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	steven cooke
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steven cooke, 21 maja 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.

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steven cooke, 23 czerwca 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.

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steven cooke, 18 kwietnia 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.

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steven cooke, 1 lipca 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.

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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

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, 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, 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 lutego 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.

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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.