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steven cooke, 11 november 2012
The Wind Will Never Forget
The Wind Will Never Forget
The tears of life now sleep with them
the guns have found their silence.
These fields of war are now in peace,
only the poppies remain
These red petals that cover this land
with remembrance of yesterday,
of the suffering and pain,
for our lads have passed this way.
These brave boys
Who bore their innocence
to this thing we call war
who renounced their gift of life for us
Strangers to you and me
yet more dearer to our souls than family
for here lies the cross of Jesus
the pain of everyman
That sacrifice that only youth can give
their epitaph is our peace
The rose of England bows its head
in reverence and humbled grace
and may god bless all of them
For our boys were the roses
that flowered in every village
the Jack’s and Jimmie’s
the Tom’s and the Bert’s
No more footsteps for mother to hear
their laughter stolen by the wind
all quiet now in village square
But on a wall in a foreign land
their names are lovingly remembered.
Grandchildren shout their names with pride
for they are the seeds of England
this immortal rose cannot die
for they were beautiful
And we who are alive
You who take the time to stop
who bow your heads in silence
will feel their pain
Feel the pain of Nations grief
as the petals fall from above
and we will remember life
for life is what they gave to us
The poppies that grow in Flanders field
are reminders of those who have no grave
and our tears will remember them too.
We who live in freedom,
because of them, because of them.
steven cooke, 20 july 2012
The Casualty
The officer’s whistle opened the door,
the pain of mortar did greet the damned
and I did nap with death in no man’s land.
In cold of night the stretcher did wake
from peace to hell and burning pain.
These eyes will see the stars no more,
no comrades smile for me.
The darkness has won
for light has abandoned me
and my face is for others to see.
Am I alive? The pain agrees,
my hand can feel this fevered brow.
What will home think?
to only half a man
and will England still respect this man?
The sound of an angel, who talks with God,
a poor soul for sale,
could that be me?
And God condemns
that I am not worthy,
for others deserve better
than half of me.
And in my darkness
Opium’s womb enters my veins
the pain chased away by foetal claim,
while the music of war in shrapnel fragment
screams a tortured lament.
And youth will queue to die in vain
among the ranks of nightingales reign.
These deities who tend this holy fodder
grow distant with bloody rags.
My mind feels the heat of shrapnel’s breath,
the thought of box in foreign field
the feel of sun and breeze denied
and claustrophobia feeds my fear.
Lonely is the grave with no goodbye
and I do not want to die.
But god is my surgeon and he is beat,
the angel will deliver mercy
and death will get his degree.
For compassion was hers to give,
the touch of her hand
will wipe this brow.
The cold of the scissors will cut the tag
and I will join a corpse’s march
obeying the ghost of captains orders
uniting friend and foe in melting borders.
In death I will believe
and hope will leave this earth with me.
My reward is tempered by sword and cross
epitaph is poured over another loss.
And country prepares to count the cost
The drone of the letter
this paper of man
typed in halls by Vatican whores,
delivering their knock on mother’s door.
This pain of England’s son
will lie in empty bed,
silence will be hers to see.
A candle for me in winter’s light
but death will play in mother’s night.
Her tears will wash this wooden cross,
the house will cry for little boy lost
and the dog will sit with eye on door,
never to wag his tail no more.
steven cooke, 1 july 2012
Who was Lizzie Van Syl?
A small girl stands amongst the flowers of Bloemfontein
surrounded by the aurora of yellow tulips
for she belongs to the angel’s now.
Her finger Points at the carpets of flowers
a reminder of lives cut short.
The glint from the sun hides her fallen friends
and a faint wind rustles the petals
forming strange whispers, the voice of many.
A wind that grows stronger everyday
and the voices gather,
speaking in tongues from around the globe.
A cry for help that falls on deaf ears,
to destroy a deadly seed that once was planted here. And our attention will be drawn to
memories of gold and places long forgotten.
Places that were scorched back into the ground,
where peace was replaced by burning crops,
and we will feel sad for this land.
But behind all this evil a seed was born.
For its germination came when this sweet child
Lizzie Van Zyl was killed.
Once a happy child, taken from her farm
through tears, saw her house destroyed and livestock slaughtered
even her beloved dog.
Taken to sleep on the ground, slowly starved
and left to winters kill.
Her last comfort a pile of rags to die on.
Her last words “Mother, Mother, I want to go to my Mother”.
Thrown into a pit,
to join a multitude of innocents, in the name of progress.
Bloemfontein killed with deliberate neglect,
and the bullet killed her father at Ladysmith.
Another victory for empires glory
Lizzie’s crime was her fathers, for he wanted freedom,
democracy and a future for his family.
But greed and empire gave birth to new words
and historians will justify,
that War is inevitable as is the darkness of night.
And darkness can hide the ideals of men
for here the seed of evil grew
spreading over time to generations new.
A world kept secret from prying eyes.
But secrets come out and greed fuels the beast.
Bloemfontein became the mother
and her offspring were blessed in Wars name,
Auschwitz, Dachau, Treblinka,
Oh and so many more.
Different lands, same outcome,
an Oasis for evil.
A place where the dark side of humanity
degenerates into the primordial soup
from whence it came.
A haunting realisation too,
that England, has tarnished the code of chivalry,
and brought shame to the flag.
Little Lizzie still stands among the flowers,
her ghost is still pointing, not at the flowers
but at you and me.
For it is we who did this, and it is we who will do it again.
So glance at your wedding band
for the glint might just blind you to its past.
The price of this gold is a debt we cannot repay
and pray the voices in the wind
will one day fade away.
Quote from a Journalist
Cowardice of the most loathsome cure on earth - the act of striking at a brave man's heart through his wife's honour and his child's life."
Footnote to the write
This write is about the Boer war and the tactics that the British used to achieve victory
LizzieVan Zyl was seen by Emily Hobhouse just before she died. Her memoirs reveal the conditions that Lizzie was subjected to.
