Archive for the War Category

Dawn 1945(a persona poem)

Posted in Poetry, revolution, Uncategorized, War, writing with tags , , on January 12, 2016 by Graeme Cooper

Grey light creeps across the ashen paving

With purpose as deadly as the foreign boots

Of the infantrymen who hide still

In the suburbs of Berlin.


The new sun interrogates us who are left,

The morning breeze lifts fallen banners,

Insinuating shame underneath.  As if,

They have the right to question!


The Fuhrer will pound his fist and defy

The very air to bring its scorn near

Our glorious purpose.


But this morning,

He is dead.  All is dead.


The proud promised future is litter

and ash and I

Stand, as if naked,

In this cold dawn, listening

for the whisper of tanks.



Posted in Poetry, politics, revolution, War, writing with tags , , , on May 5, 2015 by Graeme Cooper

He rises darkly whilst, quietly,

She sleeps on, dreaming.

Outside, the sun has not

Yet decided to rise.


Unhindered by kindness paralysed

By sleep,  unlit by interrogating rays,

His hatred, smiling,  combs its hair,

Preparing before risings that will come too late.


Posted in Poetry, remembrance, War with tags , , on November 6, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

Excited faces delight,

In triumphant Lancaster flypast.

I remain sombre,

Feeling the only one who sees,

Children applauding bombers.

Why You Sing The Blues

Posted in death, love, Mental Health, music, philosophy, Poetry, therapy, War, work in progress, writing with tags on March 14, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

Conscious of too much,

You are not primitive enough;

Sufficiently enlightened to see your folly,

Though unable to escape it.

As ego drowns instinctive sense

Of scale and wonder,

You cannot comprehend life

Except through the death you pursue wildly.

Whilst trying to deny self-destruction,

The only path which makes any sense,

You gorge your maniac lust on annihilation,

Invoking broken-mirror deities to justify

Chemical, consumerist mass-destruction insanity.

Why do you live if death

Is the only great adventure left?

Because somewhere behind this twisted madness,

Lies the irrational hope of love.

Dandelions Are Freer Than Me

Posted in philosophy, Poetry, revolution, shopping, Uncategorized, War on September 2, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

Vertical blinds slice the sunrise

Into prison bars on a mocha feature wall.

Whilst, outside, dandelions exploit

Pavement cracks as habitats until

Becoming casualties of chemical warfare.

Because freedom means control,

We must defend our sterile prisons

In the name of liberty.

Scribbled in a Thunder Storm

Posted in Poetry, revolution, War, work in progress with tags , , , , , on July 23, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

The violence of lightning,

Smashes the stranglehold,

Of oppressive air,

Returning water, exiled

As vapour from excessive Sun,

To turn grateful earth green.


Now nurtured by more,

Democratic Helios, his

Power tempered by mighty Thor,

Fields flourish and the revolution brings,

Prosperity from violence,

Tranquillity from war in the sky.


Posted in Poetry, War with tags , , , , , , on November 1, 2012 by Graeme Cooper

Poppy, burning with stolen blood,

That should have an empire fuelled,

With science and art and thought,

Instead poured out onto unworthy fields,

To feed your duplicitous growth.


You seem to speak of the beauty of sacrifice,

A fragile thing from devastated ground but,

You are tougher than you would have us believe,

Your fiery blossom distracts us from your rough stem,

Forged  from the sinews of dead men.


Your likeness in paper and silk,

Is, by children, solemnly placed,

Beneath the names of boys who gave,

Still budding youth to feed you.


Your image and not your seed now the opiate is,

Metamorphosing murder to Glory,

Slaughter to Honour,

Shame to Pride,

So we, like Haig, can assuage our guilt,

At sending thousands to die,

And, with a smile,

Send thousands more.


We will remember them,

We will remember them,

But you help us to forget and instead plant an hallucination,

A children’s cartoon of Bravery and Glory,

Not mechanical death amongst mud and gas.


In Flanders’ fields the poppies grow,

But in our mind has taken root,

A lie.

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