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steven cooke, 4 may 2017
The Red Step and Thee
(The word thee is a Yorshire word still used today it means you)
(Spanish Winter refers to the Flu epidemic that killed 18 million in 1918)
.(the red step is what you see on old terraced houses which are always curved from generations of scrubbing. Sheffield in South Yorkshire still has many properties with this step.
The Red Step and Thee
.
Progress dissolves the paint of Lowry’s image
never to be seen again in children’s eyes.
Faceless individuals
blurred in match stick graves,
witnessed by strangers
from a forgotten window
In the clouds of the last steam train.
.
The homes of yesterdays hovel
covered in blackened walls of soot.
Leaves a legacy
that the faeces of wealth has moved on
and brown field is the apology
that council apostles give.
.
Still the echoes of humanity
gives way to a church
that only the old can see.
The last survivors of a planet
Where rescue has been abandoned by time.
.
Memories of Jericho greet
the historians camera,
as the dust removes the sun
from cataract eyes holding the past
.
The smash of the wrecking ball
mimic’s a galaxies demise.
The stars of yesterday
leave a trace of community
where the crucible of men,
were born in corrupted air that hides
the sacrifice of life.
.
An equation that is beyond this universe
for life is an illusion that only fading eyes can see.
Yet suffering and graft is survival,
the heat of furnace puts bread on the table
while the molten metal reflects
the souls of men to God.
.
A reflection that reminds the living,
of the aching poverty that haunts
a callused hand,
reaching for a drunken solace that gives
existence to a temporary peace.
.
While a palace called the workhouse
competes with mortality like a dying star.
Churning the names of nobody into oblivion.
.
Rest is for the fools on the hill
while sleep harbours the devil.
Bread will burn only for 30 pieces of silver
and Sunday will always demand
a service to God.
.
Life bides its time in a failing body,
old age will fill this dark space.
Never to be spoken.
For youth is best savoured while it lasts.
.
Redemption is found in a girl with rags for pigtails,
who sees the boy in taverns light.
Pock marked and spoken in a language
that only thee will understand
.
This girl is where creation takes back all that is lost
for her home is the only universe that matters.
A terraced house is a place of love
where the horrors of life cannot pass.
.
A sanctuary where the roots of creation
mirror the seedlings of a forest to come,
that is protected by an ancient cross
which no atheist can steal.
A humble red step,
curved like the cup of Christ
.
Here lies the history of forgotten souls.
A family known only to the ledgers quill.
Dirty feet, tiny and large,
anointed by a destiny that could not be avoided
Happiness is to savour and share
the bread and dripping
Scraped in obedience
of a penitent wage.
.
Welcome cannot afford a mat.
A greeting is met by a red step
that only a true King would understand.
Kept sacred in cleanliness
by scrubbing away the misfortunes of life.
This is the shield
of a proud woman who bled away her life
for family and husband
and children lost to disease and poverty.
.
Happiness and sorrow will always cross this step
but all will find absolution.
For woman is the priest and confessor
she is the oak that defies this darkness.
A girl apprentice turned master
in the keeping of the red step.
.
And though her flame blew out
in the wind of a Spanish winter
an ember of light still flickers in the sky.
.
Not sought by astronomers
nor wished on by lovers.
She is just there.
Watching over the forest
that her spirit created
Known only to God
and the children that love left behind..
steven cooke, 6 august 2016
Assassination of love
A fertile wind lures a petting call
from the bull who will swim the Lough.
Immortality lurks within its perfume
of dynasty and a future king.
The scent of tomorrow makes love extinct
for our genes are perfumed with success.
Prada and Versace can make the lemon sweet
but the offspring will question this statue,
we call David.
Poets will bleed a loves embrace
this beauty of presence a royal write.
While nature spins the spiders web
of a lover who creates life with death.
These tears will soon be forgotten,
in the rose that greets the winter.
For love grows cold in the markets of man.
But love should not be abandoned
for creation is a spiritual thing.
As the warrior holds his head against the tree,
unspoken words transcend this earth
that only his isolation can see.
And in its meaning
love can find a nobility,
that prostitution will never be.
Love was a word that once made empires fall,
now reduced in the confetti of modernisation.
A face book soul caught in the pouting lips
of adolescence,
staring into the depths of an old man unseen.
And the obese teenager that parents adore
go blind to this locked door .
While mirrors delight in snow white dreams
and a wardrobe that secretly desires perversion.
