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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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, 6 june 2013
Soldiers Thoughts
Soldiers Thoughts
(World War One)
Memory is our contribution to life
and sleep the eternal dream.
This voice of youth has one last breath
and we give it to you.
My comrade’s corpse will be forgotten
like the ash from generals cigar.
Our blood will pour to fill their ambitions,
So sweet is the vintage they consume
at Christ’s table this night.
The claret of soldier boys
will oil the guns this day,
and prayers will be sent
In the glory of our annihilation.
The lines on the map grow restless.
The horses all know their fate,
for the rot of progress is in the air.
Our preachers gather their crosses,
we fight in the name of God.
But who does God fight for?
Is mercy beyond his gaze?
Was this his plan?
To create the widows vale
that descends upon the son of man.
Is a soldier to see the face of God?
Through eyes that burn in a yellow mist
breathed on by fallen angels.
Whose kiss causes him to gurgle
for fear he tells the truth.
Tells the truth,
to the last believer on earth.
Futility rules this slaughter,
we are the waste of nature.
Men and boys are but leaves
ordained to fall in the winds of war.
There is no sanctuary from the guns
that spew their rain of death.
It digests us all.
Sins and good deeds forgotten.
In retribution they take vengeance
on we, the poor souls below.
There is no dignity to be found here,
Only death in corrupted mud.
Life is the enemy
and reason the sword.
We are a disposable commodity,
and this land will feast upon us.
Mothers of England
let your children play.
For tomorrow they will come
to make angels on earth.
This generation will haunt the sky.
Sculptured in the storm clouds that gather
and you will see your son.
For that is where your boy resides.
Free from the sins of man,
free from the fear of war.
And your tears will remember him,
“Jack “, who was, your little boy.
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, 30 march 2013
Epitaph of the Dragon
Chained to these walls of despair
I was condemned by a Judas race.
Assassins’ wait on every corner
hiding in the lights of man
looking for my face.
To be last of your species is a lonely place
in loneliness everyone’s your enemy,
my existence violates this earth.
I am demonised by children not yet born
for I am Auschwitz I am war,
I am the monster behind your door.
Cremation is ordained upon my soul
the future dies when cities burn.
Life gives way to extinction
but the last rights give way to destiny
for the dragon has one last legacy.
Lead me to your abattoir
and take my dignity.
My scales will provide a heroes shield
this blood will give you courage.
Take these eyes made of jade
but do not look too close
for I may possess you.
Artisans take my teeth
record my sins in scrimshaw
for I have flown amongst you.
Memories laid down in human bone
for the samurai has felt my breath
and his god has knelt before me.
Immortality now gives way to fairy tales
Dragons used to frighten children
for it is all you have,
to protect them from reality.
Though some will grow
to envy me.
The truth of mankind
lies on the artists brush
Skilfully mixing your colours of deceit.
Dragons are not your heroes
your excuse, you were following orders.
The dragon is the darkest secret of mankind,
in your actions I became the executioner
and you a plague of demons
that washed my soul away.
But always remember,
when you look into the fire
there will always be a dragon
looking back at you.
Waiting to reclaim his throne
from the demons that exist in you.
steven cooke, 22 march 2013
What Dreams May come
To walk in dreams
upon this vale of illusion.
Each footstep of your being
crossing the labyrinth
of a shy but guilty soul.
Sleep can be your witness
As Galaxies collide creating life
for we all belong to infinity.
That place beyond our imagination
where the darkness hides
a beauty not meant for human eyes.
Reality is the myth
for you now walk with gods.
This world is a reflection of you
where water and mirror are one.
The shimmer of a distorted face
lies on the see saw of humanity.
The light you inherit
the darkness you manufacture.
But in death at least
your priest will lie for you.
Life is but a feather
It glides through the winds of time.
Sometimes rising to your endeavour
more often it is a passenger
falling on a broken wing.
But no matter
your feather is immortal.
For it caresses the meanings
of such wonderful things
and you beat the odds to be you.
Morning brings a pencilled rubber
the mind will leave this page.
and somewhere in the universe
another being will dream,
of things beyond this human race.
steven cooke, 8 march 2013
The Bible According To Netto
(please note dunners are debt collectors)
(Netto is a low cost supermarket)
In these isles of cheap illusion
the kids run free,
screaming for the sugar of childhood.
While their mother walks on
down wine bottle lane,
to escape life’s demons
for one more day.
The shells of beings look
but do not see.
Part time lives
in worn out trainers
minimum wage to stretch,
their withered faces
all smart price packed,
on another out of date trolley.
Buy one get one free,
a horse burger is a burger
a person is a person.
Each hiding themselves from the world,
Incognito in a world of poverty.
Tomorrow the kids will cry
each will find their jail.
The weight of despair
will sentence their lives
In these streets
You will find a different kind of humanity.
Where social security
hears the dunners knock
and boredom leads to exotic dreams,
wrapped up in foil of rainbow brown.
We all crave the womb
for the world cannot reach us there.
And behind the curtain
the detritus of existence survives.
Old men in young men’s clothes
with regret filled veins
counting the burglars sin
as the blue light of night closes in.
The child becomes a woman
and woman carries the pain.
Another babe born
the hand of indifference
grabs another box
Of powdered baby milk,
for family allowance is her work.
Life belongs to an electric token
and a chip pan of joy
her disfiguring pleasure in life.
These are the isles
where no one has a name
complete with a special offer of sadness.
Existence is a hangover for under a fiver
for this is the sum of life.
and no one will take away
this credit on society
our triple (A) rating of poverty.
steven cooke, 24 february 2013
The Five 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,
darkness is forever
and within these letters
we find immortality.
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
Words can be a jigsaw of fears,
Or a rose sculptured in the heart.
All belong to confession,
trapped in the confetti of poems
which hide behind a harlequin mask
though a poets heart,
is for all to see
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, 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, 10 february 2013
Not For Them
A poem about World War 1.
(Ich tötete is German for I killed)
(J’ai tue is French for I killed)
(Yellow mist refers to Mustard Gas)
Not for them
this poem of life
for the pen is full of blood.
Writing the names of yesterday
on lichen memorials
washed by the tears
Of these forgotten years.
Not for them
a sunny day
only shadows from the cross.
Hiding their faces from tomorrow.
Stored in this warehouse of silence,
kept secret by churches reverence.
Not for them
to burn this candle of innocence
their light was sold for war.
To search out death in no man’s land
for machine gun and snipers hand.
Not for them
the words of love or the gift of flowers
for only poets can pick their dreams.
No nightingales and moonlit nights
or gentle caress upon the shore.
For death is but a moment,
Inspiration dies,
with the pain in soldiers eyes.
