Dialogue
when dialogue becomes a way of living,
the lamp is always lit.
the door is always unlocked,
the window is always open.
the river flows from,
and returns to the source.
when identity becomes community,
the part is whole, the whole a part.
there is infinity in nothing,
when emptiness fills the soul....
what we call god is merely the fire,
deep within our darkest being...
poured forth as gift, taking simple forms,
a cup of coffee shared,
and the moment given to listening!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Will Not....
i will not be a part
of your wars!
keep your oil wet,
blood stained fingers
off of my throat!
i will not, by actions,
or inaction, be a part,
of that which furthers hunger
and suffering to pad
the pockets of greed.
i will not kill for profit,
will not march to the drum!
i will not believe in your lie,
nor wave your flag!
i will not cast judgements
with prejudicial blows,
i will not take from the poor,
nor dig the graves...
to bury the children
that you never named!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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In Candles...
my life is written in candles,
some that have burned
through the darkest nights,
some that remain unlit.
some that wait for passion unreserved,
some that applaud holiness,
some that undress for sin.
some that have names, others faces....
some that sound faintly like rain.
some that smell strongly of love,
others as bright as the stars.
and the last one nearly burnt down,
waiting for the wind to come...
when silence strikes the final match,
and fills the void with music!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Just A Little
just a little further
than nearness...
just a little nearer
than the farthest shore.
just a little deeper
than the surface....
just a little darker
than the dawn.
just a little hotter
than the flame...
just a little colder
than the stone.
just a little more
than all you have...
just a little less
than all you want.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Time
i knelt down and talked
to the old turtle, trying
to get out of its box...
in a low voice telling him,
there'd come a time,
there'd come a time!
you smell good!
we pass like familiar strangers
who've forgotten the words
to the song...
and the roar and the din
of the circus and its clowns
drowns out the silence!
i turn, and take you with
a glance, a thought, an inadvertent
touch...
the cash register rings again!
and all is lost...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Calendar With No Date
he turns over
on the doorstep
of an invisible alley....
his puke stained collar
greets the morning sun.
he focuses his eyes,
sets his jaw, and stands up.
the beeper of the trash truck
bounces off his mind.
fumbling for a cigarette,
his last, he lights up...
kicks the empty bottle aside.
squinting at the sun,
too early for the soup kitchen....
a patrol car passes, going slow.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Light The Flame!
we light the flame,
and carry the torch;
protecting the fire
from wind and rain,
and anything that would
extinguish!
stumbling, bumbling,
falling down, and getting
back up....
often times our own
worst enemy....
beliving we're alone
in the heat of the fray...
the sound of footsteps
behind us, tiny footsteps....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Long Live America!
you stole their lands
with whiskey and Bibles,
buried their desecrated women
in open graves.
shouted, 'long live Bush,
and weapons of mass destruction'.
grovelling in brick houses,
with chevrolet drives.
sent your sons to executions,
sold your daughters on the block.
and prayed at night for white redemption,
beneath the flag that bore your name.
long live America,
close the borders, patrol the skies.
eating day old bread in empty rooms,
shuddering at the sound of shadows!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Names Written In Blood
hard nosed old half drunk men,
missing fingers, teeth, and hope.
50 years of working for somebody else,
somebody else's money, somebody else's dreams.
a warm fire, a cook pot half full,
a woman bent on loving,
patient enough to stay.
and the snail trails of children,
grown and gone....
echoes in the living room,
echoes on the porch.
old woman buried,
echoes in the bed....
hard lined old faces,
eyes vacant as distance...
lips bruised with silence,
names written in blood!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Not As Different!
as long as you keep
the poor working class
of men and women divided....
afraid of each other,
hating each other,
fighting each other....
divided by race and religion,
by language and other imposed barriers....
as long as you keep them divided,
then you can keep them poor.
take all they have,
take all they build,
take all their dreams....
divided.... but oh,
if they ever unite...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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