The atrocities committed in South Africa were kept secret from the British public.
Historians believe that the outcome of this conflict delayed Democracy in South Africa by 100years.
Ironically the Boers interred in Concentration Camps were conscripted to fight for England in World War One.
Finally another irony was the demand for revenge by England to Germany for doing the same thing
To this day generations born after the Second World War are paying the debt in Germany, while England pays nothing to the Boervolk.
steven cooke, 23 june 2012
A Sniper of the Great War
Fly on hand
born of comrade’s corpse,
the only witness of what has gone before.
The fleas that no longer hide,
slowly drinking my soul,
a world where freedom lies
snug in the skin of my filthy body,
I am a giving god to them.
And as I curse the itch with embers burn
I peer through the sight, once more
waiting for my foe.
For country has made an avenging god.
To see the eyes before they close,
knowing that darkness has come.
This tribute of victory
is mine alone to dream
Though sleep is my victim’s vengeance,
a place where haunting faces
with broken skulls and withered lips
all gather to greet me.
For tomorrow the dream will begin again,
and their words will grow louder,
ranting through the buzz of flies,
chuckled in the mouths of rats
which draws the attention of another sight?
For my foe seeks the silence of me.
This harvest is a lousy feast.
We soldiers in limpet ground
shooting at images of man,
for reality would tremble the hand
and to miss, is to know the man,
in the mist of this no man’s land.
And what of god?
The day is near when we will lower our heads
for to look would be obscene,
we criminals of heaven, we disciples of hell.
But no matter,
our papers are a blessed pass
for king and country comes first
and fear is for the living,
as dying is for the brave
The victors will judge
hero or assassin.
The victims will argue in heaven
and God will know the frailties of man.
Forgiveness was not mine to give,
to follow orders, history will condemn.
But the last word is mine
and Adam in his sin will answer to me
A soldier of this Great War.
steven cooke, 4 june 2012
A soldiers Tale
The trembled hand
the twitching face.
A desperate draw on cigarette
looking for courage in a cordite breath.
Huddled in mud protected by
slime filled walls,
these walls of Jericho shake
crumbling into my fear.
My tomb beckons another inspection.
Buried alive under corrupted soil,
a land lords greeting from the
putrid remains of the tenants before.
Did Mother give birth to me for this?
The screams of the howitzer,
Marching in footsteps, stamping it’s wrath,
for fear of the dead rising.
And we who are alive, that dare to look
will see the face of death that hides within it’s light.
A face I would gladly see,
if bargain I could contemplate
in exchange for silence,
and the solitude of darkness.
Where fear cannot go,
where the cold become’s a welcome blanket
for I wish this suffering to end
To hear the guns, all seeking me
to shred my guts with shrapnel scythe
and amputations rip.
To die with blood soaked ears
punctured into silence for man’s aggression.
This man placed here by another’s ambition
to pay the price for no man’s land,
The only thing that is really free,
for dead men will not stop you
from taking a soldier’s walk.
Another draw on my cigarette,
and a prayer from my anonymous conscience,
trembles upon humanities lips.
“Gives us this day our daily bread
Though I do not forgive them
For thine is the Kingdom
And men will destroy thy glory
Forever and ever
Amen.”
steven cooke, 21 may 2012
Yellow
Fumbling through a sheen of yellow
the land and sky merge as one.
and earthly song goes silent.
The stage is set for death to breed,
tendered by phantoms, catching the unwary
these purveyors of men’s souls
The rats were the first warning,
blind panic the second.
The sting on the eye brought the fear,
the search for the mask the doubt.
was it by my side or did it fall,
Into the mud or by my gun.
Focus, Focus.
Shaking hands, remember the clip,
the burn in the eyes is it too late.
The feel of rubber sticking to my face,
breathe slowly searching for the cough
heart ready to explode, relief the smell of air.
Then silence replaced by the gurgle.
The gurgle of dying men walking blindly
grasping for air, but the air has gone.
Replaced by the yellow that kills
that yellow which delights in a slow kill,
that torments the sanity
of the view behind the mask.
To watch a man die in corrupted lungs,
to see his sweet words of life,
replaced by a froth that no man should see
The mercy of god is elsewhere this day,
as the eyes blister, his body writhes
and the light is dowsed from his existence.
Yet still the burning pain remains gathering its strength,
rushing through the brain.
No lasting thoughts of home,
only pain, manufactured by Adam
the gurgle, the last words of a dying man
And I who have survived will witness this,
every day of my life,
and people will say “there goes a hero”
a soldier of the Great War.
And I will accept their drinks and cigarettes,
and for a moment I will forget
The yellow that killed my friends,
but the yellow will return
The yellow that will always follows me,
hoping for a helping hand,
a rope, a pill, or a shot,
the choice is yours.
As long as you make the roll call right
But the yellow can never take
the memories,
that my comrades gave to me.
For they are immortal
and my comrades will always watch over me,
As I will of them.
And now the yellow fades from memory.
The ghosts will walk no more
for the ranks are full
the last Tommy has passed away.
The trenches a depression in a field,
and the poppies are histories reminder,
Of what has passed this way.
steven cooke, 21 april 2012
Lovers of a Storm
Old Friends that say hello
Who share a secret memory?
Away from the road now travelled
For in her eyes their secret hides
Betrayed by the glint of a held back tear
Of a love that could never be
A love that trembled the senses
And in a stolen moment, over a bottle of wine
The dream runs free
Dissolving the relationships of reality
For deep within my soul
A world with an incorruptible sky
Plays host to a lovers imagination
Where the electricity from your touch
Gives birth to the storm
Your passion fuelling the Hurricane
Within me
And in the eye of the storm
Time stands still,
And my love cradles your soul
Hoping for another chance
And as I fall back to reality
In the dying wind I can hear your heart
A whispered beat that calls my name
But your Romeo always knew
That dreams were all we had
This Love was always just out of reach
And now I am left to dream of yesterday
Lost in a bottle of wine
Yet I still hear your thoughts
Though life has abandoned me
O my sweet, sweet love
Your love will always be there
And this dreamer who dreams of you
Will always be here.
