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When the guns go silent (posted on: 25-07-16)
Another war poem which came to me as I was watching a number of screaming swifts on a late barmy evening.

God cannot intervene in sovereignty and the boy will plead no innocence. Seedlings cannot control the wind, in birth the Oak has called their name a command from the forest unseen. A biblical sandstorm unleashed by unworthy souls Will scatter this seed that a millennium of kings could not see. Time demands the old to look away For Medusa's face will give them peace. Hope now resides in young men's eyes and the currency at stake is dreams. These are the orders of man. As the desert celebrates the rain with life and the Eskimo gives reverence to flesh. That is the natural dignity of things It was this harmony that created the ark, a speck of light in the darkness that gives meaning to the stars above. But war is the Cancer unseen flowing in the veins of weeds with mortal power. Weeds whose future is locked in vaults unseen hypnotised by the allure of possession hiding their gluttony in papers power. A confession that only the executor will see. The poor will be tried in combat, existence will see them fall. To defend history with mothers child, and use our great Cities to forge the end with steel and bullet. All bought with Slaver's wealth and empire. Actions that will tempt the heavens with sparks that ricochet off the anvil of God. So even the lost alien observer will feel this pain of mankind. These seedlings cropped by lawnmowers damned Scything through the spirit of man. And perhaps the crying mother will find comfort that the greed that underpins all wars, will see this Judas priest . This paper with devils desire that feeds a global asylum, in cubicles of generic concrete waiting for the illusive pension from life. Will find the ark that prophets seek. A truth that transcends all religion. Heaven declines your currency, wealth is a mortal thing your fee is to the earth and that is the remembrance of you. The cry of the swift gives Gods speed to assassins flight. A mirage of summer that avoids the artists brush. Natures fly has devoured this sin of man and sacrifice is given, to the voyagers of the sky converting the souls of men to flight. And perhaps in this act , humanity will find redemption. And the boys that died unseen will finally see the beauty of creation, high above the pain below. Screaming on the wings of freedom A truth reserved for God and a dead boy's dream.
Archived comments for When the guns go silent
Savvi on 26-07-2016
When the guns go silent
I like your word choices here cooky, the second, third and last stanza stood out for me as being particularly powerful. Best Keith

Author's Reply:

sweetwater on 27-07-2016
When the guns go silent
Very powerful writing, stunning images too, bringing home a truthful heartbreaking message. I especial like the line 'your fee is to the earth and that is the remembrance of you' that line really jumps out to me. Sue.


Author's Reply:

pdemitchell on 27-07-2016
When the guns go silent
Stanzas 1, 2, 3, 8 and 9 carry the bulk of the poem for me and I share Sue's fave lines. Mitch

Author's Reply:

Supratik on 28-07-2016
When the guns go silent
Very powerful and precise use of words. The poem had an instant connect with me. Stanza 5 and the last stanza are outstanding.
I think the world needs to start afresh, think afresh. That includes our education and our understanding of the world; it's only then can we perhaps bring 'the' truth and 'the' dream into fruition.
"A truth reserved for God
and a dead boy’s dream."

Author's Reply:


Soul Mate (posted on: 15-07-16)
I know that this person was born to Phorcy and Ceto. The purpose of this write is about symbolism and the power of this individual. Nothing is real and I hope that the viewer can take what ever message they wish. A single Malt, well tasted, and a beautiful Versace belt inspired this.

In forgotten dreams a lonely phoenix gives its last breath to birth an ancient spell. An egg that is forged from her heart This last act of innocence Will gives hope to a love caged in a world, surrounded by winters cold. Silently love waits for the fires lament that will free a shimmering soul. An apparition of emotion searching for a hand that may not exist, fuelled only by hope and desire. This spell that was born in royal veins corrupted with ancestors curse , conspires to cheat the reapers hand. For life is suspended. Beauty is in league with time, her decay is absorbed by the mirror that deceives the dandies puff. A mirror that we all possess. No claims from the souls inside Only a united bond that peers into paradise. Reflections of the truth are frozen, for statues are dry of tears and the birds of love stare back in silence, destined to find no mate. Creation must till this soil forward for the stars were born to life. The darkness where she resides is but a stormy night. And tomorrow will bring the light. The beating wings of myth perfumes her chamber with the smell of dragons dare. The soul of youth this warmth of man, resides behind these turquoise eyes of the last seed of a noble race. Desire and passion feed the furnace within But love turns breath into summers wind and the earth is stirred to life A molten stream from an unborn star Rages forth from a barren womb And the heat of desire cracks the egg that brings pardon to this birth Gods awaken, their crowns go dim As Eve rises slowly born to taste a golden fire . One kiss from his virgin lips and her heart will beat again, To be the first to see this Eve Is written in the mirror To look into her eyes A secret love revealed The joy of tasting an angels soul the marriage of hearts as one. But touch her face and gather her stare And love will seek the truth For Eve will pay her dues Love is found in the seconds of the clock And loneliness is forever She belongs to humanities dream of Romeo and lovers grief. Dragons kiss will feel her heart These seconds of ecstasy will shed his wings The warmth of life is ticking. and now the key is turning. A dragon chained by love, can never be free and he became her crystal. A royal statue to a lover's dream Whose kingdom she commands. Snared in a dream forever He will find no cold in love. All will spend eternity gazing upon their goddess Enslaved by the reflection in the mirror And what of Eve . Tears of snow turn into ice as the heat of life subsides. The cry of phoenix Remembered in the prism of light While the silence of death continues to call , hidden In the darkness between the Stars And the gods will pay tribute in statue To a woman that gods and mortals cannot touch Where beauty resides forever In a heart protected by the stars and the shimmer Upon the pool of life. And her name will be the last soul to die For she is Medusa Queen of all that we love.
Archived comments for Soul Mate

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The Politics of War (posted on: 08-07-16)
Not Sure about the title. But as it was the anniversary of the Somme. I decided to write this after a couple of years break. So it will be a bit rusty.

To ask a flower to kill a bee is to ask a man to become the beast. That is the will of war The skylark rages it's voice above the battlefield For destiny lies below. No argument with this world, but a foreign invader has entered his field. The song of life is threatened. The immigrant guns have freedom of movement, they scream a betrayal of life. The seeds of the poppy are in turmoil, the sound of the shells replaces the tractors of life. And in this chaos the poppy symbol is born, in a reluctant will of sacrifice. Innocence of poppy will dull man's pain, but nothing is real. War belongs to foreign shores for English tea must not be disturbed. And history will prostitute these red petals in the hope that we will remember them. Remember a moment in time, a dream that flows in atoms unseen. This speck of man within the cosmos. A vote of no confidence in God, for eternity is a lonely place. Mortals and ghosts remember them. Remember the soldier who sang down this road of despair, who marched on a foreign soil. Made proud under the willow by glorious woman and prayed for by siblings to come. Made ripe by a glorious English summer. Victory is a tinsel thing. War salivates for the fools and the brave. The devil is on the move groaning in his orgasm of pain, that spills this cup to quench the end. And the streets of home will be swept clean By the invalid that saw them die Yesterday's confetti, this mush that blows in the wind gathered by a broken man, smoking his last Park Drive. And when the misty morn greets the milkman. Fear of nations will give a copper pension, a loaf of bread for a young man's life and a bugle to let the devil know, ''these souls are out of bounds''. https://allpoetry.com/poem/12764550-The-Politics- To ask a flower to kill a bee is to ask a man to become the beast. That is the will of war The skylark rages it's voice above the battlefield For destiny lies below. No argument with this world, but a foreign invader has entered his field. The song of life is threatened. The immigrant guns have freedom of movement, they scream a betrayal of life. The seeds of the poppy are in turmoil, the sound of the shells replaces the tractors of life. And in this chaos the poppy symbol is born, in a reluctant will of sacrifice. Innocence of poppy will dull man's pain, but nothing is real. War belongs to foreign shores for English tea must not be disturbed. And history will prostitute these red petals in the hope that we will remember them. Remember a moment in time, a dream that flows in atoms unseen. This speck of man within the cosmos. A vote of no confidence in God, for eternity is a lonely place. Mortals and ghosts remember them. Remember the soldier who sang down this road of despair, who marched on a foreign soil. Made proud under the willow by glorious woman and prayed for by siblings to come. Made ripe by a glorious English summer. Victory is a tinsel thing. War salivates for the fools and the brave. The devil is on the move groaning in his orgasm of pain, that spills this cup to quench the end. And the streets of home will be swept clean By the invalid that saw them die Yesterday's confetti, this mush that blows in the wind gathered by a broken man, smoking his last Park Drive. And when the misty morn greets the milkman. Fear of nations will give a copper pension, a loaf of bread for a young man's life and a bugle to let the devil know, ''these souls are out of bounds''.
Archived comments for The Politics of War
gwirionedd on 08-07-2016
The Politics of War
This is a very good poem. However I don't think you should post it twice. I got it the first time round!

I like the way you link the First World War with the politics of today:

"The immigrant guns have freedom of movement"
and
"A vote of no confidence in God"

and there are some generally lovely turns of phrase:

"the tractors of life"
"Victory is a tinsel thing"
"War salivates for the fools and the brave"

Victory in war is indeed often little more than tinsel, than a bauble.

I don't understand what "park drive" is. Is it a brand of cigarette? If so, it should be capitalised, "Park Drive", which would make it clear.

Nice work.

Archie.




Author's Reply:

Mikeverdi on 08-07-2016
The Politics of War
Great symbolism and some fine writing. Good to see you back.
Mike

Author's Reply:

Bozzz on 09-07-2016
The Politics of War
An excellent piece that should be displayed at the entranc to the Imperial War Museum....Bozzz

Author's Reply:

stormwolf on 09-07-2016
The Politics of War
Cooky!
When I saw your post I was delighted. We have missed you and your great writing.
You have a natural ability and I have told you before I feel that you actually lived in this time. People may laugh but you tune into the horrors so well it goes beyond just insight in my opinion.

Victory is a tinsel thing.
War salivates for the fools and the brave.
The devil is on the move
groaning in his orgasm of pain,
that spills this cup to quench the end.

This is inspired writing. Totally original. You lacked confidence when you first started posting but you did not realise your inherent talent. I hope you do now.
Alison x
well deserved nib btw.

Author's Reply:

pdemitchell on 10-07-2016
The Politics of War
I agree it's a monster, Cooky, and well-nibbled. "Inavlid confetti" sticks in my mind as a metaphor for shrapnel. BTW Is the double-post an error? I rahter liked the surreal opening link to the enraged lark in particular. My Great-grandfather, Edgar Hadyn Watkins, 48, lied about his age and died at the Somme and so I also wrote "Somme" in similar vein in his memory. Great sentiment and descriptive and deserving of the nib. mitch

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sweetwater on 10-07-2016
The Politics of War
The subject is dreadful, but the poetry is stunning, a truly amazing write. Sue.

Author's Reply:


Field Of Dreams (posted on: 03-04-15)
Not written for a long while. The pen got restless.

(World War One Poem) The World has stated our freedom, the worms shall share a soldier's fear. To look above my trench is to be a thief in the night. Life shall lurk, afraid of what is above. My brothers wait for their moment the maverick shell will deal the deck. The queen of spades shall flirt with all, hoping to sear our blood against this iron of hate. War treats victims with the vindictive pain of foe for non are welcome to this battlefield. The steam from burning bodies is wine to the party, this thrill of reality a true Russian roulette. A link between man and beast, for we all take part in this unifying glory of slaughter. Refugees are we the artists and the poets, fraudsters and scam artists We manipulate waist paper and propaganda, for the legacy of death is ours. Bully beef is king for contentment is rare, we give thanks to cattle sacrifice. I share existence with comrades temporary, my ghosts exist In Gods lungs. Their memories haunt my sanity the last sinner's refuge to comrades condemned, for we shall never tell the truth. We are and were common men, obedience is what we do. Threatened by a lieutenant boy, but all will cry this night. No home shall know this fear, for we are the blood of England. Our betters will try and sanitise our demise in poppies and salutes, which will heal in public memory, but poppies are meant to bloom not to fall from cathedral skies. Pour our blood on sacred earth, drink, disciples of this last supper for our humanity resides in you. Paint your galleries in gallant charge and hold the hand of fallen stars. Unknown corpse shall not linger in the spirit must moves on. Life is fleeting, the logistics of killing a fact. Blood will dry before a baking sun or hide in in monsoons quagmire and somewhere in the lost, lies a forgotten smile a lover's heart and a dream of a generation gone. Dreams belong to our time, and forever is a deity dream. Do what you will with this gold. Fill your coffers with tomorrows hunger for harvests will come again. Our final moment has arrived, a cold micro second within a distant universe. We are ready to leave this trench, talk is quenched by silence. The voice of shell will play the stage. Maim and confirm the kill, in the light of demons and give your applause to God. Blood will sign the death certificate and the reaper will overplay his hand. An easy day for him, for this is the tsunami of man. The reaper will dance on the corpses surrendered, though he still has to tango with flies, for they have no respect for him. The lead will rant a blazing tune like lovers ill matched, arguing who shall live or die. Daffodils felled for market, a mothers day greeting in the morning post. And the milkman will deliver the milk to doorsteps old and new The tears will be washed in corporation water for the lead pipes have not yet been stolen, and the trams pass by oblivious. For grey faces dead read the law of man, humanity need another day. Another hero insanity dictates, for tomorrow promises to be another glorious day.
Archived comments for Field Of Dreams
Mikeverdi on 03-04-2015
Field Of Dreams
You've been away too long, good to see you back.
I'm going to be honest (as is my way) If you gave this a prune and an edit on the side... this would be as good as it gets in my opinion. As it is some of it doesn't ring quite true. There are terrific verses "we are and were common men etc... brilliant. Fantastic lines..."paint your galleries in gallant charge and hold the hand of fallen stars". I guess I'm saying I love it really.
Mike

Author's Reply:


Freedom Street (posted on: 06-12-13)
In the light of Mandela's Death I am re -posting this write. The World is full of sympathy from the leaders of civilisation, but the air is full of hypocrites. The recent shooting of the striking miners and the poverty in the townships still exist. Their were no voices in his prison cell.

Nor is there a voice for the Ghetto Man. Behind the write This is a fictional write exploring life in South Africa. The world celebrated the defeat of apartheid. The question is now, what has changed? To get inside the thoughts of the ghetto is the challenge for this writer. I have taken artistic licence to be a resident of the ghetto. Caution some people may find offence, as the tone at times is sinister and religion is hit too. I did intend it to be a poem, but it grew into a short story. Freedom Street I am in your living room, but do not fear, for I am the news that comes with your dinner. Watch as you eat your steak. Another murder and another riot, these townships of violence know no better, and another Emmy is awarded to Cambridge man. The drama is good, shocking to some, but the advertisers smile, the audience is booked and we can look down in disgust because the camera would never lie. To see this revolution when brothers kill their own with Goodyear necklace and a lynching from mob justice. Are they the enemy within? These eyes of brown that mirrors do not see for poverty is nothing new to Africa, and the hand of government looks on, pleased with the news today, one for the Man. He who lives beyond this smell, this dealer of lies, who talks with serpent lips spouting democracy from poison script, while hidden claws take the food from red cross house. My Brother Cain, the business man, though bwana would be better for his plans, and me, you know as ghetto man, though secretly you wish to call me by boervolk way. ''Never the twain shall meet old boy ''is probably best, the civilised way. For us both would kill each other, when you look away. Criminals I hear you cry, I know what I would do, hang them all and let god sort them out. We are so easy to condemn. For we have been condemned for centuries, though change is all that you can see, and didn't Mandela set you free? Ah sit awhile longer and break some bread with me. Mandela you say. They freed him, and the world saw apartheid fall, but this is a hollow victory to me. I am not part of this. This solution to take my country into western plans. This bourgeois illusion of equality falls on deaf ears, for money walks on the other side of the street. And money will command the way to jail my existence, away from moral values of what should be. Apartheid was not conquered, it moved to a better district. To reign from the minds of the chosen few, where the secret vaults of man's ambition can breed the plans that keep me impaled in poverty's clasp, the decay of their sewers is all that is given , for my presence will always offend them. And the world will see the word freedom written on these Mandela walls, these walls of tin that once held this black gold of wealth, but only the smell remains for me. And my pagan gods, which you are not worthy to see, are kept behind these shanty doors, the only thing that believes in me. For your God who gave us this cross, this cross that named me heathen, that resides in cathedrals of splendour, for the oppressors of his kin to scheme, these Christian saints who know what is best for ghetto man, preaching forgiveness spewed on their silver platters, but there will be no lick for me. And the sun sets the years over Africa sky and I am still the enemy. While grown men in filth collect the plastic bottles of wealth's decay. These bottles filled with western values to change the image of them from me. These scraps of them we fight to own, while croissant and coffee watch from their diamonds in the sky. These buildings built on the glitter of rock that sprawl this coast, hiding the world from me that dwarf the homes that I reside, that confirms my place in your Mandela land. And Child of Mine they will not play, for pride is in his hands. To recycle blisters behind dollar dreams, the sandal for you and the whipping for them, and the prayers are bought for the market is up and another piece of my country belongs to their coffers, now sailing away to tax haven bay out of reach of me. But I can walk on spoil heap clay, for all that glitters is gone, stolen from my mother's womb, and I must hurry for everything is owned, and trespass could be a bullet for me. I cannot get lost for the fence is my guide; a reminder of what lies on the other side, the day I walked with bride under a lover's moon, now stolen by possession, and my footsteps have been washed away by African violets picked by dollar scissors for a condoms brew to please. For this belongs to a savage beast that eats the dollars from tourist pocket, And gorges on food that inflates the price on baby's bellies, for empty pockets are for me. And still they come to paradise lost and bathe in sun for free. The beach is their play, but to me it is my country's prostitution that has soured this place, this sand of my ancestors where once we sang in celebration to harvests from the sea. And now we watch from behind the fence, with eyes that they would fear, for hate belongs to me, and they will not go too near. And in the distance The City streets are paved with gold, gold from the heart of this land, the rand is the hammer which will be used to kill me, this force behind the shine, this death squad pill And within the dead body laying in Morning Street another crime is solved. The morning rush is safe and they can walk in shopping malls and talk of decadence. But within all the wrong that has been done to me there is a kingdom where they cannot go. For I live on Freedom street, these streets of brown that comfort me. For he who strays from oils embrace will know the shadow of me. Do not bring your graven idols, those precious things that you cannot eat. These baubles of gold that glitter from necks, that adorn the whores that you possess, for your life is mine to take and your God will not blink for you. And when they look to find the corpse in this tin of drum. This shanty, this wealth of poverty They will not find the memory of you. For Africa has dried the blood of better than you. And when the armoured mercenaries arrive with hidden faces and guns to shoot. The eyes of Brothers will protect, and fear will lie in Judas heart, for they cannot shoot all of me. My god will protect me for he was born with lion's courage, fought in victory to roam this land We hunters are the blood and our ancestors the soil. We will rise again, we are Africa, and elephant and tiger, lion and prey will all know my name. For I bring freedom to those who share with me. Who sleep the dream of equality? The jackal's time is ending; this decay is your last feast and your God that does not blink will know this man who comes from African womb. Know the man who has nothing, but holds everything in his hands, and you, who holds only fear and a grave that bears the cross, bears the cross of the suffering that you gave me. This God that you all worship who turns his back on ghetto man, for us poor cannot build his cathedrals, we were never ambassadors to his realm, though preacher spouts a camel's song. In death he will deny me to sleep in hallowed ground, amongst the thief's and whores of Country's rape, these epitaphs of marble queens. This God who sends these plagues of Aids and dysentery. Which would burn me against my wishes? For the rubbish of the world is fires only worth, and the nights grow cold for me. And if I slipped past your pearly doors, heaven would always question me, an eye for an eye your Bible says and my presence would offend, just as it is on Soweto streets, where only the rich can stand But in my being I am free, and your values cannot chain me. Fear the child, and fear the man for we are one, and you will sleep with one eye open, for I will always hovers around your dreams. These eyes of brown will watch and wait, just beyond your sight, below the tree that holds your dreams, that never included me, For when this land can give no more, you can fly away, back to tax haven bay, but I was born to motherland, My tribes will rise again; the hills will feel our warrior feet. The pride of man is ours to claim and women will dance in lion's fleece to honour the culture of my land For the Mosquito drinks the blood of all and my Africa will see, another day.
Archived comments for Freedom Street
Mikeverdi on 08-12-2013
Freedom Street
I am saddened that I arrive here to find no comments, I see a Nom has been awarded along with the Nib; Well worth the both of them. Mike

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work. At present I have not written anything new in the last 3 months. I can only hope that somewhere in this world I can find some can kind of inspiration to drag something decent from my soul. I appreciate your comments. Steven from Sheffield.

orangedream on 08-12-2013
Freedom Street
Couldn't agree with Mike more. Emotive, powerful, and more than deserving of its nib...and a few more comments, hopefully.

Tina

Author's Reply:


War Artist (posted on: 04-10-13)
Another journey into the First World War.

I scrawl these visions in the light of exploding shells and the grey sleep of a million corpses, making my pencil the last witness to the moments between life and death. Truth shall guide my trembling hand across a blank canvass that will inherit this day's memory of pain. A transformation in the dark colours of suffering that echoes the sounds of war to a respectable audience, taking their morning tea in England. The epitaph of a race captured in a wooden pencil sharing the blood of mankind in another holy grail. Come drink this sweet wine of youth for it will never empty. My pencil denied by the colours of life creates glory on a foreign field. The sons of mothers pose in deaths final picture, frozen for winter to play. Till the heat of summer takes them away on blue bottle wings to heaven. A rotten imprint to torment the living. They were once human as I remember who came with wit and clean socks seeking the approval of father. All were looking for a road to be a man but the road was a trench, whose veins pulsated with the blood of the dead giving birth to the shadows of tomorrow. Shadows, shadows, all is shadows the pencil can tell no lies. Life turned into spectres and flies haunting the conscience of mankind. We are no longer human beings war in the trenches dulls the meaning of life. Death is but a serial number and a victory for tomorrow's paper. Life wasted in Judas visions for all to see. And I who live in fear cannot see the lines of humanity anymore. Only images seeded in a fractured brain whose portfolio burns in the corpse that was once my soul. This pencil has done its duty The reaper can take these eyes, eyes that see the shadows dancing in the flickering flames of war. A light that bears witness to my last heart beat in the scribbles of a dying man. My destiny foretold in my work to spend eternity in the darkness that surrounds the stars, with a pencil that can draw no light. Pass gently dear comrades from this earth, time is the watch which knows no end. Only the blind and the dead will hear the last tick of this illusion. For silence is the secret of the earth everything dies, everything dies.
Archived comments for War Artist
MrMarmite on 04-10-2013
War Artist
What a brilliant poem the war poet Owen comes to mind.
Reading it I can picture myself being there in the trenches among the dead and dying.A little masterpiece !

Author's Reply:

amman on 05-10-2013
War Artist
Yes indeed, shades of Wilfred Owen. A graphic account of the images, hopes and fears captured by the biographer of that terrible conflict. You capture the essence of that depravity so well, Cooky. Perhaps 'captured BY a wooden pencil' in third verse.
Regards.
Tony.

Author's Reply:

Bozzz on 06-10-2013
War Artist
Behind the knife, now behind the pencil. Congrats Cooky - a rare talent.....Bozzz

Author's Reply:

Mikeverdi on 08-10-2013
War Artist
Simply brilliant Cooky, one of the best war poems I have ever read. Mike

Author's Reply:

Texasgreg on 23-10-2013
War Artist
Aye, Steven! Your war pieces are the best, bar none, IMO.

We are no longer human beings

On that, we must agree to disagree. Only humans are capable of such. Pity.

Greg 🙂

 photo Gunspincowboy.gif

Author's Reply:

Kipper on 19-05-2014
War Artist
Hello cooky,
I'm so sorry I missed this when you posted it last year, but so glad I found it today. Searching, as many of us are about now for my ten Anthology choices I found it. A bit late now to add my prase to the others so richly deserved, but not too late I hope.
Oh, just in case I have not made it clear, I think your poem is wonderful; it goes right to the heart. Certainly mine.
Michael



Author's Reply:

Kipper on 19-05-2014
War Artist
Hello cooky,
I'm so sorry I missed this when you posted it last year, but so glad I found it today. Searching, as many of us are about now for my ten Anthology choices I found it. A bit late now to add my prase to the others so richly deserved, but not too late I hope.
Oh, just in case I have not made it clear, I think your poem is wonderful; it goes right to the heart. Certainly mine.
Michael



Author's Reply:


A Fairy Tale According To Jeremy Kyle (posted on: 09-09-13)
A journey of lost souls

Her Life defined by the size of potatoes in a supermarket trolley. She opens her battered purse out of shape from the coppers of life, viewed with despair from eyes embedded in the bags of time. Self-esteem abandoned in discoloured trainers. Her contaminated cheap cider mind still clings to the fog of that special day, when she gave herself to him. The doll that came to life in dreams that found a prince. Sweet anticipation was the nectar of being and forever had found immortality in the quest for life. But this flower was envied by the weeds jealousy was rife amongst the onlookers. The detritus who once shared her life now whisper their poison into her veins. Jealousy is a lonely place for them and hate cannot spell love. For love is a need beyond the individual and evil must walk alone. She was a bride of the damned immersed in a punk rock dream. But faces turned into nightmares and she was spit on by the culture which became her jail. Anarchy came from the womb obedience came from poverty and know your place came from the hand she loved. Silence was now her existence. Daddy never told her fairy tales have no god. Her prince became a frog a drone who hated is lot and she became the witch that trapped him. Made him the victim of Grimm's tales which cast him down the yellow brick road of unbrushed teeth and brown. Whose fists sought redemption by shattering the crystal ball of happy ever after, baptizing his soul in a liquid sea of Stella and pools of emerald vomit. To bite this apple needs no witches poison. Addiction is anonymous as a wave on the ocean knowing that death will come when it reaches land, knowing that this is the fate of all refugees who abandon their lifejacket to oblivion. We are all jumpers in our minds cleaning the windows of tomorrow hoping to avoid the ledge of life. Though in our hearts there is a desire to step off into uncertainty for we all crave that moment , when we are truly free. Some will leave this life in anger others will give their life to peace, these are the survivors. But the victims the Jeremy Kyle's entourage will strip their soul one petal at a time in the act of do not remember me. Born into fairy tales is where memories began the rabbit and the wolf decides the journey. And for those who take the time, take the time to see the artist at work, will recognise the beings that walk past us every day. The stranger who buys the small potatoes With a purse full of coppers. Spending what is left of their existence In the supermarket that we call life.
Archived comments for A Fairy Tale According To Jeremy Kyle
deadpoet on 09-09-2013
A Fairy Tale According To Jeremy Kyle
A poignant message- well done-

Author's Reply:

stormwolf on 09-09-2013
A Fairy Tale According To Jeremy Kyle
Another deeply insightful piece tackling the sickness in society Cooky. I knew I was in for a treat when I saw the title.

Needs a bit of polish here and there (and maybe some pruning) but you really are a rough diamond of a writer, with such incredible individuality that you always pull it off.
So many good lines but loved...

Some will leave this life in anger
others will give their life to peace,
these are the survivors.
But the victims
the Jeremy Kyle’s entourage
will strip their soul one petal at a time
in the act of do not remember me.


Pure Cooky!!!

Alison x

Author's Reply:

barenib on 10-09-2013
A Fairy Tale According To Jeremy Kyle
An interesting read which I appreciated for the sentiments and heartfelt message. Like Alison, I feel the pruning may be worth working on, good stuff - John.

Author's Reply:


The House Of Many Faces (posted on: 12-08-13)
A write that was initially inspired by my 5 year old grandson who saw a cemetery from a bus and asked what are all those white chairs for. This led me on a journey of looking at tomorrow which turned out to be very bleak indeed.

I am the man that feeds the world genetically engineered crops, come take your fill. I am the investor who gives you land, your debt can wait, for we know who you are. Multiply and grow fat for I need an army teach your children about us and them and be grateful that you belong to us. For we are civilised so pay the tax that freedom brings you. Tomorrow uncertainty waits time is the rain that washes the future. Famine will always be your brother so hold my hand and walk with me. Should the bee turn its back on you? then nature will focus the brain. To kill for survival is a gift from God, to live is the right of every man. Follow me and the acrid smell of new asphalt shall delete the footsteps of your past. I am you and you are me science will cheat all that is written. End of days will launch the virus and Preachers will look through saintly windows at the gathering headstones. And a child of the world will see fields full of white chairs and wonder ''where are the people'' The terrorist will kill the innocent martyrdom their reward and we will watch the TV in silence, as our loved ones fall from the sky. And somewhere in the world the decision will be made. A victim will be selected and a drone will do its duty. Their coffin will be draped in right and wrong, honour to the left and traitor to the right. A holy cross will divide this river for all will cling to the illusion of them and us. God will control the believers political solutions the rest. No race or religion can alter the time the sums will solve survival. Some must die to let me live and I have chosen you, the holy grail of the west to take supper with me. For in all this destruction In all the beauty that has been lost. There stands a human being the perfect spy from above. For in human form the devil exists It is only when we die Can the angel be born? And the writings of poets will be heard no more, the ink will only follow orders. Blue and the green will fear the brown and black will not trust the white. The language of man will fuel the fire and the grey of ash shall win. But in truth who will miss this existence for the angel is a brother of the devil and God is the father of all. Our epitaph will be found painted on the cave walls of the frightened. Dreamtime will come again and the last child will draw the final image. Of the white chairs waiting in a sea of green and she will pick the last flower that only she can see.
Archived comments for The House Of Many Faces
Weefatfella on 12-08-2013
The House Of Many Faces

 photo 915e0b75-fce7-4fc2-9921-556099197c13_zps1f6b3c50.jpg Aye cooky. A thought provoking and Matrix like piece. I enjoyed the SCi-Fi images. A really good write and a poignant pome. I really think you've caught it here with these words>
For in human form the devil exists
It is only when we die
Can the angel be born? <
Thank you for an enjoyable and thoughtful read. Weefatfella.


