The Cost of Freedom
Syria...
violence in the streets...
peaceful protesters
marching for human rights,
equality, and change
being slaughtered
by their own government...
now here...
shadows of Kent State...
common people
pushed to the edge
in the battle for
survival, human dignity,
and hope for a future...
already abandoned
by our own government...
will it take being
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Disability
she has a disability,
she's not an alien,
not some freak!
she has feelings and dreams,
just like you!
she works hard, harder than most,
and gets things done,
in spite of......
she loves to read and to think,
her mind is not warped....
she doesnt want your pity,
she wants your respect.
she's human, not a joke,
she's nobody's mistake,
with a heart open and caring....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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My Body, Or Yours?
is this my body,
or yours?
whose graven face,
whose broken fingers
numbly buttoning the shirt?
is this distance real?
this taste of ashes and pine...
whose sacrifice,
whose redemption?
what color the night?
the rusted creaking of dawn,
pulls nails from self-made coffins!
what we are,
or what we become...
even the monsters smell familiar!
if love is then a war,
who wins the final battle?
at what price?
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Poetic Experience (Part Two)
poetry is merely the human hymn,
and so the divine hymn. what
we see and feel... touch, taste,
and smell, and what we dont know,
and cant understand. each living
being is a universe in itself, and
each is just a splotch of a patchwork
quilt. when one being exhales, another
inhales... the earth turns, night comes
to relieve the day, morning comes to
fulfill night... such is the rhythm of
life, the beat of the hymn. poetry is
meant to be the bridge that connects,
it need be nothing more! if we truly
live we are the poem made flesh...
enough, and enough!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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You... Now!
you are... now,
the small fire built
'neath a tree in the rain,
the song of the whipporwill.
the dirty faced little girl
playing down in the barn,
the milk cow butchered
to face the winter.
the gurgle of the stream,
the whisper of branches bare.
the taste of blood
on the tip of the tongue.
the yelp of love,
the stink of hunger.
the cup held out,
and the hand that pours.
the howl of the wind,
the arch of the back.
the mouth of desire,
and the holy whore.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Praying For Help
she felt the baby move,
unconsciously dropped
her hand to her belly....
staring out the window
at the empty parking lot,
listening to the rain
a chair, a mattress,
an old table pushed back
against the paint peeling wall...
nothing to eat, no money,
he'd been gone for two weeks,
no phone calls, no one to call!
seventeen years old, and the
whole world crashing in....
two church ladies came by,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Seeking Heat!
there is a heat
inside the fire,
friction inside the match.
there are clouds
inside each raindrop,
winter snows inside each bud.
there is a joy
hidden deep in sorrow,
there is touch
inside of the lonely.
there is a need
inside each prayer,
there is a hunger
inside those who take.
there is forgiveness
inside of anger.
there is a freedom
inside each cell.
there is a sameness
inside of difference.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Steps
steps taken in stillness
resonate off the walls
of the universe...
creating waves,
waves upon waves,
that pound the shores
of indifference
till change arises,
and a new day begins!
steps taken in naked honesty,
peel back the layers of the wound.
find the tiny speck of the human,
beneath the rubble and the ruins.
steps taken in shared compassion
have the rhythm of human hearts,
beating out the sacred dance
in honor of what we're called to be...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Bitter Hemlock
i would rather drink bitter hemlock,
or walk naked into the night...
would rather starve in the streets
of Haiti, amid the cholera and despair.
would rather hide in unknown caves
from the bombs that split the earth.
would rather rot in a prison cell,
staring forlorn through the bars.
would rather work in the sweatshops
or pick cotton with the migrant workers.
would rather take a bullet,
swift, and hard, and final!
would rather stand at the gates of hell
with every mistake i've ever made.
than to open this door, and say nothing,
and watch you walk away.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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That Beast
that beast within,
locked in the cage
of our unspoken desires;
that swallows darkness
with sexual intensity,
that drools in our dreams.
the face of all the hatreds
and prejudices we abhor....
that hungers for blood....
that stalks the hollow man,
who wears our bodies....
and sleeps with our women....
that beast, whose very existence
we deny, whose name we dare
not speak... diseased and stinking....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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