Yellow
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.
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poem by Steven Cooke
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Harry
(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
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poem by Steven Cooke
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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
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poem by Steven Cooke
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Genie In A Gin Bottle
Her lips caress another cigarette
A fading belle looking for love
The smoke veils her face,
For she is, Genie in a gin bottle
Her Make up hiding the past
Silk fingernails hiding 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 odors 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 chancers wanting to spin lady luck one more time,
Fuelled by the promise of paradise
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poem by Steven Cooke
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War Horse
(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,
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poem by Steven Cooke
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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
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poem by Steven Cooke
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Oh What A Lovely War
Oh What A Lovely War
The sins of granddad brought me to war
for England has dined on this before.
The arrogance of dad who brags my shoes
for in his eyes I am England blue
The teacher who bellows you do us proud
a vindictive sod who ruled my class
The preacher who seeks my confession
who drinks the blood of Christ in whiskey heaven?
But never mind for god is always right
The trough of greed will grunt with pride
the bombs will fall killing the dreams below.
These fat cats of war all feasting on me
Oh what a lovely war, everybody in work
More champagne for them
and the grapes of wrath for me?
The rain of mother's tears
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poem by Steven Cooke
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Another Zulu Dawn
Another Zulu Dawn
(The Battle for Orgreave Pit)
Cries of Zulu as miners rushed the barricades
Truncheons banging against riot shields
A nation at war with itself
Men of South Yorkshire,
United in the right to defend their pit
Maggie’s the Caesar of capitalism
Her legionnaires bought with 30 pieces of silver
Brought from the four corners of this septic isle
To take away another man’s right.
To destroy his culture, his freedom, his way of life
A democracy of road blocks and strip searches
England for the few
While miners live on Pots of rabbit stew
Demonised by the elected south,
Propaganda their stew.
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poem by Steven Cooke
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Made in Sheffield
Its Early Morning, a mist descends into the valley.
Not a Mist, from some love poem, but a fog forged in graft.
No sun shines here, for there is no welcome.
For here lies the Crucible of the World,
No bird song, only furnace dust,
And a dead river.
For this is Sheffield Steel.
The grime covered buses arrive for Morning shift,
Windows grey with smoke,
For breakfast, Woodbines and Senior Service,
A dripping crust and a flask of tea or two
One by one, they descend,
A goliath of manhood,
Raw Power, Natures finest creation
An elephant gun would not bring these men down.
A pot of tea, another cig, then into the mill
Into the Heat, Dante’s Inferno,
Armed only with Leather Aprons and tongs,
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poem by Steven Cooke
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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
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poem by Steven Cooke
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