Author's Reply:

orangedream on 12-08-2013
The House Of Many Faces
Thought provoking, indeed;-)

Tina

Author's Reply:

stormwolf on 15-08-2013
The House Of Many Faces
Hi Cooky,
Another of yours that comes like an inspired train of thought. I loved the saying of your grandson...really made me smile. They just say it as they see it and in doing so, give us back a clearer view of life.
Packed with truths and many fine lines.
The last stanza leaves me with a feeling of apprehension and the 'voice' that comes over is lucid and insightful.
Alison x

Author's Reply:


The Unknown Sergeant WW1 (posted on: 19-07-13)
4 August 1914, and 30 September 1919, included 573,507 "killed in action, died from wounds and died of other causes" and 254,176 missing (minus 154,308 released prisoners), for a net total of 673,375 dead and missing. Casualty figures also indicated that there were 1,643,469 wounded.

The rose cannot compete with the sweet smell of death, only her image can forgive. Laid upon the silence of another boys coffin, which hides this journey in life. Your shame will not bring him back. So win your war on kitchen table for old men know best, glory is for you who drink to them. Your lads are entrusted to fight an old man's dream, that age has altered with lies. Inspire them with your bravado, ''the machine gun you can take''. But bullets give no warning, shells care not for heroes and pain will not spare them. I who should have died long ago will take your lads over the top. To meet this vision of glory and perhaps some of them will share with me the victory of living for one more day. For victory is the crows feast, defeat will always find another battle. Life is to obey another order, and time is the torment of mind Which counts the heart beats to the next ordeal. This war is in my veins pouring blood over my soul, death will be a blessing to me. To forget what I have seen to forget this madness in life. I who greet the trains of hope. Greet the innocent, to take their place upon this cross, and I will give them a lonely smile for that is all that is left of me. These faces of oblivion who come with laughter, soon cower before the sounds of war. Their throats now choked with the dry mouth of fear. And I shall not dare too close to this bloom of spring, for my memory is full of ghosts. We shall share a cigarette politely sanitize our existence with stories from home. Quietly taking some comfort from the guns now gorging on German blood. For I wish not to see them alive and '' laddie'' always remembers, do not let them see your fear. The cold dew of dawn is growing anxious It beading anoints my head for it is the only thing that is pure in my life. The first rays of light eat into my eyes revealing the man. A gaunt child locked out of God's grace, for fear belongs to us all. The mark of death dances one more time In the steam of morning breathe hoping for that final kiss, and I shiver before its presence. Though these boys that I take can never know. That just beyond their gaze lies the guns that have taken the voices before them. The sound of the whistle Calls once again tomorrow the faces will change and their passing will be a journey into my memory. A generation cut down in sacrifice, a rose for every victim. But the cold white marble cannot hide the stories for every family has one. Church bells ring your victory of widows who lost their men and of this flower of summer, cut down from mother's lap. Leave the silent streets to the swallows to carry their voices back to a time of peace. For time has left us a faded photograph Of Granddads journey done Who went to sleep long ago. Time in her mercy took his memory, to join the untold stories Of the boys we never knew. All lost in Flanders field but still guarded jealously by the swallows who fly free over the peace that you gave to me. .
Archived comments for The Unknown Sergeant WW1
Texasgreg on 19-07-2013
The Unknown Sergeant WW1
Aye, Steven!

Brings to mind a thought: I see many vehicles with bumper stickers that proclaim pride of loved ones in the military. While I can imagine sense of duty to stand by one in the face of harm, I wonder if they really know what they're saying...

Greg 🙂

 photo Gunspincowboy.gif

Author's Reply:

Mikeverdi on 19-07-2013
The Unknown Sergeant WW1
Some wonderfully descriptive passages here - I particularly like 'the sound of the whistle calls once again' I cant ever imagine what terror that sound must have brought to those that heard it. I think it could be trimmed to help with the flow ... cut out a few of the and's; but that's just me maybe. Whatever... it a great piece of writing. Mike

Author's Reply:


A Flawed Prophet (posted on: 21-06-13)
The hand behind the knife.

I am a successful surgeon but In reality I am a failure. For I pay for the company of life. I pay to be human, pay for the understanding that my patients receive for free. I am the geek in the corner the wall paper that eyes don't see. My bond is with God for he shows me his creation and I must correct his mistakes. Vanity is to say such things but the sick will come to my door. They gamble that I could be a saviour for fear is anointed by hope. The good and the bad will sell their convictions. My hand can cheat the cards which have been dealt, and my face belongs to this poker game, we call life. I am the fall guy too who will walk down the corridor to hopeful eyes. But remember where there is God the Devil exists too and you will judge me. For I must bare my soul in the darkness of defeat that tells your relatives that I lost. I failed to grab the hand of life which held the royal flush that no player can defeat, and I will feel your doubts that perhaps I am not the perfect prophet you thought me to be. In truth I am a glorified mechanic. I am the surgeon that repairs your vices, I am the bloody hands that remove your pain. I can make you beautiful I can change your heart, though I need the sacrifice of the departed to help. And when age threatens your life money will save the chosen few, In the illusion of immortality. Though time will always be the clown that will laugh at you in the mirror. I am a tinker of time who fears the night. I shake hands with the dead, receive tributes from the living and somewhere in between I see the dawn. Sanity is a lonely place for me. My indiscretion is grateful for her apartment for I need her beauty to take away today and a shower to wash away mankind. She removes my pain with love so I can feel human from this butchers table. Sodom and Gomorra's a small price to pay for my patients to see the sun for one more day. God never gave me good looks but he gave me a steady hand. A hand that can caress your heart for I am a maverick that puzzles him. In truth I could be a monster, I will not cry when you die. Blood is just another day, though I hate to lose as all gamblers will tell you. But who amongst you would care about a stranger who gives you life. For in truth even the Devil would make me a hero, as long as I save a sinners life.
Archived comments for A Flawed Prophet
Mikeverdi on 21-06-2013
A flawed Prophet
Cooky, this is the best thing I have read in a long time. There are those who will critique the length or the lay out. I am just reading the words...and they are enough for me. There are phrases in here that are just brilliant. I hope you get a Nib for this. Mike

Author's Reply:

Andrea on 21-06-2013
A flawed Prophet
Absolutely brilliant Cooky. On my list for the next anthology, as soon as the nominations button is reactivated!

Author's Reply:

Bozzz on 21-06-2013
A flawed Prophet
Cooky, being more of a rhyme merchant I am not normally enthusiastic about prosetry, but your piece here is changing my mind. I can only echo the use of the word 'brilliant' in both concept and delivery. Well done indeed. Being a member of a local poetry reading group, may I have your permission to read it aloud at our next meeting in July? One of our members, a great friend, is a retired well-known obstetrician who has delivered the babies of those who matter and I know he will enjoy it too....Bozzz


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ValDohren on 21-06-2013
A flawed Prophet
I can only echo what has already been said Cooky - a brilliant write.
Val

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Thoughts of a Soldier (posted on: 07-06-13)
Something that will always haunt me.

Thoughts of a Soldier (World War One) Memory is our contribution to life and sleep the eternal dream. This voice of youth has one last breath and we give it to you. My comrade's corpse will be forgotten like the ash from generals cigar. Our blood will pour to fill their ambitions, So sweet is the vintage they consume at Christ's table this night. The claret of soldier boys will oil the guns this day, and prayers will be sent In the glory of our annihilation. The lines on the map grow restless. The horses all know their fate, for the rot of progress is in the air. Our preachers gather their crosses, we fight in the name of God. But who does God fight for? Is mercy beyond his gaze? Was this his plan? To create the widows vale that descends upon the son of man. Is a soldier to see the face of God? Through eyes that burn in a yellow mist breathed on by fallen angels. Whose kiss causes him to gurgle for fear he tells the truth. Tells the truth, to the last believer on earth. Futility rules this slaughter, we are the waste of nature. Men and boys are but leaves ordained to fall in the winds of war. There is no sanctuary from the guns that spew their rain of death. It digests us all. Sins and good deeds forgotten. In retribution they take vengeance on we, the poor souls below. There is no dignity to be found here, Only death in corrupted mud. Life is the enemy and reason the sword. We are a disposable commodity, and this land will feast upon us. Mothers of England let your children play. For tomorrow they will come to make angels on earth. This generation will haunt the sky. Sculptured in the storm clouds that gather and you will see your son. For that is where your boy resides. Free from the sins of man, free from the fear of war. And your tears will remember him, ''Jack '', who was, your little boy.
Archived comments for Thoughts of a Soldier
ValDohren on 09-06-2013
Soldiers Thoughts
Very moving indeed Cooky - an excellent write, which just about says it all.
Technical correctness is irrelevant here. You deserve more comments and a nib for this one IMHO.

Val

Author's Reply:


The Thatcher Years (posted on: 19-04-13)
She died without pity or was it ignorance.

No poppies for madam that privilege is reserved for the common man. Drape her coffin with Union jack though there is no union for me. Your guard of honour is expecting you, made from the empty shell of boys who left their dreams on Falkland hill. This life that you once held will be remembered . The miner's bones will see your corpse for death came to them with broken heart, their blood was washed away and community was lost of hope In the weeping's of a crying pit. The taste of rabbit stew still stays upon my lips, for I shared my bread with neighbours, while boys in blue waved five pound notes and beat their shields in rhyme, for they were truly, Maggie's whores. This common man seeks redemption for you but forgiveness is for God to give. These pearly gates that your spirit seeks among the hymns that praise this earth are but remnants of the pit gates and in their rust they are jammed shut to you. The chosen few were Maggie's men their daggers have been cleaned of blood. The wits will praise your passing, A final toast to Caesar, ''she came, she saw, she conquered'' but in truth they know, the evils of today still carry your mark. Iron lady your soul will seek the light But your light went out long ago during the Devils reign. Lost in the furnace of men lost in the pride of England. And now your service has ended redundancy killed you too. Your victories have gone into history but Steel and coal and the grafters of England will never forgive you.
Archived comments for The Thatcher Years
Savvi on 19-04-2013
The Thatcher Years
A great piece and strong end line, spoken from the heart and you tell the story with graphic precision, it would seem the nation is split over the memory her death has invoked. S

Author's Reply:
The split in the nation is the power a Government can have over its people. I feel the economic squeeze of today will change a few minds me thinks.

Andrea on 20-04-2013
The Thatcher Years
Can't say I agree with all your sentiments, but it's a damn fine piece.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work. It has stirred up feelings for a lot of people on both sides of the fence.

Miel on 20-04-2013
The Thatcher Years
Well written although I do not share your opinion.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work.

ValDohren on 20-04-2013
The Thatcher Years
We either loved her or hated her, and her death has stirred the hearts of poets one way or the other. Very well written piece Cooky.

Val

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work. I thought there would be a number of poems about her passing.

Hekkus on 20-04-2013
The Thatcher Years
I can appreciate that it's quite a well-written poem in itself. I have to say that while I wouldn't call myself a Tory, the sentiment in this piece leaves me a bit cold. I know Mrs Thatcher caused hardship to some, but the fact is that none of her union legislation was repealed by Blair. And if you want to talk about getting us into foreign wars, Labour did it TWICE, in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Yes, she became a kind of symbol for a lot of people to rail against. But when you think of the sleaze and cynicism of the New Labour Years, it seems a bit much to look at her as something uniquely evil in British politics.
But that doesn't detract from your aptitude with words.

Author's Reply:
Whenever this conflict is mentioned the issue of constant pay rises by the miners comes up.
All part of the governments excuse. There were no rich miners. Go to the Pit villages and you will see some of the poorest housing in England. Indeed nearly all of them had outside toilets.
Secondly when looking at pay rises the miners had disadvantages. A low wage cannot be brought up to date by using percentages as a pay scale. This brings disparity. Someone down south receiving a 10% rise on 20,000 gets 2000. A miner gets 10% on 7000 and he gets 700 which causes the struggle for parity to get even worse.
The biggest shame in all this is people forget the history of the miners. Without their struggle for fair working conditions and pay every one today would be working a 60 hour week including your children for a pittance. Read your history books.
Most miners went down the pit as there was no other work. This is one of the most dangerous jobs you can do. The dust and filth meant that a miner’s life span is lower due to industrial diseases and accidents.
Finally all the pits are gone and our steel industry too. We have a large workforce now on the dole costing far more to the tax payer in benefits. Millions of people not earning means they have no purchase power and that hits every business. There is no economic sense in that.
Her epitaph is that we who live today watch companies like Tata from India rules the steel supply and coal is shipped in from South Africa because they can still oppress their workforce for economic greed. Just look at the recent shooting of miners in South Africa.

Pronto on 21-04-2013
The Thatcher Years
Hi cooky,
My word mate you've stirred up a hornets nest here.
Firstly let me say I cannot agree with most of your sentiments here mate. As an ex-soldier I know we fought a just war in the Falkland’s against a regime where the ordinary citizen could be ‘disappeared’ because he protested against injustice.
As to the miners I thought at the time when a fiver represents a 20% wage rise then there is something fundamentally wrong with that wage! However the unions brought trouble upon themselves by wildcat strikes and bloody mindedness things had to change and some of the good inevitably got swept away with the bad. When rat ridden rubbish is left rotting uncollected and the dead unburied then the patience of the long-suffering public will finally snap.
Leave us not forget that Lady Thatcher was democratically elected three times, twice with a huge majority.

Evolutionary change is inevitable but doesn’t always happen at a pace we’re comfortable with but we must either get up to speed or join the dinosaurs

Anyway it was all a long time ago now and today’s ills can no longer be laid at her door. To the folk who languish moaning about their lot in life ‘because of her’ I suggest they stop whining and start shining. In the words of the song “But that was yesterday and yesterday’s gone.”
I can’t fault your poetic expression of your view though mate well written sir.


Author's Reply:
A hornets nest indeed. One point about her three terms. If voting went on the totals votes cast in the population instead of conveniantly split up seats, then Margaret Thatcher would never have been in power. As for Dinosaurs the squeeze on wages and the rising unemployment is coming to many people who thought that they were immune from such things. One wonders who will protect them.


Epitaph of the Dragon (posted on: 01-04-13)
Did dragons ever exist. Perhaps you are the perfect hiding place.

Chained to these walls of despair I was condemned by a Judas race. Assassins' wait on every corner hiding in the lights of man looking for my face. To be last of your species is a lonely place in loneliness everyone's your enemy, my existence violates this earth. I am demonised by children not yet born for I am Auschwitz I am war, I am the monster behind your door. Cremation is ordained upon my soul the future dies when cities burn. Life gives way to extinction but the last rights give way to destiny for the dragon has one last legacy. Lead me to your abattoir and take my dignity. My scales will provide a heroes shield this blood will give you courage. Take these eyes made of jade but do not look too close for I may possess you. Artisans take my teeth record my sins in scrimshaw for I have flown amongst you. Memories laid down in human bone for the samurai has felt my breath and his god has given homage to me Immortality now gives way to fairy tales Dragons used to frighten children for it is all you have to protect them from reality, though some will grow to envy me. The truth of mankind lies on the battlefields. I am woven into your victories given blood to lick from the land I am the last thing you see and only your shadow will remember me For I am the darkest secret of mankind, in your actions I became the executioner and you a plague of demons that burned my soul away. But always remember, when you look into the fire there will always be a dragon looking back at you. Waiting to reclaim his throne from the demons that exist in you.
Archived comments for Epitaph of the Dragon
Bozzz on 01-04-2013
Epitaph of the Dragon
I have one that stays on my right shoulder - problem is he loves salt so feeds off my left hand. Great and thoughtful poem. A good write, Cooky...Bozzz

Author's Reply:

Hekkus on 01-04-2013
Epitaph of the Dragon
A really interesting poem that keeps a high quality throughout. Dragons are objects in literature both of dread and of admiration, and you explored that tension. All creatures of myth have some answering facet in humans, and you gave a nice take on that.

Author's Reply:

Mikeverdi on 02-04-2013
Epitaph of the Dragon
'Only your shadow will remember me' Excellent! Mike

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Savvi on 02-04-2013
Epitaph of the Dragon
Some great lines and images you do the topic proud. Very much enjoyed. S

Author's Reply:

ValDohren on 03-04-2013
Epitaph of the Dragon
Interesting write - love the closing stanza, deep and thought-provoking, the archetypal dragon in us all perhaps.
Val

Author's Reply:

Pronto on 04-04-2013
Epitaph of the Dragon
"The truth of mankind
lies on the battlefields.
I am woven into your victories"

I loved the poem especially these lines. Bravo poet.


Author's Reply:

Nomenklatura on 10-04-2013
Epitaph of the Dragon
Descriptive and thought-provoking
well done

Author's Reply:


What Lies in Dreams (posted on: 25-03-13)
In sleep reality is a mere inconvenience.

To walk in dreams upon this vale of illusion. Each footstep of your being crossing the labyrinth of a shy but guilty soul. Sleep can be your witness as Galaxies collide creating life for we all belong to infinity. That place beyond our imagination where the darkness hides a beauty not meant for human eyes. Reality is the myth for you now walk with gods. This world is a reflection of you where water and mirror are one. The shimmer of a distorted face lies on the see saw of humanity. The light you inherit the darkness you manufacture. But in death, at least your priest will lie for you. Life is but a feather It glides through the winds of time. Sometimes rising to your endeavour more often it is a passenger falling on a broken wing. But no matter your feather is immortal. For it caresses the meanings of such wonderful things and you beat the odds to be you. Morning brings a pencilled rubber the mind will leave this page, and somewhere in the universe another being will dream, of things beyond this human race.
Archived comments for What Lies in Dreams
Nomenklatura on 26-03-2013
What Lies in Dreams
Worth reading for the lines:

'but in death at least
your priest will lie for you.'

I tried punctuating this several ways and it did interesting things to the meaning.

'but, in death, at least
your priest will lie for you.'
(your priest will lie for you but no-one else will)

'but, in death at least,
your priest will lie for you.'

(your priest will lie when you die - but not at any other time)

'but in death, at least
your priest will lie for you.'

(for you, but not for me).

Thanks for making me think this morning.
Ewan

Author's Reply:
Always glad to help. Thank you for commenting on my work.

stormwolf on 26-03-2013
What Lies in Dreams
A different style for you Cooky. Very deep and philisophical. I often think that life is the dream and we will understand that better when we shuffle off our mortal coils so to speak 😉

Alison x

Author's Reply:
I wrote this after drinking too much whiskey. Thank you for reading my work.
regards Steven

Ionicus on 27-03-2013
What Lies in Dreams
An excellent and deep poem, cooky. Well done. Worth a 'Great Read' label in my opinion.
Interesting how punctuation can give different meanings as Nomenklatura pointed out.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work. and i am glad you liked it.


The Bible according To Netto (posted on: 08-03-13)
Inspired by a walk in a local Netto Supermarket.

(please note dunners are debt collectors) In these isles of cheap illusion the kids run free, screaming for the sugar of childhood. While their mother walks on down wine bottle lane, to escape life's demons for one more day. The shells of beings look but do not see. Part time lives in worn out trainers minimum wage to stretch, their withered faces all smart price packed, on another out of date trolley. Buy one get one free, a horse burger is a burger a person is a person. Each hiding themselves from the world, Incognito in a world of poverty. Tomorrow the kids will cry each will find their jail. The weight of despair will sentence their lives, in these streets you will find a different kind of humanity. Where social security hears the dunners knock and boredom leads to exotic dreams, wrapped up in foil of rainbow brown. We all crave the womb for the world cannot reach us there. And behind the curtain the detritus of existence survives. Old men in young men's clothes with regret filled veins counting the burglars sin as the blue light of night closes in. The child becomes a woman and woman carries the pain. Another babe born. The hand of indifference grabs another box of powdered baby milk, for family allowance is her work. Life belongs to an electric token and a chip pan of joy her disfiguring pleasure in life. These are the isles where no one has a name complete with a special offer of sadness. Existence is a hangover for under a fiver. For this is the sum of life. and no one will take away this credit on society our triple (A) rating of poverty.
Archived comments for The Bible according To Netto
Mikeverdi on 08-03-2013
The Bible according To Netto
Great writing Cooky, but a grim look at life; having a bad day? 🙂 Mike

Author's Reply:
I only have a bad day when the whiskey runs out. thanks for reading

ValDohren on 08-03-2013
The Bible according To Netto
Very cynical write Cooky, but it suits me because I am a very cynical person! Life in 2013 - there's a lot to be thankful for, but there are down sides too. One can get lost in the supermarket, metaphorically speaking - is that a bad thing for an hour or so. Enjoyed the read.

Val 🙂

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work

stormwolf on 08-03-2013
The Bible according To Netto
Absolutley incredible work Cooky!
A few issues with punctuation but if this was being published the editor would do it. I hesitate to give a ten to a poem that is not 100% perfect but this one is really so rich in all the right ways from imagery to insight that it hit me right in the guts so to speak. Happy to nominate it.

Alison x

Author's Reply:
Praise from Ceasar indeed. I thank you for your support. Feel free to correct the punctuation, its the only way I will learn.

RoyBateman on 08-03-2013
The Bible according To Netto
How did I instantly know that you weren't in Waitrose? You can't fool me! Yes, this is depressing, but only because it's horribly accurate...and Netto really does come at the bottom of the heap shopping-wise, though since being taken over (By Asda, I think...) they've vanished from round here. Nope, it's Aldi for me.
While you're in the mood, why not have a bash at those robbing bastard payday loan companies with their 2000% charges? They deserve all they get!

Author's Reply:
I have a few on my hit list. thank you for reading

Savvi on 08-03-2013
The Bible according To Netto
Shit I'm a netto zombie in young mens clothes and I'll be drunk by nine with a £5 hangover to look forward too, so thanks for holding the mirror. Truly an awsome write packed with spot on images and cold light realities, right up there for me, well deserved cred by Stormwolf. Savvi

Author's Reply:
Glad you liked it. Thank you for reading my work

franciman on 09-03-2013
The Bible according To Netto
This is awesome Cooky. It has a real Bob Dylan feel to it. What angers me is that the underlying anger of the narrator is tinged with resignation, though I realise it is essential to the poetry.
You describe the true Opiate of the Masses.
An incredibly fine read.
cheers,
Jim

Author's Reply:
Thank you for the very generous rating and your kind comments.

Andrea on 09-03-2013
The Bible according To Netto
Bloody excellent, Cooky!

Author's Reply:
It seems it hit the spot with a lot of people. Thank you for reading.

Bozzz on 10-03-2013
The Bible according To Netto
This piece should be sent to the Archbishop of Canterbury and be read aloud by one of his Bishops in the Lords too. It lassoos so many problems with brilliance - Bravo Cooky, you deserve your 10 and have mine too. An extraordinary poem.... Bozzz

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading. I think the church has enough problems without creating the chance for some Bishop to offer a bag of sweets to a young boy!

Texasgreg on 24-03-2013
The Bible according To Netto
We all crave the womb

for the world cannot reach us there.




Aye, my friend! So many good lines in there, but I think this 'un summed it up well. I do see your point, but as a man of hope, I refuse to acknowledge reality and make my own.

I went to Walmart yesterday for candles and misplaced my phone while looking through it for messages. Everyone here in the U.S. has disdain for the place for reasons described in your piece. I smile at people and sometimes engage them in conversation over products...though not always, it does work! I especially love to make a customer service rep. crack up at check out.

Back to the phone...I was freaking out 'cause I just knew it was gone forever. I still had it on silent mode from work but a store employee called it anyway to see if someone would notice it light up.

I checked with their office to see if it had been turned in and indeed it had. Some nice customer found it, found "mom" in my directory, and phoned her to say she was turning it in there.

People were helping me all through my "disaster" and though I was very stressed, their kindness helped me through it.



Greg 🙂





Author's Reply:

Weefatfella on 24-03-2013
The Bible according To Netto
 photo 390a8c45-a359-4a79-8c64-82ba272f2b94_zps941dd6b6.jpg
Aye.
Weefatfella.

Author's Reply:

ChairmanWow on 01-04-2013
The Bible according To Netto
Superb Cooky, glad i ran into this. So many good lines, so much it reminds me of the old shopping center I worked at as a youngster. last trip back to my home town (Peoria, Illinois) I went to pick something up there and the scene was very much as you described it. Instead of well stocked shelves they just piled dry goods up in the aisles. Your poem deserves the nome.

Ralph

Author's Reply:


The Five Pillars of Poetry (posted on: 25-02-13)
The first draft was twelve pillars. This version has been shortened as sometimes I get carried away.

Imagination is the river that guides the quill. Dreams the sailing ship that unleashes the voyage through the pages of a poets mind. To write is to find the meaning of love. Where beauty opens the gate, to a never ending yellow brick road Of human emotion. For that is what we seek. The pen can create gods and mortal frailty. Sunshine is the span of life, darkness is forever and within these letters we find immortality. Beauty is found in pain hope is an emerald sea, envy comes from Oscar's words and belief becomes a prejudice. The pen will drown your epitaph for the Cyclops knows his destiny Words can be a jigsaw of fears, Or a rose sculptured in the heart. All belong to confession, trapped in the confetti of poems which hide behind a harlequin mask though a poets heart, is for all to see
Archived comments for The Five Pillars of Poetry
ValDohren on 25-02-2013
The Five Pillars of Poetry
Beautiful Cooky - loved it. Describes a poet admirably.

Val 🙂

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading. glad you liked it

Mikeverdi on 25-02-2013
The Five Pillars of Poetry
Val's right Cooky, it's all there; great writing my friend. Mike

Author's Reply:
Glad you liked it

Texasgreg on 26-02-2013
The Five Pillars of Poetry
Aye my friend...the poet's dream.
Reward for your super efforts!

Greg 🙂



Author's Reply:
Glad you liked it Mr American Pie.

amman on 26-02-2013
The Five Pillars of Poetry
This is a very eloquent poem, Cooky. One of your very best.
Cheers.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work.

Ionicus on 26-02-2013
The Five Pillars of Poetry
Agree with the other comments, one of your best.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work.

Weefatfella on 27-02-2013
The Five Pillars of Poetry
 photo 615f3747-f93a-4017-925a-493d3a9cd963_zps9cdcaec0.jpg

Ah, So that's whit yiz dae, youz poets.
Well that's okay then, now A know.
Thank you for the insight cooky.
Weefatfella

Author's Reply:

stormwolf on 04-03-2013
The Five Pillars of Poetry
Looks like inspiration found you Cooky!
You are a fount of imaginative writing.
Alison x

Author's Reply:


Kiss of Darkness (posted on: 18-02-13)
A poem about a Vampire

A grain of sand was once my rock this rock was once my life and life was but a story, lost in the nurseries of time. The shadows you see cannot be trusted, the sun bleeds red in shame fleeing to another realm, for it is time for me to reign. I who have seen the doors of time close on ambitions of kings and paupers dreams. Decay and deceit all pay homage to me, behind this curtain of immortality. Immortality that sweetly came under the shadow of injustice gallows. Exiled out of reach of Christ, my saviour an angel of the night. Her kiss of darkness my redemption from life. Life is now a memory no fear upon my lips. Only light can bar my way for darkness is where I play. These wings of death will plague your dreams and you will long for me. Long for the thirst of liquid life To take the thing that life denies. No bride can cross this altar for love will wake with me. And love will be an image of God that mirrors cannot find. I will be the valentine concubines my queen and together we will lurk amongst this vineyard of blood salivating on what we see. Humanity will soon be ripe fermenting in their illusions of life, your shadows are destined for me. Room temperature and decanted right for tonight I have a gracious bite. Death will come in empty glass for sleep will find no blood. Your existence will not be wasted for the night now owns your soul. The stars will be you're only light and another victim will die this night.
Archived comments for Kiss of Darkness
Weefatfella on 18-02-2013
Kiss of Darkness
 photo 615f3747-f93a-4017-925a-493d3a9cd963_zps9cdcaec0.jpg
An amazing concept the Vampire.
The eternal life giving kiss.
The removal of death.
I'm okay it seems Vampires are afraid of Hawthorn trees. Sorted.
I really enjoyed the poem.
I like Vampires.
Count Weefatfella.',..,' .

Author's Reply:

Savvi on 18-02-2013
Kiss of Darkness
Humanity will soon be ripe
fermenting in their illusions of life,

Great lines could apply to many thinks but enoyed the Vamp theme you did it very well. S


Author's Reply:

Mikeverdi on 19-02-2013
Kiss of Darkness
Loved this one Cooky, I was on another site where everyone had a go at 'the undead' ... you would have won 🙂

Author's Reply:

Andrea on 19-02-2013
Kiss of Darkness
Enjoyed this, Cooky

Author's Reply:

barenib on 19-02-2013
Kiss of Darkness
A good stab at a timeless subject - John

Author's Reply:

Ionicus on 19-02-2013
Kiss of Darkness
A good write. Liked it.

Author's Reply:

ValDohren on 19-02-2013
Kiss of Darkness
Interesting take on the vampire concept - a good read, enjoyed.

Val

Author's Reply:


Not For Them (posted on: 11-02-13)
A poem about World War 1. (Ich ttete is German for I killed) (Jai tue is French for I killed) (Yellow mist refers to Mustard Gas)

Not for them this poem of life for the pen is full of blood. Writing the names of yesterday on lichen memorials washed by the tears Of these forgotten years. Not for them a sunny day only shadows from the cross. Hiding their faces from tomorrow. Stored in this warehouse of silence, kept secret by churches reverence. Not for them to burn this candle of innocence their light was sold for war. To search out death in no man's land for machine gun and snipers hand. Not for them the words of love or the gift of flowers for only poets can pick their dreams. No nightingales and moonlit nights or gentle caress upon the shore. For death is but a moment, Inspiration dies, with the pain in soldiers eyes. Not for them to sleep in peace or to wake to mothers bread. Only memories of a yellow mist, for the banshees long to be kissed. Not for them to lie to God to say we did not kill. For in death they can all say Ich ttete, J'ai tu, I killed. We who came from Eden, are now comrades in heaven. Not for them to know the future for we see only the graves. Let this be our peace, less we forget the meaning of war. And pray historians will never write again, with a pen full of blood, this poem, Not for them.
Archived comments for Not For Them
amman on 11-02-2013
Not For Them
Absolutely brilliant, Cooky. This is fine poetry indeed. A moving epitaph to those who died (on both sides) during that obscene war.
Keep well.
Tony.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for a terrific rating. I have been writing some mediocre stuff lately.

