Pieces of the Moon Title Page

Welcome to the online edition of PIECES OF THE MOON, a book of poems from Stephen Brooke and Arachis Press ©2003

The poems follow, each to its own page, in the order they appear in the published editions. There is an index/table of contents on the 'About the Book' page to facilitate navigation.

A Bit of Moon

We have a bit of moon, tonight;
It shines its way into my bedroom,
Keeping me a while from sleep.
I should arise, slip from my covers,
Cross those cold floors, close those blinds
That I left open; blinds forgotten
When I made my drowsy round
Of locking doors and dimming lights.

It rose to shine, not long ago,
And now that moon lies on my bed,
Conversing of the day's events
Much like some lovers I have known.
At end of day comes lethargy;
This uninvited guest may stay.
It's late and I, in time, will sleep
So let the moon shine in, tonight.


Enter, stage left, our hero?
No, just a bit player
in an empty
auditorium. The cheers rise
silent from a darkened house
as he takes his bows and eats
his lunch. Encore?


a sijo

My guitars carry the names
of women I once knew.

Some I loved and some I might
have loved if life were different.

I play their memories each time
I hold one in my arms.

Dogs and Poetry

All-day suckers, she called them;
one for each of her boys —
Donal, Mad Max, sleek Arrakis —
to gnaw when the long
Florida rains kept them indoors.

We were dogs and poetry,
she and I, dogs and poetry,
and I overlooked our mismatch
even as I did those marrow bones
scattered across her living room floor.

I’ve chewed the bones of us
long enough for all the flavor
to mix in uncertain memory
with the pleasures of some other time,
as her dogs have become my poetry.

It has stopped raining;
I want to run in the yard.


I’ve picked Neruda’s pocket,
lifted his wallet and spent
the words unwisely. I should
have given them to you.
Shall I snatch Sexton’s purse
and buy you something nice?


I have no truths to spare;
panhandle somewhere else.

My coat buttons all the way up
to keep out the cold.

Do the streets of heaven
lead anywhere?