May seduction

•May 1, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Coaxed by spring’s wet warmth
May sprouts forth
blushing with pink seduction.

~c.m. brooks

If Vladimir Putin Wrote Poetry

•April 26, 2017 • Leave a Comment

I want to imagine that Putin
is a romantic and that he writes
poetry by candlelight.

That he dresses serruptitiously
in a velvet suit with a ruffed
collar like Cervantes.

I’d like to imagine he may be fluent
in Greek and perhaps
conversational in French.

I want to think he is a bad boy
but that underneath it all
he likes the feel of silk.

That for all his erudition he likes
to still seduce the ladies with
cheesy pick up lines.

I wonder if he loves to play with
alliteration? Or, whether he
prefers traditional rhyme?

Is he a fan of Bukowski, Dickenson
or Wilde? Or is Rumi, Basho
and Tagore more his style?

I want to take his tough guy
routine as bluster because
he doesn’t want people
to know he really loves
to write senryu.

April 26, 2017 By c.m. brooks

Silence that is more than we can bear

•April 26, 2017 • Leave a Comment

The fake or the faint they are nothing new to me.
They have circumambulate this silent path
you’ve marked out on the ground for decades.

So easy to tell what you have been thinking.
Impressed like an old wound on paper
your heart slowly emptied by time.

Words vanish, rebound off unseen glass
even in the quiet rain I cannot see you.
Mist swirling, broken only by the rough treeline.

You shrug your shoulders, moving away
your burden already more than you can bear.
Nothing I will say can touch you.

“Be there for me, just this once”, she asks.
“See me for who I am. Take care of me.
Please, just want me.”

Painful words falling on a deaf heart.
Because in the end, it is always the silence
that is more than we can bear.

2017 By c.m. brooks

Happy Dancers

•April 16, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Wind blown daffodils
with their skirts upturned
Spring’s yellow cabaret.


•February 10, 2017 • Leave a Comment

We become
in the unbecoming

this winter
without a spring
this coffee
without a cup
this sun
without the moon
place of consonants
without vowels

there is
no adjustment
to being half
of a whole


the ground
falling out
beneath our feet
being bottomless
with no soft landing

hearts break away
into a future
where only
of everything exists

where we are
one breath

In this unbecoming
we come to be.

2017 c.m.brooks

this … is not living

•July 7, 2016 • Leave a Comment


to live
with a target
on my back.

is life in America

July 7, 2016, by c.m. brooks

feeling for the edge

•July 3, 2016 • Leave a Comment

It has been three years since this hole opened up
and I have yet to find the edge of it.

People have stopped asking me about you or how I feel.
Do I miss you, have I moved on?
And that is a good thing because on many days I don’t know.

Your brother, Roger, asked me a year ago
to write something for the cottage memorial book.
A few words about who you were.

All I can do is stare down into this hole
feel for the edge and wonder if I am ready
to explore its depth.

And this morning again my heart says
I am still not ready.

By c.m.brooks , July 3, 2016