Mikeverdi on 11-02-2013
Not For Them
So beautifully crafted, so many excellent lines; I loved reading it. One to be proud of Cooky. Mike

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading and thank you for the rating.

stormwolf on 11-02-2013
Not For Them
Cooky at his best!

for the banshees longs to be kissed.

Either singular 'banshee' and 'longs' or the plural 'banshees' 'long'

Alison x

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading. I have corrected the typo. all I need now is some inspiration to write something different.

ValDohren on 11-02-2013
Not For Them
Excellent write Cooky - one to be proud of indeed.

Val



Author's Reply:
Glad you liked it and thank you for the rating.

Pronto on 14-02-2013
Not For Them
So many excellent stanzas here. Thanks for sharing.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for taking the time to read my work

Andrea on 14-02-2013
Not For Them
Powerful and poignant, Cooky.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work

orangedream on 16-02-2013
Not For Them
Fantastic poem, Cooky. Well deserves its accolades.

Tina

Author's Reply:

Fox-Cragg on 02-03-2013
Not For Them
Nothing short of brilliant.
Fox-Cragg

Author's Reply:


The Murder of Civilisation (posted on: 28-01-13)
England may be skint, but we still have a green and pleasant land.

An Englishman lost in afternoon tea memories of a lotus flower love, Rajas and elephants in Delhi Livingstone the explorer religion to convert. Laurence of Arabia a leader of men the Boers and the Zulus Gordon and Khartoum, these are the things that shook the world. Silk and Cotton, the wealth of Empire Earl Mountbatten our man in Burma the cry of Bombay and Ceylon oblivious to a young man's dream. England was the world her Empire was great for the sun never did set On her wealth, the jewel in this noble crown. Yet history was not kind exploitation her crime though civilisation came hand in hand for Freedom we planted democracy you chanted the Union jack you did burn and what have you learned. Greed breeds poverty in silence sectarian dogma your anthem murder by the chosen few. How flourishes your tree when your morals all flee with bombs in the souk and murder by troops education restricted the poor evicted to make way for corruption and tyrants consumption. Look to the horizon for there lies Britain Its empire gone but our pride lingers on Can your freedom say the same? or is oil to blame? who shall we accuse? for your freedoms abuse? Not the British, love us or hate us England brought you civilisation and civilisation lives on In this green and pleasant land
Archived comments for The Murder of Civilisation
bo_duke99 on 28-01-2013
The Murder of Civilisation
full throttle, and very enjoyable for that

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work

stormwolf on 28-01-2013
The Murder of Civilisation
Very thought provoking Cooky. One could write an essay about the issues raised.
Typo
for the sun never did sett (set)
union jack should have capital letters Union Jack 😉

So much we learned in school was either wrong or blatently one sided. I have come to look on the empire as nothing to be proud of. So much suffering for the ordinary people. You really are able to put your thoughts across really well.
Alison x

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading Alison. Typos corrected

Mikeverdi on 29-01-2013
The Murder of Civilisation
A brave shout, and one I totally agree with. Most of the places have gone to rat shit since we left, for all their complaining about us. We are still bailing out most of them as well. MIKE

Author's Reply:
Still giving money away to places like Syria. We soft buggers. Thank you for reading

Andrea on 29-01-2013
The Murder of Civilisation
Brilliant!

Author's Reply:
Glad you liked it. Thank you for reading my work.

amman on 29-01-2013
The Murder of Civilisation
Hard hitting and so many home truths in this Cooky. I particularly like the stanza commencing 'Greed breeds poverty'.
Well done.
Cheers.

Author's Reply:
Glad you liked it. Thank you for reading

Bozzz on 30-01-2013
The Murder of Civilisation
Yes, and we also brought you a morally bankrupt financial system and the evils that go with it - not to say you didn't have a worse one before we came. Best not to mention what good we did bring - it is too easily trampled by the bad and by blindness to your own present problems. Cooky, your message is spot on, some massage needed for the poem. Good read... Bozzz

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work

Texasgreg on 31-01-2013
The Murder of Civilisation
Aye, Steven!

Perfect balance of pride, humility, hope and reason.

Quite philosophical and provokes the mind well, IMO.

I for one am cognizant of England's influence on American history and strength. I just hope we can "rein it in" properly before it gets away...



Greg 🙂



Photobucket.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work. Still raining in England


After the Battle (posted on: 21-01-13)
WW1. An exploration into the mental state of a soldier after he has killed.

I felt his breath leave the battle field as bayonet pierced his heart. The surprise of death lay in his eyes his blood poured warmth upon my hands, anointing my soul with his. His flow of life will find the earth to merge with victims past and another ghost will follow me, shouting for my demise. This lowly man who took the shilling as Judas took his thirty, now looks across this no man's land for this corruption belongs to me. Beneath this mud lies the dreams of men the commandments of life, now lost within these decaying bones for this war has silenced them. And up above heaven receives the righteous who take their place, but the blood of my victims are now a moat and I would surely drown. The dreams I have taken will guard the gates while angels turn their back to me. I am the soldier who orchestrates the kill my sins can wait in heaven. The Holy Ghost can watch his time for I am Lord this day. It takes a soldier to humble the gods for their power lies with me a solitary man who has done his duty. So God, send your laurels to me. I am one of millions Destined to be forgotten But men were born with tears our tears will match any storm that you can send For we are the battle and death is our destiny We who feed this barrage of blood now fear the morning mist rise? For this grey belongs to dead men's dreams, their sweet stench a reminder of what's to come. For tomorrow, I will be one of them. Bury me deep God must not find me Anonymity will be my peace Only Mother, will remember me.
Archived comments for After the Battle
stormwolf on 23-01-2013
After the Battle
Power-filled writing Cooky!
The crucial first and last stanza were incredible encasulating the rest of the poem really well. The last line heart-breaking as the mother of two sons.
You do war poetry so well, it really is your forte.
I don't knowe how you manage to get inside the mind as you do. As I have said before I reckon you died in the trenches in a previous life.
A couple of words repeated that stand out.

You use the word 'moat' twice. This is a very vivid metaphor and so I don't feel it should be repeated.
Like many of your poems I feel it could be shortened to highlight the intensity but I take my hat off to you. (well I would if I wore one) 😉

Alison x

Author's Reply:

Texasgreg on 27-01-2013
After the Battle
Aye Steven!
Been down sick...very tired, but still going to work. I viewed a few last week, but evidently missed this 'un. Started on my favorite authors list this time which is how I came across it.
This piece paints the picture well, IMO. Every young man wants to be a warrior for some reason. When he gets that opportunity, the fantasy turns into a nightmare he must live with forever, or take to his grave.

Well done, my friend!

Greg 🙂

Author's Reply:


Footsteps of the Tiger (posted on: 11-01-13)
The connection between hunter and prey.

The tears of the tiger trapped in this snare of man, fades into an ancient kingdom where silent footsteps once reigned. To feel his breath upon your neck is to know that death has come. His lick will taste your soul and jaws will steal your flesh. His honour will take your sacrifice and your fears will die with you. But should his wits fail, to my ambitions, then he will know that I am top predator. Oh beautiful creature whose grace was born to kill? Your Hyde is but a bauble to me. When I have forgotten this day moths will feast on your memory, these glass eyes that I give to you will see this mausoleum that I have created, for death has always been my work. Yet when I see the tears of noble beast defeated by a cruel world, one feels his tears run down my soul and something is lost to me. Your eyes that once stalked this life celebrating discovery of prey, hide tears of a changing world your destiny is to talk in silence. Though your roar now falls silent you were always heard in my heart. The message consumes this hunter with guilt but no one will hear, except the tiger and me. Being human I wish to be a tiger for in life he was a great king and only time can make him a pauper. His magnificence is his downfall but in death he was always a noble being. I was the darkness that tried to touch his light But I am not worthy, I am the pauper who destroyed a king. And now the future belongs to paupers who will never see, a World that was once filled, with such noble things. For all that remains, are the shadows of me?
Archived comments for Footsteps of the Tiger
Bozzz on 11-01-2013
Footsteps of the Tiger
Powerful stuff, Cooky. The guilt you feel is transmitted to us all. How can I look at any stuffed animal again without crying for forgiveness....Bozz

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work

Texasgreg on 12-01-2013
Footsteps of the Tiger
His honour will take your sacrifice
and your fears will die with you.


Aye, Steven!
I've always thought that being "top predator" came with the responsibility of using that ability for survival. You've done well again, my friend...

Greg 🙂

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work.

stormwolf on 12-01-2013
Footsteps of the Tiger
Hi Cooky

This is a very powerful piece that would benefit from some pruning. The 'voice' in it was both hunter and almost taxidermist. The admiration for the prey, the hideous end coupled with the idiocy of man who feels they have proven something to kill such a beautiful beast while inwardly acknowleging they are inferior.

A few words repeated and also the whole crux of the poem stretched out and so diluted a bit for me.

I feel this would really benefit by intensive trimming. far from losing the thrust of what we are trying to say...it so often distills it into the what I call 'Mother Tincture' and then become magnified. 😉

Alison x

Author's Reply:
i struggled with this one a bit. Still looking for something to inspire me.

orangedream on 13-01-2013
Footsteps of the Tiger
Very powerful piece, Cooky. Certainly made me think.

Tina

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work

stormwolf on 13-01-2013
Footsteps of the Tiger
THIS was inspired Cooky!
You are a natural....you must not put yourself down.
I would have made it more concise but some may not agree. Your writing is rich.

Alison x

Author's Reply:

ChairmanWow on 13-01-2013
Footsteps of the Tiger
Enjoyed this poem very much. I live in an area that sometimes gets visits from mountain lions which does make walking your dog more of an adventure.

Ralph

Author's Reply:

Mikeverdi on 16-01-2013
Footsteps of the Tiger
'When I have forgotten this day, moths will feast on your memory' some parts of this could make you scream for the plight of their world. Mike

Author's Reply:

purplespirit on 10-02-2013
Footsteps of the Tiger
Great and powerful poem with strong imagery, deep thoughts and hard facts but leaving the hope we all need to go on without despair and resignation, for only if we understand and work on solutions, we and following generations may have a future. Excellent work, thank you. Purple

Author's Reply:


The Prodigal Son (posted on: 24-12-12)
Another kind of Christmas.

Let this day vanquish our differences for father is still the head. Put by our petty grievance, let family rule the day. Come brother let us be at peace your heart can melt this snow. The voice of child was always you and the tears of ancestors now watch with pride of the man you have become. Your place in life is to be at this feast, the family is united. This legacy of Christmas joy has written your story. The manger has carried your children and a star shines upon this house because of you. So remember this day family is precious the joys of the world belong to you Happiness has smiled health is in celebration. So Grandmother be proud for this is the legacy of you. Joy permeates this house The eyes of the child look up to the family. So drink to mother and father for they gave roots to this tree. Our family is the earth and the earth is you, On this day we can all believe. The hurt of the world be gone It is a day of forgiveness and that is enough. Rejoice on this special day Christmas was born for you. The pages of time are yours to write and your story will go on and on.
Archived comments for The Prodigal Son
Texasgreg on 28-12-2012
The Prodigal Son
a star shines upon this house
because of you.

What, no comments? I loved this line in particular as it sets the mood for the whole piece...for me. Aye, strong leadership in the home can make the whole world shine through the eyes of those within.

Greg 🙂

Photobucket.

Author's Reply:

orangedream on 10-01-2013
The Prodigal Son
I agree with Greg, hands down. A beautiful poem.

Tina

Author's Reply:


Mercy (posted on: 14-12-12)
A poem which I wrote after hearing David Attenborough. For a man to have spent most of his life working with the Natural World there is a realisation that we too are part of nature and thus come under the law of top predator. Even though we have this advantage our brain is contaminated with arrogance for the planet we live on.

Cut the trees and cut your veins for your extinction is entwined These creatures that have been robbed of home are on this conscience of mine. Can my existence be above their creation, is extinction my legacy? Will God forgive my sins? or am I the parasite from above. Death and destruction are part of me, can heaven really want the likes of me? My number will pillage the earth and only God can stop me. But in this testimony the shadows of past will condemn and the time draws near, when I too will become a memory. This life that shared the will of man will thank God for my demise for I will repent, though the universe is blind. I am insignificant a temporary molecule in time. I humbly accept this judgement of a higher being, for we cannot trust ourselves. My nature is to destroy the things of life, this is the sum of mankind for greed is programmed into me. Will the dodo forgive from above? was its flesh worth the feast? Every day the beauty of creation disappears, will these creatures that are now silent ever forgive. Can arrogance belong to the dawn of man? Does this final supper belong to me? The earth devoid of life, my power is that of progress and reward is a desert without life, my kingdom. Can this universe stop the devil in Man? For I am mankind, heaven is my arrogance and I am the king of life Ruler of all this silence And now it is too late for silence has found me.
Archived comments for Mercy
ChairmanWow on 14-12-2012
Mercy
If you pave over the Earth you get the moon, or any other dead rock floating in the void. Any good thing given to human beings ends up degraded; it's that simple. Well done.

Ralph

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading

ValDohren on 14-12-2012
Mercy
What a beautiful place this planet would be without humans. A good read Cooky.

Val x

Author's Reply:
Glad you liked it

amman on 15-12-2012
Mercy
Salutary, powerful words Cooky. I particularly like the first two stanzas which set the tone for humankinds often predatory and destructive disregard for other creatures and the environment. I like this a lot.

Regards.

Author's Reply:
Glad you liked it

Andrea on 15-12-2012
Mercy
Liked this, cooky.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading

barenib on 15-12-2012
Mercy
I'm afraid this is all too true - we think we are so clever, but we wouldn't be the first civilisation to destroy itself. John.

Author's Reply:
Thanks for reading

Bozzz on 15-12-2012
Mercy
Our selfish genes drive not only our survival, but also our demise. Each of us is a brontosaurus of our aeon. Great poem Cooky.

Author's Reply:
Glad you liked it

roger303 on 16-12-2012
Mercy
The first three lines say it all.
The rest - eloquent and clever as it is - is surplus, as far as your commentary is concerned.
You drive the message home so well in the first stanza.
Good stuff and so true.
Roger

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading

butters on 16-12-2012
Mercy
for me, the most powerful part of this write lies in your end lines:



For I am mankind, heaven is my arrogance

and I am the king of life

Ruler of all this silence



And now it is too late

for silence has found me.



however, I don't feel you need both sets of lines but should go with the top or amend to combine the both into something maybe like:





For I am mankind, heaven is my arrogance

and I am the king of life;

but now it's too late

for silence has found me.



as for the rest, you get your message across but I feel a little beaten over the head by it and don't despair so much about the nature of man - we are our own worst enemy, surely, but capable of such wonderful good. What other creatures attempt to look after other species or their environment as some people do? It's not all bad, that's all I'm saying - there's always hope.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading. My own take on this is not to preach, but I felt that if someone like David Attenborough could have such reservations about humanity, then we need to look again. Capatilism is dominating life and as such our survival is linked. A sobering thought is about electricity. if we were cut off for more than a week the western world would begin to starve. All creatures are food
and my survival come's before all else. Now thats a sobering thought, for I am not a religious person.

Texasgreg on 20-12-2012
Mercy
Aye, Steven!

Mutated frogs, disappearing species, climatic shifts that confuse migration and mating, are all the work of God's "favorite". People are stupid considering their potential.

Good Job!

Greg 🙂

Photobucket.

Author's Reply:


The Rose (posted on: 03-12-12)
The Trials of Love

This immortal rose that lovers seek will be glimpsed by all in youthful peak for her presence will be on every corner. And those who confuse that heady perfume with a lust for love, will only find winter in an unknown heart for beauty was always a fragile thing. We who have seen this gift from above will always get burned by its light. The poet and the painter have perfumed our existence with love's testimony to this. The pain and tears fall on empty shield for love will break your heart but when we reach out to hold the rose picked from these fields of hope, a moment in life unfurls, love will kiss your soul and the world belongs to you. Fleeting are the petals of time the rose is a symbol to love. For others it is the pain of life, to find and lose this immortal gift leaves a desert where life cannot breathe. The laughter replaced by silence the smile that is kept in darkness, the kiss exiled to the memory. Love is lost in the deepest pit of your despair, the thorns will bleed your soul red but she can never die. Love will always leave a spark that will lead you to redemption and only death can take this from you. The rose was never yours to pick but its creation yours to admire for your being was made for this. And as our mortal bodies die the spirit will seek the rose once more for in death its petals fall too blessing the ground of your resting place. The rose was always yours and its beauty a source of life the chains of doubt will always break in its presence. The rose is pure as is your faith in mankind. It can show you a deeper meaning for you are the petals of life she is the perfume of your existence and it is you that made her life complete.
Archived comments for The Rose
peg on 03-12-2012
The Rose
Like the rose, this needs pruning, but there are some really memorable lines
'The rose was never yours to pick
but its creation yours to admire
for your being was made for this.' Simply lovely, thanks...maggie

Author's Reply:

Mikeverdi on 03-12-2012
The Rose
There really are some great lines in here... but I agree with the pruning critique, It would make a good poem GREAT.
In friendship. Mike

Author's Reply:

ValDohren on 04-12-2012
The Rose
Absolutely beautiful Cooky, so full of meaning - not being qualified to comment on pruning, I just love it as it is.

Author's Reply:

amman on 05-12-2012
The Rose
Beautifully and hauntingly expressed Cooky. A tad long but you've displayed your romantic, poetic voice with this one. Like it a lot.
Cheers.

Author's Reply:

Andrea on 06-12-2012
The Rose
Very nice, Cooky.

Author's Reply:

Nomenklatura on 13-12-2012
The Rose
You might think about getting rid of the rhyme in the first couplet. I kept reading expecting to see other rhymes at intervals.Internal rhymes work well in this kind of poem, but a rogue end-rhyme couplet can be a little disconcerting for some readers.

That aside, most enjoyable. Good poem.

Author's Reply:


A soldier's Heart (posted on: 26-11-12)
Another First world War poem exploring the thoughts of a soldier writing a letter home.

Oh sail this ship on holy water let storms be gone today For the voice of life seeks a tender heart away from these fields of despair. A soldier needs God to recognise me. This letter of life, this beacon of hope pray land on mother's doorstep and give my family the hug that I cannot bring. For this brings peace to me. The hands of the children reach out to father's gone I pray that they will remember me. For time has made a stranger in my baby's memory. I fear on my return they will not know me. And wife you will not see the handsome man of marriage for war has made me old. This withered face will tell no stories so pray do not ask me. My youth has been lost in general's words and one more push and my mind has accepted this slaughter, the man that closed the door of home cannot return. Life will never be the same for me. My words belong to the soldier not to my lovers tears, for we compete with the dead. Epitaphs are our confetti littering every street, these once happy bodies lay in no man's land and they're pain are companions to me? Their faces call out ''Come join the ranks'' And we who know our fate scribble with trembling hand. Will this bombardment never cease? for fear is all over me. Concealed behind my pencilled words except from all who share death with me, lies a truth lost in the darkest night the darkness that possesses this life. For war is a father to me. I am the guardian of this decomposing life, only my corpse can give you the truth. So this letter will stay with me. I will send to you, my beloved wife thoughts that will protect your life. I cannot write fancy words, I am fine and I miss you. Hope you and the kids are well it's not so bad here and with gods will this war will return the man, that is me. Love Jack. P S Your love will always be with me should I die please remember me. Let me sleep in English soil for England is my home though England will be the death of me
Archived comments for A soldier's Heart
stormwolf on 26-11-2012
A soldiers Heart
Super writing Cooky. I feel that it's a bit on the long side and would benefit from being pruned for more effect. Many of the thoughts and images could be condensed.
For time has made a stranger
in my babie's memory. (baby's)

few wee errors here and there with punctuation.
Nobody does WW1 better than you. I swear you must have been there in a previous life.

Alison x

Author's Reply:
yes I agree I rushed it a bit. Thank you for reading

peg on 26-11-2012
A soldiers Heart
It may be a little long, but it flowed with feelings. I have heard so many stories and watched many a film about how war changes everything. You portray it well here.

And this brought a tear

Let me sleep in English soil
for England is my home
though England will be the death of me

Maggie


Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work.

butters on 27-11-2012
A soldiers Heart
hello, cooky 🙂

you have some really good lines in this, as well as some that you could afford to drop as (imo only) they don't add to what has already been said by you in a better way. There were a few places where I felt I was reading something more generic than personal to the narrator - something films and books and other poets have already used so bordering on the cliché - but those stronger lines definitely speak out to me.

bits I liked best for their certainty/novelty of phrasing:

the voice of life seeks a tender heart
away from these fields of despair

youth has been lost
in general’s words and one more push
and my mind has accepted this slaughter,
the man that closed the door of home
cannot return.

My words belong to the soldier
for we compete with the dead.
Epitaphs are our confetti

war is a father to me.

I am the guardian
of this decomposing life


there's a lot here to like, but feel paring it back and bringing the rest of it up to the same quality as the lines quoted above would make this a stronger beacon in the night of the soul.

Author's Reply:
I agree I did rush it in places. I will take your comments on board. Most of my work usually needs some kind of editing. Thank you for your input.

Texasgreg on 28-11-2012
A soldiers Heart
Aye, my friend! I served just after 'Nam, so didn't get "called upon", though there were some close calls and ended up standing down. Had many battle tested friends and can tell you from my experience that it changes the very soul into a tormented and sometimes twisted essence of former self.

Good job!

Greg 🙂

Photobucket.

Author's Reply:

Bozzz on 29-11-2012
A soldiers Heart
This is so full of good lines, it hit me very hard. I fought in WW2, but it was not the same.... Bozzz

Author's Reply:


The Wind Will Never Forget (posted on: 12-11-12)
In Memory of World War One

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 more dear 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.
Archived comments for The Wind Will Never Forget
peg on 12-11-2012
The Wind Will Never Forget
A fine tribute to the fallen, thank you...Maggie

Author's Reply:

ValDohren on 12-11-2012
The Wind Will Never Forget
Very poignant write Cooky, and a wonderful tribute, especially at this time of year. Good on you.

Val

Author's Reply:

Andrea on 13-11-2012
The Wind Will Never Forget
Good tribute. Think I've said it before, but Ypres has a very strange and dark atmosphere.

(Think this: 'yet more dearer to our souls than family' should either be 'more dear' or just 'dearer')

Author's Reply:

Ionicus on 14-11-2012
The Wind Will Never Forget
A topical write about a war that caused so many young lives to be lost. We can only weep at the thought and ponder on the futility of conflicts.
Good, sensitive poem, cooky.

Author's Reply:

stormwolf on 14-11-2012
The Wind Will Never Forget
Nobody 'does' WW1 better than you Cooky!

I swear you must have been there.

Alison x

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Nomenklatura on 02-12-2012
The Wind Will Never Forget
Yes, moving and well put together. One thing though, you have a rogue rhyme in stanza 2: it's probably best to avoid allowing one to sneak in if the rest of your poem is non-rhyming.

Well done!

Author's Reply:


Apocalypse for Sale (posted on: 05-11-12)
Paranoid poetry. A bleak prediction of the future and the notion of an invisible hand setting the agenda for our destiny. Enjoy?

A Golden Dawn is rising the camera's click the few, the Greeks are out of options. Immigration a convenient excuse. Check your neighbour's papers? Jews have seen this before, African skin is burning and kristallnacht knocks at victim's door. Iran now plays with powerful dreams, the prayers of ayatollah has a nuclear regime. Syria drinks from wells of blood As gunships harvest on freedom's scream. Israel is in therapy, the Wailing Wall whispers ''Cut off the head of the vipers'' before your paradise is lost. And all the while the Gaza strip burns, for a Palestinian memory, of Arabs who loved this land. And far away the world rages on New York is battered. Nature is sending her message, the dollar is not mightier than her though the rich would disagree and the poor of New Orleans cry remember me? The flight of destiny turns on China shore pouring progress over peasant's land. The poison that kills her rivers of life will return in prophecy of ying and yang. Smog and contamination rolls in with profit and a billion mouths will ask for more. Over the border the mafia rule a Russia of convenient communism though everything is for sale Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy or perhaps a steel works or two. And what of mighty England The nation grows old Banking magicians have finished her off Now you see the cash and now you don't So there's nothing for you and a bonus for me. The invisible hand will save this world Pyramid selling of capitalism the plan. Sell more tickets to tomorrow's Armageddon, more customers mean more wealth, keep us breeding and the markets are up. And should their scheme collapse, there is always another war. Idle hands can carry guns, the dead will nourish these fields and a computer will speculate the price of life for life is a commodity, which they have planned. Foolish words of a dying race. Easter Island the message now planted in this western greed. Our churches empty for aliens to ponder Our bones to look over empty seas. While the remnants of our gods look down at the shadows of the dead Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and world War 3 Can you guess what comes next? Let's roll the dice once more, A double six and the other six is you.
Archived comments for Apocalypse for Sale
roger303 on 05-11-2012
Apocalypse for Sale
Yes Cooky, we're all screwed - and deservedly so.
Very good.

Author's Reply:

Andrea on 05-11-2012
Apocalypse for Sale
Not sure about paranoid, but certainly depressing and pretty accurate too. We can probably all kiss our arses goodbye...

Excellent stuff.

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Mikeverdi on 05-11-2012
Apocalypse for Sale
A great write about life as we know it! Mike

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peg on 05-11-2012
Apocalypse for Sale
Wow...a rant of the first order ! Excellent portrayal of our sorry world.Now I'll tip toe off and try to smell the roses :))...Maggie

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ValDohren on 05-11-2012
Apocalypse for Sale
Well that's it Cooky - we're all doomed !! Think I'll join Maggie with the roses. Great stuff.

Val

Author's Reply:

stormwolf on 05-11-2012
Apocalypse for Sale
OMG bleak but true! We are singing from the same hymnbook. The world is going to hell in a handbasket. Of course, we are maybe just sloughing off the waste of the ages of dark control.
I am trusting God myself. ;-/

Alison x

Author's Reply:

Ionicus on 06-11-2012
Apocalypse for Sale
A doomsday scenario but it has been said that it's not over until the fat lady sings. So let's hope that this overweight creature stays away as long as possible. I am not as pessimist as you, stormwolf and Private Fraser (of Dad's Army fame).
A good rant nevertheless.

Author's Reply:

Texasgreg on 24-11-2012
Apocalypse for Sale
Stop the world and let me off...

Aye! I'd rather just think about my next meal, but as you, I cannot.

Greg 🙂

Author's Reply:


Beings of Love (posted on: 29-10-12)
A bit of love on this cold night.

In life we will never meet the forest only an occasional tree. We will never meet the wonders beneath the sea though some will observe the waves above. This world is far too big for one life time and our imagination is a poor substitute, for things that we can never see. We are born into a goldfish bowl imprisoned by time, and we share our bowl with mortals who by chance or design enrich the tapestry of this life that we lead. Our hearts will reach out for a mate a husband, a wife, a lover in the hope that they will see the same stars in a sky that looks down on mortal you That special being that defines the inner you, whose spirit flies beyond this glass of existence, for we have nothing to hide. And though others see despair that this fragile glass can bring. Remember, the glass will always age and the winds of fortune will always take their toll. But this spark that we call life will always endure in a world with stars above, for they have witnessed the meaning of love before. And in the glow of the opulent night we will wish our dreams true before the sandman washes them away. And morning will bring your lips to mine for life was given this way And as a man and as a women we will gather the dreams of you and me for this is the oxygen of life, and love is the fire, the reason to live that burns an immortal flame within the soul. And should our goldfish bowl fall off this table of life, our love will be set free. And the earth will grow small In the wake of this love for you and me Death will not dim that which we shared For love will join the opulent night Destined to shine forever in this uncorruptable sky. For eternity can see the forest and time can meet the sea, while we shared a love that created this world for the world was always you and I, was always meant to dwell among the stars, in a world of love, that you created for me.
Archived comments for Beings of Love
Andrea on 30-10-2012
Beings of Love
The world is far too big for one lifetime - never a truer word 🙂

A philosophical piece, Cooky, much enjoyed.

Author's Reply:

ValDohren on 30-10-2012
Beings of Love
A lovely poem, very philosophical.

Author's Reply:

butters on 31-10-2012
Beings of Love
"and in the glow of opulent night "

now there's a title and a half!

i very much liked what you are saying in this piece, cooky, though feel you could condense it for better impact. it has a tender quality that shines. it's only my opinion but cutting those extra lines, extra words, would make this shine all the brighter.

Author's Reply:


Jack's War (posted on: 22-10-12)
A write which is a bit long for this site. It is a story about the First World War. The main character Jack I would have loved to write with a broad Yorkshire accent, but I think most people would not have understood him.