Not for them
to sleep in peace
or to wake to mothers bread.
Only memories of a yellow mist,
for the banshees longs to be kissed.
Not for them
to lie to God
to say we did not kill.
For in death they can all say
Ich tötete, J'ai tué, I killed.
We who came from Eden,
are now comrades in heaven.
Not for them
to know the future
for we see only the graves.
Let this be our peace,
less we forget the meaning of war.
And pray historians will never write again,
with a pen full of blood, this poem,
Not for them.
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, 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, 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 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, 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, 2 december 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.
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, 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
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.
steven cooke, 11 november 2012
The Wind Will Never Forget
The Wind Will Never Forget
The tears of life now sleep with them
the guns have found their silence.
These fields of war are now in peace,
only the poppies remain
These red petals that cover this land
with remembrance of yesterday,
of the suffering and pain,
for our lads have passed this way.
These brave boys
Who bore their innocence
to this thing we call war
who renounced their gift of life for us
Strangers to you and me
yet more dearer to our souls than family
for here lies the cross of Jesus
the pain of everyman
That sacrifice that only youth can give
their epitaph is our peace
The rose of England bows its head
in reverence and humbled grace
and may god bless all of them
For our boys were the roses
that flowered in every village
the Jack’s and Jimmie’s
the Tom’s and the Bert’s
No more footsteps for mother to hear
their laughter stolen by the wind
all quiet now in village square
But on a wall in a foreign land
their names are lovingly remembered.
Grandchildren shout their names with pride
for they are the seeds of England
this immortal rose cannot die
for they were beautiful
And we who are alive
You who take the time to stop
who bow your heads in silence
will feel their pain
Feel the pain of Nations grief
as the petals fall from above
and we will remember life
for life is what they gave to us
The poppies that grow in Flanders field
are reminders of those who have no grave
and our tears will remember them too.
We who live in freedom,
because of them, because of them.
steven cooke, 20 july 2012
The Casualty
The officer’s whistle opened the door,
the pain of mortar did greet the damned
and I did nap with death in no man’s land.
In cold of night the stretcher did wake
from peace to hell and burning pain.
These eyes will see the stars no more,
no comrades smile for me.
The darkness has won
for light has abandoned me
and my face is for others to see.
Am I alive? The pain agrees,
my hand can feel this fevered brow.
What will home think?
to only half a man
and will England still respect this man?
The sound of an angel, who talks with God,
a poor soul for sale,
could that be me?
And God condemns
that I am not worthy,
for others deserve better
than half of me.
And in my darkness
Opium’s womb enters my veins
the pain chased away by foetal claim,
while the music of war in shrapnel fragment
screams a tortured lament.
And youth will queue to die in vain
among the ranks of nightingales reign.
These deities who tend this holy fodder
grow distant with bloody rags.
My mind feels the heat of shrapnel’s breath,
the thought of box in foreign field
the feel of sun and breeze denied
and claustrophobia feeds my fear.
Lonely is the grave with no goodbye
and I do not want to die.
But god is my surgeon and he is beat,
the angel will deliver mercy
and death will get his degree.
For compassion was hers to give,
the touch of her hand
will wipe this brow.
The cold of the scissors will cut the tag
and I will join a corpse’s march
obeying the ghost of captains orders
uniting friend and foe in melting borders.
In death I will believe
and hope will leave this earth with me.
My reward is tempered by sword and cross
epitaph is poured over another loss.
And country prepares to count the cost
The drone of the letter
this paper of man
typed in halls by Vatican whores,
delivering their knock on mother’s door.
This pain of England’s son
will lie in empty bed,
silence will be hers to see.
A candle for me in winter’s light
but death will play in mother’s night.
Her tears will wash this wooden cross,
the house will cry for little boy lost
and the dog will sit with eye on door,
never to wag his tail no more.
steven cooke, 1 july 2012
Who was Lizzie Van Syl?
A small girl stands amongst the flowers of Bloemfontein
surrounded by the aurora of yellow tulips
for she belongs to the angel’s now.
Her finger Points at the carpets of flowers
a reminder of lives cut short.
The glint from the sun hides her fallen friends
and a faint wind rustles the petals
forming strange whispers, the voice of many.
A wind that grows stronger everyday
and the voices gather,
speaking in tongues from around the globe.
A cry for help that falls on deaf ears,
to destroy a deadly seed that once was planted here. And our attention will be drawn to
memories of gold and places long forgotten.
Places that were scorched back into the ground,
where peace was replaced by burning crops,
and we will feel sad for this land.
But behind all this evil a seed was born.
For its germination came when this sweet child
Lizzie Van Zyl was killed.
Once a happy child, taken from her farm
through tears, saw her house destroyed and livestock slaughtered
even her beloved dog.
Taken to sleep on the ground, slowly starved
and left to winters kill.
Her last comfort a pile of rags to die on.
Her last words “Mother, Mother, I want to go to my Mother”.
Thrown into a pit,
to join a multitude of innocents, in the name of progress.
Bloemfontein killed with deliberate neglect,
and the bullet killed her father at Ladysmith.
Another victory for empires glory
Lizzie’s crime was her fathers, for he wanted freedom,
democracy and a future for his family.
But greed and empire gave birth to new words
and historians will justify,
that War is inevitable as is the darkness of night.
And darkness can hide the ideals of men
for here the seed of evil grew
spreading over time to generations new.
A world kept secret from prying eyes.
But secrets come out and greed fuels the beast.
Bloemfontein became the mother
and her offspring were blessed in Wars name,
Auschwitz, Dachau, Treblinka,
Oh and so many more.
Different lands, same outcome,
an Oasis for evil.
A place where the dark side of humanity
degenerates into the primordial soup
from whence it came.
A haunting realisation too,
that England, has tarnished the code of chivalry,
and brought shame to the flag.
Little Lizzie still stands among the flowers,
her ghost is still pointing, not at the flowers
but at you and me.
For it is we who did this, and it is we who will do it again.
So glance at your wedding band
for the glint might just blind you to its past.
The price of this gold is a debt we cannot repay
and pray the voices in the wind
will one day fade away.
Quote from a Journalist
Cowardice of the most loathsome cure on earth - the act of striking at a brave man's heart through his wife's honour and his child's life."
Footnote to the write
This write is about the Boer war and the tactics that the British used to achieve victory
LizzieVan Zyl was seen by Emily Hobhouse just before she died. Her memoirs reveal the conditions that Lizzie was subjected to.
The atrocities committed in South Africa were kept secret from the British public.
Historians believe that the outcome of this conflict delayed Democracy in South Africa by 100years.
Ironically the Boers interred in Concentration Camps were conscripted to fight for England in World War One.
