Ecstasy (As You Sleep)
ecstasy,
sheds the skin,
comes out of the shell....
leaves the firelit cave,
for the darkness,
and shadows' whisper
among the trees....
takes the kiss of wind
over the door well latched....
jumps from the ledge
never knowing how deep
or how cold the water below!
walks the forbidden mile,
fights the battle already lost,
with the conviction of desire....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Name Or Memory
the scar on the doorknob shouts,
everytime i reach for the door.
never asking which way i'm going,
as if i knew the direction home.
the vase falls from the table and shatters,
ants race about, avoiding fire.
the mad generals, refrigerator and stove,
fight to the death over who's feeding who.
the cat in the window stretches,
and the iron gathers dust.
only the pulse of the coffeepot steady,
and the scent of love that stains the walls.
what is life? more than this?
or something less, and forbidden?
i pray to the razor over a sink stained,
that asks not for name or memory!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Night Prayer
we forget how great a gift every moment is...
we all have problems, have worries, and walk the fine
line between joy and despair....
but tonight, let's lay it all down, and walk in the moment.
they tell you prayer is a lot of things,
but i think prayer is the gratitude that feels,
that absorbs the good and the bad,
that drinks sorrow, and dances.
i have never been more alive than i am right now.
i am fire, i am darkness, i am sin, i am redemption.
without grasping, i am free...
no matter what comes, no matter the battle...
this body does not hold who i am.
who am i? I am you!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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On Your Darkest Night
nothing more for me to say
than a silent 'i love you',
standing beside you,
whatever comes!
your life, your journey,
but a part of the sweetness,
-most likely the middle,
both mine and yours...
burned by choice
on the altar of sacrifice...
feeding the fire
that whispered
our hidden names....
so deep inside that
it permeates breath...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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This Temple!
the walls of this temple,
so soft and plush,
made from the skin stripped
from the bodies
of the dead and conquered.
gold plated offering plates
made of the tiny hands
of the ones we let starve.
prayers hang, like the broken necks
of those we executed for color.
scriptures lost, like the children,
to a place no one reads...
the organ pumps, oil rigs regurgitating,
the Wall Street priests perform
like circus monkeys in hell....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Let's Live For A Day
i want to go home this weekend,
and dig a pit in the backyard.....
gather wood, and build a fire!
get the coffee pot going,
find something to throw in the pot
and on the spit.....
and just sit outside and enjoy
the cool autumn stillness....
come on over! bring what you've got....
and bring your books, your guitars....
bring your dogs, bring your neighbors...
dont care who you are, what color
or religion you are, or what your
philosophy is... as long as you're
open-minded and compassionate....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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What Life Demands I Be!
if i wake up in the morning,
and the guns of war are silent.
if the hungry bowls are filled,
and the homeless have a place to lay down.
if all people are treated equally,
regardless of color, religion, or beliefs.
if dignity be restored to the common man.
if men and women respect each other,
and the art of living is just that.
if forgiveness comes as easy as breathing,
and caring becomes the way...
then i will know this journey is over,
and will lay down in perfect peace.
if not....
i will wake up standing,
fighting, believing, singing....
i will be what life demands i be!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Thought Forgotten
rain swept branches strewn,
small testaments of living.
frail egos broken
in morning sunlit pieces.
of such is life...
hands made of flesh
building hearts.
storms come unannounced,
and forever shattered.
the rain soaks the embers,
a thin wisp of smoke.
stirred by the stick of time,
praying for flame.
are we then fire,
or just smoke?
smalls branches clinging
to the tree...
lightning in the distance,
or hearts made of thunder?
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Labels!
they call us poor white folks
'white trash'....
they call poor black folks
'niggers'....
they call poor Hispanic folks
all kinds of names,
'illegal' being the worst!
labels...
people who have too much
at the expense of the rest of us...
well insulated ignorance...
hatreds, that begin with hatred
of the self!
we're not labels!
we're just folks....
breathing, working, dreaming,
trying, doing the best we can....
we deserve the dignity
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Morning Meditation (Walking)
walking,
aware of each step,
i feel my feet touching,
the earth touching my feet...
i feel the bombs falling,
the families huddled in fear,
the bare apartments and empty tables,
the needles, the guns, and the dumpsters.
step by step,
i feel the old woman dying
in the stink of the nursing home.
i feel the child crying...
in the room of darkness.
i feel the mother's tears,
and the father's deep firm loss,
as they lower the casket...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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