Longing for another storm
steven cooke, 16 april 2012
The jellyfish Chronicle
Beneath my tendrils,
The sea has many secrets
And I am the last witness
To ships that sink
To gulls that die
To hear the whales that cry
To see the births,
Far away from man’s eye
Drifting under frozen seas
A last paradise where man has no welcome
Let nature be our shield
The Cold our government
This place where
The Northern lights dance
In honour to the ancestors
For we came before man
And will be here when
Man has gone
Life and death in harmony
With natures will.
Written in the snow everyday
steven cooke, 6 april 2012
Love under the Dollar
In kindle dreams her life retreats
With Botox swagger
And gel filled glory
A plastic rose
Hiding a once varicose being
.
A flower with a sting
Whose predatory ways
Leach off this sexual forest
Of spar infested vanity
Where youth is for the innocent
And cougars dine on essence divine
With triffid fingers and mosquito convulsions
Of unspoken ways for
The dollar will
always pay
.
And when her thirst has gone
The dark of reality descends
Hiding the face of yesterday
Whose masquerade is left on morning pillow
A Monet impression to greet the light
.
The camera is stopped
The potions are in a queue
For her vanity waits
Another audience with snow white
This imposter among the weeds of creation
.
And in the balcony the fashion clones swoon
Sculptured dolls under butchers knife
Waiting with credit card lines
To feed on groped applause
And we will envy them
.
We that live in the mud of this life
We Parasites and leaches
We Saints and Pulpit Preachers
For we all envy things
That we cannot be
.
Envy things that
Come in dollar dreams
That buys the illusion
That one day you will envy me
.
steven cooke, 30 march 2012
Natures Democracy
Democracy is at America’s heart
You lead while others follow
And your citizens bear the right to be free
With freedom comes responsibility
And democracy applies
To all who inhabit this earth?
.
Within this premise Kyoto speaks
That sound which disturbs
The majority of a
wider democracy
.
You deny their
global solution
In favour of the American way
But there are whispers in the wind
For nature too believes in democracy
And nature will make the agreement for you
.
For she is omnipotent to unleash her democracy
You can deny your future, but your ghosts will deny you
This way of life feeds a changing climate
And nature gathers her strength
Slowly rising to give you her answer
.
The Hurricane and tornado
The desert and the flood
Her democracy to maintain
A balance within the hemispheres
.
Your Freedom is a noble thing
For freedom lies in every beast.
But only humans carry the burden of democracy
This is the price we pay for freedom
.
But freedom is worthless
When all you grow is destroyed
When all you build is washed away
When all that you hold dear is taken without mercy
.
Look over the fence America
Look beyond your borders
Look at your planet
And look at this baby born
For it may never grow up to remember you
steven cooke, 28 march 2012
The Worker
Torn from sleeps oasis
The razor stings my mortal
soul
A glance in the mirror to
know I exist
For the face of god lies
there
And behind this forced smile
A lunatic walks in the shadow
of me
,
But within this admission
The asylum of my brain
Has a garden where sanity grows
.
For bound in chains we gather
Though wind and snow bar our
way
Pouring through these asphalt
veins
Clogged with cholesterol
filled ambition
.
For Monday morning dines once
more
On another workers soul
And all the while the tick of
the clock
Winds down this drone
In happy reapers favour
.
But the rebels among us
Hide in the womb of our
imagination
To keep the corporate illusions
at bay
And my secret butterfly
carries this tortured soul
To a place beyond the dollars
eye
.
Where the snake rattles its
distain for humanity
For solitude is all I desire
And all the while the clock
ticks on
Forcing my existence to
trickle down the cities throat
Quenching this monster, they call
progress
.
And as I crawl home through
zombie minds
I feel sorry for the
splattered fly on my windshield
For its freedom has ended
Yet my dreams of freedom
linger on
Although within my heart I
know
These too, will soon be gone
steven cooke, 21 march 2012
The Prophesy of Me
These Hallowed halls
Frequented by myth and griffin
Whose presence Guards these priceless
minds
Protecting the unwritten novels
M C Squared and ingenious thoughts
The prophesy of zero one
.
This gluttony of ideas thirsting on
capitalisms juice
Summoning their messiahs to walk among
us
The commodities of life, this
treasured bible
Children the future and Capitalism
dissects
Yet Another batch of disciples
.
So what care I for prophets of doom
Population before climate
Religion over peace
Vanity before reason
Pride over poverty
Cap and gown before that which
created me
For I live high above these ghetto
streets
.
Yet my peace is drowned by Evening
chorus
Screams from the gutter
Another tattoo and the rush of heroin
Another type of messiah
Something for the poor to believe in
Just another nickel and dime resource
to me
.
Yet to hear this is a damnation of me
This arrogance over nature
To control that thing
That shackles our existence
That jails our thoughts
Prostitutes our freedom
And lets us die without reason
.
This way of life
Of poverty and desperation
Of concrete and aborted foetus
Of welfare cheques and sex for sale
.
Of unhappy beings behind
Unhappy doors
Protecting their own portals of
betrayal
In a private subjugated hell
For Compassion has left these mortal
beings
And my mind is closed, for there is
no profit for me
.
But conscience is my jury
And nailed to this holy cross
The verdict is written
Vermin under the butterfly
For compassion was never my thing?
