The Woodcarver
the Woodcarver works
in the morning stillness,
with chisel and blade
and an eye for intimate detail...
sunlight sifts through the windows,
time caught, a butterfly in the hand
that's careful not to close...
no extravagant movements...
nothing left undone...
life, a bare bulb, almost
too hot to touch...
the hands of the spirit tell all...
with a gentle blade,
sharp as death, yet allowing...
He unveils your heart
in the stillness of an empty room.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Buddha Thought
undressing in the light
i find you
whether your face be black
or brown or white
whatever language you speak,
whether you're male or female,
old or young, fat or skinny
whatever you call God,
or whether you believe in God
whatever you hold to be truth
struggling and fighting
for food, shelter, and dignity
loving your family
or all alone
angry, sad, loving, joyous,
with or without hope
with all your mistakes,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Can You... I Can!
can you hear the murmur
of the empty vase?
the moan of the cupboard bare?
can you feel the coldness
of the empty room?
the heartbeat of the chair?
the hammer cast aside?
can you touch the tremble
of the mailbox full?
of the grass wild and haggard?
can you smell the absence?
the memory, and the grain?
can you light the match?
can you taste your breath?
can you shovel the dirt,
head bent with prayer?
can you lay down the box,
and cut the strings?
can you... i can!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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In Those Rare Moments...
in those rare moments,
when the heart recognizes itself
in the self of another...
when the very waves of the ocean are stilled,
and the moon whimpers with excitement.
when great willow trees become erect with passion,
and the wind itself bows and smiles.
when insects pray to the grasses,
and the earth throbs with heat...
then time itself kneels in silence,
and fires consume themselves.
when a man sees his hunger
in the eyes of a woman,
and the universe in her tiny hands.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Just The Wind!
in my dreams...
quite often i am wolf,
running with the pack,
howling in the moonlight!
sometimes a hawk,
gliding spiraled unchained skies...
an old bluesman,
sittin' on a porch pickin'.
a half naked priest,
chanting o'er stormy seas.
a poet, prisoner, woman giving birth,
a man hanged for wrong reasons.
a lover killed by a jealous blade.
a bent over man picking crops,
in someone else's fields...
a drifter, and a searcher,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Overthrow The Status Quo
the greatest terror threat
on American soil lies
in the daily workings
of Wall Street and 'corporate America'
against the common people!
the greatest threat to freedom,
our own government!
the worst drug on the streets
is the lie they perpetuate,
backed by mainstream media.
the worst sin disguised
under 'organized religion'...
the worst slap in the face
to the American worker...
NAFTA!
the best thing that can happen...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Salvation
how many Jesus's does it take?
rock n roll Jesus, civil rights Jesus,
sexual Jesus, Baptist Jesus,
Pentecostal snake Jesus...
heroin Jesus, small town family Jesus,
necklace Jesus, tattoo Jesus,
illegal immigrant Jesus...
Jesus on the cross in a drunk tank Jesus,
Marlboro Jesus, county fair Jesus,
pray for Armagadden Jesus...
or just a man,
living one day, one moment,
one bare naked dirty human need
at a time...
with open hands, open heart,
and open mind!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Worthless
i have never believed
that there was any such thing
as a worthless human being...
yet you keep standing
on the platform
that it's better
to take from the
poor, the sick, the elderly,
the minorities...
to cut social security,
medicare, and
educational benefits
from our children...
in order to protect
the elite, the filthy rich
from being taxed at all...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Little Help
just a broken down car,
had to push it out of the road....
put my last ten dollars in gas....
and didnt make it home.
almost had the damned thing
paid for... almost, walking...
this boat has too many leaks....
pay the rent, cut off the lights;
pay the lights, cut off the phone....
pay the phone, run out of food....
everytime i plug one leak,
three more pop up.
working too much for too little,
feeding the machine that's
leaving me behind....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Children Know Better
my best friend
back in the second grade
(early sixties south)
was a black boy named Gary...
it was the first year they'd
integrated schools... and
we just liked each other...
just boys being boys...
and we hung together all year...
sadly, he couldnt come to my house,
and i couldnt go to his...
there was still a lot of tension then,
and everybody was afraid....
except us... we figured we
were just people, just boys....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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