Not For Sale!
black coffee...
a blood pressure pill,
one aspirin, two ibuprofen,
and up to face the day!
what doesnt hurt
often fumbles or stumbles.
set your chin,
and tear down a wall!
truth barks,
and often growls.
what stinks just stinks,
no need to cover!
the work we do
with mechanical souls,
merely feeds the body,
what about the mind?
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Silent Grave
the silent grave
swept clean by time,
knowing only the wind
that undresses the night.
the eyes of an owl,
dead branches walking...
moonlight and darkness
thrust and parry, and dance.
the smell of damp earth,
the kingdom of spider and snail...
moss and vines wrapped
around the throat of time...
no footprints, no memories,
no flapping of wings....
the unnamed hand covers
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Forgiven Ones
the forgiven ones
share their plates & their fires
wear hand-me-down clothes
& old worn out shoes...
the forgiven ones
plant their seeds in the earth
plow thru the darkness
waiting for the sun & the rain
the forgiven ones
stand by the woman giving birth
take the orphans to their breasts
& call now home
the forgiven ones
share the same language
let go of their anger
& carry each other's loads
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Poem For Sam
'always going, never arriving.'
i've thought about this one
for a while.
and i think there's another step!
the bare limbed tree in winter,
frozen branches, no sign
of life.
and yet beneath the surface,
life is forming, having been lost,
begins again!
perfect stillness.
no need for going,
or arriving ... you're
already there!
all that is life
is present.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Shadow Inside My Shadow
poverty is not my cousin,
is not my lover,
is not my preacher,
poverty is not my brother.
poverty is not my prayer,
or the song that i sing
is not my answer
poverty is not my dream.
poverty is not my teacher,
not the hand that i hold.
poverty is not my anger,
not my spirit, not my soul.
ah! but this poverty is real
it races thru my mind
crashes into my heart,
& leaves me deaf and blind.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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9/11, And The Days After
how many died that day
at the World Trade Center?
how many died
in the field?
and how many have died...
how many young boys
sent off to war?
how many citizens of Iraq?
Afghanistan?
how many women and children?
how many deaths
does it take for
us to finally understand?
killing is wrong!
one death does not
justify another!
murder does not
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Bought And Sold
feathers and Bibles,
the priests of rhetoric
masturbate in hidden rooms,
by the bodies of young boys,
the price paid without doubt.
the neon screen blares,
cancer has a new name...
dressed in pride and patriotism.
street vendors passing laws,
feed the monkies!
the truth is
it's all a lie!
they drink martinis behind smoked glass,
sell the souls of the poor
to pay the rent!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Down In The Ditch
the shattered eye,
the haunted soul.
the borrowed heart,
spinning out of control.
the maddened push,
to go on and on....
the remembered tug,
after the moment's gone.
the naked prayer,
the mirror of fire.
the hurricane
simply called desire.
the savage tear
that shakes the ground.
take the hand, give a damn,
cut the body down.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Miles And Miles
years and years,
miles and miles...
of hands,
grasping mine, holding on
for a time and then letting go...
being grasped by mine,
being pulled up, pulling up,
held onto in spite of...
black, brown, white, and red...
male and female, old and young,
soft, gnarled, and scarred...
hands joining together,
backs against the wall,
hands that pray without letting go,
hands that let go
when the time demands...
hands that build and take down,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Take This Cup
'take this cup from me,
if it be thy will...'
all of human history vomited
with the pounding of the nails.
sheer agony, heart exposed,
the final will and testament.
the gospel of unbridled compassion,
that the ignorant would wave like swords.
every footprint on the dusty path
that led to the holy city...
contained the face of every child
that time would sacrifice to greed.
Jesus, and mortal hunger,
are but bridge, and markings on the way.
the road that leads to god,
begins and ends in the heart,
and the body given!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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