And Human nature can be,
A most desperate thing
steven cooke, 27 february 2012
This Immortal love
Hiding within the feathers of an angels wing
My love waits, shy to the world
Content to fly, never wanting to stay
Until I met you
I have traded immortality for your kiss
A mortal kiss soft, moist, like the birth of a rainbow,
Leaving me with no fear
My sacrifice to love,
But love is a feast
And illusions dance in its shadow
And temptation has a price
For my angel danced with destiny
Now I stand on the precipice alone
An outcast from heaven
With broken wings that can fly no more
my dreams lay in the
salt Of a billion tears
This burden is mine to carry
To slow my walk through The Valley of death
.
For love is my cross
But it is a thing of beauty to show God
And perhaps within my suffering
He will understand
That love and loss is the price
We angels pay for
Living a mortal life.
steven cooke, 11 february 2012
Revised version Enslavement of a lesser being
Freedom won on a
distant battlefield
Gallant words to
remember them by
Unspoken tears for the
old to cry,
A game for the young to
play
Never a thought for
freedoms way
.
For tyrants are easy to
spot
Peaceful takeovers not,
Look through the haze
.
For when wheat replaces
the meadows
The birds have no home
When forests are
felled,
Extinction will come
You are a commodity,
For globalisation has won
.
When TV calls caressing
your soul
With the next discount,
and
“Yes its free fitting”
Without a shot being
fired
Your future mortgaged
.
And when your ration of
bread
Demands the last fish
in the sea
Neatly Packaged and
dolphin free
Who will pay the price?
..
This is the legacy
There is no escape
Big brother is watching
.
Mankind in a zoo of its
own creation
Come, peer through the
bars at,
This condemnation of society broken
For freedom lies on the
other side.
steven cooke, 1 february 2012
Ghosts of War
Within the fog of did you
see?
An old woman, made up to
the nines
Can be seen in the corner
of the non-believers eye
Purse in hand and a glass
of wine
Waiting for a lover who
never comes
Just shadows on the wall
Whispering names, through
Spiders silk, the
inheritors
Of this forgotten,
debutants ball
While Portraits glare at
vacant laughter
An echoed waltz swirls
The embrace of loves decay,
Images now jailed within
the Crystal shards
Of a fallen chandelier
A tear of Woman wears
mourning face well,
This vigil Mask hiding mortality
lost
Now broken and marking
time,
Love lies lost in the
barbed wire of war
Fallen stars to shine no
more
Their Remembrance merging
into darkness
Behind a cloudless unforgiving
sky
Alone is the corpse in
cratered field
Covered by poppies blood
Walked on by ghosts to
come
Another Whispered soul is roaming
The guns have left their
post
And Peace is just an
illusion
For yet another Flanders
ghost
This cruel winter’s night
The withered rose has lost
its fragrance
The champagne has all gone
flat
And love calls without an
answer
For silence is the memory
And it is we
Who walk hand in hand
With our ghosts of War?
steven cooke, 12 january 2012
The Execution of Romeo
They came in the
depths of sleep
Dream eaters to
plague my darkness
Troll whisperers
taunting my love
Their poison
running through my veins
My soul in chains
and on trial
I plead to the jury
for love
I plead again only
silence
The voice of love,
lost in a sinners scream
In the balcony
weeping angels,
Rain teardrops of
salt onto my bleeding arms
In this dark nether
world
I see the cold
light of a distant star
The last refuge of
my dying soul
My only comfort in
this realm of Fear
Phantoms sit at my
table to deliberate
While dining on
lonely hearts,
And drinking
promises made in the heat of passion
Sweet as unicorn
blood, the last deceit
Hecklers at the
windows
Mocking silent
poems never sent
A life never to be
The verdict guilty
as always
My beating heart
the last bastion of my love
I kneel in
sacrifice to the Gorgon
Love is lost, and
so am I
Behind the eyes of
the beast
I see grief not of
this earth,
Pain beyond any
dying planet
And yes love, in my
executioner
For even the
blackest heart
Needs love, for
this is the secret of all existence.
And as I die a
distant star awaits
For the next lover
to find this truth
You see love cannot
be chained,
Nor can it be
selective
It resides in the
pillars of good and evil
And it will be with
you
Even in your
darkest hour.
My epitaph, Romeo
steven cooke, 6 january 2012
Genie in a Gin Bottle
Her lips
caress another cigarette
A fading
belle looking for love
The smoke
veils her face,
For she is,
Genie in a gin bottle
.
Her Make up
hiding the past
Silk
fingernails hiding the smokers hand
Her wig of
blonde hiding the soul beneath
The ladder
in her stockings,
Torn like
her Hollywood dreams
.
Her perfume
sickly sweet,
Masking the odors
from yesterday’s gin
.
The ashtray
is full,
Cheap
Lipstick covers the tab ends
Her vigil to
find happiness
But he never
comes.
.
Only a
stream of chancers wanting to spin lady luck one more time,
Fuelled by
the promise of paradise
A vacation
from life,
A brag for
jack Daniels
,
Under neon
lights
A beautiful
girl in a gin bottle,
An inner
voice plays in her mind
.
“I could
have been a movie star”
A role she
can play all too well
But morning
light never lies
.
Her beauty,
has fled, left on the pillow
Like some
Monet’s impression.
Regret lays
sprawled out
Like yesterday’s
salad, thrown out with the rubbish
For the
slugs of corruption to eat
.
Her aging
face revealing, every rejection,
Every turned
down script, every broken dream
A lifetime
of heart break
But she
still plays her part well,
.
Play it again Sam
And another
cigarette,
The same
mistake, the same men,
.
From All the
gin bars in the world,
She had to
choose this one
.
Another
lottery ticket to litter her despair
No winning
numbers here
Her silent
acceptance speech,
Laid bare in
her blood shot eyes of regret
.
A mouthwash
of gin,
And the
genie of love returns to her bottle
Her legs
bruised and varicose,
Testament to
waitress by day, and genie by night
.