For the window of porn gags for that.
Sex is the ticket to the premiere
that eventually all her friends will see
and the weak will be the spillage
Of a corn sack filled
by a man that only a rapist will see.
Walk into this gas chamber
And succumb to a kiss,
prostituted by a River Island fee
and a Rimmel greasy lipstick.
That makes the suitor hard
inflamed by the chemical caress of perfume
which will procreate another lost child
Into oblivion.
And love will show its face once more
In the bottle of regret
and a being too fat to work.
Spilling the grease from his chips
while watching the latest premiere
Of another adolescent dream
steven cooke, 3 august 2016
The boy of silence
The face behind the harlequins gaze
hides the scars of yesterdays man.
Born in an Attercliffe slum
in the rags of fathers graft,
with a pencil for a voice
stolen from milk mans note.
A boy in possession of an imagination
and no future
Who can still see a glimmer in the rust
buried in the abandoned steel works,
lost in council’s regeneration
of a green field sites that now offers
the quest for a four leaf clover.
This gift can be a lonely thing
in a world of regimented minds.
Inspiration needs a partner
for every word is a journey.
Writing belongs to my addiction
and my love
for the glorious water of Scotland.
For a single malt can make a man hear
the ghosts from the past.
The fear of being the scruffiest lad at school
leaves a generals memory of war
bullies and a pregnant girls shame.
A school is a flag that I shall not pass
for its contents means nothing to me.
The wood that that lost its view
to the Stalag of tomorrow’s drones
Can only cry in silence.
But I who was born in its shadow
found solitude and my fortress
Inside a tent of twigs
in a cold uncaring world.
My soul could never connect with
the wage packet teachers
who are as forgetful as me.
The boy who found his dreams
In the cover of the oak.
Whose presence still remembers
the torn book of Sassoon
thrown into the brambles discarded,
as the generation within it was.
I am the voice whose audience was the wood
and applause came from imagination,
though the spirits of the past looked on.
The immortality of silence
is only a pretender.
For it shouts within my soul of past memories,
Of a ghost I do not know
existing in the denial of god.
A being that time cannot touch.
And long after I am dead ,
the wind will carry this immortal feather
and in its dance a ghost will be seen.
Looking for a stolen pencil
and a torn book that nobody reads.
steven cooke, 22 july 2016
When the guns go silent
God cannot intervene in sovereignty
and the boy will plead no innocence.
Seedlings cannot control the wind,
in birth the Oak has called their name
a command from the forest unseen.
A biblical sandstorm unleashed by unworthy souls
Will scatter this seed
that a millennium of kings could not see.
Time demands the old to look away
For Medusa’s face will give the peace.
Hope now resides in young men’s eyes
and the currency at stake is dreams.
These are the orders of man.
As the desert celebrates the rain with life
and the Eskimo gives reverence to flesh.
That is the natural dignity of things
It was this harmony that created the ark,
a speck of light in the darkness
that gives meaning to the stars above.
But war is the Cancer unseen
flowing in the veins of weeds with mortal power.
Weeds whose future is locked in vaults unseen
hypnotised by the allure of possession
hiding their gluttony in papers power.
A confession that only the executor will see.
The poor will be tried in combat,
existence will see them fall.
To defend history with mothers child,
and use our great Cities to forge
the end with steel and bullet.
All bought with Slaver’s wealth and empire.
Actions that will tempt the heavens
with sparks that ricochet off the anvil of God.
So even the lost alien observer
will feel this pain of mankind.
These seedlings cropped by lawnmowers damned
Scything through the spirit of man.
And perhaps the crying mother will find comfort
that the greed that underpins all wars,
will see this Judas priest .
This paper with devils desire
that feeds a global asylum,
in cubicles of generic concrete
waiting for the illusive pension from life.
Will find the ark that prophets seek.
A truth that transcends all religion.
Heaven declines your currency
wealth is a mortal thing
your fee is to the earth
and that is the remembrance of you.
The cry of the swift
gives Gods speed to assassins flight.
A mirage of summer
that avoids the artists brush.
Natures fly has devoured this sin of man
and sacrifice is given,
to the voyagers of the sky
converting the souls of men to flight.
And perhaps in this act ,
humanity will find redemption.
And the boys that died unseen
will finally see the beauty of creation,
high above the pain below.
