steven cooke, 11 listopada 2012
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 lipca 2012
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 lipca 2012
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 czerwca 2012
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 czerwca 2012
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 maja 2012
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 kwietnia 2012
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 kwietnia 2012
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 kwietnia 2012
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 marca 2012
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
Regulamin | Polityka prywatności
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