM UTC
*"Very difficult," says a little fairy
sitting all alone by herself
near a little singing brooke
and me, i was sitting by a tree
reading my poetry book
she cried to whom, i know not
"alas, finding real true love
is so very difficult"
i heard her say, and i thought
to myself, i must agree*
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 7:17 PM UTC
As the sun begin to rise and the stars appear to fade
Her voice echoed in the fog , calling for a dark shade
She was dressed in white , purest of them all
Men and beast alike , she was lost in the fog
As she walked through the forest , the birds begin to sing
The flowers bloomed like never before and the trees started to swing
The forest came alive , from the presence of something dead
As she made her way through the forest , in search of one last breath
Her heart was full of sorrow and her mind was full of pain
As she walked through the gallows , in search of a forgotten name
The sun was slowly rising high and the fog begin to disappear
Frightened as she was , as calm she appeared
She closed her eyes and the tears begin to fall
Nurturing the land beneath , watering the small
Her hands reached out for someone , something to hold her back
But all she received in return was with black
She had brought along all she had and all she knew
She kept moving and the pain grew
She walked on and on , inside the deepest and the darkest of the wilderness
Her own darkness reflected upon the place
And now it was too dark to remember the face
Even the sun Coudnt penetrate the place she stood
And the birds stopped singing as if they understood
The flowers started losing the colours , as if mourning her cause
And everything stood still , so quite engulfed in the fog
Her legs stopped moving and she reached a Brooke
Shimmering in the dark , as she took a look
She looked down , deep inside the nothingness
All she could see was herself in the darkness
As she stepped inside , it started turning red
Bleeding like she always bled
And Ina moment it was all gone into a little of nothingness
She was covered in black , surrounded by darkness
And for the first time she was at peace
The sweet dreams were over and the nightmares would cease
She could see the sun , as she drifted away, slowly enlighting the world above
As she finally let herself go , in the name of love
She knew it'll be waiting on the otherside with open arms
And she was cold no more , she was at peace , so calm
Though she is gone , the forest can still feel her walk
But her tale is forgotten , lost in the fog
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 4:17 PM UTC
For Pennsylvania is the Land
Where Men with Hearts may Understand,
And much the nicest part must be
The County of Montgomery.
And in that district I most like
The town that ends the Pottstown Pike.
For heaven's blessings rarely stick
to folk who live in Limerick,
and you would be the worse to know
the crimes that they commit in Stowe,
and heaven's wrath comes raining down
on men who live in Boyertown,
where sins are strange, and stranger still
are secrets hid in Douglasville;
they'd slit your throat for twenty pence
in frightful Lower Providence
and rumour tells me true that no men
are virtuous in Perkiomen.
But Pottstown, oh, but dear Pottstown!
Why, there a person may lie down
upon its riverbanks so stony,
or paddle in the Manatawny.
They laugh and love their life so well
They're purchasing a carousel.
(And when they get to feeling old,
A thousand senior Cokes are sold
with super fries and apple pie:
McDonalds, Hanover and High.)
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 1:20 PM UTC
Tribal paint flickers
as illumination passes by
packed platforms of private souls
spilling into peripheral vision
Saturday nights
create fresh perspective
on unconscious thoughts
An unpulled can
of tired, bow-tied Spaniards
and white-clad partygoers
Tinney earphones
thrusting Brooklyn's finest
99 Problems aren't on my mind
but in my (un)willing ears
And I saw you on the street
42nd I'd say
I was filling my lungs
with the poison,
beautiful,
you showed me
You walked past me
just another stranger
you in 10 years time
They say everyone has a doppelganger in NYC
I haven't seen mine
but she's seen me
and Brooke saw her too,
rolled up Levis and a frown
you looked as beautiful as you always did
but clean of everything
you'd ever touched
or is yet to touch you
because nicky clouds
my thoughts lift me higher
I wanted to tell you that
I pray now
But I let you walk by
and disappear
leaving me with myself
coffee spilt from matches
got twisted and wouldn't light
I'm one handed,
crowded city but you're not here.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC
what you used to do with those fingers
i look for them in pictures
and wonder if it's you sitting in the background
is it you behind the jenga tower
is it you behind that camera lens
yes, I used to say your name in
many intonations, many lungfuls not wasted
but they are wasted now, every time
is it you behind those blocks in that
black sweater, yes I remember you
from so long ago when
you used to say
i love you brooke
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 12:06 AM UTC
It’s Friday night and a group of us, the ‘university summer fellows’ (Quinn, Jammie, Monique, Lisa and I) are going groovin’. Quinn, a Harvard man (we’ve shed our jaundiced opinions of him), assured us he knows the Boston bar scene. We’re going to test that.