Screaming on the wings of freedom
A truth reserved for God
and a dead boy’s dream.
steven cooke, 12 july 2016
Soul Mate
I know that this person was born to Phorcy and Ceto. The purpose of this write is about symbolism and the power of this individual. Nothing is real and I hope that the viewer can take what ever message they wish. A single Malt, well tasted, and a beautiful Versace belt inspired this.
In forgotten dreams
a lonely phoenix gives its last breath
to birth an ancient spell.
An egg that is forged from her heart
This last act of innocence
Will gives hope to
a love caged in a world,
surrounded by winters cold.
Silently love waits for the fires lament
that will free a shimmering soul.
An apparition of emotion
searching for a hand that may not exist,
fuelled only by hope and desire.
This spell that was born in royal veins
corrupted with ancestors curse ,
conspires to cheat the reapers hand.
For life is suspended.
Beauty is in league with time,
her decay is absorbed by the mirror
that deceives the dandies puff.
A mirror that we all possess.
No claims from the souls inside
Only a united bond that peers into paradise.
Reflections of the truth are frozen,
for statues are dry of tears
and the birds of love stare back in silence,
destined to find no mate.
Creation must till this soil forward
for the stars were born to life.
The darkness where she resides
is but a stormy night.
And tomorrow will bring the light.
The beating wings of myth perfumes her chamber
with the smell of dragons dare.
The soul of youth this warmth of man,
resides behind these turquoise eyes
of the last seed of a noble race.
Desire and passion feed the furnace within
But love turns breath into summers wind
and the earth is stirred to life
A molten stream from an unborn star
Rages forth from a barren womb
And the heat of desire cracks the egg
that brings pardon to this birth
Gods awaken, their crowns go dim
As Eve rises slowly
born to taste a golden fire .
One kiss from his virgin lips
and her heart will beat again,
To be the first to see this Eve
Is written in the mirror
To look into her eyes
A secret love revealed
The joy of tasting an angels soul
the marriage of hearts as one.
But touch her face and gather her stare
And love will seek the truth
For Eve will pay her dues
Love is found in the seconds of the clock
And loneliness is forever
She belongs to humanities dream
of Romeo and lovers grief.
Dragons kiss will feel her heart
These seconds of ecstasy will shed his wings
The warmth of life is ticking.
and now the key is turning.
A dragon chained by love,
can never be free
and he became her crystal.
A royal statue to a lover’s dream
Whose kingdom she commands.
Snared in a dream forever
He will find no cold in love.
All will spend eternity
gazing upon their goddess
Enslaved by the reflection in the mirror
And what of Eve .
Tears of snow turn into ice
as the heat of life subsides.
The cry of phoenix
Remembered in the prism of light
While the silence of death continues to call ,
hidden In the darkness between the Stars
And the gods will pay tribute in statue
To a woman that gods and mortals cannot touch
Where beauty resides forever
In a heart protected by the stars and the shimmer
Upon the pool of life.
And her name will be the last soul to die
For she is Medusa
Queen of all that we love.
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“.
steven cooke, 30 march 2015
Field Of Dreams
(World War One Poem)
Field OfDreams
The World has stated our freedom,
the worms shall share a soldier's fear.
To look above my trench
is to be a thief in the night.
Life shall lurk, afraid of what is above.
.
My brothers wait for their moment
the maverick shell will deal the deck.
The queen of spades shall flirt with all,
hoping to sear our blood against this iron of hate.
War treats victims with the vindictive pain of foe
for non are welcome to this battlefield.
.
The steam from burning bodies is wine to the party,
this thrill of reality a true Russian roulette.
A link between man and beast,
for we all take part in this unifying glory of slaughter.
.
Refugees are we
the artists and the poets,
fraudsters and scam artists
We manipulate waist paper and propaganda,
for the legacy of death is ours.
.
Bully beef is king for contentment is rare,
we give thanks to cattle sacrifice.
I share existence with comrades temporary,
my ghosts exist In Gods lungs.
Their memories haunt my sanity
the last sinner's refuge to comrades condemned,
for we shall never tell the truth.
.
We are and were common men,
obedience is what we do.
Threatened by a lieutenant boy,
but all will cry this night.
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No home shall know this fear,
for we are the blood of England.
Our betters will try and sanitise our demise
in poppies and salutes,
which will heal in public memory,
but poppies are meant to bloom
not to fall from cathedral skies.
.