Introduction The events which take place in this story are historically true. The main characters are fiction. The name of the main character is irrelevant as it could be the story of any soldier. The write is about the process which led our young men into war. The First World War was unique as we had the formation of Pals brigades. The main character is cast as part of the Sheffield Pals. For easy reading I have refrained from using broad Yorkshire on the voice of Jack. . My name is Jack and I am eighteen years old. The year is 1915 and the war they said would be over by Christmas is still raging on. Most of my mates have already volunteered, but not me I am content to work in the factory doing my bit. . The hour is 5am and breakfast is served by my mother. Bread and dripping and a pot of tea enjoyed by three generations of men sat around the table. The talk is as always of the war and my defiant granddad never failing to remind us of his opinions . ''Ah if we were young again we would have kicked the Bosches' arse by now''. In his words there was an old man's bravado, a distortion of reality for his opinions were locked in another era and another war, but in respect who am I to disagree. . Granddads eyes were glinted with memories of yesterday when he was abroad fighting the Boars. To hear him speak you would think he had won the war by himself. His descriptions of men in uniform on gallant horses charging with sword in hand before the guns caused his voice to quiver with pride. ''Ah lad. There was no fear amongst our lot, only glory in the face of death for that is what an Englishmen is born to do''. One could see his withered veins in his neck pumping bringing a flush back to his cheeks, in his mind he was young again, his life defined by the experience of war. His eyes moved on to my father for this old warrior was not done yet. . His voice had a different tone. Sadness mixed with shame for father had smashed his left leg some years before when he had failed to catch a hot bar from the rolling mill. It had twisted and pierced his leg. in hindsight he was a lucky bleeder for conscription had just been passed and he would be excused duty. . As like every other morning the conversation then turned on me. ''Ah there's been talk about ya on the street, still home with his mother they say''.''Rumours are saying words I can't repeat, though if I hear who it is I'll clog em''. Jack replied ''Who is, who are they''. ''Neh lad don't fret thee sen. I am just saying. all thee mates have gone and you're left here with us old men. Na that's no life for a young lad like thee sen is it?''. ''Think of the adventure tha missing, the chance for glory, I tell thee lad when I was in army it showed me a thing or too''.'' I got to travel, see a bit o world and we pals had a reight time in the sun, eh I could tell thee some stories''. . His poking at me with his words continued. ''What you got young un? Twelve hours shift at mill covered in muck for seven shillings and a tanner, its dark in the morning and dark when tha comes home.Thas never been further than that street corner, ah I wish I were thee I'd be off like a shot''. I left the table grateful to be going to work for his nagging was starting to get to me and I didn't want to fall out with Granddad. . That night I slept uneasy. My mind caught between the rumours on the street and the sense of disappointment in my granddad. I had done nothing wrong I was a hard worker doing my bit for the war effort yet I felt small, insignificant, was I really wasting my life at home? Perhaps Granddad was right there could be adventure to be had, I hear the French girls are pretty and I bet they can't resist a soldier in uniform, besides there can't be long left of this war and you never know I might get an easy billet. . The logic of my thoughts were shallow and fraught with delusion, deep down I knew this to be true, still it was more important that I could hold my head up high. Uneasy sleep led to uneasy decisions and next morning I missed my shift and went to the recruiting office. . The morning was grey, wet and cold, perfect conditions for the shroud which would cover all my tomorrows. I didn't want to do this, but what was the alternative, be a pariah in society. Outside the office there were two soldiers guarding the entrance. Their moustaches and knowing grins were judging me. I was just another fresh face on the army's wheel careering into the sinister darkness of the hallway where the shackles of country waited to enslave me. . I entered with a nervous reservation to be greeted by a face I knew, a face not of happiness but of terror. It was my teacher Mr. Postlethwaite whose name I could never get quite right. He was the most vindictive sod on this god forsaken earth. The man that beat the likes of me into a place where street urchins belonged, under his foot and into the factories. He was a pompous ass believing himself to be better than us working class, that smug git would go home every night with his pipe in hand, knowing that he was one of the chosen few and god was on his side. . He recognised me and came across the room; in that moment all the terrors that he had inflicted on me sent a cold shiver through my veins. ''Jack my boy glad to see you'' civility from postlethwaite, I was stunned into an eerie silence for a moment, though it seemed like an eternity. Memory had taught me to beware of his hand for not replying... I stuttered before composure came to save the day ''hello Sir''. ''Well done Jack come to join the show, we need stout young men like you to show Jerry a thing or two, sit down lad'', and there it was, the first time that this man had ever shown kindness to me and I was grateful. . A signature, a handshake and an awkward salute by me and I had accepted the Kings shilling, the doors of my freedom were now firmly locked and the military now held the key. I was to report to the local football ground the following week at 7am. Now to tell my family? . The walk home was not a happy one for I knew this act of patriotism was about to launch my soul into a frightening future of which I had no control. . That evening a meal of hash containing chopped potatoes, turnips and meat, I think it was horse meat? covered in lashings of Henderson's relish was mopped up with mother's baked bread. It ate like a feast of kings and though they did not know it yet, it would be a long time before we would break bread together again as a family. . Our house was luckier than most with Dad and me working, meat of any kind was a luxury which only a few households could afford. As an act of kindness Mother would often send a bowl of hash down to old Mar Heck. Poor sod was made a widower after her old fella fell off a crane at work some years ago. Mother served the tea and I banged my spoon on the table. Standing up I gave them the news ''I have joined up and I will be reporting to Bramall Lane football ground for training this Monday coming''. . A reverend silence was broke with hearty congratulations from Dad and Granddad and a barrel of home brew was brought to the table to celebrate. Mother just looked on silent; her eyes were watering, not in happiness but in fear for her child and she left the room. Dad chimed in ''No mind women son, she'll be reight, they don't understand, from now on you're a man and my son, I'm' proud o thee lad.'' And with that we spent the night drinking and listening to Granddads stories while my mother's tears went unheeded in the back room parlour. . The week raced ahead to Monday Morning and after some long goodbyes I shut the door and wandered off to my destiny. Luckily training camp was only a three penny tram ride away so I was not far from home and this made life a little better for me. After a few days training the reality of army discipline sunk in. It seems vindictive buggers are everywhere. In particular my Sergeant who shouted his never ending orders which made our Mr. Postlethwaite look like a mild mannered Parson, this was not going to be an easy billet. My days were filled with marching up and down the football pitch which churned the ground up very badly. Our boots were always covered in mud and I spent most of the time cleaning them. God help the man who turned out at dawn to march with filthy boots. The fear of the sergeant was enough for any sane person. Finally Orders came we were to move out to catch a boat to Egypt. There was great excitement in the camp at the prospect of leaving the English cold for a warmer climate and sand, it'll just be like Skegness I thought. . At Victoria Station by the Wicker in Sheffield I caught the train to join the Sheffield pals in the Hallam shire Regiment whose official title was the York and Lancaster Regiment, though the main battalions were made up of men from South Yorkshire hence the name Hallam. I was to be in the 94th Battalion. . The platform was crowded with cheering people and the train gradually filled up with lads who were smiling. Happiness was everywhere it was like we were going to the sea side for the day on a works outing .I had only been on a train once before, but that was to Aunt Maisies funeral, this was different.. The band was playing songs ''pack up your old kit bag and smile''. The weather was cold but we didn't mind, women were bringing hot tea and sandwiches of dripping the atmosphere was bloody marvellous. . Never before had I seen such a sight. girls openly kissing their boyfriends, well I never. Then the whistle and I leaned out of the window. I saw my mum waving her handkerchief and father with his chest out like an English bull dog. Above the shouting I heard Granddad ''look after thee sen lad'' These words were the first reminder to bring me back to reality, I was going to war? More importantly I was going to Egypt. Who would have thought that a lad who had never seen nowt but grime was going to Egypt, well I never? . In December 1915 I boarded the ship HMT Nestor at Devonport and set sail for Alexandria in Egypt to defend the Suez Canal. On board it was very cramped, but we made the best of things. I soon made friends playing cards. There were lads from Ackerman Street, darnall, and Attercliffe, along with some toffee nosed bleeders from Totley. One was an officer who I bet had never done a days work in his life, but in general our Sheffield crew were a happy bunch. . Christmas and New Years Eve were spent at sea and the Captain gave us rations of rum and whiskey to celebrate the festivities, later I found out that there was always whiskey to be had if you knew where to look... On deck we got the chance to sunbathe. The air was so clean I had never smelled the ocean, on one occasion a group of fish swam alongside us, somebody said they were dolphins. I thought to myself oh what a lovely war, the warmth of the sun and good companionship; this was really the good life. . The ship arrived in Alexandria on 1st January 1916. We were told that the Turkish army would invade the Suez Canal and that we were to defend it. It seemed the holiday was over and there was work to be done. Holding my gun I realised that there was someone out there who wanted me dead. I drew strength from the lads around me who seemed to show no fear; they took each day as it came. The expected Turkish invasion did not appear and we were left with time on our hands. Every day a small market would form nearby selling local goods. I think they call it a souk, but the smells were oh so strange, not like our markets at all. The smell of spices and rotten fish and the smelly locals I did not care for. . One night we were allowed into the town and some of us went to a local brothel. Now I don't condone such behaviour but the local drink can lead you astray. I found myself with a lady of the night whose hands were everywhere, though being a Yorkshire lad I kept hold of me money. Desire soon left me as the stink from her breath and arm pits put me off. Don't get me wrong it was very hot and I guess I probably smelled just as bad. Being a gentleman I paid her five bob though we did not do anything. She was quite mad at this and I found myself fleeing the premises. My mates thought I had asked for something a bit saucier than than the regular thing and they thought I was a hero. Who was I to contradict them? . Now my real pleasure was the grapes and oranges, I absolutely loved them. I had never had such fruits as this. At home apples and plums were all we got, but here there were such exotic things. My favourite was dried dates, they can give our halfpenny toffee a run for your money I can tell thee, and I loved em. . In March 1916 The Sheffield Pals and the rest of 31st Division left Port Said aboard HMT Briton bound for Marseilles in France, a journey which took 5 days The mood on ship changed from happy go lucky to quiet and in some cases irritable. The cold of March felt like December all over again we were no longer acclimatised to such conditions. We travelled by train to Pont Remy, a few miles south east of Abbeville. We could hear the guns in the distance and thought ourselves lucky that they were not aimed at us. . We marched through mud and rain to Bertrancourt arriving on 29 March 1916. Our feet were wet and stinking; at the side of the road there were four dead horses their putrefying corpses sending a sweet stench of death into our nostrils, poor buggers I thought. We were billeted here for two weeks. . After a couple of day's life returned to the mundane. There was very little to do until our captain organised a football match. Before long a local field had been turned into Bramall Lane, it was Sheffield versus Barnsley. The winners got whiskey and chocolate, the losers got nowt. This was probably the nearest I had been to war with the tackles and the kicking, mind you we gave as good as what we got. The time we spent together gave us a soldiers bond and we shook hands after the match. It was good to forget the war for a while. . Mid April our unit was called up to relieve the lads in the trenches overlooking the village of Serre at the northern most end of the Somme. Our unit was the 12th York's and Lancaster regiment. It was brigaded in the 94th Brigade of the 31st Division alongside the 1st and 2nd Barnsley Pals and the Accrington Pals from the East Lancashire Regiment . . The next two months were tedious. We could see the Germans through our viewers and they could see us. Each day was spent smoking and eating. The only work we had was the stock piling of ammunition and cleaning the shit out of the trenches. Mind you we were all too aware of the snipers. Given half a chance they would blow your bloody head off. Another problem we had were lice. I don't know where the buggers came from but couldn't they bite. Our only relief was a cigarette which got a few of them. That sound of cracking as the cig end burned them was a moment of intense pleasure for me. That's what happens when you have time on your hands, you also get the chance to think? The fun of Egypt seems a lifetime away now; still at least it's getting warmer here. . June 23rd 1916. We received orders that there was to be a gun barrage and that all men should be on standby for further orders. That night the sky lit up with shells bursting over the German trenches. One could hear the rush of the wind as they passed over. Hundreds of shells were sucking the air from the ground forming waves of heat that created clouds of foul smelling cordite. The sounds made were like angry gods beating the ground on the poor souls below. Surely no one could survive such a hell. They were the enemy, but to see what we were doing was murder, there was nowhere to run, and I thank god it was them and not us... I felt like a witness to what the end of the world would look like, this was a surreal moment as none of us could look away and all who were in my trench never spoke a word, for silence had found sanctuary in our thoughts, and death had found a willing audience. The light from the shells had set the stage, the shrapnel could see its victims, and the reaper raged on with his bloody work. Deep inside of me I thought die yer bastards, though in truth no German had ever done me harm, I guess that's the nature of war. . For several days the guns pounded the German lines, while we sat waiting, wondering when our orders would come. A sense of confidence started to enter my thoughts as surely there could be very few Germans left alive. Looking along the trench some lads were trying to sleep while others played cards. The Barnsley lads were sat drinking tea and rolling fags. Another lad was dictating a letter to his mate, I assume he couldn't write. Mind you being able to write makes no difference here, we're all in the same boat. . June 30th 6pm We were having our grub when the sergeant came. A quiet calm came over us and a sense of fear entered my heart. His face was sullen and his eyes looked straight at us.'' Well lads this is it. We go into no man's land at 7.20 am tomorrow morning. Don't worry the German lines will be mortared at the same time, so they won't have the time to fire at you, that's if there's still anyone left alive over there''. As he said this a smile came across his face, which was very reassuring, he continued ''with a bit of luck this will be a cushy number for us. The other companies will attack over the top at 7.30am. 10 minutes behind us. We are the first wave. Our objective is to pass through our wire and lay down in No man's land and wait for the end of the bombardment. We will then proceed at pace to finish off whatever we find. The second wave will be right behind us so we are not alone. Be warned a large mine to our right will explode at approx 7.20 am'' . ''So mind your ears as 40000lb mine will make a big bang which should send more of these buggers to kingdom come''. A spontaneous hooray came from the lads, for a moment it felt like being back in Sheffield watching an FA Cup tie. . ''Any questions''. A Barnsley lad spoke ''what's tha doo wi a prisoner''?'' Don't worry we are not expecting any, but to put your mind at ease some of the officers will be looking for them, that's how they get their medals''. ''Oh and if anyone is thinking about not going on the whistle, one of these officers will definitely shoot you, so for any cowards amongst you, always remember, better to be shot by a German than by one of your own and remember this, the letter home wouldn't look good either. I know you'll all do your best, good luck Lads'' . A sense of camaraderie infused us all; everything that the searg had said made us quietly confident that tomorrow, god willing we will be alright. . That night each soldier found his own quiet space. The only thing to do was to write what would be for some of us, our last will and testament. I found it hard to think as the guns were unrelenting on the German positions. Every now and then a shell would fall short and we would be sprayed with mud. My mind was struggling for the words, what could a lad like me write? I had no money to leave anyone, nor did I have a sweet heart. . My conscience was caught in two places, should I mention the up and coming battle or should I ignore it? To tell my family that I am going over the top would make Granddad happy, but I fear for my mother. Ah bugger it I'll write after it's all over, no news is good news in this war. If I don't make it I'm sure an officer will write to say I died bravely, even if I didn't, they are all bull shitters anyway. This paper will come in handy though, should I need to crap; now that seems more sensible. . It was a long night and sleep evaded me, mind you no one slept, there was one lad who played his harmonica.'' Keep the home fires burning'', I remember singing this with Mother, tonight of all nights the words captured the soldiers loneliness, and ''oh how I wish I was home, away from this madness''. . ''Keep the Home Fires burning, While your hearts are yearning, Though your lads are far away they dream of home. Theres a silver lining, through the dark clouds shining, Turn the dark cloud inside out, 'till the boys come home. . The dawn approaches and there is a chill in the air. Thank god for the tea boy I need a cup, for my body isn't half cold. Not long now, I can feel my heart pumping. Along the trench I can see the steam rising off soldier's breath and disappearing into a new day, let's hope it's a lucky day for all of us. . The itch of these fleas won't leave me alone; still it reminds me I'm still alive. My thoughts are interrupted by a distant voice which is coming nearer by the second repeating the dreaded words along the line''10 minutes lads, check your gear''. . I felt the baccy tin in my top pocket, good, then my gun, safety off, it felt warm in my hands, this was my guardian angel, I clasped it tight. Sweat started to appear on my brow and my lungs started to blow. Adrenaline made my face go red and a trembling sensation took over my body, god I was scared. . The wooden ladders were lent against the trench walls ready to launch us out of the safety of the trench and into no man's land. An officer looked at his watch, this was it, the whistle and the scramble out of the trenches began. . I was second on the ladder, when the lad in front slipped; he fell back into the trench, at first this took my mind off the situation as I thought what a time to slip. Reality struck when with my next pull up the ladder my grip slipped slightly, my hands were covered in blood, the poor bleeder had been shot. Instinct took over for I could not dwell on such things. . Quickly I found myself in no man's land; the thick smoke from the mortars covered the land. Moving forward was difficult as there were shell holes everywhere. The smoke gave me a sense of security as I could only see a couple of guys either side of me. In front was an impenetrable fog, hiding whatever was in it. Then there was a mighty bang which made me temporarily deaf, a heated storm wind raced across the battle field like the draft from the wings of some demonic dragon. For a second I got a glimpse of the barbed wire ahead. It was then I realised I was alone; the men either side of me had disappeared. Suddenly everything went into slow motion. The soil in front of me seemed to be full of jumping jacks, little pieces of soil jumping into the air, you silly bugger they're bleeding bullets hitting the ground. Instinct took over once again and I fell to the ground, my lungs were gasping for air and my body was shaking. I looked back to see who was there. In the distance I could see more of our lads, they looked like toy soldiers, they were falling in there droves as if all the grim reapers from hell had gathered in one place. Their flag of death painted in blood on the tunics of each soldier as they fell. As the survivors got closer they became even fewer, it was then I could see more clearly,, a sound like a weak thud was hammering on their uniforms, the remnants of this glorious wave of men had been reduced to a trickle, and they too fell, expectantly like the leaves in autumn, their life force had been scattered on the ground, the colour red a reminder of gallant men, now absorbed into the corruption of this battlefields soil. This was not war; this was the exterminator treating mankind like vermin. The lucky ones were dead before they hit the ground, others weren't so lucky. The shock of seeing such slaughter sent my wits into exhaustion. No man can prepare for this, my mind went into overdrive, a form of madness, where I was sat in the flicks watching it all unfurl, impervious to danger, for I was safe locked in my mind and protected by my thoughts. . In my madness, on this day I learned the meaning of pain, it is not the wound, it is not even the blood, nor is it the sight of men dying. It is the cry of human beings responding to the frailties of man. A primeval feeling which is imprinted on all humans to survive. The war had taken their right to life. It had destroyed their future. Each dead and dying soldier left with facing the prospect of a lonely grave and a world without their existence. . When we are born we cry to announce our life into this world, when we die we cry for our mother, who gave birth to us, for instinct is all that is left to the dying. And I ''jack'' am witness for to look away and move forward would be a feeble gesture, there is no hope on this battle ground. . The German field guns continued strafing anything that moved and the mortars were exploding all around. The smoke of war had now veiled the scene, I was huddled under its shadow in the foetal position, but my eyes still surveyed the surrounding area. I could only see bodies, some in bits, an arm lay just 10 yards away from me, I could see a ring on the hand, God where's the rest of the poor bugger. My attention turned to the fog I could see troops once again going forward. What madness is this, how can any general take responsibility for repeating this slaughter, is he on the Germans side. . Futility, futility all is futility, death is everywhere, this is not war, you murdering bastards, my god we are not fodder, man cannot be put in front of machine guns, do they think the Germans will run out of bullets? Dam their blood ridden souls. My anger was interrupted by a bright light which blinded me of this awful sight, and then there was silence? . I must have been unconscious for when I awoke it was night; the field was quiet, was I dead? I was cold my hands were covered in dry blood. Instinct told me to crawl back to the trenches. My hands grabbed into the soil to pull myself forward, but my legs would not obey. One look and I could see my left leg partly severed above the knee. Shredded skin was the only thing that kept it still part of my bloody body. A pool of blood had congealed under the leg and I was adding to its worth by the minute. Strangely I felt no pain; this was not a good sign. . In my being I knew the grim reaper was looking to tap me on the shoulder. My time on this earth was almost over. One good thing about death is that he doesn't lie; I too will soon be joining the dead that surrounded me. Fear had now left me, for there was no point in its existence. A calm peaceful feeling came over my body, the burden of everyday living had gone and, the quarrels of men were no longer my concern. . I looked up to the sky and for the first time in many days I could see the stars. My mind fought to rise above the cold which was engulfing my spirit by the second. The question of an afterlife flared through my brain, for I was soon to get my answer? Delirium threw my last thoughts into the sky above me . When all is lost one can appreciate the beauty of the stars. Some divine hand must be involved in this. To create such beauty in a cloudless sky. This moon that shines reflecting a hidden sun to light the path of souls and sinners, even in their darkest hour. I wonder if God will have time for me. That's if he exists . We all have to die, I suppose, you don't hear complaints from the bee when the frost comes, you don't hear complaints from any of god's creatures, with the exception of man, always trying to dominate his surroundings... Kill, kill, and kill again, that's us crazy bastards for things that we can never possess. All property is theft, therefore all beauty is theft. Perhaps this is Gods judgement on mankind, for we destroy what we cannot own. It is fitting that in the end we destroy each other and leave nature alone. . Ah well, Sorry mother, I did my best, be strong, don't cry. Crying won't bring me back, promise you'll remember your jack, you're good little boy. Goodbye mam. And with those last words another soldier of the Great War fades into oblivion never to think of such things anymore. . Author's comments The First World War defines the word Futility. For the soldiers who took part it was rarely a mobile war. This meant that each side could throw whatever it took to kill the opposing force. The Generals cared not for human life as territorial gain was their ambition. The voice of the common soldier was only heard in the burial of the Unknown Soldier. He was every mother's son, every soldier's friend, and everybody's hero. The fact that we sanitise war to be noble by calling the fallen, all heroes, is a damnation of the lies which perpetuate war. The dead are soon forgotten because as human beings the statistics of war become nothing but mere figures held within our brain. 10 million dead and 20 million wounded in four years was the cost of World War 1 The fact that each dead soldier represents a story that cannot be told is the greatest loss that the human race will ever suffer. We often talk about the loss of the rain forests and the secrets contained within which inevitably will be lost forever. Indeed there is no greater passion from the so called educated society. They emphasise that the diversity of the rain forest could cure disease and stem climate change. Yet we are blind to what losses lay in the corpse strewn across every nation's conscience. The forest of Man should not be cut down without a voice. , for in this silence lies the end of life and the murder of God. Footnote to this write Statistics In the battle of the Somme The British had suffered 19,240 dead, 35,493 wounded, 2,152 missing and 585 prisoners for a total loss of 57,470.[44] This meant that in one day of fighting, 20% of the entire British fighting force had been killed, in addition to the complete loss of the Newfoundland Regiment as a fighting unit. Haig and Rawlinson did not know the enormity of the casualties and injuries from the battle and actually considered resuming the offensive as soon as possible.[45] In fact, Haig, in his diary the next day, wrote that "...the total casualties are estimated at over 40,000 to date. This cannot be considered severe in view of the numbers engaged, and the length of front attacked."[46] . Insanity of Leaders comments taken after the battle . Middlebrook claims that 1 July was a British success, for the Germans immediately started closing down their attack at Verdun. The British assault had been on such a scale that success, in this limited sense, had been inevitable. The terrible losses made it a success hardly worth having.
Archived comments for Jack's War
Mikeverdi on 23-10-2012
Jacks War
Thanks for posting this, I enjoyed reading it. The period in time it deals with is a familiar story to me, having read many different accounts of this attack. It was good that you brought us from England, though Egypt and then France as this made the difference. If I had one problem (and this is nit picking really) I would wonder at a lad from Sheffield with limited education using some of the words and thought patterns that are in the story, that said it did not detract from a good account that I was pleased to read. Mike

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading. I agree the language got a bit middle class. I originally wanted to write him with a Broad Yorkshire accent which would have complimented the character for the better. However most people outside of Yorkshire would have thought he was speaking a foreign language. I much appreciate you taking the time to read such a long story.


Oh what a Lovely War (posted on: 08-10-12)
The First World War. Everyone cheered as they went off to war. Perhaps the lesson learned from this is, we don't anymore.

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 will wash my soul The marbles of play are gone, No chance for love to warm my nights. Only frost and the company of rats gnawing on the bed of my insanity No youth will smile with me tonight, no innocence can protect me here. The voice of death whispers my darkest hour for this heart will soon be cold and you who sleep in beds tonight will never know the truth The forces of ambition have gathered to see, this place where youth will die. Charlie Chaplin give us one last laugh for the guns are straining on their leashes. The generals have given their salute and murder is about to bleed on countries lips for this is a glorious war. And in motherland they shall sing my praise, hero is what I am, But I still have a voice for one more night though your ears will be deaf to me Liars you are to the last, So dam the lot of you. For pain and fear is all I know, the bragging rights will spill your beer for Life was never mine to enjoy. The lamb and beast all share my fate though they will die in peace. For their bodies serve a natures law While my carcass will rot in Flanders land Out of sight of country for another will take my place. I am an inmate of war my letters the only sign of freedom and my photograph a reminder to those, who should have protected me? A youth of another's man war. Me who gave the invisible a lucrative life? Who served an empty command watched over by mother's tears. My absolution will forgive their sins. You see I am a peaceful lad all I possess are the marbles of childhood and the mercy that god gave me. I am every mother's boy And every mother is proud of me. But in death I will not enter Heaven's gate For I will wait for them. Wait for the hand that brought me here for I need to know the reason why? Was this Flanders field worth the sacrifice of me? And as this multitude of youth marches into the arms of angels pity, will god be blind to their confession? For we remember that Charlie Chaplin made us laugh We remember our mother's tears But most of all we will remember the buggers Who brought us here, to die in Flanders land?
Archived comments for Oh what a Lovely War
Mikeverdi on 08-10-2012
Oh what a Lovely War
A strong and powerful piece. Mike

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading.

Bozzz on 09-10-2012
Oh what a Lovely War
I find this poem profound and sharp and with excellent choice of words. Erratic rhythm - as in war! Much liked. David

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading. The poem is not one of my best but it is the template for a short story I am writing. That is why it is a little erratic and hopefully the short story will be better.


A wishing Well Love (posted on: 24-09-12)
memories of a distant Summer

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 balmy 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, hidden under the blanket of night watched by a lover's moon. Stared at the stars with our wishing well, we dreamed of love and silly things. Two hearts, inhibition to the wind, our souls locked in nature's song. But young love is a precious thing and winters do blow cold. Love is like an artist's painting, appreciated only after the brush has died. She said goodbye. A last glance, a precocious smile, and the last moon dance was over. So here I sit with my wishing well full of broken dreams. Yet still, I see embers of a girl who shared love under the willow? She gave hope to my dreams touched my heart, and taught me well about the wishing well. No tears now there are dreams to make, for that wish has flown away. She will find another love, to breathe her wishes Into another's precious heart. This temptress is the locksmith of dreams, her wishing well the wine of life and I will remember her. Her gift to me was the wishing well, the magic of love and silly things. The dreams of love are mine to share, for I seek my real love. Where ever she may be.
Archived comments for A wishing Well Love
stormwolf on 24-09-2012
A wishing Well Love
Hi Cooky
A lovely romantic poem. Lovely imagery and tinged with sadness. Do you mean 'balmy' night, instead of barmy? 😉
I feel there is quite a lot of repetition that could be done away with to make it shorter and more concise.
Wishing well and dreams mentioned too many times IMHO but it ends on a hopeful note and was a pleasure to read.

Alison x


Author's Reply:

ValDohren on 24-09-2012
A wishing Well Love
I agree with Alison's remark over repetition, otherwise a very sweet and romantic piece of writing.

Val

Author's Reply:

Texasgreg on 25-09-2012
A wishing Well Love
Aye! Noticed the above, but was so caught up in the magical moment that broke your heart that it was only afterthought to me.

Super!
Photobucket.
Greg 🙂


Author's Reply:

Andrea on 26-09-2012
A wishing Well Love
Yes, lovely imagery and somewhat sad. Agree with Alison as well, but nicely done nevertheless.

Author's Reply:


An Epic woman (posted on: 07-09-12)
A bit of fun which combines myth with real characters. The time lines are all wrong, but I don't care. To find an epic woman sometimes you have to bend time and reality and sometimes writing nonsense is part of the creative process.

Woman tells me your thoughts. Shall I be the fool and you the teacher? Am I your Adonis or do you see a toad. Chivalry demands that I am your knight without reward, for my kin is that of Beowulf and Lancelot, dragon slayers, so command me. . I am woman I need no gesture, for wisdom lies in raindrops hung out to dry on silken cobwebs and in the beggar who is happy while his king sleeps in fear. For my kin blessed me with a rare beauty, my reflection rivals that of the queen Of Sheba. My thoughts are entwined with the warrior queen Boadicea, And my tenderness lies in queen Amyitis and her hanging gardens of Babylon. My passion is that of Cleopatra for Mark Anthony, and my faith equals that of Mary. . So beware young Jason, speak from the heart, Or you will summon queen Kriemhides in me, for she killed Attila the Hun for less. This Woman will send you to phineas as a slave for the harpies, if you lie. . My lady, I have slain the sirens with Lyre music for my love for you was greater. Alexander wept when there were no more worlds to conquer Achilles killed Hector for Helen and King Leonidas defeated the Persian Empire. One glance from you and their deeds fade into oblivion, Medea the Sorcerer, my mother, gave birth to me for this moment. Women take my hand and show me your love. . Jason of Argo, look into my eyes for I see the soul of a man. Your shield is heavy to stop you running away. Your hero Achilles was slain by a true suitor Paris, his love for Helen was true. You deceive all women. Your Friend the Goddess Hera Was killed by you, it is my enslavement you seek, not love. . I send you to the eighth circle for eternity to be whipped by devils, for the Harpies deserve better. And remember these words, the wisdom of King Arthur. When a woman you seek, be honest at all times no matter what the cost. Defend her faith, her home, and her country with your life. For these are the thoughts of all women.
Archived comments for An Epic woman
stormwolf on 07-09-2012
An Epic woman
Great title and an epic poem right enough.
I love Greek and Roman mythology so enjoyed all the characters. Yes, beware of women, we are a funnty lot!

Alison x

Author's Reply:
Thank you for supporting my work. I did not comment on yours as I could not improve on what had been said, though I did nominate it.

amman on 08-09-2012
An Epic woman
Hi Cooky. A nice ramble thru' mythology in this well constructed piece. Really impressed with the 2nd verse, espec. 'raindrops hung out to dry on silken cobwebs'.
Cheers.


