Why I Write!
why do i write?
and what makes it real?
be it clever use of words
and phrase... rhymes,
cadence, hidden meanings....
no, what makes it real
is this: when you can
take the tears from a
hungry child's face...
and write them with a
naked hand... and give
them as a gift so intimate
and near to the heart,
that it causes someone else
to feel this hunger, and
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Behind The Clouds...
the old man who
lived by himself down
by the highway...
died this morning in his sleep.
passing cars never even slowed down,
and the mailman left another faceless bill.
the meter reader stopped to read his meter,
and the hands on the clock
continued their crawl....
yet the stray dog walked up
on the porch and howled,
and the trail of ants stopped to weep.
the wind seemed to stop,
for just a moment...
and the sun went behind the clouds.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Field Of Death
we make love
in a small room
underneath a tin roof...
your body praying for rain.
or perhaps it's just delusion,
or memory twisted by passion,
or what an old man settles for
in the echo of his life!
kissing's like undressing,
slowly turns the spit,
not conscious of mirrors
or the need to hurry....
soft words almost forgotten
fall like stones in a bottomless well...
and the only cry of passion
is the hawk circling
the field of death!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Curl Of Smoke
a small fire...
blue skies throught barelimbed lenses....
frost bitten grass turns,
the hymn of death continues....
the taste of life, sharp, and pungent!
every touch turned electric,
even the air, alive, and heady!
the sound of lives, wind blowing tin,
and the silent grieving of the stricken!
prayer falls like sweat from dirty faces,
the axe feels good in my hands.
a nip of brandy, a curl of smoke,
alive, and singing the living!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Enough Said!
if bigots breed bigots,
and hypocrites breed hypocrites...
and old heretics
rarely breed at all...
where are we now?
if our addictions
to our religions cause...
division, hatred, prejudice,
inequalities, and wars...
maybe we need to look
at what we believe!
i am so sick of
racial slurs, sexual slurs,
and ignorant fears...
i could vomit!
freedom...
inclusive,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Hungry Addition!
one plus one plus one,
equals a socialistic rebellion...
minus two,
equals their profit margin.
'in God we trust'
stamped on our foreheads...
the Bill Of Rights
lashed into our backs...
another spot on the assembly line,
a pair of boots without a tongue.
another position vacant,
cheap sex without a smoke!
unemployment line, or jail time.
lawyers and well paid judges.
when one plus one plus one,
sets an empty plate on a barren table!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Have Always Believed!
i have always believed...
that only the heart should speak.
that the mind should always be open,
that questions validate the path.
that ears are the greatest gift we have,
and that the truth is worth the cost.
that honest mistakes are the bricks
that build the house,
and that forgiveness is the human condition.
that life in itself is sacred.
that death fulfills the life.
that every word written or spoken,
must remain true to all of this!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Poet's Dream
i dreamed last night i was walking,
in the company of Robert Bly, and Diane di Prima...
down a stony path in the pitch black darkness.
we walked in silence... listening, just listening.
the wind rustled the tree limbs, sighing...
almost blowing out our lantern.
the spirits of animals, trees, and even the stones
beneath our feet.... testified!
a great haunting wave of peace blanketed us...
and i knew the path we were on to be the right one!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Earth, Our Home
dissolving...
we lay down our bodies
etched in stone,
the night sky lit up
by shells exploding,
and falling stars...
time spent,
final payment in
sweat and blood...
packages wrapped in flesh,
without a name or a bow...
struck against the flint,
spark to spark,
dissolving in each other's mouths,
leaving the taste of smoke.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Become A Poet (For Patti)
some hearts are born hungry,
with a hunger that makes
mountains tremble, and trees fall.
some souls are born thirsty,
with a thirst that makes
rivers run dry, and clouds weep
without aching tears.
some spirits are born reaching,
from beneath the earth
to the realm of the sky,
touching, always daring to touch.
some beings are born to love,
and love so much so hard,
that the void left by the flood
cannot be filled...
and so become a poet!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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