He closes
the door, his only thought,
To get away,
not his finest hour
Jack
Daniels, his moral escape goat,
Nosey Neighbor’s,
his jury
They bare
witness to his walk of shame
.
She opens
the curtains, and sees him fade into the faceless crowd
Alone again,
a full ashtray, and an empty gin bottle,
Symbols of
last night’s play,
.
The mirror
torments her image
As She
drinks coffee through smoke stained teeth,
A wave of
her head, a smile, and a daydream
Tonight, her
prince will save her
.
This is her
delusion, her reason to live,
But Time is
running out,
.
For she is
part of life’s crap game.
The dice
rolls once more
Will it be
happiness? Or loneliness?
.
But in the
end, deep down she knows
The House
always wins, in tinsel town.
steven cooke, 5 january 2012
Tremble
(Ode to a True Love Lost)
She kissed me under the lamp post
A kiss so soft that my lips
trembled
I felt her being entering my
heart
And my soul wrapping itself
around her
Wanting to keep for eternity
.
She looked into my eyes, my body
trembled
Life had only one meaning, and it
was she
Suddenly I was afraid.
I longed for her to be my destiny
.
But relationships would have to
be sacrificed
And Love cannot be sullied with
such things,
And then, she was gone.
.
We both knew it could never be.
She was the Earth and I was the
Moon
Orbiting on the outskirts of her
Life,
I was always just a tear away.
.
The years have past
And still she lies deep within my
being.
If there is a God, pray grant
this Sinner one last request.
.
When I take my last breath,
Let my Soul find her again
In a place where time and space
have no meaning
And let us be together as one,
.
And we will welcome eternity
together, as one.
steven cooke, 4 january 2012
A Wishing Well Love
I sit here all alone
The snow melting on my face,
A falling leaf sheds a memory,
Of my first love
.
It was here, that barmy night
She tripped in fun, amongst the
leaves.
She breathed a smile,
Took my hand,
And softly seduced me with a kiss
A secret wish comes true.
.
We made love that summer evening,
By the river, under the willow
Watched by a lover’s moon,
Hidden from View
.
Stared at the stars with our
wishing well,
We dreamed of love and silly
things,
Two hearts, inhibition to the
wind,
Our souls locked in nature’s
song.
.
But Young Love is a precious
thing,
And winters do blow cold.
And in the fading light
She said goodbye.
.
A last glance, a precocious
smile,
And the last moon dance was over
So here I sit with my wishing
well
Full of broken dreams,
.
Yet still, I see embers of a girl
Who shared love, under the willow
Gave hope to my dreams,
Touched my heart,
And taught me well about
The wishing well
.
No tears now, there are dreams to
make.
For That wish has flown away
To find another love
To breathe another wish
Into another’s heart.
To unlock more dreams
For her wishing well to pour
.
But our union was fruitful
For my wishing well is full
And dreams I can now give
For I seek my real love,
Where ever she may be.
Could it be you?
steven cooke, 4 january 2012
The Letter
Dear Marlene………
Sweet heart of the dead
Adored by generations not yet
born
Marlene we love you.
.
Your beauty burned the wings of
JFK
And brought big John to his knees
For your love, was meant for
more.
You shocked the World with a
velvet kiss
An elegant truth in a sea of
Fools
.
It took one voice to start a War,
One bullet to unite false
prophets
One woman to speak out
You ostracized the Nazis for what
they were.
.
Stood tall, through treason
Did not follow, Hitler’s Spell
Chose to Love America s freedom
instead.
.
When Reapers scythe came
Song and Compassion was your
shield.
It Gave comfort to the damned as
shell and mortar pound
.
Your words a respite, from the
fear
And your beauty, a reminder.
That love awaits the Soldiers
return.
Back to the German farms and the
English meadows
For love knows nothing of war.
.
You witnessed holy sacrilege,
Saw blind disciples fuel the
reapers fire
Both sides, in the name of god,
Oh how heaven must have wept
.
Marlene you dared to question
religion,
For Your soul could see through
the flames,
While others perished in mortals
Pride.
.
You Asked god to review his plan.
Only you, Marlene could do that
.
Where have all the flowers gone
Your message to Humanity,
But the Heinkel and the Spitfire
Flew too high to hear
And the flowers of youth
All Eaten by silent sheep, and
Taken to yet another slaughter.
.
Yet be proud Marlene
For Your echo awakened a new
generation to peace,
Although lasting peace is like
true love, so hard to find,
.
But never the less, a goal we
devote our lives to.
Some countries have found their
Peace
While other search.
.
Humanity is still a child in
these matters,
And war still goes on
When will they ever, learn, when
will they, ever learn.
.
Try to forgive us,
Perhaps the man upstairs,
Really does have another plan,
Marlene Dietrich,
.
At least I’m sure that Eternity
Will be a far more beautiful and
interesting place
With you in it,
.
And I look forward to meeting
you.
.
Love Steven
xxxx
.
Footnote to this
poem
JFK relates to her affair with
President Kennedy
Big john relates to her affair
with John Wayne
The Velvet kiss was the first
lesbian kiss on main stream cinema 1930, Marlene was bisexual.
The line where have all the
flowers gone and when will they ever learn comes from the song forever
associated with Marlene Dietrich.
.
Brief Biography
Born 1901 in Germany
First film in 1920
Became American Citizen 1937
Awarded Medal of Freedom USA 1947
Awarded Legion of Honor by France
Died in Paris, 1992
steven cooke, 3 january 2012
An Immortal Love
Have you ever witnessed the apple
fall.
Have you experienced love beyond
a mortals dream?
Or a look that commands the Stars
to shine.
Can you imagine a smile that
humbles all that paradise has to offer.
.
Such a love chose my heart, my
dreams,
And turned my darkness, into a
new sunrise
.