Finally another irony was the demand for revenge by England to Germany for doing the same thing
To this day generations born after the Second World War are paying the debt in Germany, while England pays nothing to the Boervolk.
steven cooke, 23 june 2012
A Sniper of the Great War
Fly on hand
born of comrade’s corpse,
the only witness of what has gone before.
The fleas that no longer hide,
slowly drinking my soul,
a world where freedom lies
snug in the skin of my filthy body,
I am a giving god to them.
And as I curse the itch with embers burn
I peer through the sight, once more
waiting for my foe.
For country has made an avenging god.
To see the eyes before they close,
knowing that darkness has come.
This tribute of victory
is mine alone to dream
Though sleep is my victim’s vengeance,
a place where haunting faces
with broken skulls and withered lips
all gather to greet me.
For tomorrow the dream will begin again,
and their words will grow louder,
ranting through the buzz of flies,
chuckled in the mouths of rats
which draws the attention of another sight?
For my foe seeks the silence of me.
This harvest is a lousy feast.
We soldiers in limpet ground
shooting at images of man,
for reality would tremble the hand
and to miss, is to know the man,
in the mist of this no man’s land.
And what of god?
The day is near when we will lower our heads
for to look would be obscene,
we criminals of heaven, we disciples of hell.
But no matter,
our papers are a blessed pass
for king and country comes first
and fear is for the living,
as dying is for the brave
The victors will judge
hero or assassin.
The victims will argue in heaven
and God will know the frailties of man.
Forgiveness was not mine to give,
to follow orders, history will condemn.
But the last word is mine
and Adam in his sin will answer to me
A soldier of this Great War.
steven cooke, 4 june 2012
A soldiers Tale
The trembled hand
the twitching face.
A desperate draw on cigarette
looking for courage in a cordite breath.
Huddled in mud protected by
slime filled walls,
these walls of Jericho shake
crumbling into my fear.
My tomb beckons another inspection.
Buried alive under corrupted soil,
a land lords greeting from the
putrid remains of the tenants before.
Did Mother give birth to me for this?
The screams of the howitzer,
Marching in footsteps, stamping it’s wrath,
for fear of the dead rising.
And we who are alive, that dare to look
will see the face of death that hides within it’s light.
A face I would gladly see,
if bargain I could contemplate
in exchange for silence,
and the solitude of darkness.
Where fear cannot go,
where the cold become’s a welcome blanket
for I wish this suffering to end
To hear the guns, all seeking me
to shred my guts with shrapnel scythe
and amputations rip.
To die with blood soaked ears
punctured into silence for man’s aggression.
This man placed here by another’s ambition
to pay the price for no man’s land,
The only thing that is really free,
for dead men will not stop you
from taking a soldier’s walk.
Another draw on my cigarette,
and a prayer from my anonymous conscience,
trembles upon humanities lips.
“Gives us this day our daily bread
Though I do not forgive them
For thine is the Kingdom
And men will destroy thy glory
Forever and ever
Amen.”
steven cooke, 21 may 2012
Yellow
Fumbling through a sheen of yellow
the land and sky merge as one.
and earthly song goes silent.
The stage is set for death to breed,
tendered by phantoms, catching the unwary
these purveyors of men’s souls
The rats were the first warning,
blind panic the second.
The sting on the eye brought the fear,
the search for the mask the doubt.
was it by my side or did it fall,
Into the mud or by my gun.
Focus, Focus.
Shaking hands, remember the clip,
the burn in the eyes is it too late.
The feel of rubber sticking to my face,
breathe slowly searching for the cough
heart ready to explode, relief the smell of air.
Then silence replaced by the gurgle.
The gurgle of dying men walking blindly
grasping for air, but the air has gone.
Replaced by the yellow that kills
that yellow which delights in a slow kill,
that torments the sanity
of the view behind the mask.
To watch a man die in corrupted lungs,
to see his sweet words of life,
replaced by a froth that no man should see
The mercy of god is elsewhere this day,
as the eyes blister, his body writhes
and the light is dowsed from his existence.
Yet still the burning pain remains gathering its strength,
rushing through the brain.
No lasting thoughts of home,
only pain, manufactured by Adam
the gurgle, the last words of a dying man
And I who have survived will witness this,
every day of my life,
and people will say “there goes a hero”
a soldier of the Great War.
And I will accept their drinks and cigarettes,
and for a moment I will forget
The yellow that killed my friends,
but the yellow will return
The yellow that will always follows me,
hoping for a helping hand,
a rope, a pill, or a shot,
the choice is yours.
As long as you make the roll call right
But the yellow can never take
the memories,
that my comrades gave to me.
For they are immortal
and my comrades will always watch over me,
As I will of them.
And now the yellow fades from memory.
The ghosts will walk no more
for the ranks are full
the last Tommy has passed away.
The trenches a depression in a field,
and the poppies are histories reminder,
Of what has passed this way.
steven cooke, 21 april 2012
Lovers of a Storm
Old Friends that say hello
Who share a secret memory?
Away from the road now travelled
For in her eyes their secret hides
Betrayed by the glint of a held back tear
Of a love that could never be
A love that trembled the senses
And in a stolen moment, over a bottle of wine
The dream runs free
Dissolving the relationships of reality
For deep within my soul
A world with an incorruptible sky
Plays host to a lovers imagination
Where the electricity from your touch
Gives birth to the storm
Your passion fuelling the Hurricane
Within me
And in the eye of the storm
Time stands still,
And my love cradles your soul
Hoping for another chance
And as I fall back to reality
In the dying wind I can hear your heart
A whispered beat that calls my name
But your Romeo always knew
That dreams were all we had
This Love was always just out of reach
And now I am left to dream of yesterday
Lost in a bottle of wine
Yet I still hear your thoughts
Though life has abandoned me
O my sweet, sweet love
Your love will always be there
And this dreamer who dreams of you
Will always be here.
Longing for another storm
steven cooke, 16 april 2012
The jellyfish Chronicle
Beneath my tendrils,
The sea has many secrets
And I am the last witness
To ships that sink
To gulls that die
To hear the whales that cry
To see the births,
Far away from man’s eye
Drifting under frozen seas
A last paradise where man has no welcome
Let nature be our shield
The Cold our government
This place where
The Northern lights dance
In honour to the ancestors
For we came before man
And will be here when
Man has gone
Life and death in harmony
With natures will.
Written in the snow everyday
steven cooke, 6 april 2012
Love under the Dollar
In kindle dreams her life retreats
With Botox swagger
And gel filled glory
A plastic rose
Hiding a once varicose being
.