Author's Reply:

Texasgreg on 08-09-2012
An Epic woman
And remember these words,
the wisdom of King Arthur.
When a woman you seek, be honest at all times
no matter what the cost.

Aye! Those are the words to remember at all times. The cost of repentance is much higher than that of working out an unsavory truth.
Photobucket.
Greg 🙂

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my poem.

Corin on 09-09-2012
An Epic woman
One point - Achilles did not kill Hector for Helen - he killed him for killing Patroculus in battle when Patroculas had gone into battle wearing the armour of Achilles.

All else brilliant - I checked and you avoided the temptation to punish Jason with more than he deserved (the Ninth Circle) but sent him to the correct circle of Dante's Hell:-)

David

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work. Nearly got it right.

ValDohren on 11-10-2012
An Epic woman
Certainly an epic write - I'm not so well versed on mythology, but I commend you for your obvious knowlesge. Great write Cooky.

Val x

Author's Reply:


Another Zulu Dawn (posted on: 03-09-12)
The Battle of Orgreave Pit was a turning point for the working man. He lost and so did the Steel workers. Recession quickly followed while certain individuals grew very rich. Never in the history of Britain has the State used such brutal forces against its own people. I was there and a vivid memory was police in coaches displaying their wage packets through the windows. I wrote this last year.

(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 tainted 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 brew. Orgreave, now a place of forgotten ghosts, this corpse of pit in rusting grief. The tears of men fall hard their graft consigned to the dole, never to work no more. Chasing jobs with no pride Lost in a world of mind numbing existence, for miners are born not made. This black Gold, this Power of England Coal the driver of this great economic power saved the Nation through two World wars. Now a commodity for a hoorah Henry For England belongs to them These bowler hats of oppression Marching through stock Markets Gamblers to the last. But power is fleeting, a house of cards For they too have felt the wind of recession So beware the hurricane, or you too might become extinct And what Caesar will save you.
Archived comments for Another Zulu Dawn
Texasgreg on 03-09-2012
Another Zulu Dawn
Aye Steven, so sorry that you had to witness such. I'm proud that you put it to pen though. The thing is most people care not about the struggle of another as long as their needs are met and the only way to get your point across is to stick it under their nose.

Thank-you!
Photobucket.
Greg 🙂

Author's Reply:

stormwolf on 03-09-2012
Another Zulu Dawn
strong, hard hitting and true. There are so many that detest what Maggie did and the bitterness remains even yet.
I detest the way things are going again. Those chinless wonders will never know what it's like to have no money........or will they?
It's not over till the fat lady sings.
Alsion x

ps hope you are on the mend from your flu.

Author's Reply:

roger303 on 03-09-2012
Another Zulu Dawn
Hard-hitting - passionate - eloquent. Enjoyed it.

Author's Reply:

Ionicus on 03-09-2012
Another Zulu Dawn
Bitter memories and recriminations for a lost world described with intense passion.

Author's Reply:

Nomenklatura on 03-09-2012
Another Zulu Dawn
Evocative and passionate.

I wonder what would have happened had the miners won? Scargill was a charlatan and a crook, unfortunately. Not a mine left in the North East where my family live. Very sad to see things like the Rhondda Valley Mine Experience: theme park Britain. Few natural resources, little manufacturing. Financial Services? Oh dear!

Thatcher destroyed mining and manufacturing? It's a point of view with some merit... but. As I say, what would have happened if the miners had won? The mines would still have closed, fossil fuel is not so popular nowadays, eh?

Good poem.
Ewan

Author's Reply:

Andrea on 03-09-2012
Another Zulu Dawn
I've seen many, many docu's and reports of this.

Great, passionate stuff as always, Cooky.

Author's Reply:

ChairmanWow on 04-09-2012
Another Zulu Dawn
"What Caesar will save you?" Good question, apparently we're all out of Caesars. WE are people, living a culture, not economic units. Excellent.

Ralph

Author's Reply:

barenib on 05-09-2012
Another Zulu Dawn
Like Andrea, I too have seen documentaries and films about this, but sadly I don't think many people realise what happened. They even infiltrated the union to find out who the organisers were. I'm pleased you have written this powerful and suitably epic account, but I fear we may be returning to such times again before long. Excellent stuff, John.

Author's Reply:


Reflections of a Mortal Light (posted on: 31-08-12)
This write is about WW1. The battle of Messines Ridge in Belgium saw the biggest explosion ever created by man up to 1945. The significance of this probably gave birth to later atrocities such as Hiroshima. The battle took place in June 1917 but the unseen chambers containing the explosives were started in 1916 creating 19 explosions which could be heard in London

Peaceful are the water lilies in flower The ripples of contentment belong to the fish and quiet is the grass that has healed this scene. Lone tree crater is a ghost from the past and it is here where God and Devil, did put their differences aside. To shed tears for man's insanity. The year is 1917 and life and death is measured in corpses left behind on land now forgotten. This crater born one of 19, its first cry ordained in 445 tons of explosives. A mythical being stamping each footstep across the Messines Ridge, silencing life in its wake. A roar of death that can be seen by all, troops are but wild animals caught in the headlight of its gaze, helpless and forsaken with nowhere to run. 10,000 Germans with no grave, their bodies vaporised. Delivered by blue clay tunnel Under the lines by British miners brave. Though German pride would disagree. Up above the mortars creep a relentless path and down the ridge the British are advancing. But they are mortal men and their bodies are but eggs thrown against steel. Death is all around this day. But in this war death is every day, survival feeds on primal being. Kill and kill again, he who falls short will die. Reward lies in darkened sky under the stars and a billet lined with mud But death will not let the soldiers rest and medals of tin will not protect. Be glad of cigarette to calm the nerves, be glad of letters from home, for these are the memories of life. And sanity dictates that all men are born to die, this death that is inevitable, allows these soldiers a few precious seconds to realise a truth. It is the Earth that owns the man. The will of man cannot steal this. And as the soldier falls their allegiance grows dark another lover's heart is broke Mother's womb will cry alone while children's hands hold on to father's gift for he cannot hug them anymore. Choice was never theirs. For choice is what masters give and freedom has evaporated from soldiers mind, While the lies of democracy fuels these bourgeoisie plans, for power is everything. Wars are made by so few a number. Fear the man, who can inspire a country to kill millions, and fear the man, who has found religion, for your bullets can only add to his glory. Messines Ridge twelve hours of bloody Glory and 50,000 dead This smell of decay is a reminder to the living Less they forget their duty to life. And what of the 10,000 Who left their bones on their last step of mortality? To wander this earth without a grave. The bones of the elephant will always be loved Can we say the same by them? History has left us these waves of white marble, proudly keeping the ranks of the dead in line. Their ghosts are ready to march again and in the rear the new recruits volunteer, for war will always be with us. Underneath every headstone there is a story. Their colour and culture has melted away. In death we reconcile our sins with mother earth, war becomes irrelevant and perhaps we are too. But for those who believe a life without memories has only just begun, their pain has floated away. The tears of the families will flow out to sea and the rain will wash these stones for the light will always win. The youth of 1914 braved the dark, obeyed the voice of country. Brief was their time on earth and silence was a glory that these men did not hear. In death calm now descends upon their memories. and we who tender their graves, shall keep their story alive. For we will remember them. Wir warden uns an sie erinnern.
Archived comments for Reflections of a Mortal Light
amman on 31-08-2012
Reflections of a Mortal Light

Well written commemoration of a terrible event in a terrible war.
I googled this after reading your poem and was horrified to learn of another example of mans inhumanity to man, whichever side you're on. You certainly know your WW stuff Cooky.
Regards.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work.

Andrea on 01-09-2012
Reflections of a Mortal Light
I've spent a lot of time in Belgium (it's only down the road, after all). Ypres has a very strange atmosphere, even after all this time. Oppressive, heavy and depressing. Extremely unpleasant. Belgium had a terrible time of it in both wars, the Ardennes is covered in reminders, tanks, monuments and statues.

A well-written and knowledgeable epic, Cooky.

Author's Reply:
Made up with flu at the moment. Thank you for reading my work

Texasgreg on 02-09-2012
Reflections of a Mortal Light
Aye! don't know how many of these you have to date, but may want to consider a collection for publishing one day if you're of the mind. I would certainly buy a signed copy. 😉

Photobucket.
Greg 🙂

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work. I have a lot of WW1 stories to write still. Under the weather at the moment.

stormwolf on 02-09-2012
Reflections of a Mortal Light
I second Greg! A really great idea.
Alison x

Author's Reply:
Thank you for readibg my work. Under the weather at the moment with Flu


A Northern Night Out (posted on: 17-08-12)
A look behind a culture which outsiders find hard to admire. Translation "Bird" means a woman. "Slag" means easy virtues and "five finger discount" refers to shop lifting.

A voice in the mirror, God you're good-looking. The Italian chin covered in Brut with the eyes of an eagle, faintly ringed from the last shift down the pit all captured in the energy of youth. No more graft, the pit wheel has stopped. This night belongs to him and some bird is about to get lucky. But love has many players its Intoxication is addictive. Saturday night on the town, wildlife on display. From the liar bird to the labra doodle, each predator drawn to the smell of Impulse at a pound a bottle and a faint smell of urine. The vomit will come later. Eyes are everywhere as they drink Vodka from concealed bottles. Up North we don't pay their prices for five finger discount rules the night. And the back biting begins look at her mutton dressed as lamb and Betsy is my best friend. Even though she's a slag for sleeping with Gavin last night. These herds of Wilder beast In painted hooves, displaying their courtship rituals. Dancing around the sacred handbags, ready to stampede at the sound of last orders please. Glances across the dance floor, the weak and easy singled out. The outcome uncertain, the winner destined for passion, or maybe more. The loser to sit alone on the bus home. That miserable face in the window, that passes by as you cross the road. Consolation found in a cold kebab and just one last thought, As you pass wind beneath the sheets before that snoring lager sleep, Mirror, mirror on the wall You tell lies. And the pit wheel will turn the beer will wash the coal. His Saturday will be earned, a bird for tonight and a wife for tomorrow. Make the most of your luck lad's for some lass's will have none. This colliery that brings life that fuels your Northern culture Will also bring up you your dead.
Archived comments for A Northern Night Out
Inchrory on 17-08-2012
A Northern Night Out
Hi Cooky,
I thought this a pretty true appraisal of weekend nightlife in most of the collier areas.
Where indeed factory girls and the rough hewers meet.
Much as I agree that the sentiment rang true through most of the poem, I think the ending petered out a bit, and seemed a bit weak to my mind. However, it could be that it was intentional.
I was hoping to read the last line, as, “Will also bring up your dead”.

Morchuis.


Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading and I think your right,I prefer your last line

SugarMama34 on 17-08-2012
A Northern Night Out
Hi Cooky,

a true to life piece of the weekend drinking sprees of people who go out looking for love, lust and fun, you show several characters in this which I liked and it made me smile in places too, especially of the girls dancing round their handbags, a girl calling her friend a slag, and saying she was mutton dressed as lamb, there are girls like that dotted around everywhere. It's a very truthful piece and something I could relate too, as I have also seen the people that you have written about in this. I enjoyed quite a few of your stanzas because they evoked such imagery. I really enjoyed reading this.



Lis. xx

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work. Glad you liked it

sunken on 18-08-2012
A Northern Night Out
Enjoyed this, Cooky. If it's not nibbed soon I'll cause a stink. I'm currently digesting a curry so I can quite easilly make said threat a reality. Nice work, fella.

s
u
n
k
e
n

the loser on the bus home



Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work. much appreciated

Texasgreg on 18-08-2012
A Northern Night Out
LOL, Steven! I get the impression you may know what it's like to tip a couple.

Good job!
Photobucket.
Greg 🙂

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work . I have corrected the line. Your input is much appreciated.

Ionicus on 19-08-2012
A Northern Night Out
A well described vignette of men and girls trying to inject some glamour in their humdrum life by behaviour which is far from glamourous, i.e binge drinking, casual sex, gossip and bitching.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work. Much appreciated

stormwolf on 19-08-2012
A Northern Night Out
I actually think this is one of your best and that's saying something.
I agree that chips would be more in keeping than kebabs...little things like that make a difference.
All in all, a real look into the world of how it was in many places.
You have so many great images here from the sacred handbags to the miserable face at the bus window.
You have your own style and it's rich and straight and unpretentious. I think that is why it goes down so well as so many can identify, if not with the individual scenes, the incredible insight.
Alison x

Author's Reply:


The Comfort of a drunken Mind (posted on: 13-08-12)
A short story which give us just a glimpse into alcohol addiction.

In suburbia's dream a house is slowly decaying. The lawn has turned to weed; the fence has seen better days and the neighbours don't call any more. A once proud woman is gone, replaced by a mistress that she cannot see, and a man whose shadow she once worshipped, has tortured her dreams for the last time. Love does not live here anymore, reality has become blurred and he clings to the belief that she will return. As another night falls a light is seen behind dirty windows and a vase of dead flowers is illuminated as if to warn off the attentions of unwelcome visitors, for this is his kingdom, his miserable life, though the whiskey on his lips will tell a different story. Inside there is a table in the kitchen covered with a history of neglect. Lipstick on an empty glass is the only reminder of what has been. The sporadic buzz of house flies can be heard hovering around a loaf of stale bread which sits next to a crumpled margarine wrapper speckled black with the crumbs from yesterdays toast. Up above a moth casts shadows as it bounces off the hot bulb that will lead to its death. Below is a figure of a fallen man whose blood shot eyes reveal a story where he is the star and everyone else is the victim. His performance will be justified as the audience of empty bottles will agree; the sweet ecstasy of whiskey is his Oscar and his final performance. The scene is set for act one as the whiskey brings out his thoughts and delusions which swing wildly with his mood, all symptoms of his addiction, but there is no one to tell him and the mirror who can tell no lies was smashed long ago. His reality is to chat with an empty chair, that chair where his wife shared her life with him, this handsome youth that she vowed to love forever. And now it is our turn to listen, though we will always walk faster when a beggar or a drunk tries to get our attention and thank god that the doors of suburbia remain closed to things that might offend us or even worse lower the house prices, and so it begins. ''Women eh, always going on about nothing, I miss her smile. In my time, don't you know? Young girls vied for my attention I was always posing, heartbreaker to women were I, could have had my pick, but no I gave her my heart as lovers do, even had the decency to marry her and this is how she repays me''. ''God, I will never see her smile again her voice is silent to me, stupid woman come back to me I forgive you, ah to hell with her. Inside I am a flower without rain, a musician without music, my love waits in a queue full of fools and whiskey bottles, ahh stop feeling sorry for yourself, let's have another drink, yes tomorrow will be better''. The drink brings back his memory of their life together; he talks out loud as this is his only companion, which staves off the reality of the situation. ''I remember her lovely eyes, sitting on that chair, that damn chair. Drink Darling? my blossom of the night, a smooth talker me''. Tears start to run down his face, '' I broke her dreams, the vows that we took, the rose that I picked for her now petals on a stormy sea all betrayed by her, can't a man have a drink now and then'', even as he spoke he knew it was a lie for drink was a demanding mistress. ''Ahh bugger it another drink, she won't leave me, she'll be back? Damn that empty chair and dam that ungrateful bitch. 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 the shadows that played happy families in his drunken stupor, for these imposters cannot live in the real world. Their existence belongs to 40% proof fabricated in the monsoon of a drowning brain. The safety of the bed would be a nice place to stay, but thirst makes him restless and sleep has caused his body to sober up and the fear of being alone plays on his mind. In stale sweat and unshaven face he returns to the kitchen table his fortress from the world outside. ''Cornflakes and barley wine, a man's breakfast, that'll do nicely''. He boils the kettle but there is no milk, his thirst is beckoning. The tremble in his fingers is searching for a drink, illusion fains surprise ''I know another snifter''. His mind is awakened once again and another thought? Depression is released from the paws of his grey skin to thicken the air with feelings from the past. ''I can still see you sitting there, love has left this empty chair, but I know you can hear me; we made dreams come true in that chair and happiness were the cushions that we sat upon. Our future, oh what a future was planned here. Mind you that wallpaper she picked, I never did like it, but I loved her, Ah she'll be back my little love dove''. ''Is it cold, or is it me? Everything is so quiet, speak to me chair''. The chair is silent like all inanimate objects, but delusion is rife. ''What got nothing to say, silly cow you won't find better than me? ''Take it all, I don't care, there's plenty who would have me, no woman can resist my charms''. His words fall onto a silent table cloth, he picks up the empty glass his last connection to her and throws it onto the floor, it smashes and in his mind a demon has gone from his life. '' She never was good enough for me, I gave her everything, good riddance'', Ahh, another drink, and another fix has given renewed power to his illusion of being right and he draws comfort from this. ''You little beauty only you understand me, God should have made whiskey from Adam not a woman. All women were sent to torment us men, good one God! Ahh to hell with her, the bottle is my love now and the empty chair my sentence, that damned empty chair. Come Share a drink with me friend? Ah did I tell you, once I was a heartbreaker? And between you and me I still am''.
Archived comments for The Comfort of a drunken Mind
Weefatfella on 13-08-2012
The Comfort of a drunken Mind
So Sad and so true. The same scene is played world wide. I am reading Popeye's Wolves in my head at the moment. It's very open and honest.

I can't say that enjoyment was what i felt with this piece but I appreciated your wordplay and empathy. Thank you.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work

Texasgreg on 15-08-2012
The Comfort of a drunken Mind
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Steven! That was just a super piece IMO. I really like they way you've branched out and claimed all of life's surroundings as yours to write and comment on. I do believe that with the right inspiration you could put out a good book one day if you set your mind to it.


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Greg 🙂

Author's Reply:
Glad you liked it much appreciated

Andrea on 15-08-2012
The Comfort of a drunken Mind
Very good, Cooky. O lived with an alcoholic for years and it was just so. Completely delusional.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work

SugarMama34 on 17-08-2012
The Comfort of a drunken Mind
Great piece Cooky, very moving and some of the imagery was so very sad to see in my head with the words you painted. My only critique would be that it was told more than shown and I would have liked to have seen it 'shown' more because I think it would have come across more powerful than it is IMHO. I'm not brill at this writing lark, and after years I am still learning, so please don't take my comments personally or to heart. I do not mean to offend at all, only to help you as a writer as others have helped me, and still are.
On saying that, it's a compelling read and it did have me hooked until the end. 🙂

Lis xx

Author's Reply:


Gladiators of Peace (posted on: 06-08-12)
My contribution to the Olympics.

To breath the dream of gladiator sweat Is to take your fear and drown it with courage. Though heart it would burst, the mind cannot turn. The gold is the prize and destiny belongs to you. To be the best is not enough chivalry demands your conduct and honour is given to the vanquished for you are an Olympian. The body is your temple desire is your ambition. The lungs that carry this quest, that Olympus gave the world will make you a god for a day. The recipe is simple, take the glory of youth these first buds of spring. Season their first step with a lesson defeat is your companion, but ''I will'' is your power and the hurdles of life will fall. Mind over body is your strength perfection and grace your goal, only gods ignore the pain when limbs say enough. You who pour your being into peddle and water and tame the wind with sail. The loneliness of speed, the endurance of marathon the silence of target and the release of flight will take your soul to the edge of an impossible dream. And the years that you give waiting for harmony to arrive, will define the mountain you climb. The world has chosen you to be a gladiator of our time. And privilege is for mortals who watch to share the emotion of them. In this moment our blood is one for they are no longer alone. We will win together we will lose together and honour will wipe our tears. And when the arena is empty the memory will be ''I was there'' To see the spirit of this earth. The voice of nations cheering as one our differences celebrated Within the glory of these Olympics. Strangers brought together arm in arm within these rings. The hand of friendship has crossed the seas, respect is the legacy for Neighbours now are we. And when our children look up to ask why we cheer and cry we will plant the dream, that these are your brothers and sisters, tomorrow you will play with them. And should you fall the voice of country will pick you up this flag will endure your trials for victory belongs to you, and the tears of pride belong to me. A mere mortal who was honoured to witness your Olympian dream.
Archived comments for Gladiators of Peace
Texasgreg on 07-08-2012
Gladiators of Peace
“I will” is your power
and the hurdles of life will fall.

Sings in my heart, Steven!
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Greg 🙂



Author's Reply:
Sorry for the late thank you, been fishing. glad you found some inspiration in this work.

sunken on 08-08-2012
Gladiators of Peace
A very fine Olympian worthy contribution and no mistake, Cooky. Enjoyed muchly.

s
u
n
k
e
n

convincing frogs that they're ornaments since 1995


Author's Reply:
Thank you for taking the time to read my work. It is much appreciated.

CVaughan on 10-08-2012
Gladiators of Peace
I am loving the word selection & style throughout this and the venerable IMO sentiments. But then I am already sold on the festivity drawing to a close right now, Frank, a Londoner.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work.

Weefatfella on 10-08-2012
Gladiators of Peace
Inspired.
I absoverylutely loved it.
Amazingly well done.
Thank you for the privilege and the experience of reading this.Weefatfella.

Author's Reply:

SugarMama34 on 11-08-2012
Gladiators of Peace
Great poem to celebrate the Olympics, had some fab imagery...good thought provoking piece...a worthy poem and lovely tribute for ALL athletes competing.

Lis. x

Author's Reply:

Corin on 13-08-2012
Gladiators of Peace
Despite being a sceptic before it all began because of all the commercial crap and the security debacle I found the whole thing quite moving, the sense of the World being united in peace and London proud of its status s a truly Cosmopolitan City was very impressive.

You have got this over very well.

David



Author's Reply:


An English Life (posted on: 30-07-12)
A trip down memory lane to the 1960's in Sheffield. The Steelworks were shut down every year for two weeks. The workers were mad on football, gambling and course fishing. Here is part of my childhood during this period.

It is midnight the Milk train pulls into Darnall station no ordinary passengers here for this is shutdown week. The furnace has released its grip on blue collar man. Steelworkers with their families are on holiday, loaded with fishing rods and wicker baskets The Fossdyke navigation 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 Fossdyke 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. The call of pheasants looking for mates shrieking their songs of love, swans begging for scraps their majestic white necks nodding, greeting us 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 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. Dawn Breaks once more and a small unassuming man closes the door, off to the Steelworks, Dad must have been a demon in bed to have fathered seven kids, or perhaps walks with his wife and a cig under the moon was really where I was conceived? My mother wakes us, four in a double bed and one bed wetter off to school, mother off to clean other people's windows, a pioneer of her time. In school another show and tell day the repetitive stories of day trips to Skegness and fun in the arcade always good for top marks. Then there was me, still in my wellington boots, in the height of summer explaining my Fossdyke saga. Laughs from the teacher, laughs from the kids half a crown cooky on the bank side, but eyes of teacher cannot lie and arrogance of class made me Dickensian, Oliver in his mind. Council house steelworkers were a world away from teacher's culture. Cheese and wine, the detached house double glazing and the three R's, teacher's heaven but an alien life to me. But time moves on I still go fishing, only this time in competition Now the audience hangs on every word I say Hoping to discover my secrets, But my gift came from the dawns of childhood, their dawns lost in hot dogs and sea side arcades. Poor I may have been, my education neglected but I have a doctorate in nature, for I have seen the sun rise, away from the factories, where the pheasant runs free. I have shared the light where swan reins king. My childhood was part of them and they are part of me. It was here I learned what family was, to share my last drink of pop with my neighbour, a simple life maybe, but priceless to me. 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 Fossdyke. They left me the seeds to their heaven and the key to my happiness. A key forged in a man's worth, to open 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 within another kind of Jerusalem, cherished among the spirit of God's creatures And though age has clouded the mind the thought of the Fossdyke still brings fever to me, For here lies a truth beyond mans' ambition a truth that only a child can see. I will die on some river bank, one day, rod in hand, and I will be content, and that is enough for any life.
Archived comments for An English Life
Andrea on 30-07-2012
An English Life
Fabulous tale! I wonder why summers were always hotter when you were a kid?

Here's a song for you from a fellow Sheffield man...



Author's Reply:
We have produced some good singers from Sheffield. Def Leopard, Human League, Jarvis Cocker and of course Joe Cocker. I saw him in a Working men's club many years ago. Thank you for reading and sending the record.

stormwolf on 30-07-2012
An English Life
well done Cooky..
You are no 'one trick pony'
😉 Alison x

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading. glsd you liked it.

Weefatfella on 31-07-2012
An English Life
Absolutely.

I was dragged up in the shadow of the Ravenscraig Steel Works. I worked for a time in the Lanarkshire Steel Works.

Our holidays were the Glasgow Fare. great times and great people. Enjoyed your piece very much. we had the River Clyde.

Author's Reply:
Glad you enjoyed it. Thank you for reading my work

Texasgreg on 03-08-2012
An English Life
Been real late this time around. Forgive me, Steven. I think this is the best you've written so far and that is a task indeed! Most likely because I'm a sucker for the subject...but you ability to take me there "hooked me".
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Superduper!


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Greg 🙂

Author's Reply:
I am glad you liked it. Amazed that Sheffield culture could be interesting to an American. Honoured by your nomination of this piece. Thank You. Steven

Texasgreg on 05-08-2012
An English Life
LOL, the place matters not to me. It's the story of life and living loving memories. Very important to convey these type stories. However, I did thoroughly enjoy learning something about where and how another person, (you), grew up.

I still think it was superduper!

Greg 🙂


Author's Reply:


Bucephalus Blood (posted on: 27-07-12)
Bucephalus was the legendary horse that Alexander the Great rode into battle. This poem is about WW1 and takes the view from a german perspective and uses bucephalus as a description of all war horses.

Here lies the gallon of horse's blood fallen soldier lies beneath this hope now dead, trapped within mans' sin waiting for bayonets kiss. In this moment of war, these seconds of time the shadow of foe merges into one and fate is held in mind. The trigger or the knife? To feel a man as blade enters his heart can only come from hate. The trigger is easier the civilised way This conscience that looks on helpless foe expected to kill, just one bloody more, feels the cross of servants war that Kaiser bids by heaven and crown to give reapers charge his due. For crown has right to heaven's door and empire would deny me this. Yet my hand it does tremble to see the eyes of England. This soul of man with broken colours for he is the wretch of me, and though we speak in mother's words, I hear only the voice of common man. For language can merge this pain and our blood will always pour both ways. And in this moment, these seconds of war, my German heart strokes sorrow on comrade beast, a reminder of edelweiss days of mountain silence and the purity of home, and a tear unites, what has been lost. Hate and foe are gone this day, replaced by Bucephalus blood. For here lies a noble beast. Bucephalus blood has touched the hearts of men this moment of war is betrayed. The soul of a soldier can walk away and dignity is mine this day. And as I return to comrades trench this moment of life is all I have. The clock of war demands the kill, and this reservoir of blood runs deep for men are but sheep bleating before the gun, this last supper is mans' Judas in life and death will cry a Ludendorff speech. But not before I make my oath. Bitter is the taste of Bucephalus blood I will not shoot at you? To waste this nature, this flower of time taken from the valley of life to be spilled by blind invention. My grave will carry not your cross. For man is not worthy of gallant charge, his mind is drowned in tomorrow's corpse and killing is all that is planned. For Peace lies hidden in common man, banished to a mountain of hope which war refuses to climb? And the rope has taken the drop For the voices who have cried. This war will ride on Bucephalus back, his spirit will die alone and Alexander will weep among the gods As brothers fall in Flanders field, killed by widows rant, and a righteous cross will remember them anointed with the deeds of Bucephalus blood.
Archived comments for Bucephalus Blood
Andrea on 28-07-2012
Bucephalus Blood
This is fabulous Cooky. I'm curious as to what/why your fascination is for WW1.

I read somewhere that when the war war declared over, German and British troops stumbled upon each other in the trenches, and hugged. They didn't care about nationality, just so relieved it was over.

Utter madness, all of it.



Author's Reply:

teifii on 29-07-2012
Bucephalus Blood
Very good poem. I especially liked the fact that you actually use proper punctuation as well as poetic form. For some reason punctuation seems to have gone out of fashion.

I especially liked
For Peace lies hidden in common man,
banished to a mountain of hope
which war refuses to climb?


Author's Reply:
Punctuation is thanks to Storm wolf. She often tells me when my grammar is wrong. Thank you for reading.

Weefatfella on 29-07-2012
Bucephalus Blood
There is no glory in death, only awe by those who witness or escape it.
Poignant piece.
Thank You.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work, it is much appreciated

Ionicus on 29-07-2012
Bucephalus Blood
A very absorbing and well written poem, if a tad too long for my liking. I too noticed your interest in WW1 as a few of your latest ones revolved around that topic. Nothing wrong with that except that some readers may think the subject too repetitive and fail to appreciate your next piece.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work. Your right about my poetry concentrating on the WW1, but I am trying to build a volume of work in this area. I will move obn when I find inspiration.

stormwolf on 29-07-2012
Bucephalus Blood
You excell at this kind of writing Cooky,I think you must have fallen in the trenches in a previous life. 😉
Alison x

well done on the nib yet again. It's great to see your work getting the credit it deserves.
Punctuation is just the icing on the cake but true creativity shines through every time.

Author's Reply:
I am a bit of a one trick pony at the moment, focussing on WW1. Thank you for reading, still learning though.

Texasgreg on 29-07-2012
Bucephalus Blood
Aye! The days of the cavalryman and his bond with beast of burden. Personally, I could read your WWI stuff with my breakfast in the mornings. Guess that’s just the relief coming through that I wasn’t called on, and guilt that others had to endure.
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Super stuff, Steven!
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Greg 🙂


Author's Reply:


The casualty (posted on: 20-07-12)
In World War one the field hospital was a slender hope. Many died before they got there. Those that did were often too badly injured to save. The surgeons had to choose and the nurses had to help in their passing.

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.
Archived comments for The casualty
Andrea on 21-07-2012
The casualty
Man is truly a stupid animal...

Author's Reply:
thank you for the generous rating

ChairmanWow on 22-07-2012
The casualty
There is music in these lines evoking near-death on the battlefield. Close to one hundred years ago now...