Where love opened my eyes to a
beautiful new world
That day the heavens witnessed me
falling from the tree of love
To be consumed by this girl,
With a voice to grace the silence
of any virgin valley
.
A kiss soft, moist, like the
birth of a rainbow
With An embrace to make the
bluebells of spring bow their heads
Leaving me with a desire, to stop
time,
A moment of love, to last forever
.
But lovers fears, led to lovers
tears
And the west wind took her away
To a place where another
happiness bloomed
And my dreams followed in dusts
embrace.
.
This lost love I keep locked away
Deep within my soul
Now and then it escapes
Consuming me in hopeless longing
A trigger for Suicidal thoughts,
In the darkness, Just before Dawn
A burden to my being, never to be
lifted
.
This love is my only Companion
For when my time comes
I will take this burden with me
A comfort through The Valley of
death
A thing of beauty to show God
A love to keep for 1 day more
than Eternity
.
My long lost Love, My moment in
this life.
So remember my tale, and cherish
what you have,
Do not pick up this pen, go kiss
your love
And forget me.
Perhaps I will find my kiss in
eternity.
steven cooke, 1 january 2012
The Lovers Ghost
I am absent from heavens table
For I miss my love.
Compassion from an angel
Helped me slide down a moonbeam,
To visit your lonely heart
.
As you sleep, I am with you my
darling
The warmth of my love
Creating a fire in your memory
Where we can sit and talk.
In the glow of embers love
.
In this realm we can feel love
once again
Let us dance above these flames
of desire
You In your prom dress and me in
youths blush
.
Once again I can feel your
whispers
Your hidden messages concealed on
the breeze
Listened to by inquisitive
angels,
Envious of our love.
Your words seeding my lonely soul
With dreams for eternity to keep
.
Tonight the moon smiles for you
and me
For she too remembers
The tears of joy from our first
kiss
.
Slowly running down both our
cheeks,
Like Dew made from some holy
mist.
Love was our then and time our
friend,
We never saw the hour glass empty,
.
But pain did not hurt, for your
face was always with me
And love cannot be killed by time
.
For our love will endure
And heaven has dreams for us,
Though angels know my grief
.
My love, my love, the dawn
approaches
And the Moon grows weak
The last moonbeams begin to fade
And mortal minds are waking
.
So I leave you with our memories
and a farewell present
I give you my spirit
To keep safe in your heart, for
this is the only thing I possess
.
It will protect you from the sad
things in life,
And heal your precious dreams.
.
A last kiss, and a secret
promise, I now plant.
Wrapped in love,
To dwell in the recess of your
mind.
To be opened when angels call
.
For our prom date, is not yet
over
The Music will play on
My love will be waiting at the
table
Waiting for your hand
To dance once again, under a
smiling moon,
.
Till dawn whisks us away into the
mists of time
To spend another life amongst the
angels
And no more will I miss you
My one true love.
steven cooke, 1 january 2012
A Whiskey Love
Through a glass of Whiskey I
found her.
Her eyes, Flaming Blue, hiding a
glance of Heaven
Her hair golden like the
reflection of an English buttercup,
Open to the flirtations of the
sun.
.
Her lips soft, pink,
Like the dawn over a distant
tulip field,
With a promise to reveal, even more,
Moist, sweet, the taste of a
woman
.
Her neck, slim, elegant, with a
hint of summer,
Jeweled with faint dew drops from
the evenings heat
.
Her shoulders, graceful, a
ballerinas calling
Perfectly formed, a place for
heroes,
To rest their head
.
Her arms slender, delicate, with
a promise of an angels embrace
An embrace that could wash away,
all your sins
.
Her dress clinging to her body,
like the lilies in a pond,
Hiding the secrets below
.
Her wrist adorned with a single
pearl,
But it is she who is more precious
No mortal offering could eclipse
her.
Her hands soft, with a touch,
That I would gladly die for.
.
No ring, dare I wish?
.
Her legs, long, perfectly formed,
Made to move, like a gentle
summer wind,
Caressing the flowers of some
meadow,
In a faraway dream, breathtaking.
.
When she walked the whole world
stood still
She glanced, our eyes met
My soul was stolen,
Engulfed in flames of desire
My heart penetrated, laid bear
with a love so rare,
.
My mind lost in sweet
expectation.
A feeling beyond, any poets gaze
.
She smiled, my body quivered
For this moment, I would gladly
lead the forlorn hope.
These seconds, I remember them so
well.
I was overwhelmed by the
closeness of her spirit,
.
Her presence commanding an
invisible audience,
Of stolen glances, a vision of
woman,
Of such form, such desire, such
love.
.
Then like a gentle whisper, her
body, brushed against mine
Leaving the air perfumed
Like orchids being carried by a
holy dove.
.
Then my heart shattered, strewn
across the floor,
Like yesterday’s confetti.
For the smile, was for someone
else.
steven cooke, 30 december 2011
Love in all its Glory
Within the petals of the
rose
Captured in the fragrance
of the orchid
Nurtured by the holy water
of love
Drenched in the sunlight
of your being
My love is kept safe in
the woman
That is you
Within your eyes there is
a flame
Born of passion, fuelled
by a sacred trust
A woman beyond Michael
Angelo’s imagination
Beyond the dreams of first
love.
Your face worthy of every
love poem ever written
With a smile that my
dreams can,
Play over and over again
in a world,
That only you and I know
Where we can walk, hand in
hand
Through dreams that have
not yet spoken
Down paths where our
emotions merge
Where two hearts beat as
one
In this glorious thing we call love
Here our souls can lay down
together
Away from this troubled
world
To make love, for angels
to envy
Where your kisses heal the
man that is me
To bring me back from the
abyss
To see the sunrise through
your eyes
Hand in hand with my one
true love
And when we are three
I pray that our child will
grow
To find love and happiness
Just like you and me
steven cooke, 29 december 2011
Bombers Moon
Making love to my demons
Under the flag of my country
Caught in between the never
believer
And a pardon of angels,
Who bargain their souls for my redemption?