A flower with a sting
Whose predatory ways
Leach off this sexual forest
Of spar infested vanity
Where youth is for the innocent
And cougars dine on essence divine
With triffid fingers and mosquito convulsions
Of unspoken ways for
The dollar will
always pay
.
And when her thirst has gone
The dark of reality descends
Hiding the face of yesterday
Whose masquerade is left on morning pillow
A Monet impression to greet the light
.
The camera is stopped
The potions are in a queue
For her vanity waits
Another audience with snow white
This imposter among the weeds of creation
.
And in the balcony the fashion clones swoon
Sculptured dolls under butchers knife
Waiting with credit card lines
To feed on groped applause
And we will envy them
.
We that live in the mud of this life
We Parasites and leaches
We Saints and Pulpit Preachers
For we all envy things
That we cannot be
.
Envy things that
Come in dollar dreams
That buys the illusion
That one day you will envy me
.
steven cooke, 30 march 2012
Natures Democracy
Democracy is at America’s heart
You lead while others follow
And your citizens bear the right to be free
With freedom comes responsibility
And democracy applies
To all who inhabit this earth?
.
Within this premise Kyoto speaks
That sound which disturbs
The majority of a
wider democracy
.
You deny their
global solution
In favour of the American way
But there are whispers in the wind
For nature too believes in democracy
And nature will make the agreement for you
.
For she is omnipotent to unleash her democracy
You can deny your future, but your ghosts will deny you
This way of life feeds a changing climate
And nature gathers her strength
Slowly rising to give you her answer
.
The Hurricane and tornado
The desert and the flood
Her democracy to maintain
A balance within the hemispheres
.
Your Freedom is a noble thing
For freedom lies in every beast.
But only humans carry the burden of democracy
This is the price we pay for freedom
.
But freedom is worthless
When all you grow is destroyed
When all you build is washed away
When all that you hold dear is taken without mercy
.
Look over the fence America
Look beyond your borders
Look at your planet
And look at this baby born
For it may never grow up to remember you
steven cooke, 28 march 2012
The Worker
Torn from sleeps oasis
The razor stings my mortal
soul
A glance in the mirror to
know I exist
For the face of god lies
there
And behind this forced smile
A lunatic walks in the shadow
of me
,
But within this admission
The asylum of my brain
Has a garden where sanity grows
.
For bound in chains we gather
Though wind and snow bar our
way
Pouring through these asphalt
veins
Clogged with cholesterol
filled ambition
.
For Monday morning dines once
more
On another workers soul
And all the while the tick of
the clock
Winds down this drone
In happy reapers favour
.
But the rebels among us
Hide in the womb of our
imagination
To keep the corporate illusions
at bay
And my secret butterfly
carries this tortured soul
To a place beyond the dollars
eye
.
Where the snake rattles its
distain for humanity
For solitude is all I desire
And all the while the clock
ticks on
Forcing my existence to
trickle down the cities throat
Quenching this monster, they call
progress
.
And as I crawl home through
zombie minds
I feel sorry for the
splattered fly on my windshield
For its freedom has ended
Yet my dreams of freedom
linger on
Although within my heart I
know
These too, will soon be gone
steven cooke, 21 march 2012
The Prophesy of Me
These Hallowed halls
Frequented by myth and griffin
Whose presence Guards these priceless
minds
Protecting the unwritten novels
M C Squared and ingenious thoughts
The prophesy of zero one
.
This gluttony of ideas thirsting on
capitalisms juice
Summoning their messiahs to walk among
us
The commodities of life, this
treasured bible
Children the future and Capitalism
dissects
Yet Another batch of disciples
.
So what care I for prophets of doom
Population before climate
Religion over peace
Vanity before reason
Pride over poverty
Cap and gown before that which
created me
For I live high above these ghetto
streets
.
Yet my peace is drowned by Evening
chorus
Screams from the gutter
Another tattoo and the rush of heroin
Another type of messiah
Something for the poor to believe in
Just another nickel and dime resource
to me
.
Yet to hear this is a damnation of me
This arrogance over nature
To control that thing
That shackles our existence
That jails our thoughts
Prostitutes our freedom
And lets us die without reason
.
This way of life
Of poverty and desperation
Of concrete and aborted foetus
Of welfare cheques and sex for sale
.
Of unhappy beings behind
Unhappy doors
Protecting their own portals of
betrayal
In a private subjugated hell
For Compassion has left these mortal
beings
And my mind is closed, for there is
no profit for me
.
But conscience is my jury
And nailed to this holy cross
The verdict is written
Vermin under the butterfly
For compassion was never my thing?
And Human nature can be,
A most desperate thing
steven cooke, 27 february 2012
This Immortal love
Hiding within the feathers of an angels wing
My love waits, shy to the world
Content to fly, never wanting to stay
Until I met you
I have traded immortality for your kiss
A mortal kiss soft, moist, like the birth of a rainbow,
Leaving me with no fear
My sacrifice to love,
But love is a feast
And illusions dance in its shadow
And temptation has a price
For my angel danced with destiny
Now I stand on the precipice alone
An outcast from heaven
With broken wings that can fly no more
my dreams lay in the
salt Of a billion tears
This burden is mine to carry
To slow my walk through The Valley of death
.
For love is my cross
But it is a thing of beauty to show God
And perhaps within my suffering
He will understand
That love and loss is the price
We angels pay for
Living a mortal life.
steven cooke, 11 february 2012
Revised version Enslavement of a lesser being
Freedom won on a
distant battlefield
Gallant words to
remember them by
Unspoken tears for the
old to cry,
A game for the young to
play
Never a thought for
freedoms way
.
For tyrants are easy to
spot
Peaceful takeovers not,
Look through the haze
.
For when wheat replaces
the meadows
The birds have no home
When forests are
felled,
Extinction will come
You are a commodity,
For globalisation has won
.
When TV calls caressing
your soul
With the next discount,
and
“Yes its free fitting”
Without a shot being
fired
Your future mortgaged
.
And when your ration of
bread
Demands the last fish
in the sea
Neatly Packaged and
dolphin free
Who will pay the price?
..
This is the legacy
There is no escape
Big brother is watching
.
Mankind in a zoo of its
own creation
Come, peer through the
bars at,
This condemnation of society broken
For freedom lies on the
other side.
steven cooke, 1 february 2012
Ghosts of War
Within the fog of did you
see?