Pour our blood on sacred earth,
drink, disciples of this last supper
for our humanity resides in you.
Paint your galleries in gallant charge
and hold the hand of fallen stars.
Unknown corpse shall not linger in
the spirit must moves on.
.
Life is fleeting, the logistics of killing a fact.
Blood will dry before a baking sun
or hide in in monsoons quagmire
and somewhere in the lost,
lies a forgotten smile
a lover's heart and a dream
of a generation gone.
.
Dreams belong to our time,
and forever is a deity dream.
Do what you will with this gold.
Fill your coffers with tomorrows hunger
for harvests will come again.
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Our final moment has arrived,
a cold micro second within a distant universe.
We are ready to leave this trench,
talk is quenched by silence.
.
The voice of shell will play the stage.
Maim and confirm the kill,
in the light of demons
and give your applause to God.
.
Blood will sign the death certificate
and the reaper will overplay his hand.
An easy day for him, for this is the tsunami of man.
The reaper wil dance on the corpses surrendered,
though he still has to tango with flies,
for they have no respect for him.
.
The lead will rant a blazing tune
like lovers ill matched,
arguing who shall live or die.
.
Daffodils felled for market,
a mothers day greeting in the morning post.
And the milkman will deliver the milk
to doorsteps old and new.
.
The tears will be washed in corporation water
for the lead pipes have not yet been stolen,
and the trams pass by oblivious.
For grey faces dead read the law of man,
humanity need another day.
Another hero insanity dictates,
for tomorrow promises to be
another glorious day.
steven cooke, 30 september 2013
War Artist
I scrawl these visions
in the light of exploding shells
and the grey sleep of a million corpses,
making my pencil the last witness
to the moments between life and death.
Truth shall guide my trembling hand
across a blank canvass that will inherit
this day’s memory of pain.
A transformation in the dark colours of suffering
that echoes the sounds of war
to a respectable audience,
taking their morning tea in England.
The epitaph of a race captured in a wooden pencil
sharing the blood of mankind
in another holy grail.
Come drink this sweet wine of youth
for it will never empty.
My pencil denied by the colours of life
creates glory on a foreign field.
The sons of mothers pose
in deaths final picture,
frozen for winter to play.
Till the heat of summer takes them away
on blue bottle wings to heaven.
A rotten imprint to torment the living.
They were once human as I remember
who came with wit and clean socks
seeking the approval of father.
All were looking for a road to be a man
but the road was a trench,
whose veins pulsated with the blood of the dead
giving birth to the shadows of tomorrow.
Shadows, shadows all is shadows
the pencil can tell no lies.
Life turned into spectres and flies
haunting the conscience of mankind.
We are no longer human beings
war in the trenches dulls the meaning of life.
Death is but a serial number and a victory
for tomorrow’s paper.
Life wasted in Judas visions for all to see.
And I who live in fear
cannot see the lines of humanity anymore.
Only images seeded in a fractured brain
whose portfolio burns in the corpse
that was once my soul.
This pencil has done its duty
The reaper can take these eyes,
eyes that see the shadows
dancing in the flickering flames of war.
A light that bears witness to my last heart beat
in the scribbles of a dying man.
My destiny foretold in my work
to spend eternity in the darkness
that surrounds the stars,
with a pencil that can draw no light.
Pass gently dear comrades from this earth,
time is the watch which knows no end.
Only the blind and the dead will hear
the last tick of this illusion.
For silence is the secret of the earth
everything dies, everything dies.
steven cooke, 6 september 2013
The House Of Many Faces
I am the man that feeds the world
genetically engineered crops,
come take your fill.
I am the investor who gives you land,
your debt can wait,
for we know who you are.
Multiply and grow fat for I need an army
teach your children about us and them
and be grateful that you belong to us.
For we are civilised so pay the tax
that freedom brings you.
Tomorrow uncertainty waits
time is the rain that washes the future.
Famine will always be your brother
so hold my hand and walk with me.
Should the bee turn its back on you?
then nature will focus the brain.
To kill for survival is a gift from God,
to live is the right of every man.
Follow me and the acrid smell of new asphalt
shall delete the footsteps of your past.
I am you and you are me
science will cheat all that is written.
End of days will launch the virus
and Preachers will look through saintly windows
at the gathering headstones.
And a child of the world will see
fields full of white chairs
and wonder “where are the people”
The terrorist will kill the innocent
martyrdom their reward
and we will watch the TV in silence,
as our loved ones fall from the sky.