Empowered by a nation,
Glorified by heroes departed
My life sanctified by religious
compromise
For tonight I fly, under the
bombers moon
Nearer to God than most
I see the world differently,
This Earth orbits in a sea of
cold
My plane hidden in its recess,
A place where silent screams
dwell
And rainbows are sent to die.
Away from the gaze of my enemy,
A phrase worthy of the Devil
Away from the patriots sting,
These too, sanctified by a
religious hand
The History books dilemma
My run begins
My mind listens to a confess of
whispers,
The engines my Priest,
Bomb doors open,
Horsemen of The apocalypse,
Released from their tethers
I am the Arbiter of Death
As in Nature, Chance will decide
The faceless will fall
And god willing I will return
home
In the scheme of things
A Cities worth is one minute, 23
seconds
The camera to record in slow mo
for Posterity,
A justification for the victorious
The Impact sweeps away the sweat
of past generations
Creates queues of ghosts,
waiting,
To lay in row after row, of white
marble
Their silent screams absorbed
into Heaven’s Gate,
A cold Hallelujah for God to
judge
Just another day on planet earth
But don’t worry,
Time, like, the brook of sighs,
will wash away these sins
But not the seeds,
For we are the gardeners of sin,
Their germination, lovingly
corrupted
In our differences, them and us
The Pillars of capitalism our
advantage
The fear of the Devil theirs
Our final epitaph in the circle
of life,
We are conditioned to repeat the
mistakes of the past,
As is the Wilder beast to cross
the River of Death,
Or theologians using religion as
a weapon of war
The devil and the Crocodile dines
well, on such a menu
We truly are, a blessed Race.
steven cooke, 28 december 2011
A Tree grows in Avignon
Planted by a Soldiers hand,
She slept, while Europe blazed.
Bore silence through winters cull
Captured in darkness, there to laze
Amongst the ruins of Avignon
Freed by the spring
Guarded by the sun
Born in thunders drench
A seedling of hope for Avignon
Gave witness to unjust death
Found her strength in summer’s breath
Drank the blood of murders shame
Grew fertile, her innocence to bear
Seduced by the bees of Avignon
Gave birth, to temptation
Casting forth her gift
Amongst the ruin
While Children played, in her boughs
A new beginning, the bad forgotten
Healing the scars of Avignon
Taken confession, the old to cleanse
Listened to love
Their dreams to mend
Sheltered the lost, from Natures eye
Watched children grow
And the old men die
For she is the spirit of Avignon
Planted by a soldiers hand,
When dark clouds gathered
A place of love, redemption tethered
To forget the war
And find his wife
A tree of Life for Avignon
Time moves on.
The soul returns
And still she grows
Anonymous to a stranger’s eye
A cathedral of hope, a grannies smile
A tree of home
A tree that set us free
That tree that saved my Avignon.
steven cooke, 28 december 2011
Harry
(Humbly dedicated to the last
veterans of World War One)
He stares through the window
In wheelchair he knows,
Gabriel is just a pause behind
him.
His last duty, to open a door in
his mind
Of memories torn from 1917, where
he left,
Jack Fred and Bert, Pals forever
A moment singled out from a
thousand days of torment
Bully Beef, Baccy and sweet tea
in the Morning
A pair of socks from a loved one,
And friendship forged in the
baptism of War.
These were his treasures, His
only relief
Then the guns of Britannia,
manufacturing widows by the gross, as
Gas and Shell screamed for their
quota of today’s carcass.
For a moment Harry felt sadness
for his foe
Then it was gone
No time,
Heart Beating, Breath quickening,
Stomach in Knots,
Fear held in check to avoid the
Officer’s gun,
No time left, Stay Close Jack,
Fred glanced,
While Bert squeezed a locket
around his neck
A quick nod, The Soldiers
farewell
Then the whistle, Gabriel’s Horn,
over the top
His refuge abandoned, for the
embrace of the fog,
It masked the land, as if to
avoid offending God
Slowly creeping its vale of
death,
Gun in hand they walked into the
grey.
Fodder for the Machine gun, No defense,
we fall.
Once more our lads are summoned
into oblivion.
Their blood sanitizing the soil
with England’s youth
Like a red carpet, for their
comrades to walk the next day.
Then the retreat, back to his rat
infested trench
Gods reward he thought,
Then Roll call, Silence for Jack,
Silence for Fred, and Silence for Bert
Harry felt shame in answering,
for a second; he too wanted to embrace silence with his pals.
But Soldiers must go on, as do
the righteous
And England expects
For I fight for a Heavenly cause,
so I’m told,
Though I do not know what that is
All I know is fear
Although this impostor, I can
live with
You see my friends are gone;
My humanity is lost
And my soul awaits its next trial
Is it a blessing that I am alive
or,
Just a delay,
For death stalks me, waiting for
his reward.
My sanity saved only by the sweet
tea and a cig,
Dry socks, and a letter or two
from home
No time for sentiment, the
whistle,
Memories, memories
Oh, there you are Gabriel
welcome.
Hello lads where you been.
steven cooke, 28 december 2011
War Horse
(In memory of the 3 million
horses killed in War)
Taken from Cloven fields,
Where skylark and Grouse Linger.
Into the bowels of a troopship
No scent of Morning Dew, No Bird
song
Only sweat and urine,
And the distant sounds of war.
No light, no grass of home, only
the whip.
For he is bound for Flanders
field
His rider glorious in his
regalia, sword in hand
He was his master now, and the
horse’s salvation.