An old woman, made up to
the nines
Can be seen in the corner
of the non-believers eye
Purse in hand and a glass
of wine
Waiting for a lover who
never comes
Just shadows on the wall
Whispering names, through
Spiders silk, the
inheritors
Of this forgotten,
debutants ball
While Portraits glare at
vacant laughter
An echoed waltz swirls
The embrace of loves decay,
Images now jailed within
the Crystal shards
Of a fallen chandelier
A tear of Woman wears
mourning face well,
This vigil Mask hiding mortality
lost
Now broken and marking
time,
Love lies lost in the
barbed wire of war
Fallen stars to shine no
more
Their Remembrance merging
into darkness
Behind a cloudless unforgiving
sky
Alone is the corpse in
cratered field
Covered by poppies blood
Walked on by ghosts to
come
Another Whispered soul is roaming
The guns have left their
post
And Peace is just an
illusion
For yet another Flanders
ghost
This cruel winter’s night
The withered rose has lost
its fragrance
The champagne has all gone
flat
And love calls without an
answer
For silence is the memory
And it is we
Who walk hand in hand
With our ghosts of War?
steven cooke, 12 january 2012
The Execution of Romeo
They came in the
depths of sleep
Dream eaters to
plague my darkness
Troll whisperers
taunting my love
Their poison
running through my veins
My soul in chains
and on trial
I plead to the jury
for love
I plead again only
silence
The voice of love,
lost in a sinners scream
In the balcony
weeping angels,
Rain teardrops of
salt onto my bleeding arms
In this dark nether
world
I see the cold
light of a distant star
The last refuge of
my dying soul
My only comfort in
this realm of Fear
Phantoms sit at my
table to deliberate
While dining on
lonely hearts,
And drinking
promises made in the heat of passion
Sweet as unicorn
blood, the last deceit
Hecklers at the
windows
Mocking silent
poems never sent
A life never to be
The verdict guilty
as always
My beating heart
the last bastion of my love
I kneel in
sacrifice to the Gorgon
Love is lost, and
so am I
Behind the eyes of
the beast
I see grief not of
this earth,
Pain beyond any
dying planet
And yes love, in my
executioner
For even the
blackest heart
Needs love, for
this is the secret of all existence.
And as I die a
distant star awaits
For the next lover
to find this truth
You see love cannot
be chained,
Nor can it be
selective
It resides in the
pillars of good and evil
And it will be with
you
Even in your
darkest hour.
My epitaph, Romeo
steven cooke, 6 january 2012
Genie in a Gin Bottle
Her lips
caress another cigarette
A fading
belle looking for love
The smoke
veils her face,
For she is,
Genie in a gin bottle
.
Her Make up
hiding the past
Silk
fingernails hiding the smokers hand
Her wig of
blonde hiding the soul beneath
The ladder
in her stockings,
Torn like
her Hollywood dreams
.
Her perfume
sickly sweet,
Masking the odors
from yesterday’s gin
.
The ashtray
is full,
Cheap
Lipstick covers the tab ends
Her vigil to
find happiness
But he never
comes.
.
Only a
stream of chancers wanting to spin lady luck one more time,
Fuelled by
the promise of paradise
A vacation
from life,
A brag for
jack Daniels
,
Under neon
lights
A beautiful
girl in a gin bottle,
An inner
voice plays in her mind
.
“I could
have been a movie star”
A role she
can play all too well
But morning
light never lies
.
Her beauty,
has fled, left on the pillow
Like some
Monet’s impression.
Regret lays
sprawled out
Like yesterday’s
salad, thrown out with the rubbish
For the
slugs of corruption to eat
.
Her aging
face revealing, every rejection,
Every turned
down script, every broken dream
A lifetime
of heart break
But she
still plays her part well,
.
Play it again Sam
And another
cigarette,
The same
mistake, the same men,
.
From All the
gin bars in the world,
She had to
choose this one
.
Another
lottery ticket to litter her despair
No winning
numbers here
Her silent
acceptance speech,
Laid bare in
her blood shot eyes of regret
.
A mouthwash
of gin,
And the
genie of love returns to her bottle
Her legs
bruised and varicose,
Testament to
waitress by day, and genie by night
.
He closes
the door, his only thought,
To get away,
not his finest hour
Jack
Daniels, his moral escape goat,
Nosey Neighbor’s,
his jury
They bare
witness to his walk of shame
.
She opens
the curtains, and sees him fade into the faceless crowd
Alone again,
a full ashtray, and an empty gin bottle,
Symbols of
last night’s play,
.
The mirror
torments her image
As She
drinks coffee through smoke stained teeth,
A wave of
her head, a smile, and a daydream
Tonight, her
prince will save her
.
This is her
delusion, her reason to live,
But Time is
running out,
.
For she is
part of life’s crap game.
The dice
rolls once more
Will it be
happiness? Or loneliness?
.
But in the
end, deep down she knows
The House
always wins, in tinsel town.
steven cooke, 5 january 2012
Tremble
(Ode to a True Love Lost)
She kissed me under the lamp post
A kiss so soft that my lips
trembled
I felt her being entering my
heart
And my soul wrapping itself
around her
Wanting to keep for eternity
.
She looked into my eyes, my body
trembled
Life had only one meaning, and it
was she
Suddenly I was afraid.
I longed for her to be my destiny
.
But relationships would have to
be sacrificed
And Love cannot be sullied with
such things,
And then, she was gone.
.
We both knew it could never be.
She was the Earth and I was the
Moon
Orbiting on the outskirts of her
Life,
I was always just a tear away.
.
The years have past
And still she lies deep within my
being.
If there is a God, pray grant
this Sinner one last request.
.
When I take my last breath,
Let my Soul find her again
In a place where time and space
have no meaning
And let us be together as one,
.
And we will welcome eternity
together, as one.
steven cooke, 4 january 2012
A Wishing Well Love
I sit here all alone
The snow melting on my face,
A falling leaf sheds a memory,
Of my first love
.
It was here, that barmy night
She tripped in fun, amongst the
leaves.
She breathed a smile,
Took my hand,
And softly seduced me with a kiss
A secret wish comes true.
.
We made love that summer evening,
By the river, under the willow
Watched by a lover’s moon,
Hidden from View
.
Stared at the stars with our
wishing well,
We dreamed of love and silly
things,
Two hearts, inhibition to the
wind,
Our souls locked in nature’s
song.
.
But Young Love is a precious
thing,
And winters do blow cold.
And in the fading light
She said goodbye.
.
A last glance, a precocious
smile,
And the last moon dance was over
So here I sit with my wishing
well
Full of broken dreams,
.
Yet still, I see embers of a girl
Who shared love, under the willow
Gave hope to my dreams,
Touched my heart,
And taught me well about
The wishing well
.
No tears now, there are dreams to
make.
For That wish has flown away
To find another love
To breathe another wish
Into another’s heart.
To unlock more dreams
For her wishing well to pour
.
But our union was fruitful
For my wishing well is full
And dreams I can now give
For I seek my real love,
Where ever she may be.