And somewhere in the world
the decision will be made.
A victim will be selected
and a drone will do its duty.
Their coffin will be draped
in right and wrong,
honour to the left
and traitor to the right.
A holy cross will divide this river
for all will cling to the illusion
of them and us.
God will control the believers
political solutions the rest.
No race or religion can alter the time
the sums will solve survival.
Some must die to let me live
and I have chosen you,
the holy grail of the west
to take supper with me.
For in all this destruction
In all the beauty that has been lost.
There stands a human being
the perfect spy from above.
For in human form the devil exists
It is only when we die
Can the angel be born?
And the writings of poets
will be heard no more,
the ink will only follow orders.
Blue and the green will fear the brown
and black will not trust the white.
The language of man will fuel the fire
and the grey of ash shall win.
But in truth who will miss this existence
for the angel is a brother of the devil
and God is the father of all.
Our epitaph will be found
painted on the cave walls of the frightened.
Dreamtime will come again
and the last child will draw the final image.
Of the white chairs waiting in a sea of green
and she will pick the last flower
that only she can see.
steven cooke, 6 september 2013
A Fairy Story According To Jeremy Kyle
Her Life defined by the size
of potatoes in a supermarket trolley.
She opens her battered purse
out of shape from the coppers of life,
viewed with despair from eyes
embedded in the bags of time.
Self-esteem abandoned in discoloured trainers.
Her contaminated cheap cider mind
still clings to the fog of that special day,
when she gave herself to him.
The doll that came to life
In dreams that found a prince.
Sweet anticipation was the nectar of being
and forever had found immortality
in the quest for life.
But this flower was envied by the weeds
jealousy was rife amongst the onlookers.
The detritus who once shared her life
now whisper their poison into her veins.
Jealousy is a lonely place for them
and hate cannot spell love.
For love is a need beyond the individual
and evil must walk alone.
She was s a bride of the damned
Immersed in a punk rock dream.
But dreams turned into nightmares
and she was spit on
by the culture which became her jail.
Anarchy came from the womb
obedience came from poverty
and know your place came from the hand she loved.
Silence was now her existence.
Daddy never told her
fairy tales have no god.
Her prince became a frog
a drone who hated is lot
and she became the witch that trapped him.
Made him the victim of Grimm's tales
Which cast him down the yellow brick road
of unbrushed teeth and brown.
Whose fists shattered the crystal ball
of happy ever after,
to be baptized in the liquid sea of Stella
and pools of emerald vomit.
To bite this apple needs no witches poison.
Addiction is anonymous as a wave on the ocean
knowing that death will come when it reaches land,
knowing that this is the fate of all refugees
who abandons their lifejacket to oblivion.
We are all jumpers cleaning the windows of tomorrow
hoping to avoid the ledge of life.
Though in our hearts there is a desire
to step off into uncertainty
for we all crave that moment ,
when we are truly free.
Some will leave this life in anger
others will give their life to peace,
these are the survivors.
But the victims
The Jeremy Kyle’s entourage
will strip their soul one petal at a time
In the act of do not remember me.
We are all born into fairy tales
the dice of chaos decides the memory.
And for those who take the time,
take the time to see the artist at work,
will recognise the beings that walks past us every day.
The stranger who buys the small potatoes
With a purse full of coppers.
Spending what is left of their existence
In the supermarket that we call life.
Latest comments:
21 november 2024
Jaga
Gdybym ci ja umiała ;) Ale zanucić można jakby
21 november 2024
:))
20 november 2024
sam53
smacznego....
20 november 2024
nuty są? poproszę
20 november 2024
dzięki... :))))
20 november 2024
można się nauczyć ale po co...
20 november 2024
Teresa Tomys
Jest nas więcej...
20 november 2024
Jakieś przekłamanie w tekście i nie wiem z
20 november 2024
Mnie deszcz zawsze kołysze do snu :)
20 november 2024
Szkoda, że nie ma już podpięć.
20 november 2024
To ja.
20 november 2024
Tak :)) W ogóle, mosty NY są bardzo klimatyczne:)
21 november 2024
wiesiek
21 november 2024
Jaga
20 november 2024
wiesiek
19 november 2024
Eva T.
19 november 2024
wiesiek
19 november 2024
Jaga
19 november 2024
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19 november 2024
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19 november 2024
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19 november 2024
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