Ralph

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading. I guess there will be a lot of interest in war poetry in 2014

Texasgreg on 23-07-2012
The casualty
Steven, I again started to copy and paste favorite lines, but they became too many. You do war well with appropriate reverence for the stricken.

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Super stuff!



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Greg 🙂

Author's Reply:
This poem had a quiet reception on this site. Yet on another site it has been picked as a finalist and is being published. There is no accounting for peoples taste. seems you like it though!

niece on 23-07-2012
The casualty
A sad but beautiful poem...

Regds,
niece

Author's Reply:


Lovers of a Storm (posted on: 06-07-12)
A bottle of wine can take you to places where you would rather be

Old Friends that say hello who share a secret memory? away from the road now travelled. A love that hides in her eyes, betrayed by the glint of a tear. This mystic bond that ties her to me. And in a stolen moment, over a bottle of wine the dream runs free. Dissolving the paths that bind this life. For deep within my soul, a world with an incorruptible sky. Plays host to a lovers imagination. Where the electricity from her touch gives birth to the storm, Her passion fuelling the hurricane within me. And in the eye of the storm time stands still, and our love will always be there. Oblivious to the pain we cause. And as I fall back to the person that is me, the dying wind reveals her heartbeat. A whispered beat that calls my name, demanding this ecstasy once more. But the storm is slipping away, and the calm returns my love to just another day. For 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. Longing for another storm, longing for another kiss, and longing for another day with you .
Archived comments for Lovers of a Storm
amman on 06-07-2012
Lovers of a Storm
Hi Cooky. Not sure about this one. Feels a little awkward but nice imagery all the same. Perhaps the fifth stanza could read :-

The electricity of her touch
gives birth to the storm;
her passion fuels the tumult
within me.

Just a suggestion.

Cheers.

Author's Reply:


Who was Lizzie Van Zyl? (posted on: 02-07-12)
Keeping on my South Africa theme. A piece of forgotten history that had consequences for the World.

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 flourished Feeding on the evil of men, 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 inherit the shame, 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 of mankind Redemption is in our vigilance and the voices in the wind will one day fade away. For peace is our payment to them. 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.
Archived comments for Who was Lizzie Van Zyl?
Andrea on 02-07-2012
Who was Lizzie Van Zyl?
Heartbreaking.
There's an interesting article about E Hobhouse here (I had to look it up, too) --> Emily_Hobhouse with a section about Lizzie. The Boers, however, weren't entirely blamless either - they treated the black Africans pretty disgracefully, as we all know. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Second_Boer_War

Good, thought-provoking piece.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work. I agree the boers were just as bad. In the end they are both invading forces

Texasgreg on 03-07-2012
Who was Lizzie Van Zyl?
Again, most excellent writing from you, Steven.

I also like that you changed up writing style to second-person. Shows diversity.

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Super stuff!

Greg 🙂

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Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading. Not sure about the off kilter. Feel free to correct it for me though.

niece on 03-07-2012
Who was Lizzie Van Zyl?
Very touching...and beautifully written...

Regds,
niece

Author's Reply:
thank you for taking the time to read my work.

ChairmanWow on 04-07-2012
Who was Lizzie Van Zyl?
What a great ode to this young girl, who symbolizes so well the horrific atrocities that were to come in the Twentieth Century. Most people would have pinned modern concentration camps on the Turks rounding up the Armenians but you are correct that the British Empire really started it with the Boer War.



Ralph

Author's Reply:
I try to be accurate when I can. Although there is some evidence of concentration camps in Poland before this. Thank you for reading and supporting my work. Steven.

Romany on 05-07-2012
Who was Lizzie Van Zyl?
Very interesting, I admit I was ignorant to this. Will look into it I think, when I'm more up to it. Thank you,

Romany.

Author's Reply:


Freedom Street (posted on: 29-06-12)
Behind the write This is a fictional write exploring life in South Africa. The world celebrated the defeat of apartheid. The question is now, what has changed? To get inside the thoughts of the ghetto is the challenge for this writer. I have taken artistic licence to be a resident of the ghetto. Caution some people may find offence, as the tone at times is sinister and religion is hit too. I did intend it to be a poem, but it grew into a short story. Feel free to point out my grammar mistakes.

Freedom Street I am in your living room, but do not fear, for I am the news that comes with your dinner. Watch as you eat your steak. Another murder and another riot, these townships of violence know no better, and another Emmy is awarded to Cambridge man. The drama is good, shocking to some, but the advertisers smile, the audience is booked and we can look down in disgust because the camera would never lie. To see this revolution when brothers kill their own with Goodyear necklace and a lynching from mob justice. Are they the enemy within? These eyes of brown that mirrors do not see for poverty is nothing new to Africa, and the hand of government looks on, pleased with the news today, one for the Man. He who lives beyond this smell, this dealer of lies, who talks with serpent lips spouting democracy from poison script, while hidden claws take the food from red cross house. My Brother Cain, the business man, though bwana would be better for his plans, and me, you know as ghetto man, though secretly you wish to call me by boervolk way. ''Never the twain shall meet old boy ''is probably best, the civilised way. For us both would kill each other, when you look away. Criminals I hear you cry, I know what I would do, hang them all and let god sort them out. We are so easy to condemn. For we have been condemned for centuries, though change is all that you can see, and didn't Mandela set you free? Ah sit awhile longer and break some bread with me. Mandela you say. They freed him, and the world saw apartheid fall, but this is a hollow victory to me. I am not part of this. This solution to take my country into western plans. This bourgeois illusion of equality falls on deaf ears, for money walks on the other side of the street. And money will command the way to jail my existence, away from moral values of what should be. Apartheid was not conquered, it moved to a better district. To reign from the minds of the chosen few, where the secret vaults of man's ambition can breed the plans that keep me impaled in poverty's clasp, the decay of their sewers is all that is given , for my presence will always offend them. And the world will see the word freedom written on these Mandela walls, these walls of tin that once held this black gold of wealth, but only the smell remains for me. And my pagan gods, which you are not worthy to see, are kept behind these shanty doors, the only thing that believes in me. For your God who gave us this cross, this cross that named me heathen, that resides in cathedrals of splendour, for the oppressors of his kin to scheme, these Christian saints who know what is best for ghetto man, preaching forgiveness spewed on their silver platters, but there will be no lick for me. And the sun sets the years over Africa sky and I am still the enemy. While grown men in filth collect the plastic bottles of wealth's decay. These bottles filled with western values to change the image of them from me. These scraps of them we fight to own, while croissant and coffee watch from their diamonds in the sky. These buildings built on the glitter of rock that sprawl this coast, hiding the world from me that dwarf the homes that I reside, that confirms my place in your Mandela land. And Child of Mine they will not play, for pride is in his hands. To recycle blisters behind dollar dreams, the sandal for you and the whipping for them, and the prayers are bought for the market is up and another piece of my country belongs to their coffers, now sailing away to tax haven bay out of reach of me. But I can walk on spoil heap clay, for all that glitters is gone, stolen from my mother's womb, and I must hurry for everything is owned, and trespass could be a bullet for me. I cannot get lost for the fence is my guide; a reminder of what lies on the other side, the day I walked with bride under a lover's moon, now stolen by possession, and my footsteps have been washed away by African violets picked by dollar scissors for a condoms brew to please. For this belongs to a savage beast that eats the dollars from tourist pocket, And gorges on food that inflates the price on baby's bellies, for empty pockets are for me. And still they come to paradise lost and bathe in sun for free. The beach is their play, but to me it is my country's prostitution that has soured this place, this sand of my ancestors where once we sang in celebration to harvests from the sea. And now we watch from behind the fence, with eyes that they would fear, for hate belongs to me, and they will not go too near. And in the distance The City streets are paved with gold, gold from the heart of this land, the rand is the hammer which will be used to kill me, this force behind the shine, this death squad pill And within the dead body laying in Morning Street another crime is solved. The morning rush is safe and they can walk in shopping malls and talk of decadence. But within all the wrong that has been done to me there is a kingdom where they cannot go. For I live on Freedom street, these streets of brown that comfort me. For he who strays from oils embrace will know the shadow of me. Do not bring your graven idols, those precious things that you cannot eat. These baubles of gold that glitter from necks, that adorn the whores that you possess, for your life is mine to take and your God will not blink for you. And when they look to find the corpse in this tin of drum. This shanty, this wealth of poverty They will not find the memory of you. For Africa has dried the blood of better than you. And when the armoured mercenaries arrive with hidden faces and guns to shoot. The eyes of Brothers will protect, and fear will lie in Judas heart, for they cannot shoot all of me. My god will protect me for he was born with lion's courage, fought in victory to roam this land We hunters are the blood and our ancestors the soil. We will rise again, we are Africa, and elephant and leopard, lion and prey will all know my name. For I bring freedom to those who share with me. Who sleep the dream of equality? The jackal's time is ending; this decay is your last feast and your God that does not blink will know this man who comes from African womb. Know the man who has nothing, but holds everything in his hands, and you, who holds only fear and a grave that bears the cross, bears the cross of the suffering that you gave me. This God that you all worship who turns his back on ghetto man, for us poor cannot build his cathedrals, we were never ambassadors to his realm, though preacher spouts a camel's song. In death he will deny me to sleep in hallowed ground, amongst the thief's and whores of Country's rape, these epitaphs of marble queens. This God who sends these plagues of Aids and dysentery. Which would burn me against my wishes? For the rubbish of the world is fires only worth, and the nights grow cold for me. And if I slipped past your pearly doors, heaven would always question me, an eye for an eye your Bible says and my presence would offend, just as it is on Soweto streets, where only the rich can stand But in my being I am free, and your values cannot chain me. Fear the child, and fear the man for we are one, and you will sleep with one eye open, for I will always hovers around your dreams. These eyes of brown will watch and wait, just beyond your sight, below the tree that holds your dreams, that never included me, For when this land can give no more, you can fly away, back to tax haven bay, but I was born to motherland, My tribes will rise again; the hills will feel our warrior feet. The pride of man is ours to claim and women will dance in lion's fleece to honour the culture of my land For the Mosquito drinks the blood of all and my Africa will see, another day.
Archived comments for Freedom Street
Andrea on 29-06-2012
Freedom Street
Typo here, Cooky 'let god *sought* them out'. Few punctuation errors:

mans ambition (man's)
poverties clasp (poverty's)

Love lines like this:
'These baubles of gold that glitter from necks, that adorn the whores that you possess, for your life is mine to take and your god will not blink for you'

Needs tidying up (you haven't quite converted it yet :)), but very, very good prose poetry imo. Powerful stuff.




Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work and I have now corrected some of the mistakes.

amman on 29-06-2012
Freedom Street
Hi Cooky. Yeah, there are a few grammatical errors but these are insignificant to the quality of this story. Very poetic in tone and you have captured the violence seemingly ingrained in that society. In many respects things have gotten worse.


Very well done.


Cheers.

Author's Reply:
I have now fixed the grammarwith the help of stormwolf. Thank you for reading and supporting my work

franciman on 29-06-2012
Freedom Street
Hi Cooky,

I don't want to be negative as there's great power in this writing. Had I not read your preamble I would have said there was poetry trying to get out. It rings and sings in parts, a bit like the curate's egg.

Carve this into verse and it will really sing IMHO. You owe it to yourself, and to this piece, to really make it sing throughout.

I really like this, but without so much weight it would really fly!

cheers,
Jim

Author's Reply:
I shall consider your suggestion. Thank you for taking the time to read it.

soman on 30-06-2012
Freedom Street
Globalisation has become so pervasive that no country -- including mine, a democracy of sorts -- is free from exploitation by outsiders. Many of our own corporate bodies too are in league with the blood suckers.
Very powerful writing, kudos.
Soman
Rated 9

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading and thank you for your comments

ChairmanWow on 30-06-2012
Freedom Street
Powerful write, well done on the point of view. Truth is things are worse for the majority there, even as S.A.'s stock market goes up. A small percentage of blacks moved into the middle class, but murder and rape are epidemic throughout the country, infrastructure is breaking down. Is becoming another Zimbabwe a victory?



Ralph
PS not sure you want to include tiger (Asian animal) maybe leopard would be better. Also, Bwana is Swahili and probably wouldn't be used much in S.A.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading and for the suggestions. I will take them on board

stormwolf on 30-06-2012
Freedom Street
yet again! you have a very rare ability to 'become' the person you chose and see through their eyes. This made me want to cry.
Really super writing....
You have found your niche.
Alison x

Author's Reply:
Thank you for your help and encouragement It is much appreciated.

Texasgreg on 01-07-2012
Freedom Street
Steven,
Would you please again say that I inspired you to expand? Not pride...Okay, pride!

For you, my friend...
Don't freak out on me 😉
Photobucket

Greg 🙂

Photobucket.

Author's Reply:
The only Texans I ever knew was them oil tycoons in the Yewing family on TV. With captions like this you will be banning the Electric chair next. Oh and thank you for your heartfelt comments, we british are not used to this you know. And thank you for the inspiration.
Steven


The Lover's Ghost (posted on: 25-06-12)
What dreams are held beyond this life.

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, the boy, you made a man. Once again I can hear your whispers, Of love and a life together. Carried on a gentle breeze listened to by inquisitive angels, smiling from their windows above Your words seeding my lonely soul, trembling my heaven 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. We never knew they were tears from heaven. Precious was that moment, for 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. For mortal time is but a light, to pick that one special rose, that grows beyond this life. The Clouds of dreams are lifting time is slipping through my fingers And the angel is calling. So a secret promise, I now plant for your soul to cherish, wrapped in love to dwell in the recess of your mind. To be opened when angels call. Till then my heart will always be with you My rose, my light, my love.
Archived comments for The Lover's Ghost
amman on 25-06-2012
The Lovers Ghost
This is a lovely love poem Cooky. We should all hope someone up there is looking out for us.
Cheers

Author's Reply:
Glad you enjoyed it

franciman on 25-06-2012
The Lovers Ghost
I agree wholeheartedly with Amman. A super love poem. I have one dissenting point though: I feel it should stop at 'To be opened when Angels call' It is such a telling line to end on.

cheers,
Jim

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading and I took your advice. Sometimes I get carried away with the moment.

Rabelais on 25-06-2012
The Lovers Ghost
Hi Cooky, love your poem, what a wonderful dream. So poetic and well written. Would read it again and again with pleasure. Well done

Author's Reply:
So glad you liked it.

ChairmanWow on 25-06-2012
The Lovers Ghost
Evokes that warm tender feeling very well. Nice love poem.

Ralph

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work.

Texasgreg on 26-06-2012
The Lovers Ghost
Steven,

You're just knocking 'em out left and right. That is really moving stuff. If only it could be. Makes you wish to make it so in your mind.
Photobucket.

Greg 🙂
Good stuff!

Author's Reply:
Gad you liked it

Andrea on 26-06-2012
The Lovers Ghost
Lovely stuff Cooky, much enjoyed.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work


The Silence of War (posted on: 22-06-12)
This a fictional write, guided by a poem that I wrote last year. It is about a real battle which took place on the Sambre-Oise Canal. I have taken artistic license to put myself at the scene as I needed to live it in my imagination to do it justice. The significance of the venue is best left to the footnote, after you have read it. Part of the conclusion in the last paragraph is loosely based on the testimony of the last Tommy, Harry Patch, which I feel is a fitting memory to this conflict. Harry Died in 2010 This is my first attempt at a short story suggested by Texas Greg to have a go. Many thanks to Stormwolf for checking my grammar.

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 1918. Back to the Sambre Canal, and back to the First World war. Behind the Curtains of a church window, men find sanctuary in prayer. Their words orchestrated by sweat and lice, a rare moment of relief from the world outside. Beside the cross sits the last candle, flickering precariously, searching for survival. A candle that sits on the wax of candles gone, lit by the hands of the dead. The church has witnessed many men go by, most will never return, but the stale sweat of them still remains. Four years of killing on the Western Front have made life a cheap commodity and to look beyond today is not an option. But the wick on the candle is coming to an end and so are these men. The harvest of war is almost in for this is November 1918. The church doors open, beckoning the living to return to duty for the killing must go on. And in the freedom that it offers a sniper waits to thin the herd once more. Someone will be unlucky, but these men cannot dwell for they have orders to cross the Sambre canal An insignificant water that has a bridge occupied by German forces, but will be remembered by generations to come. In battle the German guns call like the song of the Siren, Irresistible, for only the dead will hear. Machine gunners scythe the ranks, gone the Manchester regiment, clover for the beast I take shelter behind a splintered Oak tree, once magnificent, a survivor of Nature's glory, now a hideous specter to man's invention. I wait here with my second lieutenant waiting for death to find me, the mud beckoning for my blood; The Canal ahead is red, filled with the bodies of this morning's charge, a water turned into wine by the blood of my regiment for the River Styx to consume. The headlines have already been written, their gaunt faces replaced by the laughter of youth, for propaganda rules the papers, and they comfort the mothers of all nations in this conflict. If only the dead could speak? A wisp of wind from nowhere, a groan from the Officer, his eyes start to dim, the Sniper has found another victim. Where is he? Fear brings the Lord's Prayer to my lips, a last haven for my soul to cling to. The shelter of the oak cannot fool death and another losing hand is dealt in the name of war, a last gesture from his lips turns into a gurgle in his throat, denying him his last words on this earth. His eyes become empty, and I know that he has gone. The words of my prayer slinks away, ashamed for I am abandoned by God, like so many others on this day of carnage. The officer died November 4th 1918 Later a strange calm entered the day, the guns fell silent, and a corporal brazenly walked up to me, looked at the lieutenant and confirmed his death He offered me a cigarette and moved on writing in his notebook. Fear had now left, leaving me to wonder about the body beside me? So sad, yet another contribution to this dark harvest and another soul for God to tender. A friendly fella was he, now reduced to a statistic, a name on a list for tomorrow's paper. At home a wreath will bear his name, like so many more mourning a multitude of lost darlings. The kids will ask about the photograph fading on the mantelpiece, and it will be the last connection, a cherished memory for his mother to dust. And for what? The vain ambition of generals who know we have already won. I guess the claret will be out tonight. But then I was aware of another victor, for high above this dreadful day the shrill of a skylark could be heard, proclaiming that this field was his, no act of destruction could deter such a creature, who cared not for man's troubles for he had nature's work to do. And for a moment, I thought of my lieutenant, perhaps his last words had been captured and proclaimed on high by this little, yet magnificent bird. Deep inside I wish it was true, but vanity is another flaw of man. Ah yes vanity, all is vanity, something these bleeding generals have in abundance. Still, no worries left for you lieutenant for your war is over. Did you remember Jack who copped a shrapnel leg, the days of pain, for Bosche would not relent? The morning tea and the smell of Jack, the air knew that his leg must go, an offering for the journey to come, three days he lasted ''poor bugger,'' and me?, I have my own delusions' to comfort me. To believe that God sends us angels in our hour of need or song birds to ease our pain. I guess that I'm a silly bugger; I must be, talking to the dead. Still I like to believe that my life holds some value. I am not 'cannon fodder.' These war monger politicians cannot comprehend the man behind the bullet? When we fall, the dreams of men are lost? A battlefield holds many secrets, for the voice of change has been silenced within these corpses, I guess that is one purpose of war, and you my friend, what stories have died with you? Stories cannot be written by dead men; though I am sure the victors will give us a version in their name. The novels of tomorrow lie torn and discarded in the mud of war, ignorant to all but the buried ideals of those who walk alone, not knowing that they are dead. And as I look across this killing field and see the dead, like mown down flowers, the seeping red that reminds me of a bloody rose, for in life they were beautiful. To hear their voice at Trafford match, and cheer in drunken pleasure, to share a cig in times of doubt, to hold their kids on high, 'brothers in arms' we Manchester Men. These Manchester Men with their tomorrows gone have left behind another. What of Charlotte, Mary, Maggie? the names don't matter, for all will receive their letter,'' how brave and heroic they were''. Giving their life for country, but women will cry, knowing they will never bear the child whose image is now gone, all lost in the darkness of death of this damn war. And mourning black will replace the wedding ring and the girl will become old. The realization that her hand can never touch her man again, and that country is not worthy of this sacrifice. For her youth is lost in his memory and the words ''they were'' will stay on those tender lips until the day she dies. Time to leave this place. Farewell my lieutenant friend where ever you may be. One week later it was all over and for the first time in four years I could think about tomorrow. A hero's welcome? perhaps not. Who am I to come home, for I am not sure how to live, why me and not them? Their faces are a haunting calendar to me, each one arriving, with smiling faces, fighting, sharing their fears, some crying in secret, but all dying, to be replaced by another and another, never had a chance to know most of them, but their faces, yes I remember them well. And what can I say to those at home? Should I lie and live on hero's drink, for the old men will buy to hear, or should I say it as it is? Perhaps I can save some poor sod rushing to volunteer for the next war, what would that dead lieutenant do? His rank would not allow the truth, but I will tell them, for the sake of them, my Manchester pals, who lay cold in red overcoat in the Sambre canal. The stark reality is that war is for killers, and this truth would make you cheering crowds go silent, as you send your sons to war. Shame on the old men who yearn for glory using the blood of youth, for it is the rain of war. And we, who are witness to what has been, know the measure of this, in the loss of babes who died like men. This perhaps was our last supper to have survived, for testament is ours to tell and reward is to see our loved ones. Though what job waits for me there I do not know, and the free drinks in the pub will be soon short lived as euphoria is fleeting and those of us maimed will embarrass the parties and frighten the girls. And the streets will be filled once again with old soldiers begging on street corners, causing complaints and moved on by police. But all things come to pass and the years have made this century old. The legacy of victory can be counted by a grateful Nation. These men who did their duty will get a mention once a year, though this will be hijacked by politicians seeking your vote. The Salvation Army will give the survivors' the odd meal or two, as long as they believe in God. And we will come across their existence through pawn brokers and auction houses selling their medals, and the Country will quietly forget, for the banks are calling. And as the century dies and these visions melt away, the old soldiers do too. But there is left a fading memory of a candle, in a church on the Sambre Canal. It went out long ago, though the ghosts keep the spirit of it alive. Their silent footsteps remain, casting a shadow on this place and on humanity. And perhaps hiding in the clouds above, vanity can still exist here, locked in the progeny of that little skylark, who for a brief moment, showed us that he was greater than war, and within his defiance he gave back to me my sanity. But being human the reckoning goes on, for it is Silence who is the killer, democracy and justice its victim. Words were never spoken to save lives; the soldiers who fought this war only heard the silence. Reason was never part of the agenda. The ambition of men was war and the means to wage war lay in the dole queues of depression. This is a dangerous potion, having this endless supply of disposable beings. Though their graves will transcend this view, for everyone is unique, and together they reinforce to the next generation that this ilk of man shall not be seen again, for we are not worthy of their touch, these heroes who obeyed orders down to the last man. And speaking of the last man, these are my final words. War is not about guns, nor is it possession, nor is it glory or the will of God. It is about young people, whose precious future lies in the hands of the elected few. It is a sacred duty to protect the future of youth for it is they who will bear the burden. And in wasting this bloom the country destroys the lives of families, never to recover, and a nation cannot be built on sorrow, nor can it be built on war. The spoils of war are a fool's gold. Negotiation and compromise through democracy is the life blood of all nations, War is the path of the dictator and the countries epitaph. The World is here for a reason and all property is theft, a world that does not share its resources is a place not worthy of these men or the fallen that followed them. Though they are no longer with us their presence is still felt on the Marble Memorials throughout the World. Each name engraved into the reader's mind, Lest we who enjoy freedom, forget. And now it is my time to see my mates again, for this old man has had enough of war and of this existence. Goodbye and live in Peace. Footnote On this day November 4th 1918, Second Lieutenant Wilfred Owen killed in action, Sambre-Oise Canal, 7 days from Sanity One of England's Finest War Poets.
Archived comments for The Silence of War
stormwolf on 22-06-2012
The Silence of War
Hello Cooky

As most folks know, I very seldom read prose. When I read the crit of those who understand about taking out plots and bulking up characters and such like, I know to stay in the background.

I do know what I enjoy though and also what is very well written. From reading your earliest poetry, it became clear to me that you get a subject and then lose yourself in it and let the muse take over.

It sometimes makes your poems long and is a natural gift when it comes to writing like this.



I was aware of the 'voice' of the writer all the way through here and it was not 'you' so to speak. By that, I mean that you 'became' the person in a very eerie way and from then on it was full of raw emotion taking the reader through the gamut of human emotions from the soldier's perspective.

To me, this was the strength of the work and the fact that every line was riven with meaning, and so was poetry too..I think this is a very fine piece of writing.



You have the fervent passion required to write from the soul. It does not get much better than that.

Alison x

Author's Reply:
Thank you for your words of support. As a person I never say a lot, so I am glad people enjoy the the write. I shall go back to poetry for a while as prose mentaly tires me.

ChairmanWow on 22-06-2012
The Silence of War
I think the skylark bird is a great symbol both of nature's resilience and its disinterest of human-made calamities. Well done on the point of view. Funny I have just been reading the Welsh poet Edward Thomas, another terrible WW1 casualty.

Ralph

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work.

Texasgreg on 23-06-2012
The Silence of War
Cooky, that was magnificent! I began pasting some of my favorite lines and ended up with so many quotes that I had to rethink. The entire composition was like a hymn to me...You have a knack for sure, my friend.



I picked this out to tell you that it meant a lot to me: The stark reality is that war is for killers, and this truth would make you cheering crowds go silent, as you send your sons to war. Shame on the old men who yearn for glory using the blood of youth, for it is the rain of war. And we, who are witness to what has been, know the measure of this, in the loss of babes who died like men. This perhaps was our last supper to have survived, for testament is ours to tell and reward is to see our loved ones.



And that is only a fraction of what "hit me'. Normally, there's much fluff to short stories that could be left out. To sum up what Alison has already observed, every line was alive with meaning.



I don't want to scare you, but you have set the bar and it is high. As I once told Alison, I wish I could crawl around in your mind a bit, but fear I would get stuck in your ear, LOL.



Super stuff! Photobucket



Greg 🙂

Photobucket.



Author's Reply:
Thank you for your help. I have always had a connection to WW1 and I dont know why. I found prose writing extremely mentally tiring. Thank you for the nomination.

Andrea on 23-06-2012
The Silence of War
An incredibly strong and moving piece Cooky. Well deserving of the nib and nom.

Author's Reply:
thank you for reading my work and I am glad you liked it.

amman on 23-06-2012
The Silence of War
Cooky. Your short story is so insightful, so poetic. I've said it before and I'll say it again; you have the gift my friend. Superb.
My first 10 rating and nomination (although I think someone has beaten me to it).
Regards.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for the nomination and thank you for the rating. I am glad you poets like this stuff.

stormwolf on 23-06-2012
The Silence of War
Heartiest congrats, Cooky. I wanted to nominate it as well but had no doubt that there would be others who would.
I hope you write more and just rest afterwards! 😉
Alison x

Author's Reply:


A Sniper's View of the Great War (posted on: 18-06-12)
Once more I am drawn to the First World War. This time exploring the thoughts of those most hated, the Sniper.

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.
Archived comments for A Sniper's View of the Great War
Andrea on 19-06-2012
A Snipers View of the Great War
Really excellent. History is written by the victors eh?

Don't know why this doesn't have more comments, it certainly deserves them.

Author's Reply:

barenib on 19-06-2012
A Snipers View of the Great War
Well observed, though I reckon many would not have been nearly so clear in their thoughts. Did they select a certain type of person I wonder? A thought provoking and enjoyable read - John.

Author's Reply:

ChairmanWow on 19-06-2012
A Snipers View of the Great War
"This harvest is a lousy feast" superb line if you ask me. That war seems to keep giving inspiration even as its repercussions keeps on destroying even to this day. Great work.

Ralph

Author's Reply:

Texasgreg on 20-06-2012
A Snipers View of the Great War
Cooky,





Edited my original comment: Was thinking of some young men I know who are forever changed by now, most of 'em Marines. They say war is for the young. I say Nay, Send those who have already lived.



Looking at Andrea's comment, I can only say that I'm lazy and usually use recent comments or see it scrolled on twitterbox to view.



That said, sorry 'bout the late arrival.



I can relate to being literal life-blood for fleas and fear being for the living.

To me this is the best: Forgiveness was not mine to give,



to follow orders, history will condemn.







Good stuff!



Photobucket.



Greg 🙂

Author's Reply:

RoyBateman on 20-06-2012
A Snipers View of the Great War
A truly powerful and thought-provoking piece, all the more gripping for being told from an unusual viewpoint. Yes, snipers were almost always looked upon as assassins, striking their victims down when least expected - but that was their effectiveness, too. Making an enemy perpetually in fear of his life destroys morale like nothing else, I reckon - and that's what war's about. Like the unseen bomber or submarine, the sniper's part of the grotesque patchwork of conflict. Well done on the nib - well deserved!

Author's Reply:

Ionicus on 20-06-2012
A Snipers View of the Great War
"The victors will judge
hero or assassin."
This is the crux of the matter, cooky. History, as written by the victors, will always hail him as the hero. Sniping is part and parcel of a conflict and it is used in revolutions and uprisings of today as we can witness from certain situations in the Middle East. It is no more obscene than the wars themselves.
You have raised and debated a very serious point with your poem.

Author's Reply:

stormwolf on 20-06-2012
A Snipers View of the Great War
Another beaut!
Alison x

Author's Reply:

Nomenklatura on 24-06-2012
A Snipers View of the Great War
No comment required. Very good.

Author's Reply:


Morning Blues of London (posted on: 15-06-12)
Monday mornings and packed trains I do not like.

