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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
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, 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, 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, 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, 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, 15 february 2013
Kiss of Darkness
(An interview with a vampire)
A grain of sand was once my rock
this rock was once my life
and life was but a story,
lost in the nurseries of time.
The shadows you see
cannot be trusted,
the sun bleeds red in shame
fleeing to another realm,
for it is time for me to reign.
I who have seen
the doors of time close
on ambitions of kings
and paupers dreams.
Decay and deceit
all pay homage to me,
behind this curtain of immortality.
Immortality that sweetly came
under the shadow of justice gallows.
Exiled out of reach of Christ,
my saviour an angel of the night.
Her kiss of darkness
my redemption from life.
Life is now a memory
no fear upon my lips.
Only light can bar my way
for darkness is where I play.
To fly in freedom
on ancient winds
I watch the living go by.
For thirst is mine
and beauty is wine
my sip will find a love.
The sharpness of soured grapes
will ripen the darkness,
my kiss will quench the soul
for my heart does not beat for life.
And love will be
an image of God
that mirrors cannot find.
I will be the valentine
concubines my queen
and together we will lurk
amongst this vineyard of blood
salivating on what we see.
Humanity will soon be ripe
fermenting in their illusions of life,
your shadows are destined for me.
Room temperature and decanted right
for tonight I have a gracious bite.
Death will come in empty glass
for sleep will find no blood.
Your existence will not be wasted
for the night now owns your soul.
The stars will be you’re only light
and another victim will die this night.
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, 18 june 2013
A Flawed Prophet
I am a successful surgeon
but In reality I am a failure.
For I pay for the company of life.
I pay to be human,
pay for the understanding
that my patients receive for free.
I am the geek in the corner
the wall paper that eyes don’t see.
My bond is with god
for he shows me his creation
and I must correct his mistakes.
Vanity is to say such things
but the sick will come to my door.
They gamble that I could be a saviour
for fear is anointed by hope.
The good and the bad
will sell their convictions.
My hand can cheat
the cards which have been dealt,
and my face belongs to
this poker game,
we call life.
I am the fall guy too
who will walk down the corridor to hopeful eyes.
But remember where there is god
the devil exists too
and you will judge me.
For I must bare my soul
in the darkness of defeat
that tells your relatives that I lost.
I failed to grab the hand of life
which held the royal flush
that no player can defeat,
and I will feel your doubts
that perhaps I am not
the perfect prophet you thought me to be.
In truth I am a glorified mechanic.
I am the surgeon that repairs your vices,
I am the bloody hands that remove your pain.
I can make you beautiful
I can change your heart,
though I need the sacrifice of the departed to help.
And when age threatens your life
money will save the chosen few,
In the illusion of immortality.
Though time will always be the clown
that will always laugh at you in the mirror.
I am a tinker of time
who fears the night.
I shake hands with the dead,
receive tributes from the living
and somewhere in between I see the dawn.
Sanity is a lonely place for me.
My indiscretion is grateful for her apartment
for I need her beauty to take away today
and a shower to wash away mankind.
She removes my pain with love
so I can feel human from this butchers table.
Sodom and Gomorra’s a small price to pay
for my patients to see
the sun for one more day.
God never gave me good looks
but he gave me a steady hand.
A hand that can caress your heart
for I am a maverick that puzzles him.
In truth I could be a monster,
I will not cry when you die.
Blood is just another day,
though I hate to lose
as all gamblers will tell you.
But who amongst you would care
about a stranger who gives you life.
For in truth even the devil
would make me a hero,
as long as I save a sinners life.
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, 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, 18 april 2013
The Thatcher Years
No poppies for madam
that privilege is reserved
for the common man.
Drape her coffin with Union jack
though there is no union for me.
Your guard of honour is expecting you,
made from the empty shell of boys
who left their dreams on Falkland hill.
This life that you once held
will be remembered .
The miner’s bones will see your corpse
for death came to them with broken heart,
their blood was washed away
and community was lost of hope
In the weeping’s of a crying pit.
The taste of rabbit stew
still stays upon my lips,
for I shared my bread with neighbours,
while boys in blue waved five pound notes
and beat their shields in rhyme,
for they were truly, Maggie’s whores.
This common man seeks redemption for you
but forgiveness is for God to give.
These pearly gates that your spirit seeks
among the hymns that praise this earth
are but remnants of the pit gates
and in their rust they are jammed shut to you.
The chosen few were Maggie’s men
their daggers have been cleaned of blood.
The wits will praise your passing,
A final toast to Caesar,
“she came, she saw, she conquered”
but in truth they know,
the evils of today still carry your mark.
Iron lady your soul will seek the light
But your light went out long ago
during the Devils reign.
Lost in the furnace of men
lost in the pride of England.
And now your service has ended
redundancy killed you too.
Your victories have gone into history
but Steel and coal
and the grafters of England
will never forgive you.
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, 11 november 2012
Oh what A Lovely War
The sins of granddad brought me to war
for England has dined on this before.
The arrogance of dad who brags my shoes
for in his eyes I am England blue
The teacher who bellows you do us proud
a vindictive sod who ruled my class
The preacher who seeks my confession
who drinks the blood of Christ in whiskey heaven?
But never mind for god is always right
The trough of greed will grunt with pride
the bombs will fall killing the dreams below.
These fat cats of war all feasting on me
Oh what a lovely war, everybody in work
More champagne for them
and the grapes of wrath for me?
The rain of mother’s tears
will wash my soul
The marbles of play are gone,
No chance for love to warm my nights.
Only frost and the company of rats
gnawing on the bed of my insanity
No youth will smile with me tonight,
no innocence can protect me here.
The voice of death whispers my darkest hour
for this heart will soon be cold
and you who sleep in beds tonight
will never know the truth
The forces of ambition have gathered to see,
this place where youth will die.
Charlie Chaplin give us one last laugh
for the guns are straining on their leashes.
The generals have given their salute
and murder is about to bleed on countries lips
for this is a glorious war.
And in motherland they shall sing my praise,
hero is what I am,
But I still have a voice for one more night
though your ears will be deaf to me
Liars you are to the last,
So dam the lot of you.
For pain and fear is all I know,
the bragging rights will spill your beer
for Life was never mine to enjoy.
The lamb and beast all share my fate
though they will die in peace.
For their bodies serve a natures law
While my carcass will rot in Flanders land
Out of sight of country
for another will take my place.
I am an inmate of war
my letters the only sign of freedom
and my photograph a reminder to those,
who should have protected me?
A youth of another’s man war.
Me who gave the invisible a lucrative life?
Who served an empty command
watched over by mother’s tears.
My absolution will forgive their sins.
You see I am a peaceful lad
all I possess are the marbles of childhood
and the mercy that god gave me.
I am every mother’s boy
And every mother is proud of me.
But in death I will not enter Heaven’s gate
For I will wait for them.
Wait for the hand that brought me here
for I need to know the reason why?
Was this Flanders field worth the sacrifice of me?
And as this multitude of youth
marches into the arms of angels pity,
will god be blind to their confession?
For we remember that Charlie Chaplin made us laugh
We remember our mother’s tears
But most of all we will remember the buggers
Who brought us here, to die in Flanders land?
steven cooke, 11 november 2012
Reflections of a Mortal Light
Peaceful are the water lilies in flower
The ripples of contentment belong to the fish
and quiet is the grass that has healed this scene.
Lone tree crater is a ghost from the past
and it is here where God and Devil,
did put their differences aside.
To shed tears for man’s insanity.
The year is 1917
and life and death is measured
in corpses left behind on land now forgotten.
This crater born one of 19,
its first cry ordained in 445 tons of explosives.
A mythical being stamping each footstep
across the Messines Ridge,
silencing life in its wake.
A roar of death that can be seen by all,
troops are but wild animals caught in the headlight of its gaze,
helpless and forsaken with nowhere to run.
10,000 Germans with no grave,
their bodies vaporised.
Delivered by blue clay tunnel
Under the lines by British miners brave.
Though German pride would disagree.
Up above the mortars creep a relentless path
and down the ridge the British are advancing.
But they are mortal men
and their bodies are but eggs thrown against steel.
Death is all around this day.
But in this war death is every day,
survival feeds on primal being.
Kill and kill again, he who falls short will die.
Reward lies in darkened sky under the stars
and a billet lined with mud
But death will not let the soldiers rest
and medals of tin will not protect.
Be glad of cigarette to calm the nerves,
be glad of letters from home,
for these are the memories of life.
And sanity dictates that all men are born to die,
this death that is inevitable,
allows these soldiers a few precious seconds
to realise a truth.
It is the Earth that owns the man.
The will of man cannot steal this.
And as the soldier falls their allegiance grows dark
another lover’s heart is broke
Mother’s womb will cry alone
while children’s hands hold on to father’s gift
for he cannot hug them anymore.
Choice was never theirs.
For choice is what masters give
and freedom has evaporated from soldiers mind,
While the lies of democracy fuels these bourgeoisie plans,
for power is everything.
Wars are made by so few a number.
Fear the man, who can inspire a country to kill millions,
and fear the man, who has found religion,
for your bullets can only add to his glory.
Messines Ridge twelve hours of bloody Glory and 50,000 dead
This smell of decay is a reminder to the living
Less they forget their duty to life.
And what of the 10,000
Who left their bones on their last step of mortality?
To wander this earth without a grave.
The bones of the elephant will always be loved
Can we say the same by them?
History has left us these waves of white marble,
proudly keeping the ranks of the dead in line.
Their ghosts are ready to march again
and in the rear the new recruits volunteer,
for war will always be with us.
Underneath every headstone there is a story.
Their colour and culture has melted away.
In death we reconcile our sins with mother earth,
war becomes irrelevant
and perhaps we are too.
But for those who believe
a life without memories has only just begun,
their pain has floated away.
The tears of the families will flow out to sea
and the rain will wash these stones
for the light will always win.
The youth of 1914 braved the dark,
obeyed the voice of country.
Brief was their time on earth
and silence was a glory that these men did not hear.
In death calm now descends upon their memories.
and we who tender their graves,
shall keep their story alive.
For we will remember them.
Wir warden uns an sie erinnern.
steven cooke, 23 december 2012
The Prodigal Son
Let this day vanquish our differences
for father is still the head.
Put by our petty grievance,
let family rule the day.
Come brother let us be at peace
your heart can melt this snow.
The voice of child was always you
and the tears of ancestors
now watch with pride
of the man you have become.
Your place in life
is to be at this feast,
the family is united.
This legacy of Christmas joy
has written your story.
The manger has carried your children
and a star shines upon this house
because of you.
So remember this day
family is precious
the joys of the world belong to you
Happiness has smiled
health is in celebration.
So Grandmother be proud
for this is the legacy of you.
Joy permeates this house
The eyes of the child
look up to the family.
So drink to mother and father
for they gave roots to this tree.
Our family is the earth and the earth is you,
On this day we can all believe.
The hurt of the world be gone
It is a day of forgiveness
and that is enough.
Rejoice on this special day
Christmas was born for you.
The pages of time are yours to write
and your story will go on and on.
steven cooke, 10 january 2013
Footsteps of the Tiger
The tears of the tiger
Trapped in this snare of man
Fades into an ancient kingdom
Where silent footsteps once reigned
To feel his breath upon your neck
Is to know that death has come
His lick will taste your soul
And jaws will steal your flesh
His honour will take your sacrifice
And your fears will die with you.
But should his wits fail
To my ambitions,
Then he will know
That I am top predator
Oh beautiful creature
Whose grace was born to kill?
Your Hyde is but a bauble to me
When I have forgotten this day
Moths will feast on your memory
These glass eyes that I give to you
Will see this mausoleum
That I have created
For death has always been my work
Yet when I see the tears of noble beast
Defeated by a cruel world
One feels his tears run down my soul
And something is lost to me
Your eyes that once stalked this life
Celebrating discovery of prey
Hide tears of a changing world
Your destiny is to talk in silence
Though your roar now falls silent
You were always heard in my heart
The message consumes this hunter with guilt
But no one will hear,
Except the tiger and me
Being human I wish to be a tiger
For in life he was a great king
And only time can make him a pauper
His magnificence is his downfall
But in death he was always
A noble being.
I was the darkness
That tried to touch his light
But I am not worthy
I am the pauper who destroyed a king
And now the future
Belongs to paupers
Who will never see
A World that was once filled
With such noble things
For all that remains
are the shadows of me.
steven cooke, 23 february 2013
The Twelve Pillars of Poetry
Imagination is the river
that guides the quill.
Dreams the sailing ship
that unleashes the voyage
through the pages of
a poets mind.
To write is to find
the meaning of love.
Where beauty opens the gate,
to a never ending yellow brick road
Of human emotion.
for that is what we seek
The pen can create gods
and mortal frailty.
Sunshine is the span of life,
the darkness is forever
and within these letters
we find immortality.
The candle burns when sanity sleeps
authors are laid fallow
when the desert refuses to create.
Scribbling among the midnight ghouls
caught in the faith of their conviction.
Love is the demon when curtains close
and the rose a symbol
Of what might have been.
Whiskey is the oil for some
that guides the brush.
For love is their canvass,
the bleeding soul their paint
and only the heart knows
the colour of these falling tears.
For when the bottle is empty
when the heart can take no more.
Our soul bleeds over the page
solace comes from tomorrow
and our insanity will take its place
Beauty is found in pain
hope is an emerald sea,
envy comes from Oscar’s words
and belief becomes a prejudice.
The pen will drown your epitaph
for the Cyclops knows his destiny
The poets of the world
so sweet is your fruit.
yet you remain anonymous
for life is but a dream.
Words are a jigsaw of fears,
a confession trapped
in the confetti of poems
Which you shout to the world
all judged in the courts of obscurity.
The book is now written
all have prostituted their existence
the devil has been cleansed
This sweet apple has been examined
The fruit has turned into despair.
Whiskey has turned to wine
the ark of life belongs to silence,
this gallery has no visitors.
So stay drunk in your bed tonight
Words are best left in dreams
and be glad that your life
will dissolve into obscurity.
These are the final words of life,
for the poet has no such luxury
our pain is for all to see.
steven cooke, 18 january 2013
After the Battle WW1
I felt his breath leave the battle field
as bayonet pierced his heart.
The surprise of death lay in his eyes
his blood poured warmth upon my hands,
anointing my soul with his.
His flow of life will find the earth
to merge with victims past
and another ghost will follow me,
shouting for my demise.
This lowly man who took the shilling
as Judas took his thirty,
now looks across this no man’s land
for this corruption belongs to me.
Beneath this mud
lies the dreams of men
the commandments of life,
now lost within these decaying bones
for this war has silenced them.
And up above heaven receives
the righteous who take their place,
but the blood of my victims
are now a moat
and I would surely drown.
The dreams I have taken
will guard the gates
while angels turn their back to me.
I am the soldier who orchestrates the kill
my sins can wait in heaven.
The Holy Ghost can watch his time
for I am Lord this day.
It takes a soldier to humble the gods
for their power lies with me
a solitary man who has done his duty.
So God, send your laurels to me.
I am one of millions
Destined to be forgotten
But men were born with tears
our tears will match
any storm that you can send
For we are the battle
and death is our destiny
We who feed this barrage of blood
now fear the morning mist rise?
For this grey belongs to dead men’s dreams,
their sweet stench a reminder
of what’s to come.
For tomorrow, I will be one of them.
Bury me deep
God must not find me
Anonymity will be my peace
Only Mother,
will remember me.
steven cooke, 14 january 2013
The Window of 2012
The rose has framed the summer
the leaves have done their duty.
The flowers have shed their seeds
and the hedge rows offer their final feast.
This community of life will forget the rain
that killed their babes.
Nature’s rage is done
the darkness of winter approaches
and sleep is what some will fear.
The bee has done his work
and death will come tonight.
Though his legacy will protect the queen.
The swallows are over the ocean
destined to follow the sun,
they are a year older
and the wet summer has taken its toll
the ocean will be grave to some.
The old man who now wears his scarf
reflects on another summer gone,
memories of youth grow distant
and his love for her lingers on.
In the city the face of humanity is blind
for they have forgotten natures laws.
Their life of work and mortgage pressure
will bleed the soul on corporate mill.
The mandatory tie is a noose
the alarm clock the wake of despair
and the rain will greet the morning rush,
dripping its sorrow on bowler hats
that feed on the drones they cover.
The autumn years will find them mute
for release from work will kill.
Life outside will be a stranger
the ant has lost his way
and up above the clock ticks on
into uncertainty and fear.
The blanket of winter has come for payment
the cold will take the weak,
But nature will hide her treasure
for hope is buried from icy grasp
The spring will heal the losses
and the rose will rise again,
her beauty will frame tomorrow.
And those who wish to look
those who admire her beauty
will flourish in her fragrance.
Their essence will join this chorus of life
the cries of the new born will fill the earth
for the circle of life is complete.
And these corrupted cities
will look away for the markets are open
feeding a mirage of wealth.
Like the magpie for shiny things
always wanting more.
