steven cooke, 3 january 2012
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
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
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
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
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
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
(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
(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
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
(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
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