I see reflections of another life in the window, my coffee the only friend. The drumming of my fingers waiting for my journey to begin, a 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's 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's man. I 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. I pass a ruined castle, my dreams my hopes, all perished there, swept away by the forces of passion, crumbling the walls of yesterday's love. My window of torment reveals all ''please go away'' for I want today's window. But my confession rapes my mind You see my wife loves another, my neglect, my fault, all the judges agreed. Into a tunnel, a respite from all this, a moment's darkness, alone again with my coffee. I'm still, rolling down the track of despair, the guard announcing the next station, ''All change at Piccadilly,'' ''Connections for nowhere and oblivion'' ''Platform Three''. A rush of bowler hats cram the doors. Anonymous souls leading anonymous lives, and me, with my cup of coffee, alone with the window, I see reflections once more, I lay my pen down, and I thank god that's not me. Oh how I hate Monday mornings, time to leave.
Archived comments for Morning Blues of London
Andrea on 15-06-2012
Morning Blues of London
Excellent stuff!
(I don't think 'Hats' should be capitalised)
I remember when I lived in Finchley and worked in central London. The tube journey was always a complete nightmare, even ignoring the groping that went on 🙂

Author's Reply:
Thank you for taking the time to read and comment.

ChairmanWow on 15-06-2012
Morning Blues of London
Imagery filled with symbols that evoke loss. Nice work.

Ralph

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading

amman on 16-06-2012
Morning Blues of London
Hi Cooky. Good imagery in tale of regret and reminiscence. I can still see the stuffed shirts with their bowlers and umbrellas
pretending to complete the times crossword.
Cheers

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work

Texasgreg on 16-06-2012
Morning Blues of London
"I see reflections of another life in the window"

That opening line told me that you were again going to titillate me with your image-evoking pen.

Cooky, I think you should try some short stories. I always get good pictures when reading your submittals.



Good stuff! Photobucket.



Greg 🙂

Author's Reply:
The discipline involved is not within me at the present time.

Rabelais on 16-06-2012
Morning Blues of London
Hi Cooky, Very reflective poem, I liked reading it aloud, particularly like the analogy of looking up the window and see the insight of the life passing by it.
Very well written, love it. Lots of potential.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work

stormwolf on 16-06-2012
Morning Blues of London
I loved these lines
I hear the track mocking,
“It’s all your fault”, “it’s all your fault”, “it’s all your fault”,

I could really hear that and know what you are saying.
Very evocative.
I would take the 'cup of coffee' ref out of the last verse as that's 3 times and not needed. I can relate to the different scenes from the train window speaking to you personally about your situation.

Alison x

Author's Reply:
Thank you for taking the time to read my poem.

Ionicus on 16-06-2012
Morning Blues of London
I can relate to this kind of journey having travelled on the Northern Line for many years. The following lines reminded me that I could hear messages being conveyed to me by the wheels running on track:
'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”,'
A well written poem.

Author's Reply:
thank you for reading my work.


The Stranger within (posted on: 11-06-12)
Shadows are everywhere. Some shadows we do not like, some we do not wish to see. The losers in society turns us into blind people who walk quicker when we hear their voice, for they are not my problem.

As the sun goes down the feral cats prowl, looking for mice, searching for rats. In the alley, bins full of out of date and yesterday's wrapping. A tribute to Consumerism's detritus On the ground a smiling face. Colonel Sanders blocking a stagnant drain slowly freezing as the frost descends, and up above the stars shine their scorn, upstaged by the moon seeking to unveil the city's vermin, residents of the night. The thief fox screeches his indifference at the stray dog, licking the remnants of last night's kebab, and in the shadows behind the skips, in a cardboard den, two eyes glare across the alley, seeking forgiveness that is not there. And from within this frail kingdom a tiny light appears. A fragment of hope, the start of a happy ending, but no, it is a tab end fading for the last drag has been taken and the last can of comfort is now empty. And while we sit down to watch TV to marvel at Attenborough's view to see the blue planet and the leopard seals kill and "ahh" at polar bears, and gorillas in Brazil all neatly packaged by nature's quill. Oblivious to the view outside beyond the living room window a man will not wake. For when the dawn releases this night's chill His shadow will be taken away, sanitized by his black body bag anonymous to this world For we do not want to know as we did not in life. A stain on the community one less beggar to avoid But look in the mirror's spell and dare to 'what if'? You lost your job and your wife had left, your child was gone and your house taken away your mind now broken. Fear of humanity is but a step, the comfort of being alone led you down this dark alley, the rat and the fox your allies for they too fear man's footsteps. Are we less than that we see? Are we too busy or too proud? I see no mourners here, only indifference Jon Doe, your maker will mourn for you and relative's dead will feel your pain. And perhaps one day your community will learn to mourn for a stranger. For we are all strangers, when we look the other way. May you find peace Sir, whoever you may be?
Archived comments for The Stranger within
Inchrory on 11-06-2012
The Stranger within
Hi Cooky,
I think that this is a well-observed and categorised summary wrapped up in a poetic content.

Strangely, enough I was taking my dog for a late stroll about one o clock this morning when we met a beautiful dog fox walking towards us; it was not in the least perturbed at our presence.

It seems that certain neighbours leave scraps out for the night scavengers and it knew actually where to go.

I think that poets too have to bear their share of indifference. It can sometimes be a lonely path we tread, looking for those scraps of comfort.

Well done.

Morchuis.


Author's Reply:
Thank you for taking the time to read my work.

amman on 11-06-2012
The Stranger within
Well constructed poem Cooky. We all of us tend to turn the other cheek. There but for the grace.....
Cheers

Author's Reply:
Yes, the way England is going I can see me living in that alley

franciman on 11-06-2012
The Stranger within
Hi Cooky,

I really like this. Unfortunately, I believe that it is too easy for poets to moralise. what I mean is picking up the pen is easier than picking up the tramp. Nonetheless, it is the power to place the reader in the alley that is the true judge of the verse IMO.

cheers,
Jim

Author's Reply:
I agree. but Europes free immigration policy is causing there to be more beggars on the street.

ruadh on 11-06-2012
The Stranger within
This is all too true. Life turns upside down when you least expect it. Many are too quick to judge. Thanks for posting.

ailsa

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work.

stormwolf on 12-06-2012
The Stranger within
Beggars, like pornography, dull the senses to good.

Sometimes I give, sometimes I don't but I never pass them unaffected
Alison x

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading and editing

Ionicus on 13-06-2012
The Stranger within
A true and passionate view of a derelict world that some choose to avoid. That everyone is indifferent may be an overstatement but the poem is well written and makes sense.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading

Andrea on 13-06-2012
The Stranger within
Missed this one Cooky. Excellent, very visual and full of imagery.

Sadly enjoyed, if you see what I mean...

Author's Reply:
Thank you for taking the time to read my work

ChairmanWow on 13-06-2012
The Stranger within
This poem hits home. I am a guy who may be homeless soon if i don't land a job and i am not even mentally ill ha-ha-ha. Luckily I have had several good interviews lately, if they were not just being condescending. By the way, there are not any gorillas in Brazil, unless they are in zoos.

Ralph

Author's Reply:

Texasgreg on 13-06-2012
The Stranger within
Cooky, I didn't even know this 'un was there 'till I saw it had been commented on by Ralph, (BTW-Still praying for you, Ralph. Hope that's not working against you 😉 ),but sooo glad i came across it. Our company sent volunteers, (including your truly), to Fort Worth to assist feeding homeless a while back. It made me terribly sick to see all of the children and pregnant women. The number was overwhelming to me. I regularly contribute money to the cause now.

Thank you, my friend.

Photobucket.
Greg 🙂

Author's Reply:


To Catch a fisherman (posted on: 08-06-12)
I wrote this while I was fishing. I was out to fish for Carp, but in the poem I am fishing for trout. My Dad once told me "Work is for people who cannot fish", sound advice for any young man.

The mists of dawn, the painter's palette, Byron's mood and the river, the making of a poet's banquet. Ghostly swans glide in and out of my vision, moving waves of pollen flotsam and creating the words that I long to see. It is here that the pregnant dragonfly dips her egg filled body under the surface, entering a world of myth and danger the gamble of her life For there are eyes watching, waiting, the trout is looking for its next victim. A rise and the dragonfly is no more, clinical, no sorrow, no regrets, no apologies for nature answers to no one. All around water boatman skim the surface looking on like referees from some epic hockey match. Another splash and another victim, this time the trout, for the pike rules this domain, nature in all her magnificence, no compassion, no judgements the circles of life complete. As in war the chain of command cannot be ignored And now I am part of that chain. My trout, my trout, come to my fly for I am hungry and I have the priest to hear your confession. And as another day passes I have witnessed that what you cannot see, for I am a fisherman and in waters reflection, I know, that I too will die. But not before I have seen another dawn on the river, where nature was born, where spirits live and souls die, for are all equal in my mind's eye. In the distance the city where spirits die in pollutions berry and souls drab and resigned, live In concrete boxes, prisoners of their own mind. Chasing elusive wealth and corruption, disciples of violence and prostitution. And through the window, in the distance the river flows with a clear conscience. A supreme being, incorruptible and true, allied to the elements, distributing her blood, giving life to all within her womb. A surrogate to this earth, the first monarch of creation. And when the cities have turned to dust, and man has murdered his last born son she will be here flowing gently to the sea in love with nature, for eternity. And when I leave this mortal coil my spirit will return to be a part of the river. A ghostly angler to be seen on the mists of dawn. A reminder of what has gone, witnessed by these ghostly swans, for peace is the last gift on earth and the river will provide, this lasting gift to me.
Archived comments for To Catch a fisherman
Andrea on 08-06-2012
To Catch a fisherman
Absolutely beautiful. Your dad was a wise man 🙂

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading

Texasgreg on 09-06-2012
To Catch a fisherman
Aye, a fisherman poet! What colorful tales you could spin if desired, LOL.



Real good stuff, Cooky...



Greg Photobucket
In reply: Been fishing before, lots of fun. Gonna try sex today...

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading. Just got back from four days of carp fishing. It is better than sex, you should try it.

amman on 09-06-2012
To Catch a fisherman
Hi Cooky. I think this is your best yet. Very atmospheric, I was transported to the river with you, and also very philosophical. You have the gift my friend.
Regards

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading.

Ionicus on 10-06-2012
To Catch a fisherman
I can appreciate your fascination with fishing as my father was an angler and took me with him when I was young but I did not inherit his passion. Your poem reflects the pleasure you derive from the pursuit but also your love of nature.
Good work.
With reference with Texasgreg's reply, I have tried both and much prefer the latter. Cheers.

Author's Reply:


A Soldier's Tale (posted on: 04-06-12)
A poem exploring the thoughts of a soldier while being bombed in the Great war.

The trembling hand the twitching face. A desperate draw on cigarette looking for courage in 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 its 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.''
Archived comments for A Soldier's Tale
stormwolf on 05-06-2012
A Soldiers Tale
This is an outstanding poem. Absolutely Cooky at his best.
Hi Cooky
You have some issues with apostrophes and punctuation which limit the rating for me.
If they were sorted this would be worthy of a nomination IMHO.
I feel 'trembling' would have been a better description in the first line.
Interesting to see what others think but a hard-hitting poem well expressed.
Alison x


Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work. Feel free to put corrections in. Texas greg did the last one for me. The speed of my writing and the fact as a young man, I never went to school does make my work look a little shabby.

Ionicus on 05-06-2012
A Soldiers Tale
It is only in retrospect that we realise the futility of that conflict and the heavy price that was paid in human casualties and deaths. Lessons, though, haven't been learned and we carry on undertaking wars for doubtful motives.
Many poets and writers have tackled this particular topic and your point of view, lucidly expressed, emphasises the poignancy.
My poem 'Shell Shock' on the same topic written on 5/9/2003 is still on this site. If you are interested this is the link: https://www.ukauthors.com/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=2684

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work and i will check out your poem.

Pennywise on 05-06-2012
A Soldiers Tale
Superb poem. The words are strong, they depict a very tense scene.

Yes the punctuation could do with a tidy, but I strongly feel this piece is well worthy of a Nom.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work. My poems do suffer from punctuation and grammatical errors. I am still learning as I never went to school as a young man and the spell check does not pick up enough errors.

stormwolf on 05-06-2012
A Soldiers Tale
You have a real ability Cooky and I would be happy to help in any way. Don't feel bad about not having much schooling. It does not affect your ability to produce powerful poems. Delighted that you have got a nom. X

Now a well desrved nib to go with it. I wish I could re-rate this.
Hurrayyyyyyyyy

Author's Reply:

Andrea on 05-06-2012
A Soldiers Tale
I didn't have much schooling either, Cooky (left at 15) - no shame in that, my friend.

A wonderful, if painful, poem.

Author's Reply:

Texasgreg on 05-06-2012
A Soldiers Tale
Cooky, you just keep plugging along...you're gifted with the ability to express in a way that transfers your, (or the character's), emotions to the reader.

Thank-you for your pen, my friend.

Greg 🙂

p.s. I have decided to no longer rate as a personal choice, so take no offense. This is a fine piece as is qualified by the well-deserved nib. 😉

Author's Reply:

shangri-la on 06-06-2012
A Soldiers Tale
This is an amazing piece - very thought provoking and emotive. Your words are very powerful, reading sent a shiver down my spine and brought a lump to my throat. The fact that you didn't get much schooling is amazing considering how good this is, by the way you're in good company, I, like Andrea, left school at 15 too.

Author's Reply:

amman on 07-06-2012
A Soldiers Tale
Excellent poem Cooky. Very emotive with good imagery.
Regards

Author's Reply:

Inchrory on 07-06-2012
A Soldiers Tale
Hi Cooky,
A well expressed poem. No one can ever really visualise the horror of seeing their comrades dying around them in a sometimes futile and impossible position, or not being able to do anything about it when under heavy bombardment.

I would not worry in the least about not having any schooling.
Such badges usually hide a multitude of faults.

I too had no schooling apart from being home taught, living as I did during the war, thirty miles from the nearest school, in a remote part of the Scottish Highlands.

Yet I went on to employ academics to work for me.

You have a natural talent, no amount of book learning will ever provide.

If, I was perhaps in any way serious about poetry. I would merely employ a young university student studying for a degree in English literature to proof read my work and thereby correct my many grammatical mistakes. (There are loads of them in Sheffield)

However, it must be said- that experience has taught me that some grammarians make lousy poets.

Well done.

Morchuis.



Author's Reply:


A Whiskey Love (posted on: 01-06-12)
The most beautiful women in the World live in Sheffield. Well after a good few whiskies I am certain that this is true.

Through a glass of whiskey she appeared a mirage of womanhood. Her flaming blue eyes piercing my sadness promising the world, whilst hiding a glance of Heaven. The single malt in front of me, turned to water in the presence of golden hair which gave the impression of a wave of english buttercups, 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 My eyes gently explored her neck, slim, elegant, with a hint of summer, jewelled with faint dew drops from the evenings heat. And the shoulders, graceful, a ballerinas calling, perfectly formed a place for heroes to rest their head Discreetly my vision wavered, judging her arms, slender, delicate, with a promise of an angels embrace, an embrace that could wash away all your sins. The shine on her dress was clinging to the curves That only beauty can possess, Like raindrops shimmering on the lilies in a pond hiding the secrets below. The wrist was adorned with a single pearl but it is she, who is more precious, no mortal offering could eclipse her. Her hands manicured, soft, with a touch that I would gladly die for. No ring, dare I wish? A nervous glance brought out the man in me Exquisite were her legs, long, perfectly formed, made to move, like a gentle summer wind caressing the flowers of some meadow In a faraway dream, breath-taking. 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 bare with a love so rare, my mind lost in sweet expectation. A feeling that could only be matched By my love for Scotland's best. 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.
Archived comments for A Whiskey Love
Inchrory on 01-06-2012
A Whiskey Love
Hi Cooky,
This is an interesting poem in self-deception; I think we have all been down that road at some time or another.

I love your descriptive terms, they certainly presented an alluring picture.

The only thing I can see wrong, was that you were obviously drinking the wrong kind of whisky.
When you drink “Irish Whiskey” all sorts of things can go wrong, unless its Bushmills of course.
Bushmills 21 year old malt is a very fine drink indeed.
A few glasses and all your troubles seem to melt away, at least until you wake up next morning and see what is snoring next to you.

Much enjoyed.

Morchuis.


Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work it is much appreciated

Romany on 02-06-2012
A Whiskey Love
Some really compelling imagery here, with great use of language.

Romany.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work it is much appreciated

amman on 03-06-2012
A Whiskey Love
Hi Cooky. Like this very much. Exquisitely written. Can you get her phone number for me?
Cheers


Author's Reply:
Glad you liked it. Much appreciated, she is a figmant of a drunken imagination


A snowflake passed this way (posted on: 28-05-12)
Memories can be found by those who look

Fragile is the mind that has lost a friend. so too, is the snowflake seeking sanctuary on my window sill both are anonymous to the world. Delicate is the dreamer who knows the snowflake well Pure as an angel's tear complex as the heavens above. For within it's crystal, there is a mirror, where footprints, lead me down, a snowy lover's lane to that first kiss. Oblivious to winter's chill there she held my dreams warmed my passion and whispered the words that only lover's can hear. And in the virgin snow I proclaimed to the night "I love you" As the snow melted into tears upon her face. Fleeting was the time we were given. This youth that remembers the girl that loved him so tenderly In the cold of yesterday. Shimmering were the Angels that danced for love In wispy snowflake dresses swirling their magic. Ever knowing that spring would chase their dance away Forever are the lives searching for answers, sharing a snowflake's fate. Bound in this brief existence beautiful and unique, born to melt away In the heat of time. For it is an honour to know a life that others did not. A memory that is special to me Most fragile too, are we who love this life whose lives are touched by those we meet. Who gather the things that make us complete, friends and snowflake memories. A tender truth, written in the sky, anonymous to the crowds, but not to those who look up and see.
Archived comments for A snowflake passed this way
stormwolf on 28-05-2012
A snowflake passed this way
Nature has so much to teach us and speaks to us all the time.
the transient beauty of the unique snowdrop, a miracle in itself. I loved the image of the snowflakes turning to tears on her cheeks.
Alison x

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading

amman on 29-05-2012
A snowflake passed this way
Hi Cooky. Nicely whimsical and really good imagery. I think this works very well and deserves more readings. Perhaps I could make a couple of minor suggestions. Maybe 'tenderly' instead of 'tender' in verse 6. Also, lower case for 'Snowflake' in the final verse, but perhaps that was deliberate.
Cheers

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading and I have corrected the mistakes you suggest.

Andrea on 29-05-2012
A snowflake passed this way
Beautiful, full of imagery. I wondered about Snowflake, too, but decided it must be deliberate. I'd also lose the question mark in the second verse, but maybe I didn't understand it properly (wouldn't be the first time ...

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading. I have corrected the mistake. Texas greg also helped me change the word fragile, as the intended over use did not quite work.

Ionicus on 29-05-2012
A snowflake passed this way
I agree with all the above comments. Truly good imagery.


Author's Reply:

Texasgreg on 30-05-2012
A snowflake passed this way
Your finished product looks good enough to give to Cyrano de Bergerac. Niner in my book.

Greg 🙂

Author's Reply:

Romany on 02-06-2012
A snowflake passed this way
A lovely poem, as delicate and complicated as the snowflake at its centre.

Romany.

Author's Reply:


Love in all it's Glory (posted on: 25-05-12)
Sometimes we forget to tell our partners what we feel.

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 beautiful woman beyond Michael Angelo's imagination and beyond the dreams of any first love. Your face worthy of every knight's quest, with a smile that my dreams can play, over and over, 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 a happiness like this. Just like you and me
Archived comments for Love in all it's Glory
sunken on 25-05-2012
Love in all its Glory
I don't think you could wish anything better for your offspring, Cooky. Well said that man.

s
u
n
k
e
n

i like the base

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading

stormwolf on 25-05-2012
Love in all its Glory
OMG now I have gone all soppy! 😉
I really love to read the poetry of men in love, it regenerates my faith in human nature and that needs a lot of regenerating I can tell ya! 😉
Alison x

I have given it an 8 because I feel that some lines were too predictable but overall a lovely poem.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading

Texasgreg on 26-05-2012
Love in all its Glory
I gave it a 9 because men are made to be predictable and cannot help it. You want mysterious, consult a woman, though you'll never understand what she said...LOL (kidding...kinda, Alison). I do agree some with Alison...I like to put these on the slow burner to simmer. Come back to stir now and again and you'll find new flavor in it.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading

Nomenklatura on 26-05-2012
Love in all its Glory
Hi Cooky,
I liked this poem because, as the comments reflect and your introduction states, perhaps we don't say such things enough.

However, I do agree with Storm's comment to a certain extent. It's best to avoid received phrases: 'two hearts beat as one' or very familiar tropes: 'every knight's quest'. If you are going to use them it's often a good idea to twist or skew them somehow.

Despite these details I enjoyed this poem, my favourite stanza is the second last.

Ewan

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading

Bradene on 26-05-2012
Love in all its Glory
Love a good love poem and this is a good love poem. Enjoyed very much. Valx

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading

Andrea on 26-05-2012
Love in all its Glory
Awwww,that's lovely, that is.

*dabs watery peepers*

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading


Yellow (posted on: 21-05-12)
The Geneva Protocol banning the use of chemical weapons came into force in 1928. The use of Mustard Gas was used in the 1914-18 Great War. It is heavier than air and was designed to fill the trenches with poison.This is a poem about one soldier's experience and is a fictional write.

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.
Archived comments for Yellow
Bradene on 21-05-2012
Yellow
More great and truthful poetry from you cooky. If only the world was a better place for all that suffering. So many died in vain without knowing or fully understanding why. Excellent work. Valx

Author's Reply:

Ionicus on 21-05-2012
Yellow
Unfortunately all sort of weapons are used in conflicts even now whether they conform to the humanitarian aspirations of the Geneva conventions or not. In the years prior to the 1929 Protocol relating to biological warfare, nobody would have given much thought to the ethics of using lethal arms.
Your poem forcefully highlights such misuse. Well done.

Author's Reply:

RoyBateman on 23-05-2012
Yellow
A touching, gut-wrenching piece: this was, at the time, probably the ultimate horror weapon and there was no way of dealing with it apart from wet cloths pressed to the nose. Even the rapidly-developed respirators were a lot less than perfect, as you mention. What's more, gas went on to become the great fear of the next couple of decades - in 1939, everyone including babies and dogs had masks supplied!
Probably the most terrifying realisation of that fear on screen is the sudden air attack that opens the 1936 Korda classic "Things to Come" - that sent people running from the cinemas when it was released! If you get the chance, check it out - it sometimes appears late-night on some underwatched TV channel. Anyway, I digress - a fine, hard-hitting piece that deserves to be widely read.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading my work and I will watch out for "Things To Come".


Broken England (posted on: 18-05-12)
I wrote this in response to the Summer riots in England. There are now over 1 million young people unemployed and the retirement age has been upped to 66.

My brave ancestor of England, look away, for I offend you. 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 you. 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 Passchendaele look away for I offend you. Government legislate to keep us in bondage to 66, Over the hill at fifty to wander the dole queue. 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 you. 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 you. 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 and no country to protect. The savior's of Goose Green look away for I offend you. 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, for your Paradise is a lie. A dangerous wind now blows and common sense will fail, for England is broken, and life will never be the same, in this green and pleasant land.
Archived comments for Broken England
Bradene on 18-05-2012
Broken England
Sadly there is far too much truth in your word cooky. I'm glad I'm the age I am I dread to think what life will be like in even 15 years time here in this England. A well thought out and executed piece. Valx

Author's Reply:
Thank you for taking the time to read my poem.

stormwolf on 18-05-2012
Broken England
Hooray! Lift the banner of non conforming!!!!
You are preaching to the converted here. brother!!!

A couple of little things. I really hate using "thee" unless the whole poem is in that lingo. I realise why you have done it but I do not think it adds to the poem and the plain "you" would have had the same impact to my mind.

Over the hill at fifty to wonder the dole queue. (wander)

I can see this is a form of expression for you in that you said before that you just write as the feelings come or something along these lines. Personally, I would then go back and hone it like pruning a prized rose but I am singing your song! Oh boy, yes!
Alison x

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading. The word thee was used in an attempt to connect with the language of the soldier at the time of each battle. The county of Yorkshire is the biggest in England and thee was, and still is a common word. Just listen to the actor Sean Bean who come's from Sheffield in Yorkshire. I reaise that with the net one has to restrict local dialect for common understanding so I shall take your advice in this instance. All suggestions are always welcome.

amman on 19-05-2012
Broken England
Hi Cooky. An intelligent and well presented picture of England's current, self-inflicted, woes fueled by the excesses of a ruling elite. Beware indeed! Just nitpicking, but I think 3 or 4 full stops are needed in the piece.
Regards

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading. I have made the corrections you suggest.

Andrea on 19-05-2012
Broken England
Brilliant piece. And here's a song for you with equally brilliant lyrics. Best British protest song in years.





Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading. A very powerful video is this, have put it on my facebook

stormwolf on 19-05-2012
Broken England
Hi again Cooky

Congrats on the nib. I think the poem reads better after taking out the 'thees' although I understand why you chose them. Any suggestions are only personal preferences unless typos etc. The poem is always yours to alter or not as the case may be.
Well done on a super expression of how things sadly are.
Alison x


Author's Reply:

Texasgreg on 19-05-2012
Broken England
Babies born to fail

My concern also. I do pray that change is in the wind for all free nations as it will determine the outcome for all of mankind.

I thank you for your voice, conviction and pen.

TexasGreg 🙂

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading and your kind message.

Inchrory on 20-05-2012
Broken England
Hi Cooky,
I was somewhat surprised upon reading your posting, as to the comments it attracted.

To the best of my knowledge, England has not been a separate state since 1707 in as much as it is part of the United Kingdoms, commonly known as Great Britain, which includes Wales and the province of Northern Ireland.

It may be that these states will shortly separate leaving England again to its own devices; however, they are still joined at the hip so to speak.
Therefore, it is an insult to speak of England as a sole and separate entity.

I was further surprised, by your acquiescence to remove “thee” from your posting especially from someone whose English is not of the Received Pronunciation.. Even though she is “a reight bobby dazzler”

What is wrong with dialect English, as you rightly state “Thee” is commonly used in Yorkshire, just as “love” is commonplace in Lancaster and “wack” in Merseyside.
In Scotland “Hen” is an assured form of endearment. Where else would you find the expression “a fair few” but in Scotland.

Why then are you pandering to an insidious form of Americanism?.
You are quite right England is now truly broken, it values and its culture is no more. It has become by virtue of the media and internet a lackey to Americanism.

Recently I was told on Eratosphere, by someone from Staffordshire not to use “O” in poetry any more, one can hardly get more supercilious than that, can one?.

Keep taking the tablets, who knows they may work some day.

Come to think of it, I don’t remember Sheffield being a green and pleasant land, unless you were talking about the Hillsborough Stadium.

Morchuis.


Author's Reply:

stormwolf on 20-05-2012
Broken England
Morchus writes
I was further surprised, by your acquiescence to remove “thee” from your posting especially from someone whose English is not of the Received Pronunciation..

As I said Cooky, only suggestions and news to me that my English is not up to scratch.
Alison x

Author's Reply:

Bradene on 20-05-2012
Broken England
Morchuis.Writes To the best of my knowledge, England has not been a separate state since 1707 in as much as it is part of the United Kingdoms, commonly known as Great Britain, which includes Wales and the province of Northern Ireland.

I'm sure cooky is aware of that and doesn't need reminding or educating. If you had read his work properly and bothered to read the intro,you would have realised he was making it abundantly clear he was talking Specifically about ENGLAND. and nowhere in His poem does he declare that Sheffield was green and pleasant, though that is a matter of opinion too. I go often to sheffield and find it a very pleasant place these days. Everyone wants and needs comments on their work but in my opinion your comments have gone far beyond what is needed or wanted, in fact I find them insulting, not only to cooky but to Alison and everyone of us that felt moved enough to comment on his brilliant work. Val

Author's Reply:

Inchrory on 20-05-2012
Broken England
Hi Alison,
I would not dream of suggesting that your English is not up to “Scratch” I think that it is quite delightful.

However, I was just thinking back to a time when nearly all the BBC announcers were in fact recruited from around the Fort George area in Scotland, a few miles From Nairn, on account of their then considered prefect English pronunciation.
Commonly known as Received Pronunciation or standard received English.
Now things have changed and we once more have regional accents to delight and confuse us.
I don’t really see why using Thee and Thou should be a bone of contention, in a localised description, unless one is totally adverse to the King James Bible. Thou to my ear sounds little different to the Scots dialect "Yu or "Yoo," heard in certain parts of Scotland. Ye ken wit am sayin! a widnae fash yer sel o’er it hen.
“Yow gan hame” is often heard in Northumberland
I have a farming cousin in Buchan who speaks the rural Doric, now he is a linguistic challenge even the Attic Scots have difficulty understanding him.

Americans are still using words from the seventeenth century that have been long disregarded in British English.

Have a nice day,

Morchuis.


Author's Reply:

Inchrory on 20-05-2012
Broken England
Hi Bradene,

Thank you, for your reprimand.

I was just wondering what use is poetry, if it does not create a reaction in the reader.

Morchuis.


Author's Reply:

stormwolf on 20-05-2012
Broken England
Dear Cooky
Sorry for high-jacking your page but I have to answer to Morchuis as he has deemed fit to make comments about me.

Morchuis
However, I was just thinking back to a time when nearly all the BBC announcers were in fact recruited from around the Fort George area in Scotland, a few miles From Nairn, on account of their then considered prefect English pronunciation.
Commonly known as Received Pronunciation or standard received English.

I am well aware that the Invernesians were reputed to speak perfect "King's English" but we never liked that fact being intensely patriotic to Scotland and a stone's throw from Culloden.
Now things have changed and we once more have regional accents to delight and confuse us.

Eh?
The Invernesains always had an accent and so do the Nairnites! We spoke[poke good English as we did not use terms like 'tatties' for potatoes etc but to suggest they were devoid of 'accents' is ludicrous.

