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steven cooke, 23 december 2012
The Prodigal Son
Let this day vanquish our differences
for father is still the head.
Put by our petty grievance,
let family rule the day.
Come brother let us be at peace
your heart can melt this snow.
The voice of child was always you
and the tears of ancestors
now watch with pride
of the man you have become.
Your place in life
is to be at this feast,
the family is united.
This legacy of Christmas joy
has written your story.
The manger has carried your children
and a star shines upon this house
because of you.
So remember this day
family is precious
the joys of the world belong to you
Happiness has smiled
health is in celebration.
So Grandmother be proud
for this is the legacy of you.
Joy permeates this house
The eyes of the child
look up to the family.
So drink to mother and father
for they gave roots to this tree.
Our family is the earth and the earth is you,
On this day we can all believe.
The hurt of the world be gone
It is a day of forgiveness
and that is enough.
Rejoice on this special day
Christmas was born for you.
The pages of time are yours to write
and your story will go on and on.
steven cooke, 10 january 2013
Footsteps of the Tiger
The tears of the tiger
Trapped in this snare of man
Fades into an ancient kingdom
Where silent footsteps once reigned
To feel his breath upon your neck
Is to know that death has come
His lick will taste your soul
And jaws will steal your flesh
His honour will take your sacrifice
And your fears will die with you.
But should his wits fail
To my ambitions,
Then he will know
That I am top predator
Oh beautiful creature
Whose grace was born to kill?
Your Hyde is but a bauble to me
When I have forgotten this day
Moths will feast on your memory
These glass eyes that I give to you
Will see this mausoleum
That I have created
For death has always been my work
Yet when I see the tears of noble beast
Defeated by a cruel world
One feels his tears run down my soul
And something is lost to me
Your eyes that once stalked this life
Celebrating discovery of prey
Hide tears of a changing world
Your destiny is to talk in silence
Though your roar now falls silent
You were always heard in my heart
The message consumes this hunter with guilt
But no one will hear,
Except the tiger and me
Being human I wish to be a tiger
For in life he was a great king
And only time can make him a pauper
His magnificence is his downfall
But in death he was always
A noble being.
I was the darkness
That tried to touch his light
But I am not worthy
I am the pauper who destroyed a king
And now the future
Belongs to paupers
Who will never see
A World that was once filled
With such noble things
For all that remains
are the shadows of me.
steven cooke, 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, 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, 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, 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, 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, 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, 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, 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
Latest comments:
7 may 2024
Weronika
Zapomnieć żeby było co sobie przypominać.
7 may 2024
Adam Pietras (Barry Kant)
Em, nie do końca, może wrzucę jakieś rozwinięcie,
7 may 2024
Myśli się zawsze więcej, niż pisze, tak sądzę.
7 may 2024
Eva T.
Pieknie w tej zieleni. Pozdrawiam :)
7 may 2024
Pomyslalam o wiezowcu, ale jesli o nic nie chodzi...
7 may 2024
Piekny :)
7 may 2024
jeśli tylko
spisanie to ujawnienie..
6 may 2024
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;)
7 may 2024
wiesiek
6 may 2024
Satish Verma
5 may 2024
Satish Verma
4 may 2024
kalik
4 may 2024
Satish Verma
3 may 2024
wiesiek
3 may 2024
Satish Verma
1 may 2024
Satish Verma
30 april 2024
Satish Verma
29 april 2024
Satish Verma