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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
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, 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, 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, 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, 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, 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, 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, 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.
Latest comments:
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
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*
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