Buddha Thoughts (No More)
we are an archaic,
infantile people who
would crucify Jesus again,
and take Buddha's outer kingdom
over his inner one!
we limit our concepts
od God and infinity
to our own understanding,
when that which created
the cosmos lives within
each of us, within
the tiniest insect,
the branch soon to bud!
enlightenment, the pile of dung
you just stepped in,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Still Want!
i think forever is a lie!
perhaps the opium of the desolate!
i am drunk on the tiny moments of now,
that left scars that whisper in the darkness.
i spend too much time with the dead,
but, they know the value of life!
i follow the scent of feet long parted,
and pee at every point of journey!
damnit, i cant pretend!
i still want! i still want!
when the soul becomes a man,
and becomes a prisoner of the heart
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Interbeing Thoughts
interbeing...
the tear i cried
is as the same time
the raindropp that fell,
that fed the tree,
that burst into bloom!
the bloom is
at the same time
the smile that came after
the tear...
the tear and the smile
both parts of the same action...
and still, part of the inaction
of the mountain still,
where the tree reaches
and touches the sky...
the sky, the tree, the mountain,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Listen To The Darkness
i dont want to write
anything soft and beautiful
anything moving tonite
i'm just damned tired
of oppression and fighting
to just barely get by
of watching good people lose it all
children going hungry, wars
and more wars
no work, no jobs, no chance
to get out from under
of being lied to, used and abused
i'm tired of people not being human
and i think i'll just go curl up
with my dog
and listen to the darkness!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Funeral...
i went to the funeral,
and listened for the bells.
the church was empty,
no cars in the parking lot.
the hand on the door,
seemed familiar, but not.
the voice in the casket,
both grey, and cold.
the mind packed boxes,
fingers buttoned and unbuttoned.
the candle fell from the table,
unlit and unnoticed.
even god was distant,
and the tide failed to come in....
the man stood up and walked out,
never to return!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Room Is Bare
blackbird fallen;
candle wax on the table.
lie to me, love me
one more time...
the arching of your soul,
wrapped in legs around me...
the cry of the ocean
just outside the shell...
i kiss you, you taste
like my wanting,
words mean nothing;
black and white photographs
in a world of color...
i can feel the rumble
of the train on the tracks,
you bite my shoulder....
i open my eyes...
and the room is bare!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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What We Believed...
what we believed yesterday was a part of yesterday...
time has passed, a new day has dawned.
our believing has to evolve.... while having the
same roots, the plant changes, coming to fruition.
our thoughts and feelings ripen, or they rot.
we walk this path with eyes looking forward,
strengthened by the memory of what has been!
we are children of the forever dawn...
and the ghosts that disappear into setting sun!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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American Tragedy, Channel 36
with hollow faces
and vomited lips,
they turn on the stage
as the people gawk...
enamored with their lies...
both hypnotic and addictive,
they sell an American tragedy
complete with commercials.
the circus wheel turns,
and the roar of the beat
deafens all hearts to the truth.
while out on the street
human mouths bleed,
and the memory of the living
falls back into the shadows....
as great owls swoop the night!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Love Rusts
angry words..
bitterness hangs like rust,
sucks the air from the room....
dead flowers dont bloom.
fire wont burn in the absence.
water doesnt run uphill.
you cannot touch that which
you will not give!
the dead dont lie with the living.
not a second choice,
the last resort, or a safety barrier....
a man's just a man...
and flesh needs flesh!
stars wont fall from a blackened sky,
love rusts without friction!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Silence Is Not (For Hune)
silence is not...
the absence of sound,
but sound stripped naked and pure!
the thunderous crash of the acorn,
to the ground that startles the squirrel,
and freezes him with fear!
the squeak of the old spicket,
wailing for the water to rise,
from the dead bones of time.
the moan of dead bones,
returning back to dust,
as if sexual release.
and the prayers of the trees,
who see our foolishness,
and weep!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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