If I Prayed with You

if i prayed with you
meshed together by the naked night
molten images of human groaning
lit by the very breath of God...

if i prayed with you
turning slowly on the spit
beneath the shadows we wear in darkness
and wrap our light inside...

if i prayed with you
nothing hidden, nothing faked
and stroked your face with knowing hands
as if the Painter's brush....

if i prayed with you
and was lost inside your hungry mouth...
would you dance with me inside
the meaning beyond our words?

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Never Forgive Myself

you smell like...
a road i should have taken,
a picture i should have painted.
a cross i should have carried.
a candle i should have lit.
a prayer i should have prayed.
a box i should have opened.
a door i should have walked through,
a moment i should have lived.
a tear i should have taken,
a heart i should have nurtured.
a seed i should have planted.
a winter i should have prepared for.
a heart i should have listened to,
yes, a life i should have lived better...
and for that,
i will never forgive myself.

poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Cup Of Communion

that which we long for most...
the cup of communion!
naked souls sharing thoughts
on the bridge to eternity.
with all baggage left behind,
nothing left but feet and desire.
underneath the banner of doubt,
we find long awaited faith.
compadres walking side by side,
if just for a forever moment.
evolving and dissolving
into the grain of another.
lost children sharing lostness,
find home in a holy instant.
and leaving particles
of dust and self,
are strengthened for the journey.
candle wax, and human blood!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Price Of Redemption

do the leaves of peace
fall from trees grown silent with rage?
boiled by the storms of subjugation...

does the moral man kill without remorse?
in the name of god,
in the name of justice both swift and brutal.....

does love have a face?
does the heart have a soul?
bent down with heavy load...

is the skin the value of the corpse?
do the bones lie from the ditch?
while freedom taunts the burning shore...

and who am i if not you?
whose unborn child beneath the bed?
betrayed by the price of redemption!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Upon Your Shoulder

whose voice? whose image?
whose hand on the plow?
whose silent pillow we share?
whose rain? whose desire?
whose moon holding tides?
whose dark lips against our breast?
whose hammer? whose apron?
whose tick of the clock?
whose hand wiping away tears?
whose black? whose white?
whose cough in the night?
whose branch against the window?
whose pockets? whose empty?
whose wetness that clings?
whose moth upon your shoulder?
whose death? whose life?
whose kiss to your hunger?
whose wind do you follow?

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Conversations: Angels And Demons

was talking to a truckdriver
that just came in off the road
yesterday.
he said: 'pretty much the same,
everywhere i go, people either
aint working, cant find work,
or if they are working, cant
make enough money to get by on...
dont care what they say on the tv...'

i told him, ' it's the same thing here,
people keep coming in and telling me
they dont know what they're gonna do.
a friend of mine called me last night,
50 years old, worked all of his life,
and said he just cant make it... cant
find any work.'

poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Looked...

you killed me last night,
perhaps that was enough...
to make up for all those nights
left to sleep alone!
when i awakened with eyes
that darkness had kissed,
i saw hearts beating,
and an owl pouring coffee!
trees conversed, branches intertwined,
and the creek sang to the wind.
now dogs spoke of god
with learned eyes...
while thunder undressed lightning!
and the hollow in my cheek
that bore your name...
filled with fireflies glowing...
fingers walked by carrying souls,
i looked, but could not find yours!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Notes From The Night

Rilke once said
if he spent all of his life
studying and working
he hoped to
be able to write
four good lines of poetry

think i'll quit writing
grow a big garden,
cut and stack wood
for all who are cold
save as many stray dogs
as i can
spend a lot of time
playing with and listening to
small children
and sit with as many
old people left alone
to die as i can

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Our Children!

those brown skinned babies...
starving in Haiti, Africa,
and around the world.
laying dead victims
of bombing and gunfire...
are our children.
those white skinned,
black skinned babies,
born into the housing developments
and trailer parks,
into crackhead pill popping
poverty... those,
are our children too!
those blood stained babies,
found in desperate dumpsters,
our children, again.
those unborn babies,
born into hopeless situations,
or never to be born
into a world cold and hard...

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Tastes (Dreaming)

i went for years without dreaming,
or at least so i thought.
i wake up with tastes,
so simple that i'd forgotten.
the whisper of the rain,
weaves a web around my soul.
and there are voices in the shadows,
shadows that build small fires.
perhaps prayer is a form of memory,
a language we no longer understand.
and the body, a cage, or just a shell,
for a bird with broken wings!
then love, the body plowed,
the spirit bursts in bloom.
i taste like grapes,
too long fermented...
you taste like ashes,
and me!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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