Love Doesnt Whisper
two hundred gallons of fuel oil,
standing between november
and early march...
a couple a'loads of scrap wood,
blankets worn and frazzled....
coffee pot stained and ready,
potatoes covered with lime.
a few old books, and a rocking chair
that sits empty most of the time.
some old photographs,
and a box of clothes,
gathering dust by the bed.
a candle half burnt down....
a box of matches, and
an old twelve gauge.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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That's Enough For Me!
from a tiny acorn,
the oak tree grows.
what a man cant find,
a child will know.
only the heart
knows the secret
of where the wind blows...
and that's enough for me.
from drops of water,
the clouds are formed.
that go together,
to make the storm.
from the thunder
and the lightning,
the rainbow is born....
and that's enough for me.
the feeling that i have for you
is the simple song i sing.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Who's Next?
with every swing of the hammer
that drove the nails,
into His feet, into His hands,
He felt...
the hunger of starving children,
the pain of those sick,
the lost agony of the homeless,
the shame of the beaten...
the repentence of the fallen,
the last hope of the downtrodden.
the dignity of the poor,
the torment of those in chains...
take Him off of that cross!
it's our turn to be human.
time to be who we are,
or to be nothing at all...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Change? Or Just Returning?
change, evolving,
with every breath,
with every step...
journeying inward
in the search for
where we began...
or perhaps where we end!
is there any difference?
other than the memories
of breaths shared,
steps taken together....
meeting as if by chance
at the crossroads....
walking together for a time.
of such is history.....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Children In America!
one out of three
children in America,
living in poverty?
what happened
to the land of promise?
children hungry,
children homeless,
children that wont
get a good education!
children, broken families,
children without future.
children without love....
turn to hate!
build your cities,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Hearts Made Of Feet!
and so we struggle,
turning in the womb,
choked by the cord.
conceived in darkness,
becoming light!
we are hearts made of feet,
feet that walk the path.
feet that slip and fall,
feet that take the wrong turn.
feet that keep on walking,
sore, tired, hurting.
feet of desire, and purpose,
feet of soulful intent!
all the great philosophies
come to this...
feet that only stop walking
to bandage other feet;
then walk together,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Love Wears
love wears,
not always pretty,
deeper than the surface
that others see...
not always right,
often makes mistakes,
know when it has fallen,
pleads for forgiveness.
carries a price
that must be paid in full,
worth every penny, every dime,
every tear, every humiliation....
love never accepts
anything less than the truth,
never asks for as much as it gives....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Scriptures
the only scriptures
i want to read,
are the life stories
of the oppressed and downtrodden.
the only prayers
i know to be real,
are their unspoken needs,
their desire to be free.
the only church
that i belong to,
their homes, their shelters,
their grimy neighborhoods.
the only image of god
that i want to see,
the humanity in their faces,
the injustices falling in their tears.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Child Is Born
a child, a child, a child is born
to a mother who lies near death;
no food, no home, no place to go,
smell the stink of fear on her breath.
you build and destroy, and build again,
pound your chests with arrogant pride.
litigate and over populate,
sell your vision while children die.
if there's a God He doesnt live
in your temples and your shrines.
but in the cry of the hungry child,
and the ones you've left behind.
a child, a child, a child is born....
poem by Eric Cockrell
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At What Point....
the seasons of births and deaths go on....
waves come in to the shore,
yet then go out!
leaves fall from the tree,
while new buds wait...
stars explode into dust,
then new stars are born.
infinity changes shoes again and again,
yet the same feet walk the endless path.
are not bodies then just cups,
into which light is poured again and again?
and souls are just chapters
of an unending book....
what do we really know?
at what point do we shout hallelujah?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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