Could it be you?
steven cooke, 4 january 2012
The Letter
Dear Marlene………
Sweet heart of the dead
Adored by generations not yet
born
Marlene we love you.
.
Your beauty burned the wings of
JFK
And brought big John to his knees
For your love, was meant for
more.
You shocked the World with a
velvet kiss
An elegant truth in a sea of
Fools
.
It took one voice to start a War,
One bullet to unite false
prophets
One woman to speak out
You ostracized the Nazis for what
they were.
.
Stood tall, through treason
Did not follow, Hitler’s Spell
Chose to Love America s freedom
instead.
.
When Reapers scythe came
Song and Compassion was your
shield.
It Gave comfort to the damned as
shell and mortar pound
.
Your words a respite, from the
fear
And your beauty, a reminder.
That love awaits the Soldiers
return.
Back to the German farms and the
English meadows
For love knows nothing of war.
.
You witnessed holy sacrilege,
Saw blind disciples fuel the
reapers fire
Both sides, in the name of god,
Oh how heaven must have wept
.
Marlene you dared to question
religion,
For Your soul could see through
the flames,
While others perished in mortals
Pride.
.
You Asked god to review his plan.
Only you, Marlene could do that
.
Where have all the flowers gone
Your message to Humanity,
But the Heinkel and the Spitfire
Flew too high to hear
And the flowers of youth
All Eaten by silent sheep, and
Taken to yet another slaughter.
.
Yet be proud Marlene
For Your echo awakened a new
generation to peace,
Although lasting peace is like
true love, so hard to find,
.
But never the less, a goal we
devote our lives to.
Some countries have found their
Peace
While other search.
.
Humanity is still a child in
these matters,
And war still goes on
When will they ever, learn, when
will they, ever learn.
.
Try to forgive us,
Perhaps the man upstairs,
Really does have another plan,
Marlene Dietrich,
.
At least I’m sure that Eternity
Will be a far more beautiful and
interesting place
With you in it,
.
And I look forward to meeting
you.
.
Love Steven
xxxx
.
Footnote to this
poem
JFK relates to her affair with
President Kennedy
Big john relates to her affair
with John Wayne
The Velvet kiss was the first
lesbian kiss on main stream cinema 1930, Marlene was bisexual.
The line where have all the
flowers gone and when will they ever learn comes from the song forever
associated with Marlene Dietrich.
.
Brief Biography
Born 1901 in Germany
First film in 1920
Became American Citizen 1937
Awarded Medal of Freedom USA 1947
Awarded Legion of Honor by France
Died in Paris, 1992
steven cooke, 3 january 2012
An Immortal Love
Have you ever witnessed the apple
fall.
Have you experienced love beyond
a mortals dream?
Or a look that commands the Stars
to shine.
Can you imagine a smile that
humbles all that paradise has to offer.
.
Such a love chose my heart, my
dreams,
And turned my darkness, into a
new sunrise
.
Where love opened my eyes to a
beautiful new world
That day the heavens witnessed me
falling from the tree of love
To be consumed by this girl,
With a voice to grace the silence
of any virgin valley
.
A kiss soft, moist, like the
birth of a rainbow
With An embrace to make the
bluebells of spring bow their heads
Leaving me with a desire, to stop
time,
A moment of love, to last forever
.
But lovers fears, led to lovers
tears
And the west wind took her away
To a place where another
happiness bloomed
And my dreams followed in dusts
embrace.
.
This lost love I keep locked away
Deep within my soul
Now and then it escapes
Consuming me in hopeless longing
A trigger for Suicidal thoughts,
In the darkness, Just before Dawn
A burden to my being, never to be
lifted
.
This love is my only Companion
For when my time comes
I will take this burden with me
A comfort through The Valley of
death
A thing of beauty to show God
A love to keep for 1 day more
than Eternity
.
My long lost Love, My moment in
this life.
So remember my tale, and cherish
what you have,
Do not pick up this pen, go kiss
your love
And forget me.
Perhaps I will find my kiss in
eternity.
steven cooke, 1 january 2012
The Lovers Ghost
I am absent from heavens table
For I miss my love.
Compassion from an angel
Helped me slide down a moonbeam,
To visit your lonely heart
.
As you sleep, I am with you my
darling
The warmth of my love
Creating a fire in your memory
Where we can sit and talk.
In the glow of embers love
.
In this realm we can feel love
once again
Let us dance above these flames
of desire
You In your prom dress and me in
youths blush
.
Once again I can feel your
whispers
Your hidden messages concealed on
the breeze
Listened to by inquisitive
angels,
Envious of our love.
Your words seeding my lonely soul
With dreams for eternity to keep
.
Tonight the moon smiles for you
and me
For she too remembers
The tears of joy from our first
kiss
.
Slowly running down both our
cheeks,
Like Dew made from some holy
mist.
Love was our then and time our
friend,
We never saw the hour glass empty,
.
But pain did not hurt, for your
face was always with me
And love cannot be killed by time
.
For our love will endure
And heaven has dreams for us,
Though angels know my grief
.
My love, my love, the dawn
approaches
And the Moon grows weak
The last moonbeams begin to fade
And mortal minds are waking
.
So I leave you with our memories
and a farewell present
I give you my spirit
To keep safe in your heart, for
this is the only thing I possess
.
It will protect you from the sad
things in life,
And heal your precious dreams.
.
A last kiss, and a secret
promise, I now plant.
Wrapped in love,
To dwell in the recess of your
mind.
To be opened when angels call
.
For our prom date, is not yet
over
The Music will play on
My love will be waiting at the
table
Waiting for your hand
To dance once again, under a
smiling moon,
.
Till dawn whisks us away into the
mists of time
To spend another life amongst the
angels
And no more will I miss you
My one true love.
steven cooke, 1 january 2012
A Whiskey Love
Through a glass of Whiskey I
found her.
Her eyes, Flaming Blue, hiding a
glance of Heaven
Her hair golden like the
reflection of an English buttercup,
Open to the flirtations of the
sun.
.
Her lips soft, pink,
Like the dawn over a distant
tulip field,
With a promise to reveal, even more,
Moist, sweet, the taste of a
woman
.
Her neck, slim, elegant, with a
hint of summer,
Jeweled with faint dew drops from
the evenings heat
.
Her shoulders, graceful, a
ballerinas calling
Perfectly formed, a place for
heroes,
To rest their head
.
Her arms slender, delicate, with
a promise of an angels embrace
An embrace that could wash away,
all your sins
.
Her dress clinging to her body,
like the lilies in a pond,
Hiding the secrets below
.
Her wrist adorned with a single
pearl,
But it is she who is more precious
No mortal offering could eclipse
her.
Her hands soft, with a touch,
That I would gladly die for.
.
No ring, dare I wish?
.
Her legs, long, perfectly formed,
Made to move, like a gentle
summer wind,
Caressing the flowers of some
meadow,
In a faraway dream, breathtaking.
.
When she walked the whole world
stood still
She glanced, our eyes met
My soul was stolen,
Engulfed in flames of desire
My heart penetrated, laid bear
with a love so rare,
.
My mind lost in sweet
expectation.
A feeling beyond, any poets gaze
.
She smiled, my body quivered
For this moment, I would gladly
lead the forlorn hope.
These seconds, I remember them so
well.
I was overwhelmed by the
closeness of her spirit,
.
Her presence commanding an
invisible audience,
Of stolen glances, a vision of
woman,
Of such form, such desire, such
love.
.
Then like a gentle whisper, her
body, brushed against mine
Leaving the air perfumed
Like orchids being carried by a
holy dove.
.
Then my heart shattered, strewn
across the floor,
Like yesterday’s confetti.
For the smile, was for someone
else.
steven cooke, 30 december 2011
Love in all its Glory
Within the petals of the
rose
Captured in the fragrance
of the orchid
Nurtured by the holy water
of love
Drenched in the sunlight
of your being
My love is kept safe in
the woman
That is you
Within your eyes there is
a flame
Born of passion, fuelled
by a sacred trust
A woman beyond Michael
Angelo’s imagination
Beyond the dreams of first
love.
Your face worthy of every
love poem ever written
With a smile that my
dreams can,
Play over and over again
in a world,
That only you and I know
Where we can walk, hand in
hand
Through dreams that have
not yet spoken
Down paths where our
emotions merge
Where two hearts beat as
one
In this glorious thing we call love
Here our souls can lay down
together
Away from this troubled
world
To make love, for angels
to envy
Where your kisses heal the
man that is me
To bring me back from the
abyss
To see the sunrise through
your eyes
Hand in hand with my one
true love
And when we are three
I pray that our child will
grow
To find love and happiness
Just like you and me
steven cooke, 29 december 2011
Bombers Moon
Making love to my demons
Under the flag of my country
Caught in between the never
believer
And a pardon of angels,
Who bargain their souls for my redemption?
Empowered by a nation,
Glorified by heroes departed
My life sanctified by religious
compromise
For tonight I fly, under the
bombers moon
Nearer to God than most
I see the world differently,
This Earth orbits in a sea of
cold
My plane hidden in its recess,
A place where silent screams
dwell
And rainbows are sent to die.
Away from the gaze of my enemy,
A phrase worthy of the Devil
Away from the patriots sting,
These too, sanctified by a
religious hand
The History books dilemma
My run begins
My mind listens to a confess of
whispers,
The engines my Priest,
Bomb doors open,
Horsemen of The apocalypse,
Released from their tethers
I am the Arbiter of Death
As in Nature, Chance will decide
The faceless will fall
And god willing I will return
home
In the scheme of things
A Cities worth is one minute, 23
seconds
The camera to record in slow mo
for Posterity,
A justification for the victorious
The Impact sweeps away the sweat
of past generations
Creates queues of ghosts,
waiting,
To lay in row after row, of white
marble
Their silent screams absorbed
into Heaven’s Gate,
A cold Hallelujah for God to
judge
Just another day on planet earth
But don’t worry,
Time, like, the brook of sighs,
will wash away these sins
But not the seeds,
For we are the gardeners of sin,
Their germination, lovingly
corrupted
In our differences, them and us
The Pillars of capitalism our
advantage
The fear of the Devil theirs
Our final epitaph in the circle
of life,
We are conditioned to repeat the
mistakes of the past,
As is the Wilder beast to cross
the River of Death,
Or theologians using religion as
a weapon of war
The devil and the Crocodile dines
well, on such a menu
We truly are, a blessed Race.
steven cooke, 28 december 2011
A Tree grows in Avignon
Planted by a Soldiers hand,
She slept, while Europe blazed.
Bore silence through winters cull
Captured in darkness, there to laze
Amongst the ruins of Avignon
Freed by the spring
Guarded by the sun
Born in thunders drench
A seedling of hope for Avignon
Gave witness to unjust death
Found her strength in summer’s breath
Drank the blood of murders shame
Grew fertile, her innocence to bear
Seduced by the bees of Avignon
Gave birth, to temptation
Casting forth her gift
Amongst the ruin
While Children played, in her boughs
A new beginning, the bad forgotten
Healing the scars of Avignon
Taken confession, the old to cleanse
Listened to love
Their dreams to mend
Sheltered the lost, from Natures eye
Watched children grow
And the old men die
For she is the spirit of Avignon
Planted by a soldiers hand,
When dark clouds gathered
A place of love, redemption tethered
To forget the war
And find his wife
A tree of Life for Avignon
Time moves on.
The soul returns
And still she grows
Anonymous to a stranger’s eye
A cathedral of hope, a grannies smile
A tree of home
A tree that set us free
That tree that saved my Avignon.
steven cooke, 28 december 2011
Harry
(Humbly dedicated to the last
veterans of World War One)
He stares through the window
In wheelchair he knows,
Gabriel is just a pause behind
him.
His last duty, to open a door in
his mind
Of memories torn from 1917, where
he left,
Jack Fred and Bert, Pals forever
A moment singled out from a
thousand days of torment
Bully Beef, Baccy and sweet tea
in the Morning
A pair of socks from a loved one,
And friendship forged in the
baptism of War.
These were his treasures, His
only relief
Then the guns of Britannia,
manufacturing widows by the gross, as
Gas and Shell screamed for their
quota of today’s carcass.
For a moment Harry felt sadness
for his foe
Then it was gone
No time,
Heart Beating, Breath quickening,
Stomach in Knots,
Fear held in check to avoid the
Officer’s gun,
No time left, Stay Close Jack,
Fred glanced,
While Bert squeezed a locket
around his neck
A quick nod, The Soldiers
farewell
Then the whistle, Gabriel’s Horn,
over the top
His refuge abandoned, for the
embrace of the fog,
It masked the land, as if to
avoid offending God
Slowly creeping its vale of
death,
Gun in hand they walked into the
grey.
Fodder for the Machine gun, No defense,
we fall.
Once more our lads are summoned
into oblivion.
Their blood sanitizing the soil
with England’s youth
Like a red carpet, for their
comrades to walk the next day.
Then the retreat, back to his rat
infested trench
Gods reward he thought,
Then Roll call, Silence for Jack,
Silence for Fred, and Silence for Bert
Harry felt shame in answering,
for a second; he too wanted to embrace silence with his pals.
