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Steven Cooke Poem
Her lips caress another cigarette
A fading belle looking for love
The smoke veils a creature of habit
Chasing a young girls dream
But this Genie found the palace doors locked
Her youth distilled into a bottle of gin
Diluted by these streets of sin
Now her makeup hides the bottles content
Silk fingernails deluding 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 odor 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 chancer’s
Wanting to spin lady luck one more time
Fuelled by the promise of paradise
A vacation from life
And a brag for Jack Daniels
Under neon lights
A Beautiful girl content in her gin bottle
Her saviour from this cruel world
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 neighbour’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.
Copyright © Steven Cooke | Year Posted 2011
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Steven Cooke Poem
Broken England
By Steven Cooke
My Brave ancestors of England,
Look away, for I offend thee.
For your England is no more.
Decay eats away at this fallen empire.
Your people divided,
Its laws weakened by Europe’s power.
Its leadership, protecting the few.
The fresh air of your Country gone,
Only the stench of anarchy remains
Heroes of The Somme look away for I offend thee.
Stock Market Parasites, take without producing
Corporations overwhelm, the weak,
Without paying their due.
Their off shore havens digest the life blood of this once great nation,
Leaving the scraps of minimum wage for the masses to beg.
The dead of Pashendale look away for I offend thee.
Government legislate to keep us in bondage to 66
Over the hill at 50, to wonder the dole queues
Youth denied education,
Universities at a price,
Qualifications for the chosen few,
Unemployment, for the poor.
Our brothers of Gallipoli look away for I offend thee.
Our Cities are in pain.
Hopeless lives, with hopeless dreams,
Hopeless choices, drugs, crime,
Or silence behind closed doors.
Babies born to fail,
Children, exposed to depression and chips.
The ghosts of Arnhem look away for I offend thee.
A voice in the darkness, shouts its rage
The iron curtain of youth descends on England
This is no Lennon revolution,
This is youth with no future, abandoned by government
No rules here to obey, No Civic pride,
No sense of History, no Country to protect
The Saviours of Goose green look away for I offend thee
But fat cats beware, for there is a dream,
That cannot be bought.
A warning from history.
A country cannot go forward,
Without learning from the past.
Your greed will self destruct
Your Paradise a lie
For a Dangerous wind now blows,
And common sense, will fail.
For England is Broken,
And life will never be the same,
In England’s green and pleasant land.
Now It is my turn to look away,
for you see this offends me too.
Copyright © Steven Cooke | Year Posted 2011
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Steven Cooke Poem
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 spectre 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,
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
On this day November 4th 1918, Wilfred Owen killed in action, Sambre-Oise Canal, 7 days from Sanity
One of England’s Finest War Poets.
Copyright © Steven Cooke | Year Posted 2011
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Steven Cooke Poem
An English Life
It is midnight the Milk train pulls into darnall station
No ordinary passengers here
Steelworkers with their families
Loaded with fishing tackle, sandwiches and maggots
The Fossdyke in Lincolnshire, their destination
The fare Half a crown for happiness
The long walk in the dark,
A stairway to heaven in my memory
Dawn on the Foss and a cup of tea,
Fever in the blood, the first eel of the day
Our cane rods lovingly handed down from father to son.
I remember, Pheasants looking for mates
Shrieking their songs of love
Swans begging for scraps
Their majestic white necks, nodding,
A greeting into their kingdom
The mist off the water revealing families,
being together, laughing, enjoying what was free.
For tomorrow the grime returns.
A conversation with a stranger then out of a bag,
The rabbits, sometimes hare, sometimes pheasant.
Onions and carrots, shortly follow
The smell, forever linked with summer
The scent of my childhood
Summers were hotter then;
At times I drank the Foss, for I was nature’s child
Being clean was never a priority,
Catching fish was, never killed always returned,
Our Covenant with Nature.
For it is the sport that we honour.
And with age comes reflection,
Poor I may have been, my education neglected
But I have a Doctorate in nature, for I have seen the dawn
Away from the factories, where the pheasant runs free
And where the swan reins king, I was part of them.
It was here I learned what family was,
To share, my last drink of pop with my neighbour,
A simple life, maybe, but what a life
For I have seen what Constable painted
Lived every word that Wordsworth wrote
Understood the Fragrance of the Flowers
And revelled in the poets dream.
I loved every colour, every sound, every scent,
And every fish I ever caught.
Father and mother are gone now,
Never complained about their Station in life,
For they found paradise on the Foss.
They left me the seeds to their heaven
And the key to my happiness
A key forged in a mans worth
To open up my soul to the beauty
That surrounds us all.