We told him we wanted to sway to whimsical beats and chase vivid, neon lights across dance floors, like a bunch of cats - till the hours get wee. His plan is for us to pop-in the “touristy” places, like ‘the Havana Club’, ‘the Manray club’, ‘Garage Boston’ and ‘The Grand’, we’re so 111. As usual, Charles is our party mom, escort and driver.
When Peter and I were in Saint-Tropez, earlier this summer, there were beach clothes - dresses, skirts and men's shirts - where they’d woven micro-LEDs into the flowered, dry-wick, fabrics. I think the effect is amazing, friday, and joyous. I got two skirts for everyone (all of my roommates). Tonight Lisa and I are wearing a couple of them.
Funny. I’ve mentioned it before, but Lisa‘s an audrey. Her school friends and roommates are all used to it, we’ve been exposed, we have built up immunity. But Quinn’s a newbie, when Lisa came into the living room, LED glittered and lookin-right, he was literally stunned. He froze, for a microsecond, his face went blank and his fingers wiggled, as if disconnected from his overloaded central nervous system.
*** Jammie said, having just turned around, “holla at ya brooke!,” he declared, shaking his head in admiration. “Umm mmm,” he added.
“I’m sure.” Lisa said, starting to transfer things from her everyday bag to her glittery clutch, the girl cannot accept a compliment. Quinn, coming out of it, cleared his throat.
We’re ready. Let Friday night begin!
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 12:12 PM UTC
Friendship.
Something that should be valued highly.
Jessica.
Sometimes we take our oldest and closest friends for granted.
Sydney.
We forget just how much we love them.
Rachel.
When we meet new friends,
Holly.
We become scared.
Sierrah.
We...
Dylan.
I...
Kaitlin.
Do ridiculous things to impress them.
Emily.
Sometimes, my mind just slips away.
Hannah.
Why can't I always be my true self?
Hollie.
I suppose that's a hard thing to do...
Brooke.
I'm very fortunate for you.
Beth Ann.
I drag on you at times.
Megan.
But my life would be so different without you...
Olivia.
I don't know how,
Molly.
But it would be.
Tiana.
Thank you.
Abbey.
You keep me in line.
Kateri.
My life is like a puzzle.
Madeline.
(Well, I think ALL of our lives are like puzzles.)
Taylor.
I have many pieces and sections to me.
Shaely.
When one piece is lost,
Sam.
Then the puzzle is not finished.
Drew.
You actually do complete me.
Zac.
This poem is long.
Kevin.
But bear with me, please.
Will.
I can't come up with the perfect words to describe our relationship.
Liz.
This poem may seem redundant,
Suzy.
And that's because it is.
Brittany.
I am a lost person in the wild.
Sister.
And you, my friends,
Mom.
Are the trees,
Dad.
The wind,
Grandma Bruns.
The grass,
Grandma Johnston.
And the things that guide me along the shattered glass road.
Grandpa Bruns.
The things that keep me safe.
Grandpa Johnston.
For that I must thank you.
Friends.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 11:12 AM UTC
**My skin is slowly dying, untouchable
Makes me eternal in my soul
My strength has fallen away~
I feel the darkness
The Sweetness, the lullabies
Dusk have it flirting with blackness
Time will tell~
All the trembling
The promises like my prayers
Needs the darkness
Need the whispers of the night~
I feel the darkness
In my soul, shed blindness to witness
Shared color of blackness
Just one more time~
Darkness lingers over my body
Through a flicker like a memory
Searing through the corner of my bones
Fears and joys and smiles, please just one more time~
Make me feel the light
Just one more time
then maybe I could be strong~**
Brooke Dylan @
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 10:08 PM UTC
All men are disgusting
(all men aren't disgusting)
I'm buying bananas at the store
trying to find green ones because
I hate ripe fruit (ironic) and an old
man with his wife stops to stare at
my legs. I want to break every banana on the
stand but that would probably turn him on.
Remember Derek? Who told me to **** off
when I wouldn't go to the movies with him
you're like every other girl in this town
Well, yeah, maybe, but not every other
girl wants to slam your face into the
cash register at City Market (or maybe they do)
Remember Ty, who called me a ***** for not
wanting to bake thc butter into my brownies
I sincerely hope you overdose on orange juice, love brooke.
I wouldn't call it homicidal, but I want to slash your tires
and ram into your bumper four (or seven) times but my
insurance probably would not cover that.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC