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	steven cooke
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steven cooke, 20 stycznia 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

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steven cooke, 18 stycznia 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.

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steven cooke, 14 stycznia 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.

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steven cooke, 10 stycznia 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.

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steven cooke, 23 grudnia 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.

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steven cooke, 14 grudnia 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.

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steven cooke, 2 grudnia 2012

The Rose

This immortal rose that lovers seek
will be glimpsed by all in youthful peak
for her presence will be on every corner.

And those who confuse that heady perfume
with a lust for love,
will only find winter in an unknown heart
for beauty was always a fragile thing.

We who have seen this gift from above
will always get burned by its light.
The poet and the painter
have perfumed our existence
with loves testimony to this.

The pain and tears fall on empty shield
for love will break your heart
but when we reach out to hold the rose
picked from these fields of hope,
a moment in life unfurls,
love will kiss your soul
and the world belongs to you.

Fleeting are the petals of time
the rose is a symbol to love.
For others it is the pain of life,
to find and lose this immortal gift
leaves a desert where life cannot breathe.

The laughter replaced by silence
the smile that is kept in darkness,
the kiss exiled to the memory.

Love is lost in the deepest pit
of your despair,
the thorns will bleed your soul red
but she can never die.

Love will always leave a spark
that will lead you to redemption
and only death can take this from you.

The rose was never yours to pick
but its creation yours to admire
for your being was made for this.

And as our mortal bodies die
the spirit will seek the rose once more
for in death its petals fall too
blessing the ground of your resting place.

The rose was always yours
and its beauty a source of life
the chains of doubt will always
break in its presence.

The rose is pure
as is your faith in mankind.
It can show you a deeper meaning
for you are the petals of life
she is the perfume of your existence
and it is you that made her life complete.

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steven cooke, 11 listopada 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.

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steven cooke, 11 listopada 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?

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steven cooke, 11 listopada 2012

Apocalypse For Sale

A Golden Dawn is rising
the camera’s click the few,
the Greeks are out of options.
Immigration a convenient excuse.

Check your neighbour’s papers?
Jews have seen this before,
African skin is burning
and kristallnacht knocks
at victim’s door

Iran now plays with powerful dreams,
the prayers of ayatollah has a nuclear regime.
Syria drinks from wells of blood
As gunships harvest on freedom’s scream.

Israel is in therapy,
the Wailing Wall whispers
“Cut off the head of the vipers”
before your paradise is lost.
And all the while the Gaza strip burns,
for a Palestinian memory,
of Arabs who loved this land.

And far away the world rages on
New York is battered.
Nature is sending her message,
the dollar is not mightier than her
though the rich would disagree
and the poor of New Orleans cry
remember me?

The flight of destiny turns on China shore
pouring progress over peasant’s land.
The poison that kills her rivers of life
will return in prophecy of ying and yang.
Smog and contamination rolls in with profit
and a billion mouths will ask for more.

Over the border the mafia rule
a Russia of convenient communism
though everything is for sale
Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy
or perhaps a steel works or two.

And what of mighty England
The nation grows old
Banking magicians have finished her off
Now you see the cash and now you don’t
So there’s nothing for you and a bonus for me.

The invisible hand will save this world
Pyramid selling of capitalism the plan.
Sell more tickets to tomorrow’s Armageddon,
more customers mean more wealth,
keep us breeding and the markets are up.

And should their scheme collapse,
there is always another war.
Idle hands can carry guns,
the dead will nourish these fields
and a computer will speculate the price of life
for life is a commodity,
which they have planned.

Foolish words of a dying race.
Easter Island the message
now planted in this western greed.
Our churches empty for aliens to ponder
Our bones to look over empty seas.

While the remnants of our gods look down
at the shadows of the dead
Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and world War 3
Can you guess what comes next?
Let’s roll the dice once more,
A double six and the other six is you.