Three Quarter Time
the smell of woodsmoke
lingers in the air;
darkness falls,
like silent thunder.
the earth tremors and turns,
you walk from room to room....
or perhaps only,
a curtain blown by passion,
a broken cup, cobwebs
on pulsing walls.
a cry of passion,
water bursts the pipes...
one of my shirts
that you wore to bed.
a single shot
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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What I've Always Been
god stepped from the shadows,
light my smoke and poured a drink.
we walked in the rain,
without so much as a word.
it was as if everything that hurts,
drained from my soul.
and i was left empty,
echoing the stillness in moonlight.
and i thought if not tomorrow,
or even yesterday,
then let it be this moment.
when beauty whispered in my ear,
and the owl winked from the tree.
nothingness flooded,
taking away my name...
allowing me to become,
what i've always been!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Autumn's Door...
who am i?
i just dont know anymore!
every page turned betrays the last,
no footprints left on stone!
even crows curse the coming storm,
the pilgrim trudges snowbound fields.
memory dimmed by time and ghosts,
sacrificed to the need for sin!
be that your body?
clothed in naked heat...
or the intimate beckoning of death?
am i then the spring that never came,
that you buried by autumn's door?
the sticky guilt of love unfulfilled,
splattered on the casket's walls!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Love You Shared Endures...
tis the knock on the door you've dreaded...
yet you know it all comes to this.
the weary lay down to sleep,
snow falls on rust colored leaves.
are you then left with old photographs,
the sound of a voice you dimly remember...
and memories that unfurl like chapters,
every time you turn off the light.
the tears you cried, for him, or for you?
he does not need your tears anymore.
he is not dead, but simply at peace...
the love he was he is,
the love you shared endures!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Small Lamp
the small lamp
beside the bed in the empty room,
burns strong with silence,
and waits without reason.
the pawprint of the dog
beneath the window,
identifying emptiness.
and the broom in the corner,
stands ever on guard.
the book of passage unread,
urine stained sheets.
even god almighty
cant control the wind,
that blows through the window,
and fills the room.
while babies are born,
and wars are stopped.
yet the earth waits without breath,
for the coming of love!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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What Defines Poverty?
what defines poverty?
nothing to eat,
hungry, and cant find
a way to eat.
homeless,
and nowhere to go.
sick,
and cant afford medical care.
jobless,
and cant find work.
broke,
and what money you have
wont buy anything.
(if you have any)
hopeless,
and nowhere to turn.
godless,
the god you believed in
turned his back,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Your Gods!
you have shown me your gods,
by the glint of your teeth,
by the knives in your hands,
by the stink of your breath.
by your churches built,
over the unmarked graves
of your own children...
by the wealth you gather,
or that gathers you.
by the crumbs on your pillows,
and the roar of your success,
drowning out the tiny voices,
you grind beneath your feet...
you have shown me your gods,
they look a lot like you...
and leave me with the empty
sacred rage of the poor!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Blue Collar Joe
blue collar Joe,
he's standing in line...
aint no trains to hop,
aint no trucks to pop...
he's standing in line,
for a handout, and a hand up....
he made your furniture,
he made your cars.
he wove your cloth....
he made boxes and tools,
he worked your steel.
he made just the right parts
for the right time.....
now you dont need him
to make anything anymore...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Hand of a Poet
it takes the hand
of a poet
to find the heart
of a clown
and paint it on the face
of a homeless man
standing by a barrel
in the alley...
that has no fire!
to look in the barrel
and see an old man
kneeling in front of
a sobbing child,
deftly removing a splinter
from his tiny shaking hand
with an old rusted knife...
while a sparrow takes flight,
as the clouds on the horizon
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Kiss Me, Death!
kiss me, death...
i have followed the trail
of your perfume for too long.
my body aches from sleeping on rocks,
and my feet no longer have a vision!
the wind whips between these ancient trees,
that smile with the silent ache of longing.
and this small fire i've built is just that,
i leave no trace or thought.
and the stars that crumble to dust
in my hands already know,
only the crows wait for dawn.
i am the lover whose face you've forgotten,
the body of your desire!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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