Death will come in comfort things
like cigarettes and alcohol.
though pockets of gold will not follow
for heaven was lost in yesterdays gamble.
And the ants will rush for one more day
for all will be forgotten in time.
Except for the Rose
her nature cannot be bought
and she will be with us
To the end of time.
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, 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 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, 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, 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, 14 december 2012
Mercy
Cut the trees
and cut your veins
for your extinction is entwined
These creatures that have been robbed of home
are on this conscience of mine.
Can my existence
be above their creation,
is extinction my legacy?
Will god forgive my sins?
or am I the parasite from above.
Death and destruction are part of me,
can heaven really want the likes of me?
My number will pillage the earth
and only god can stop me.
But in this testimony
the shadows of past will condemn
and the time draws near,
when I too will become a memory.
This life that shared the will of man
will thank god for my demise
for I will repent,
though the universe is blind.
I am insignificant
a temporary molecule in time.
I humbly accept this judgement
of a higher being, for we cannot trust ourselves.
My nature is to destroy the things of life,
this is the sum of mankind
for greed is programmed into me.
Will the dodo forgive from above?
was its flesh worth the feast?
Every day the beauty of creation disappears,
will these creatures that are now silent
ever forgive.
Can arrogance belong to the dawn of man?
Does this final supper belong to me?
The earth devoid of life,
my power is that of progress
and reward is a desert without life, my kingdom.
Can this universe stop the devil in Man?
For I am mankind, heaven is my arrogance
and I am the king of life
Ruler of all this silence
And now it is too late
for silence has found me.
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, 20 january 2013
The Murder of Civilisation
An Englishman lost in afternoon tea,
Memories of a lotus flower love
Rajas and elephants in Delhi
Livingstone the explorer
Religion to convert
Laurence of Arabia
A leader of men
The Boers and the Zulus
Gordon and Khartoum
These are the things that shook the world
Silk and Cotton,
The wealth of Empire
Earl Mountbatten our man in Burma
The cry of Bombay and Ceylon
Oblivious to a young man’s dream
England was the world
Her Empire was great
For the sun never did sett
On her wealth
The jewel in this noble crown
Yet History was not kind
Exploitation her crime
Though civilisation came hand in hand
For Freedom we planted
Democracy you chanted
The union jack you did burn
And what have you learned
Greed breeds poverty in silence
Sectarian dogma your anthem
Murder by the chosen few
How flourishes your tree
When your morals all flee
With bombs in the souk
And murder by troops
Education restricted
The poor evicted
To make way for corruption
And tyrants consumption
Look to the horizon
For there lies Britain
It's empire gone
But our pride lingers on
Can your freedom say the same?
Or is oil to blame?
Who shall we accuse?
For your freedoms abuse?
Not the British
Love us or hate us
England brought you civilisation
And civilisation lives on
In this green and pleasant land
steven cooke, 7 july 2016
The Politics of War
To ask a flower to kill a bee
is to ask a man to become the beast.
That is the will of war
The skylark rages it’s voice above the battlefield
For destiny lies below.
No argument with this world ,
but a foreign invader has entered his field.
The song of life is threatened.
The immigrant guns have freedom of movement,
they scream a betrayal of life.
The seeds of the poppy are in turmoil,
the sound of the shells
replaces the tractors of life.
And in this chaos the poppy symbol is born,
in a reluctant will of sacrifice.
Innocence of poppy will dull man’s pain,
but nothing is real.
War belongs to foreign shores
for English tea must not be disturbed.
And history will prostitute these red petals
in the hope that we will remember them.
Remember a moment in time,
a dream that flows in atoms unseen.
This speck of man within the cosmos.
A vote of no confidence in God,
for eternity is a lonely place.
Mortals and ghosts remember them.
Remember the soldier who sang down this road of despair,
who marched on a foreign soil.
Made proud under the willow by glorious woman
and prayed for by siblings to come.
Made ripe by a glorious English summer.
Victory is a tinsel thing.
War salivates for the fools and the brave.
The devil is on the move
groaning in his orgasm of pain,
that spills this cup to quench the end.
And the streets of home will be swept clean
By the invalid that saw them die
Yesterday’s confetti, this mush that blows in the wind
gathered by a broken man,
smoking his last park drive.
And when the misty morn greets the milkman.
Fear of nations will give a copper pension,
a loaf of bread for a young man’s life
and a bugle to let the devil know,
“these souls are out of bounds“.
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
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