Dawn on the Foss, was my church
My soul was cleansed here
And my heart was shaped here
My memories kept safe here
And the Foss fever still resides here
I will die on some bank side, one day
Rod in hand, and I will be content,
So Tight lines my fellow Anglers.
Copyright © Steven Cooke | Year Posted 2011
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Steven Cooke Poem
The Devil wears Armani
By Steven Cooke
She was eighteen, I was thirty two
She was an unread poem,
I was yesterday’s gift.
Her heart she gave gladly,
Her beauty mine, to enjoy.
Given away in youthful sacrifice,
The Guilt was all mine.
But I take this gift,
For business is good,
And I seek many rewards.
What was love for her,
Was ego to me.
This man, her dream,
My dream, the pleasures of the night.
Her attraction, my Armani suit, my Astin Martin.
My attraction, just another bloom,
Found on the florists shelf.
So follow me, for Chanel no 5 Paris awaits.
Young beauty with eyes, so blue
And hair, so fair,
Who men desire
And women, love,
Come, your catwalk demands.
Look into my eyes, and see your future.
You will see my strength.
I will see my deceit.
You will see my friendship.
I will see my betrayal.
You will see your perfect love.
I will see a naked fool.
But do not judge me,
For my disciples are lined up.
Flashing their Cartier time piece, on life’s bar stool,
Intoxicated by their illusions,
Waiting, with a fashion house web.
To claim the next face,
The next soul, looking for love.
Just As the deserts wait for rain.
It is ordained
For the dove will find no love hear.
Only the thief,
Who takes her beauty, and plunders her love.
Who will tarnish her soul,
And steal her youth.
Only false Honour left
Kept in, A Gucci hand bag,
Full of lies, for friends to envy.
So look again my love
Choose wisely,
For the devil wears
Armani tonight.
And Prada will be his next victim.
Can I buy you a drink?
Love the dress.
Copyright © Steven Cooke | Year Posted 2011
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Steven Cooke Poem
The Comfort of a Drunken Mind
Lipstick on an empty glass
A Memory of a smile
In my time, don’t you know?
Young girls vied for my attention
Always posing, Heartbreaker to women was I.
God, I will never see her smile again
her voice silent to me
Inside I am a flower without rain
A musician without music
My love waits in a queue,
Full of fools, and whiskey bottles
Ahhh another drink
Yes tomorrow, will be better
I remember her stare,
Sitting on that chair,
That damn chair.
Drink Darling?
My Blossom of the night,
a smooth talker me.
I broke her dreams
Now Petals on a stormy sea
I remember her scent
Now washed away on the hurricanes breath
Called Whisky.
Ahh another drink, she won’t leave me?
Damn that empty chair
To bed, the morning will bring her back
The bottle sleeps
and the sandman paints his illusions
Dreams invulnerable to reality.
The glow of dawn, incinerates these imposters
Fabricated in the monsoon of a drowning brain
Cornflakes and Barley wine, a man’s breakfast
What now, a snifter I think and another thought?
Love has left this empty chair
Where dreams and happiness dwelt
Where futures were planned
and Where love flowed, intoxicating our lives.
Still, the empty glass remains.
Ahh, another drink, and another illusion to comfort my soul
The bottle is my love now,
And the empty chair, my sentence.
That damned empty chair
Ahh did I tell you, once I was a heartbreaker?
Come share a drink with me friend?
Copyright © Steven Cooke | Year Posted 2011
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Steven Cooke Poem
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 1992 in Paris.
Copyright © Steven Cooke | Year Posted 2011
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Steven Cooke Poem
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.
Copyright © Steven Cooke | Year Posted 2012
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Steven Cooke Poem
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
Copyright © Steven Cooke | Year Posted 2012
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Steven Cooke Poem
The Humble Pen (by Steven Cooke)
What dreams we have,
We share with the pen.
What love we find,
We share with the pen.
What happiness we find,
We share with the pen.
When our soul bleeds,
We find solace in the pen.
When our hearts are broken,
We find comfort in the pen.
When all hope is lost,
We find salvation in the pen.
And when we leave this mortal coil.
We will leave the pen,
for our Children to pick up.
For the pen, is a rainbow,
For our dreams, hopes and fears.
Where the heart and soul has a voice.
Where love resides for your fellow man,
And where beauty is found everywhere.
It confirms our existence, our beliefs.
And though our lives are brief.
It is a noble quest,
A gift of love to the world,
And a seed of hope,
So Let the children plant and nurture this hope
And they too will see the rainbow
Let this legacy nourish their lives
With love and beauty,
And let the humble pen go on,
To find the next voice,
The next chapter on this wonderful planet.
We Call earth.
Copyright © Steven Cooke | Year Posted 2011
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