Kindness, a quiet word, an apple,
their bond complete
His last feed, bathed in a red
sun, which
Hovered above the morning mist
hiding yesterday’s sin,
For this is the place where death
is king and reason is lost
This day, where man throws
sacrifice to the gods,
Like so much sour grain, crushed,
and discarded,
To blow away into the winds of
time,
Recorded by nations into the
ledgers of loss,
For now it is time
The lines gather, then the slow
trot, their proud heads, restrained,
Their mouths foaming on the bit,
These beasts of burden knowing no
fear,
A site worthy of Valhalla
Their Trust, in man, galloping
where heroes dare not go
Onward, onward, they gallop,
Row on row into the fog, No grass
here,
Only mud, and wire,
Waiting for the days cull.
This place, Mans, ultimate
betrayal,
Onward, Onward, Nostril’s flared,
Eyes wide, steam rising from his Flanks,
Every muscle, straining for the
next stride
Then the Stumble, a moment’s
recovery,
Blood pours from his proud neck,
then the ground.
His head rose, a hand strokes his
brow, the last kindness.
A wavered shot ushers his life
away, like so many before,
No one will weep for you my War
horse,
No letter home,
They’ll be No mention in
dispatches, No Memorial
For you are just an animal,
Sacrificed on the altar of man,
left to rot in Flanders field
But for those precious minutes,
he was more than man,
This day, of all days, he kept
his bond, did not flinch,
Though death was all around,
Galloped blindly through the
death rattle of the guns, face on,
No retreat, Onward, Onward,
The magnificence of the horse, No
equal, never forget,
For it is the shame of a nation,
a sin of mankind,
To undo the hand of god
No glory here, only an empty cup
left on the altar of insanity.
Taken From Cloven Fields,
Where the Skylark and Grouse
Linger
For I will weep for you,
My noble friend,
My War Horse, You Magnificent
Beast
steven cooke, 27 december 2011
The Silence of War
Behind the Curtains of a church
window
Men in Prayer, orchestrated by
sweat and Lice
Find relief from snipers gaze
Beside the cross sits the last
candle
Flickering precariously,
searching for sanctuary from the wind
But the wick is near the end
And so are these men
The Harvest of War is almost in
For this is November 1918.
The German guns call like the
song of the Siren
Irresistible, for only the dead
will hear
New orders to cross the
Sambre-Oise Canal
Another postcard for Historians
to write
Machine gunners scythe the ranks
Gone the Irish regiment, clover
for the beast
I take shelter behind a
splintered Oak Tree
Once magnificent, A survivor of
Natures glory
Now a hideous specter to man’s
intervention.
I wait here with Wilf my captain
Waiting for death to find me
The mud beckoning for blood,
The Canal red like the River
Sticks
A feed for tomorrows Newspaper.
A groan from wilf, his eyes start
to dim
Fear brings the Lord’s Prayer to
my lips
A last haven for my soul to cling
I watch his spirit fly away,
As the words fade from my voice
Like so many others on this day
of carnage
Wilf, my friend, died November
4th 1918
Yet another contribution to this
dark harvest,
Another soul for god to tender.
A statistic, a casualty of war,
To be remembered generically
A wreath to share with a
multitude of lost darlings,
Another photograph to fade on the
mantel piece
A piece of History for a grieving
widow to dust
In the ranks of the dead
Angels count our losses
What dreams did we lose?
What voices were made silent?
What books were never written?
And how many tomorrows gone,
All lost in the darkness of death?
Under this oak tree, fading from
memory
A soldier Wilfred Owen was taken
too
Unspoken truth in unspoken poems
Silent to mortal’s ear
Another casualty of war
A feast of wisdom for angels to
keep?
For His words were far too much
For the hogs of war to stomach.
His poetry made silent by
country’s shame,
Unpatriotic, not cricket old bean
said the generals
Only now, through peace can we
learn
The voice of one soldier,
How I pity humanity
For silence is a killer
Democracy, and justice its
victim,
And the inevitable Silence of war
will kill us all.
Footnote
Wilfred Owen killed in action, Sambre-Oise Canal,
killed 4th November 1918, seven days from Sanity
One of England’s Finest War Poets.
steven cooke, 27 december 2011
No More
(To the unknown boys killed in
the the First World War)
No more will he look into the
eyes of his Mother,
No more will he see his Brothers
smile,
No more will he feel love.
No more will he fish, and climb
the trees of England
Or marvel at the voice of the
nightingale.
For he is Sixteen and a Man,
He has done is duty by his
Country,
Taken the shrapnel, which
exploded over him
Like a Bright light sent from an
avenging God.
He sees the dark approaching
But he can take it, for he is an
Englishman
No more will he hear the whistle
to advance
No more the frost and Snow
No more the fear of being killed
For I am no More
Remember me Mother
Latest comments:
18 may 2024
kb
jakoś kojarzy mi się z "siostrami wielkiej
18 may 2024
no chyba że pomieszkuje
18 may 2024
zdaje się że nikt tu już nie mieszka
18 may 2024
bardzo
18 may 2024
orzeźwieni... prawie jak otrzeźwieni... i to
16 may 2024
violetta
Może w lipcu będę miała takie wakacje:)
16 may 2024
jeśli tylko
słońce w płynie..
15 may 2024
Weronika
Za jeszcze jeden rejs!
14 may 2024
Mam takie oko :)
14 may 2024
Jaga
Zwierzęta upodobniły się do koloru otoczenia
14 may 2024
To naturalny suchy i pustynny klimat. I tam są
14 may 2024
Klimat taki, że nie był i raczej nie będzie,
20 may 2024
Satish Verma
19 may 2024
wiesiek
19 may 2024
Satish Verma
18 may 2024
Satish Verma
17 may 2024
Satish Verma
16 may 2024
Satish Verma
15 may 2024
Jaga
15 may 2024
Satish Verma
14 may 2024
Satish Verma
13 may 2024
Satish Verma