Morchuis
I don’t really see why using Thee and Thou should be a bone of contention, in a localized description,

whoa boy!
When I made the comment which was made in a genuine spirit of giving constructive critique, I did not realize that the 'thee' was related to that region. However, if I had, I stick by my guns that to use a term out of kilter with the way the rest of the poem is constructed jars on some readers i.e. *me*
It was an honest opinion and one that is said to raise awareness, not to demand that someone changes their poem to suit! That is what posting and being open to comments is all about.

unless one is totally adverse to the King James Bible. Thou to my ear sounds little different to the Scots dialect "Yu or "Yoo," heard in certain parts of Scotland. Ye ken wit am sayin! a widnae fash yer sel o’er it hen.

Please.........
Let me elucidate...........NOTHING wrong with using dialect but it really does behove the writer to be aware of the way it can be seen to the reader.
If I was to write a poem that slipped from auld Scots into modern English, it would look ridiculous unless it was obviously part of the plan.

Morchuis

“Yow gan hame” is often heard in Northumberland
I have a farming cousin in Buchan who speaks the rural Doric, now he is a linguistic challenge even the Attic Scots have have difficulty understanding him.

If I may say so, you are trying to tell yer granny how to suck eggs.

Am I offended by what you wrote?
Yes.The inference was that I am in no position to give crit and knowing how many are wary of being honest on so many poetry sites, I stand by what I wrote and encourage others to speak their mind without fear that someone will come along and make comments about their honest and well thought out opinion.
So thank you. It has given an opportunity to speak out.
I suggest you take such thoughts to the forum, where we can all discuss them in a suitable environment.

Have a nice day.

Author's Reply:

Texasgreg on 21-05-2012
Broken England
Yikes! As a proud American and descendent, I must make my own observation. To my lowly knowledge, the English language is a fluid and ever expanding thing. That's the beauty of it in my again ever-so-lowly eyes. Cooky, I encourage you to use and abuse the English language to your delight and limitless talents, for it belongs to you...not the reverse.

Descendent and rebel American/Texan
Greg Murrill


Author's Reply:


Harry (posted on: 14-05-12)
Harry Patch was the last tommy of World War 1. This write is humbly dedicated to the last veterans of this conflict, sadly they are all gone.

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 Fred, Jack 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, his fear held in check to avoid the Officer's gun, No time left. Stay close Fred, Jack glanced, while Bert squeezed a locket around his neck. a quick nod, the soldier's 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 walk into the grey, Fodder for the machine gun, no defence, we fall. Once more our lads are summoned into oblivion, there 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 Bert, silence for Fred, and silence for Jack. 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 fag, 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.
Archived comments for Harry
Andrea on 14-05-2012
Harry
Wonderful stuff, Cooky! My own father was a tailgunner in the RAF in WW11. It screwed him up for life, as it did so many others. As a consequence, his children suffered too. A lot to answer for.

A very gentle, humble man was Harry, by all accounts. A fabulous tribute.

Author's Reply:

Bradene on 14-05-2012
Harry
Yes very well and sensitively written. My Father died during WW11. I never knew him, Something which has haunted mre all my life. I've read about Harry too, makes you feel really humble. Valx

Author's Reply:

Ionicus on 14-05-2012
Harry
A good write cooky. Congratulations on the nib.
May I point however a misplaced apostrophe in the first line?
This poem brought to mind another on the same subject,
'Farewell Harry Patch' by Corin (https://www.ukauthors.com/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=23698) which, in my humble opinion, should also have been nibbed.

Author's Reply:

royrodel on 15-05-2012
Harry
For death stalks me, waiting for his reward,

Author's Reply:
thank you for reading


Genie in a gin bottle (posted on: 11-05-12)
Someone once said. If you shoot for the Moon and miss ,don't worry for you will be amongst the stars. They never tell you that some of us find only darkness.

Her lips caress another cigarette a fading belle looking for love. The smoke veil's a creature of habit chasing a young girl's dream But this Genie found the palace doors locked, Her youth distilled into a bottle of gin and diluted by these street's of sin Now her makeup hides the bottle's content, silk fingernails deluding the smokers hand, her wig of blonde hiding the soul beneath the ladder in her stocking's, 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.
Archived comments for Genie in a gin bottle
stormwolf on 11-05-2012
Genie in a gin bottle
Hi Cooky
Well, that's depressed the hell outta me 😉
A very sad and salutary tale told well. I have a couple of issues with it that may need tweaking. You need to look to your apostrophes. Some are missing and some in the wrong place. I feel the poem could have been condensed and there is quite a bit of repetition.
I hope you don't mind me saying this. It has the makings of a really fine poem but to my mind could do with a bit of pruning.
Alison x

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading. I never was very good at apostrophies and I have a strange habit of putting in capital letters where they don't belong. I never went to school as a youth, spent too much time fishing.

Unfortunately the spell check does not correct these errors for me. I have been looking for an app to solve the problem, it appears there isn't one.

As for the poem it just grew and grew which I hoped would re-inforce the dependancy and mind sett of the subject. Still it is a learning curve and we can but improve.

amman on 12-05-2012
Genie in a gin bottle
This is very sad and strangely compelling. You've conveyed the subject's hopes and illusions very well. Just need to lose most of the capitals that start each line and tidy up the punctuation.
Regards

Author's Reply:
thank you for reading, will try my best

Bradene on 12-05-2012
Genie in a gin bottle
I agree with Alison 100% Could be a fine piece of work if it was edited down. At the moment there is too much repetition and rough edges. This has the makings of something special though. Valx

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading. I shall edit it better at some future date.

Texasgreg on 12-05-2012
Genie in a gin bottle
Cooky, do we patronize the same bar? I think I remember her sitting on either side. Fortunately she was on my deaf side and obviously only you were aware, LOL. Yes, vanity at its finest.

Greg 🙂


Author's Reply:
Thanks for reading. The poem is still a bit rough like the lady in question. A bit like my ex wife

Texasgreg on 12-05-2012
Genie in a gin bottle
BTW-No worries, school is over-rated. They burned all the good books anyway. 😉

Author's Reply:

sunken on 12-05-2012
Genie in a gin bottle
Hello Cooky. It looks like you put the punctuation right? Or am I also totally hopeless at such things that it just looks right to me? Either way, the main thing is you can write from the heart. That is never to be underestimated. Keep up the good work, fella.

s
u
n
k
e
n

Hey, Adele, you dropped ya mars bar

Author's Reply:
Thank you for reading

Texasgreg on 12-05-2012
Genie in a gin bottle
Good God! Is that to say we also have the same ex-wife? LOL...I often do my writing late at night where my mind is finally free from the trials of the day gone by. It helps me focus, but at the same time, my thoughts sometimes spill over too fast to capture before lost in thought so I make errors in attempt to keep up. Keep working. I enjoy reading.

Greg 🙂


Author's Reply:


Made in Sheffield (posted on: 07-05-12)
When a man is denied his labour due to Politics it is a crime. Progress has had many victims in Sheffield. For you americans a fag is a cigarette and black pudding you may know as blood pudding.

It's 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, nature's finest creation An elephant gun would not bring these men down. A pot of tea, another fag, then into the mill Into the Heat, Dante's Inferno, Armed only with Leather aprons and tongs, First job, a tank barrel, They work as a team, A sacred bond, forged in years of graft Pure strength twisting, the writhing white hot ingot, In a rhythm, nay a dance, with a twenty ton hammer. The grace of men in harmony with machine, A rite of passage, their inheritance. But this also a dance with the devil, One crack and shards of death rain upon them, No escape, just a bed in Tinsley cemetery, Plenty of company there. Another crew tames the roaring furnace Spewing flame, like some demonic dragon Molten metal, thrashes out, Shower upon shower, of burning sparks, That brand and seer the skin, A steel workers tattoo of pride. And the heat, always the heat, Creating a perfume of toxic aftershave. A vision of hell created by man on Earth, But yet through the heat and smoke, there are voices, No angels here, For this is them, these men of steel, ''Ready for a pint'', ''Ahr lass got belly up,'' ''Stick us a ten bob on that horse'', ''Goin in club t, neight'', ''Ready for me grub'', This is the voice of Sheffield. No hardships, for this is their blood, Their culture, their world. Dinner time approaches, the apprentice brings dinner Half a loaf of bread, dug out, and filled with chips, Plenty of salt and vinegar. Then a link of black pudding Washed down with four bottles of Stones Bitter, And a couple of woodbines. No Health and Safety here. I pay but, a moment's homage to this scene For this was Sheffield Steel, The Cog that drove the World But time moves on, The steel workers and Miners, all gone Broken By Maggie. Thrown on the scrap heap of yesterday. Sculptors of their craft, Never to work again. Now the rivers run clean. And the birds sing, And the sun, shines on the valley But not on the steel workers, For they have faded away Replaced by the souls of progress, Shopping malls and stadiums. For Sheffield is now a City of Sport. And tourism reins King. But spare a thought, for these men. Our fathers, who lived there way, With courage and honor. Steel was their Church, Built on the foundations of Pride Their graft, a noble Calling And sacrifice, there honor in death. These men who celebrated friendship, A pint, a smoke, and a gamble. For this was their home, their Sheffield, It was their craft, their sweat, That, forged the world, And it forged me, And now, a part of my World is lost forever. So let the history books be kind, And lets us remember fondly, these men, Made in Sheffield.
Archived comments for Made in Sheffield
Bradene on 07-05-2012
Made in Sheffield
Some great history here and well written too with lots of stark imagery. i read with great interest and enjoyed the experience. valx

Author's Reply:

Andrea on 07-05-2012
Made in Sheffield
An absolutely fabulous history lesson. My London's gone for ever too...

Here's a song for you 🙂



Author's Reply:

Ionicus on 07-05-2012
Made in Sheffield
An excellent historical and atmospheric poem. Well done.

Author's Reply:

Inchrory on 07-05-2012
Made in Sheffield
Hi Cooky,

I often used to call in at Sheffield in the seventies.
It was there that I discovered that they served an extremely strong beer, made I believe by Hull Breweries, it was only ever served in half pints, the reason soon became obvious.
There was another, which I cannot remember the name of, which was reputed to be even stronger, and only available, supposedly to steel workers from the foundries to replenish their lost sweat.

As I was intending to drive later, I only tried a half pint.

I guess three or four of more of those and I think that I could have walked the hundred odd miles home, or at least slept in the first lay by...
I wonder if the Koreans have a similar Hull brewery.

Morchuis.


Author's Reply:

stormwolf on 07-05-2012
Made in Sheffield
Hi Cooky
I LOVED the passion in this, the pride! The strength, integrity and shared purpose of the working man. These things seem to have slipped away so often and we are not a better nation for it but it is not the working man's fault.
You captured everything here, their simple pleasures, their work ethic, comradeship, the decimation of a people and a community by a government far removed from the work-a-day world.
You have a couple of typos which I need to point out but which did nothing to detract from the power of this poem.

Its early morning (It's)
Steel was there Church, (their)
There is everything here, love, pride, realism, a slice in time and most of all a heart-felt tribute to the hard working men. The title was perfect. Very worthy of the anthology.
Alison x

Author's Reply:


War Horse (posted on: 04-05-12)
To make war is one thing.To involve another species is a sin

Taken from clover 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 rises; 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 clover fields, Where the skylark and grouse linger For I will weep for you, My noble friend, My War horse, You magnificent beast
Archived comments for War Horse
Andrea on 06-05-2012
War Horse
I'm a bit puzzled by the capital letters on things like skylark, grouse, trust etc. Other than that I think it's wonderful. Have you seen War Horse on stage, based on Michael Morpurgo's novel?

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Ghosts of War (posted on: 30-04-12)
There are many victims of War.

Within the fog of did you see? An old woman, made up to the nines Can be seen in the corner of the non-believers eye Purse in hand and a glass of wine Waiting for a lover who never comes Just shadows on the wall, Whispering names through Spiders silk, the inheritors Of this forgotten, debutants ball While Portraits glare at vacant laughter An echoed waltz swirls The embrace of loves decay Images now jailed within the Crystal shards Of a fallen chandelier A tear of Woman wears mourning face well, This vigil Mask hiding mortality lost Now broken and marking time, Love lies lost in the barbed wire of war Fallen stars to shine no more Their Remembrance merging into darkness Behind a cloudless sky Alone is the corpse in cratered field Covered by poppies blood Walked on by ghosts to come Another Whispered soul is roaming The guns have left their post And Peace is just an illusion For yet another Flanders ghost This cruel winter's night The withered rose has lost its fragrance The champagne has all gone flat And love calls without an answer For silence is the memory And it is we who walk With our ghosts of War
Archived comments for Ghosts of War
stormwolf on 30-04-2012
Ghosts of War
Very haunting (pardon pun) and eerily effective. There was a very bleak feeling ran through it and the imagery was spot on and original.
I was a bit lost as to the changing rhyme which came and went but enjoyed all the same.
Alison x

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Bradene on 30-04-2012
Ghosts of War
Another enjoyable and haunting piece, the change in the rhyming didn't bother me much as I thought the images it produced more than made up for that quite well. Valx

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amman on 01-05-2012
Ghosts of War
A stark and nuanced poem. Great imagery conveying the futility of war and the victims thereof.
Regards

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Andrea on 01-05-2012
Ghosts of War
Evocative and haunting as mentioned above. Very nicely done.

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Ionicus on 01-05-2012
Ghosts of War
Hear, hear:
'And Peace is just an illusion
For yet another Flanders ghost'
Couldn't agree more. A poignant poem that shows the futility of conflicts.


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To whom it may concern (posted on: 27-04-12)
When the end comes are we accountable for our actions. I give you a theory that mankind is on trial . For I have no religious beliefs. Although in my life I have encountered a number of ghosts which opens up a whole new ball game.

As the moon argues with clouds In winter's tormented sky A frail life lingers in the shadows Waiting for deaths hello To journey over the river Styx On the memories of his funeral swan. . Through frosted windows, A whispered orb appears Hovering over mortal conscience Mirrored in masked apparitions, Around the candles flicker. Voices fill the room Calling the cemeteries dead Calling witness to this passing And In the Rocking chair a figure Speaking, plumes of mist Looking from a dark abyss Where once there was a face. The scratching of a Quill, Writing, moving across a veil of grey, It disturbs the audience of centuries past This quill of mankind Has come to empty another soul, Though the heart will try and hide, The truth, The person that is you. For in his wisdom Creation gave you a conscience And that will always betray This being, that once possessed you And another testimony is taken In the trial of Mankind
Archived comments for To whom it may concern
Bradene on 29-04-2012
To whom it may concern
I'm amazed no one has commented on this piece of work. I think it is superb. Very well written and really very atmospheric. A smashing read. well done.Valx

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The importance of Pomposity (posted on: 23-04-12)
Being Rich can give us strange values?

The Perfect life, a wife half his age Their house grand, with a zip code to match No hawkers, appointments only The library full of Shakespeare Never opened, for it's the show that counts Dinner Parties, A new painting Purchased, because we can, A favourite phrase for American wealth, Pompous talk of Wine and Poetry Vinegar, and Plagiarism their only worth, Still the new boob job to admire The children, off to England, Trophy kids, Breast fed by American Express. The Debutants Ball awaits them And a hoorah Henry wedding their destiny Church on Sunday New money at the front The old money sitting in the private pew God for sale, And the greenback will mop the saint's brow Even in death a grand memorial But decay gives no privilege Let's hope the pearly gates are the right colour And god has the right zip code For pomposity, might just send them to the wrong house.
Archived comments for The importance of Pomposity
jaudrey on 23-04-2012
The importance of Pomposity
...if there`s any justice, it will! Really liked the; `breast feed by American Express`line.

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Andrea on 23-04-2012
The importance of Pomposity
Ah, but you're a cynic, cooky 🙂

Nicely done and excellent last line!

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ChairmanWow on 24-04-2012
The importance of Pomposity
THe rich are different. Above it all living behind their gated communities and private schools and then looking down on the masses outside for not getting along. Excellent metaphor work.

Ralph

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sunken on 25-04-2012
The importance of Pomposity
As I've always said, Cooky, it's the simple things in life that matter. They're certainly the things that make me happiest. Smashing poem. Well done on the nib.

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Bradene on 25-04-2012
The importance of Pomposity
Really Brilliant piece of observatioal poetry Cooky, with a strong message. Great work. Valx

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amman on 25-04-2012
The importance of Pomposity
Hi Cooky
Good to meet you. A nicely informed piece of social commentary in poetic form. Very clever.
Regards

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Ionicus on 25-04-2012
The importance of Pomposity
That's nouveau riche for you, cooky: if you have wealth, flaunt it. It is a universal truth.
I am not in the affluent category but I would not be averse to a wife half my age.
Good acerbic poem.

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Romany on 26-04-2012
The importance of Pomposity
Oh dear, we can't have that can we? Love the cynicism and these lines stood out for me:
"God for sale,
And the greenback will mop the saint’s brow"

Romany.


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End of Ops (posted on: 20-04-12)
To serve your country and come home. But memories of war will always follow.

I am nearing the end of my journey The path that I walk is almost done, Over my shoulder are friends now gone? In front of me a life, underpinned by yesterday's fear For I am in a world where no one belongs Tomorrow I look through the sight for one more time My finger, no more the killer and my shoulder, Never to feel the recoil of tracers sent. I have spent too much time bringing peace to others It is time for peace to find me. This old warrior has spent too much time in wars arena, A soldier's death I will not seek here, for my end is to be with you I am leaving this place, where friends gave so much, Where sacrifice and loss dwell, Where silent widows weep. Fate has decided, I'm coming home, Coming home to freedm For the last post can no longer call for me.
Archived comments for End of Ops
orangedream on 20-04-2012
End of Ops
Almost brought a tear to my eye, Cooky. Lovely sentiments expressed here, more than eloquently;-)

Tina

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Ionicus on 20-04-2012
End of Ops
Too true.
'I am leaving this place, where friends gave so much,
Where sacrifice and loss dwell,
Where silent widows weep.'
This last line should give pause for thought.

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Bombers Moon (posted on: 16-04-12)
What goes through a pilots mind while doing his duty?

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 This place, where silent screams dwell And rainbows come to die. 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 But an unseen extermination to me 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 truly are, a blessed Race.
Archived comments for Bombers Moon
Bradene on 16-04-2012
Bombers Moon
A poem that really gives pause for much thought. Many layered I suspect. A piece I will read again for sure. Valx

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Texasgreg on 16-04-2012
Bombers Moon
I really liked this. As an ex-Marine, I can relate to the solemn tone. I try to refrain from critiquing as there are so many others more than willing to do so, but since I like your piece so much...personally, I would have used iniquity in place of one sin. Personal preference.

Greg 🙂

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Texasgreg on 16-04-2012
Bombers Moon
Oh yeah! Good job on the nib. Well deserved. I recently found out what that was and have been dying to use it as if I knew what I was talking about. 🙂

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ChairmanWow on 16-04-2012
Bombers Moon
Evocative for sure. We are still dealing with the "seeds" of what was planted in the Twin Towers, Hiroshima, Dresden, London, Nanking, etc. but truth is there are lots of people who would push buttons that would kill a million who would go home and sleep like a baby.

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orangedream on 19-04-2012
Bombers Moon
Nice one, Cooky. Well done on the nib and nom;-)

Tina

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The Execution of Romeo (posted on: 13-04-12)
Love can have many faces.

They came in the depths of sleep Troll whisperers taunting my love In the balconies of fear Weeping angels, rain teardrops Of salt onto my bleeding soul Faceless Phantoms deliberate my fate While dining on lonely hearts, And drinking promises made in the heat of passion Sweet as unicorn blood, the last deceit The verdict guilty as always I kneel in sacrifice to the Gorgon Love is lost, and so am I Behind the eyes of the beast I see grief not of this earth, Pain beyond any dying planet And yes love, in my executioner For even the blackest heart Needs love, for this is the secret of all existence. A candle of hope for the damned Gods Redemption in this life You see love cannot be chained, Nor can it be selective It resides in the pillars of good and evil And it will be with you Even in your darkest hour. My epitaph, Romeo
Archived comments for The Execution of Romeo
Nomenklatura on 22-04-2012
The Execution of Romeo
Thought I'd look for something no-one had commented on.
Can't quite understand why this hasn't struck a chord with anyone.Quite baroque and emotionally overwrought, but none the worse for that. Were you experimenting with style?

I liked this one.

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Love under the Dollar (posted on: 09-04-12)
The Dollar promises to make our dreams come true. The reality can be somewhat different. We are conditioned to chase this manufactured dream of paradise, and who knows this could be the meaning of life, perhaps not?

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 envy all things That we cannot be Envy things that Come in dollar dreams That buys the illusion That one day you will envy me
Archived comments for Love under the Dollar
Bradene on 09-04-2012
Love under the Dollar
Well you really nailed today's living with this sad and sorry narrative. So very true I fear. Really good observational poetry. Valx

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Andrea on 09-04-2012
Love under the Dollar
Yes, good stuff. My fave lines would be these...

We Parasites and leaches
We Saints and Pulpit Preachers


...but 'leaches' should be 'leeches' and maybe should also be capitalised, as 'Parasites' etc all are.

Really impressive stuff, though.

Author's Reply:
Thank you for commenting. My spell checker let me down on this one

ChairmanWow on 09-04-2012
Love under the Dollar
"and cougars dine on essence divine," one of many great lines in this. Interesting all the predatory imagery.

Ralph

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sunken on 11-04-2012
Love under the Dollar
Brilliant. Both in sentiment and delivery. Nice work indeed.

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stormwolf on 11-04-2012
Love under the Dollar
Yes, very full of contempt for so much of today's false idols and corrupted values. Depressing as hell but well written! 😉
Alison x

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chant_z on 15-05-2012
Love under the Dollar
Very poignant; excellent. "Envy things that
Come in dollar dreams
That buys the illusion
That one day you will envy me" provides me with a counter thought. Physical money is disappearing into metaphysical cyberspace these days. Would that double the illusion 🙂


Author's Reply:


A Tree grows in Avignon (posted on: 06-04-12)
Avignon is in France. It suffered particularly badly at the hands of invading forces during the First and Second World Wars.

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 Took 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 Her flowers of peace endure This soul of Avignon, Her message the symbol of life. Anonymous to a stranger's eye, A cathedral of hope, a grannies smile. Avignon's tree of home. A tree that set us free, That tree that saved my Avignon.
Archived comments for A Tree grows in Avignon
Bradene on 06-04-2012
A Tree grows in Avignon
I loved the idea here and the rhythm was perfect to my ears at least. Really enjoyed the read. Valx

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Andrea on 06-04-2012
A Tree grows in Avignon
Yes, occupied by the Nazis in WW11. A moving poem, cooky.

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ChairmanWow on 06-04-2012
A Tree grows in Avignon
Tree is a great symbol of life. Flow of this poem is very good. Would kind of like to know what kind of tree.

Ralph

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Andrea on 06-04-2012
A Tree grows in Avignon
The tree of life, I reckon 🙂 -->

THE TREE OF LIFE

Author's Reply:


The Worker (posted on: 30-03-12)
Is Work is for fools and horses. We live to work or we work to live. The choice is yours. We spend most of our lives there so the question is, was it worth it. I personally believe work is for people who cannot fish.

Torn from sleeps oasis The razor stings my mortal soul A glance in the mirror to know I exist For the face of god lies there And behind this forced smile A lunatic walks in the shadow of me But within this admission The asylum of my brain Has a garden where sanity grows For bound in chains we gather Though wind and snow bar our way Pouring through these asphalt veins Clogged with cholesterol filled ambition For Monday morning dines once more On another workers soul And all the while the tick of the clock Winds down this drone In happy reapers favour But the rebels among us Hide in the womb of our imagination To keep the corporate illusions at bay And my secret butterfly carries this tortured soul To a place beyond the dollars eye Where the snake rattles its distain for humanity For solitude is all I desire And all the while the clock ticks on Forcing my existence to trickle down the cities throat Quenching this monster, they call progress And as I crawl home through zombie minds I feel sorry for the splattered fly on my windshield For its freedom has ended Yet my dreams of freedom linger on Although within my heart I know These too, will soon be gone
Archived comments for The Worker
Andrea on 30-03-2012
The Worker
Maybe the fly's freedom has just begun 🙂

Very nice, and much clear observation and food for thought...

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sunken on 31-03-2012
The Worker
Hello Cooky. welcome to Uka. I like your poem very much. I like it more than poached eggs. Personally, by the way, I live for cheese on toast. A simple meal that only takes minutes to prepare. I trust this has helped? If, in the unlikely event that this hasn't helped, please feel free to reposition the previous words/letter into something more acceptable. Good work indeed. I look forward to seeing more of your stuff. Thank you.

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falling off chairs since 1996

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ChairmanWow on 31-03-2012
The Worker
Love "clogged with cholesterol filled ambition." "Work is the curse of the drinking man," was a saying common until about 2 centuries ago. Back then only drunkards or whore mongers had to work constantly like we do now. Welcome aboard.

Ralph

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jay12 on 01-04-2012
The Worker
Wow, after reading it I felt that this was something I could have written myself. I love the sentiments, 100%. Great read!

Jay.

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stormwolf on 03-04-2012
The Worker
Hi there
Welcome to UKA! 😉
I enjoyed the poem and the sentiments behind it. I so agree. We were not born to work like hamsters on a wheel to make the elite rich.
We are so much more than that.
Alison x

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Texasgreg on 17-04-2012
The Worker
Lol, 'tis me...had two heart attacks since age 34 and was working within a week of each. Between fear of losing your job and the "thing" that makes you feel worthless without it, you just go on and on and....

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The Prophesy of Me (posted on: 23-03-12)
A poem about society. What is normal and who decides. Are we lost in the race to find perceived wealth, to be better than your neighbour. The human race are weird creatures, or perhaps I am. Either way something is wrong, though I fear the conditioning of society will brand me wrong. One fact is clear, Sometimes the truth is not what we want to hear?

The prophesy of me? 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
Archived comments for The Prophesy of Me
orangedream on 23-03-2012
The Prophesy of Me
You are right in as much as you say that most times, we do not always want to hear the truth.

A passionate write, alphadog, and whether one agrees or not with the narrator, there is much food for thought.

Tina

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orangedream on 23-03-2012
The Prophesy of Me
So sorry, cooky, I just realised I called you 'alphadog' by mistake. Must take more water with it;-) Tina

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Andrea on 23-03-2012
The Prophesy of Me
Passionate and emotive stuff, Cooky and, as Tina says, much to think about.

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ChairmanWow on 23-03-2012
The Prophesy of Me
Even if we do live in the best of all possible worlds it doesn't mean this one is any good. Like the last two lines best.

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An Immortal love (posted on: 02-03-12)
What would you trade for that special person?.What happens to you when your love is rejected?

Hiding within the feathers of an angels wing My love waits, shy to the world Content to fly, never wanting to stay Until I met you I have traded immortality for your kiss A mortal kiss soft, moist, like the birth of a rainbow, Leaving me with no fear My sacrifice to love, But love is a feast And illusions dance in its shadow And temptation has a price For my angel danced with destiny Now I stand on the precipice alone An outcast from heaven With broken wings that can fly no more my dreams lay in the salt Of a billion tears This burden is mine to carry To slow my walk through The Valley of death For love is my cross But it is a thing of beauty to show God And perhaps within my suffering He will understand That love and loss is the price We angels pay for Living a mortal life.
Archived comments for An Immortal love
admin on 03-03-2012
An Immortal love
I really enjoyed this, Cooky, can't understand why it has no comments! Mind you, it IS weekend, always a bit slow.

Author's Reply:

Ionicus on 04-03-2012
An Immortal love
A nice romantic poem, cooky, expressing the anguish of rejection.
One small niggle: in the first line 'angels' should have an apostrophe.

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Enslavement of a lesser Being (posted on: 27-02-12)
The human race is locked into a system that compramises our values. We are in a race to own material things. Greed is threatening the planet and greed is making us prisoners of desire. Your life is controlled by someone elses clock, your freedom is controlled by your perceived wants. The question is what price will you pay for these wants?

Freedom won on a distant battlefield Gallant words to remember them by Unspoken tears for the old to cry, A game for the young to play Never a thought for freedoms way . For tyrants are easy to spot Peaceful takeovers not, Look through the haze . For when wheat replaces the meadows The birds have no home When forests are felled, Extinction will come You are a commodity, For globalisation has won . When TV calls caressing your soul With the next discount, and ''Yes its free fitting'' Without a shot being fired Your future mortgaged . And when your ration of bread Demands the last fish in the sea Neatly Packaged and dolphin free Who will pay the price? . This is the legacy There is no escape Big brother is watching . Mankind in a zoo of its own creation Come, peer through the bars at, This condemnation of society broken For freedom lies on the other side.
Archived comments for Enslavement of a lesser Being
Andrea on 27-02-2012
Enslavement of a lesser Being
This reminds me of that old Cree Indian proverb:

Only when the last tree has died and the last river been poisoned and the last fish been caught will we realise we cannot eat money

Couldn't agree more, and much enjoyed. Oh, and welcome to UKA 🙂

Author's Reply:

teifii on 27-02-2012
Enslavement of a lesser Being
All too true. Enjoyed the poem. And welcome to UKA.

Author's Reply:

franciman on 27-02-2012
Enslavement of a lesser Being
hi cooky and welcome to UKA.

I really enjoyed this until I snagged on once great nation, which changed the emphasis and momentum for me. I think it is much better as a condemnation of society as a whole. but that is only my opinion. great verse, my small moan notwithstanding.

Cheers,
Jim


Author's Reply:
I did struggle with that line. I have now changed it to "This condemnation of society broken" to keep its rythm. Thank you for reading and improving my work Steven.

barenib on 27-02-2012
Enslavement of a lesser Being
Welcome from me too - look forward to seeing more of your poems. John.

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Ionicus on 27-02-2012
Enslavement of a lesser Being
Good sentiments, Steven. Welcome on board.

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ChairmanWow on 01-03-2012
Enslavement of a lesser Being
Like this piece, not quit ready to agree there is no escape. Reminds me of my old Earth First! activist days.

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