But Soldiers must go on, as do
the righteous
And England expects
For I fight for a Heavenly cause,
so I’m told,
Though I do not know what that is
All I know is fear
Although this impostor, I can
live with
You see my friends are gone;
My humanity is lost
And my soul awaits its next trial
Is it a blessing that I am alive
or,
Just a delay,
For death stalks me, waiting for
his reward.
My sanity saved only by the sweet
tea and a cig,
Dry socks, and a letter or two
from home
No time for sentiment, the
whistle,
Memories, memories
Oh, there you are Gabriel
welcome.
Hello lads where you been.
steven cooke, 28 december 2011
War Horse
(In memory of the 3 million
horses killed in War)
Taken from Cloven fields,
Where skylark and Grouse Linger.
Into the bowels of a troopship
No scent of Morning Dew, No Bird
song
Only sweat and urine,
And the distant sounds of war.
No light, no grass of home, only
the whip.
For he is bound for Flanders
field
His rider glorious in his
regalia, sword in hand
He was his master now, and the
horse’s salvation.
Kindness, a quiet word, an apple,
their bond complete
His last feed, bathed in a red
sun, which
Hovered above the morning mist
hiding yesterday’s sin,
For this is the place where death
is king and reason is lost
This day, where man throws
sacrifice to the gods,
Like so much sour grain, crushed,
and discarded,
To blow away into the winds of
time,
Recorded by nations into the
ledgers of loss,
For now it is time
The lines gather, then the slow
trot, their proud heads, restrained,
Their mouths foaming on the bit,
These beasts of burden knowing no
fear,
A site worthy of Valhalla
Their Trust, in man, galloping
where heroes dare not go
Onward, onward, they gallop,
Row on row into the fog, No grass
here,
Only mud, and wire,
Waiting for the days cull.
This place, Mans, ultimate
betrayal,
Onward, Onward, Nostril’s flared,
Eyes wide, steam rising from his Flanks,
Every muscle, straining for the
next stride
Then the Stumble, a moment’s
recovery,
Blood pours from his proud neck,
then the ground.
His head rose, a hand strokes his
brow, the last kindness.
A wavered shot ushers his life
away, like so many before,
No one will weep for you my War
horse,
No letter home,
They’ll be No mention in
dispatches, No Memorial
For you are just an animal,
Sacrificed on the altar of man,
left to rot in Flanders field
But for those precious minutes,
he was more than man,
This day, of all days, he kept
his bond, did not flinch,
Though death was all around,
Galloped blindly through the
death rattle of the guns, face on,
No retreat, Onward, Onward,
The magnificence of the horse, No
equal, never forget,
For it is the shame of a nation,
a sin of mankind,
To undo the hand of god
No glory here, only an empty cup
left on the altar of insanity.
Taken From Cloven Fields,
Where the Skylark and Grouse
Linger
For I will weep for you,
My noble friend,
My War Horse, You Magnificent
Beast
steven cooke, 27 december 2011
The Silence of War
Behind the Curtains of a church
window
Men in Prayer, orchestrated by
sweat and Lice
Find relief from snipers gaze
Beside the cross sits the last
candle
Flickering precariously,
searching for sanctuary from the wind
But the wick is near the end
And so are these men
The Harvest of War is almost in
For this is November 1918.
The German guns call like the
song of the Siren
Irresistible, for only the dead
will hear
New orders to cross the
Sambre-Oise Canal
Another postcard for Historians
to write
Machine gunners scythe the ranks
Gone the Irish regiment, clover
for the beast
I take shelter behind a
splintered Oak Tree
Once magnificent, A survivor of
Natures glory
Now a hideous specter to man’s
intervention.
I wait here with Wilf my captain
Waiting for death to find me
The mud beckoning for blood,
The Canal red like the River
Sticks
A feed for tomorrows Newspaper.
A groan from wilf, his eyes start
to dim
Fear brings the Lord’s Prayer to
my lips
A last haven for my soul to cling
I watch his spirit fly away,
As the words fade from my voice
Like so many others on this day
of carnage
Wilf, my friend, died November
4th 1918
Yet another contribution to this
dark harvest,
Another soul for god to tender.
A statistic, a casualty of war,
To be remembered generically
A wreath to share with a
multitude of lost darlings,
Another photograph to fade on the
mantel piece
A piece of History for a grieving
widow to dust
In the ranks of the dead
Angels count our losses
What dreams did we lose?
What voices were made silent?
What books were never written?
And how many tomorrows gone,
All lost in the darkness of death?
Under this oak tree, fading from
memory
A soldier Wilfred Owen was taken
too
Unspoken truth in unspoken poems
Silent to mortal’s ear
Another casualty of war
A feast of wisdom for angels to
keep?
For His words were far too much
For the hogs of war to stomach.
His poetry made silent by
country’s shame,
Unpatriotic, not cricket old bean
said the generals
Only now, through peace can we
learn
The voice of one soldier,
How I pity humanity
For silence is a killer
Democracy, and justice its
victim,
And the inevitable Silence of war
will kill us all.
Footnote
Wilfred Owen killed in action, Sambre-Oise Canal,
killed 4th November 1918, seven days from Sanity
One of England’s Finest War Poets.
steven cooke, 27 december 2011
No More
(To the unknown boys killed in
the the First World War)
No more will he look into the
eyes of his Mother,
No more will he see his Brothers
smile,
No more will he feel love.
No more will he fish, and climb
the trees of England
Or marvel at the voice of the
nightingale.
For he is Sixteen and a Man,
He has done is duty by his
Country,
Taken the shrapnel, which
exploded over him
Like a Bright light sent from an
avenging God.
He sees the dark approaching
But he can take it, for he is an
Englishman
No more will he hear the whistle
to advance
No more the frost and Snow
No more the fear of being killed
For I am no More
Remember me Mother
Latest comments:
6 may 2024
Weronika
Wiara w zimny poranek, to sprzeniewierzenie się
4 may 2024
Boli bo rektoskop to nie gadżet analny, więc
4 may 2024
Jutro jest niewyrażalne i nie do odgadnięcia.
3 may 2024
violetta
Drzewka do jedzenia:)
1 may 2024
Tak;)
1 may 2024
kb
złotej*
1 may 2024
kontoler żłotej poświaty
1 may 2024
samo życie, każdy swoje brudy ma, lepsze czy
1 may 2024
romantyczny to romantyczny, prawdziwy taki
1 may 2024
ten ketchup to fakt, trzeba przypilnować przy
1 may 2024
interesujący przekaz, jak dla mnie o własnej
1 may 2024
ucieczka z przewidzianym powrotem to też stabilizacja...
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wiesiek
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kalik
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Satish Verma