Steven Cooke Poems

She was eighteen, I was thirty two
She was an unread poem,
I was yesterday’s gift.
Her heart she gave gladly,
...

Not a rose, or a lily,
But a buttercup
Languishing in a field of gold,
In some English meadow
...

The trembled hand
the twitching face.
A desperate draw on cigarette
looking for courage in a cordite breath.
...

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

This immortal rose that lovers seek
will be glimpsed by all in youthful peak
for her presence will be on every corner.
...

Let this day vanquish our differences
for father is still the head.
Put by our petty grievance,
let family rule the day.
...

The rose has framed the summer
the leaves have done their duty.
The flowers have shed their seeds
and the hedge rows offer their final feast.
...

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
...

A poem about World War 1.
(Ich tötete is German for I killed)
(J'ai tue is French for I killed)
(Yellow mist refers to Mustard Gas)
...

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.
...