Natures Democracy

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

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poem by Steven Cooke
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The importance of Pomposity

The Perfect life, a wife half his age
Their house grand, with a zip code to match
All bought and paid for.
No hawkers, appointments only
But look closer

The Wife bides her time, waiting for his demise,
A heart attack would be nice
For she has her own dreams
No love baked bread here
No roses from seed.
A plastic hug, on a plastic lawn his reward

The library full of Shakespeare and Keats
Never opened, for it’s the show that counts
Dinner Parties, A new painting
Purchased, because we can,
A favorite phrase for American wealth,

Pompous talk of Wine and Poetry

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poem by Steven Cooke
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A Wishing well Love

I sit here all alone
The snow melting on my face,
A falling leaf sheds a memory,
Of my first love

It was here, that barmy night
She tripped in fun, amongst the leaves.
She breathed a smile,
Took my hand,
And softly seduced me with a kiss
A secret wish comes true.

We made love that summer evening,
By the river, under the willow
.Watched by a lover’s moon,
Hidden from View

Stared at the stars with our wishing well,
We dreamed of love and silly things,
Two hearts, inhibition to the wind,

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poem by Steven Cooke
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The Execution of Romeo

They came in the depths of sleep
Dream eaters to plague my darkness
Troll whisperers taunting my love
Their poison running through my veins
My soul in chains and on trial

I plead to the jury for love
I plead again only silence
The voice of love, lost in a sinners scream
In the balcony weeping angels,
Rain teardrops of salt onto my bleeding arms

In this dark nether world
I see the cold light of a distant star
The last refuge of my dying soul
My only comfort in this realm of fear

Phantoms sit at my table to deliberate
While dining on lonely hearts,
And drinking promises made in the heat of passion

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poem by Steven Cooke
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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

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poem by Steven Cooke
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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?

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poem by Steven Cooke
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A Sniper'sView of the Great War

Fly on hand
born of comrade's corpse,
the only memory of what has gone before.

The fleas that hide,
slowly drinking my soul,
a world where freedom lies
snug in the recess of my body,
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

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poem by Steven Cooke
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An English Love

Not a rose, or a lily,
But a buttercup
Languishing in a field of gold,
In some English meadow
Waiting to give herself to him.

That boy with the impetuous smile,
And the eyes of Perseus
That hides a spirit, more delicate than any poet’s heart,
But not from her,
For she is more precious than all the songs of the world,

And I am nothing more than an apple.
Lost in an orchard of charades and folly.
She released me, with her lips,
For she is my English Love

Like the chalk streams of England, giving birth to the May fly
Every day is our love, our lifetime,
I celebrate the nightingale, and the wren,

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poem by Steven Cooke
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The Devil Wears Armani

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 Aston Martin
My attraction, just another bloom,
Found on the florists shelf.

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poem by Steven Cooke
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Morning Blues of London

I see reflections in the window,
My coffee, my only friend.
Waiting for my journey to begin.
My suitcase, my only possession
Yesterday’s clothes, yesterday’s photos
Yesterday’s dreams, all packed neatly for yesterday’s man

The whistle, slowly we move off
Leaving yesterday life
As I ponder through my window,
I hear the track mocking,
“It’s all your fault”, “it’s all your fault”, “it’s all your fault”
No peace for yesterday man

We pass fields of lavender, a reminder of when love was sweet
I see fields of barley, and hay bales
Where forbidden love was born
Then ploughed fields, the furrows of betrayal
Raking through my soul

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poem by Steven Cooke
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