If Only I Could Hear
if only i could hear...
not the cry of hunger,
but the cry of that which feeds.
not the pounding of the guns,
but the silence of peace.
not the tears of the homeless,
but the sound of hammers building shelter.
not the shuffling of money,
but the sound of needs being met.
not the cry of the sick,
but the sound of healing.
not the voices of anger,
but voices in dialogue.
not the bitterness of prejudice,
but the harmony of tolerance.
not the lies that bring division,
but understanding breaking down walls...
if only i could hear...
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Survival By Instinct!
police sirens wail,
echoing off empty buildings,
down empty streets...
streets marked by angry blood.
from mouth to fist,
feet never stop moving...
going nowhere,
determined and furious.
the crush of bones
beneath pipe on pavement...
the taste of flesh,
charred and stale.
cities become graveyards,
marker by marker.
no time for names,
only the strong!
and hunger becomes anger
of the darkest kind.
do it for a couple dollars,
and a gallon of gas.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Frozen Snow
heroin and homelessness,
broken relationships and guns.
cold nights, broken glass windows,
even Jesus got baptized
in a muddy river!
blood on the kitchen floor,
roaches crawl up the walls.
Agent Orange, and picket signs,
flags burning in the alleys.
babies never seen their daddy,
mothers working, minimum wage.
breaking into churches,
and sleeping at the altar,
dont turn back time, or stop the wind!
empty graves, orphaned parents.
the nursing home smells like death
seeds planted in summers past...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Double Tragedy!
when they notified him
that his only son had been
killed in Afghanistan...
he went out in the yard
and draped an American flag
across the windshield of
his '57 chevy...
and drenching it in gasoline,
he set it ablaze...
and he sat on the porch
with his Vietnam Vet hat
pulled down low over his eyes...
sipping good Kentucky bourbon...
when it had burnt down
and he could hear the sirens,
he took the 38 caliber smith and wesson
from his lap, and putting it to his temple,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Hard Eyes
hard eyes stare into the night...
hard eyes with calloused gentle hands.
hard eyes that have listened and seen.
hard eyes that have touched.
hard eyes that have fought
battles that couldnt be won...
hard eyes that have shared
the suffering of others....
hard eyes that have known beauty and loss...
hard eyes that make choices that are not easy.
hard eyes that have been betrayed,
hard eyes that have loved...
hard eyes that cross the threshold...
hard eyes of the sword and cross.
hard eyes that look into the soul,
and sometimes even smile.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Stench (Rising)
the stench... rising,
from your halls of justice,
from your plate glass
Wall Street windows,
from the steps of your churches,
from your brick home suburbs...
is the dried, crusted blood
of your Native American
brothers and sisters...
rising from their reservation
kerosene huts written in poverty,
culture raped whiskey tainted
white god judgements...
rising... till it fills
your nostrils, gags your mouth,
and breaks the shroud of your freedom
with the ghosts of what has been...
redemption demands justice!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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You Cannot Tell Me!
you cannot tell me
that freedom sees color,
religion, or financial status.
you cannot tell me
that freedom divides
between classes.
you cannot tell me
that freedom is for the few,
and not for the many.
you cannot tell me
that freedom can be bought,
sold, or traded.
you cannot tell me
that freedom can be won
by destroying innocent lives.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Birds Of Prey...
we keep ending up
back at the Little Big Horn...
victims of our own aggressive greed.
Crazy Horse wept
with the tears of God,
while the birds of prey
picked the flesh from the bones.
you cannot ease your own suffering
by causing suffering to others.
what we do to feed our insatiable mouths
leaves scars on the bottoms of our feet!
freedom doesnt conquer,
righteousness doesnt judge!
equality means everybody,
and i mean everybody!
Dylan said: 'money doesnt talk,
it swears! '... i say money is the disease,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Fill The Void...
we attempt
to fill the void left
when the self
leaves the soul,
with stone images
of a god we've created
out of iced over fears...
created in the image
of our own darkness.
a god that rains down
fire and brimstone
by our hidden whims.
a god that looks like us,
that acts like us,
and despises all else.
a prophylactic thrust
of eternity,
eternity sold on street corners...
and all the while
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Forty Dollar Bathtub
a forty dollar galvanized bathtub!
carrying buckets of water up the hill
to heat on the old cook stove...
i watched you bathing in the kitchen,
in the old house down on Henry River.
fried Spam and pork 'n beans,
moonlit trips to the outhouse....
stray dogs on the porch.
endless truckloads of wood scraps;
we made love through winter nights,
so cold in the room you could see your breath!
you licked the frost from my moustache,
and the world went on without us....
a forty dollar bathtub, buckets of water,
nothing needed, nothing more!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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