Occupy, The Body Of Freedom
'no more Kent States,
...no more Kent States...'
President Obama,
dont turn a deaf ear!
dont sell out to the machine.....
dont betray us like Nixon did!
silence is betrayel!
inaction is betrayel!
you cannot turn your head,
and hope we go away!
this isnt about helping you
get re-elected!
it's about the truth!
corporate America wont stand for it.
Wall street wont take it!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Somedays!
somedays i still feel
like i can fly!
like plowing the earth,
and planting the seeds...
painting my face and dancing
for rain...
like running half-naked
down through the woods
with a spear in hand...
searching for meat.
like building a fire,
and watching the meat
turn on the spit...
like playing music
in a dim-lit bar,
amid the smoke and
the sweat and the booze...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Cooking Pot!
tastes like....
rainwater on my tongue,
blood drawn from unclaimed bodies....
the wind lapping at my curtain,
the candle flickering in the dark.
gunpowder, and bourbon!
the baby's bloom opening,
rose petals 'neath my tongue.
pepper spray, and human rights....
the damp chill of the small cell.
the burning bush, the last refrain,
yesterday's nails long driven....
food scavanged from dumpsters,
the back seat on the bus....
the old woman dying on the floor!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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We Are....
we are the children
of the tears God wept.
we are the names and the faces
of the spirits that roam the night.
we are the leaves that fell
with autumnal passion...
we crumbled back into the dirt,
and returned to our mother.
we are the oaks cut
to build the house.
we are the saws, the hammers,
and the nails.
we are the water,
and we are the well.
we are the cup and the basin,
we are the mirror long cracked.
we are the fire,
and the bodies huddled.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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After It's Gone!
wild eyed strangers...
kids wearing dirty clothes,
and hand me down coats.
people walking, head down,
in the early morning cold.
just a few stores open,
the price of gas up.
smoke rises from chimneys,
all is quiet, as if waiting,
for the next storm to come.
life goes stumbling down,
the mail falls from the box.
families sleeping in cars,
gotta move with the sun.
the town clock strikes, echoing,
the steps of boots long worn...
empty buildings shout out
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Redemption, Revival, Or Epitaphs
rain swept morning...
and all the sins of yesterday
roll down the face of humanity.
redemption, or revival?
the hand finds the heart,
the eyes see the soul,
fear washes away unnamed.
cities built of shadows,
great smokestacks, vacant shrines.
and it's always the voices,
and the faces, struggling,
to be heard and seen!
man imprisoned himself by nations,
sold too cheaply on the block.
murders his mother beneath the wheels,
never hearing her cry.
sacrificing the children
to feed the inner beast.
now we stand naked in the rain...
redemption, revival, or epitaphs,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Day America Died
i am the old farm house,
the iron skillet, and the well.
the mule and the plow,
and momma's family Bible.
i am the single shot.22,
squirrel dumplings,
and strawberry pie.
i am collard greens,
pintos, and cornbread.
i am the field plowed,
wood cut and stacked.
jars of green beans
stacked on the shelf.
i am the work hardened hand,
and the gentle touch.
i am the simple things,
that cant be bought.
i am generation after generation,
footstep after footstep.
the prayer of scrubbed faces,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Hand Rising From The Grave!
are we then love's refugees?
cursed, without a land...
are we the only ones still bleeding,
infidels by choice!
whose house and whose light,
whose name on the box?
will the soldiers then come,
and bury what we've been?
when feeling departs,
another intimacy begins...
too often lost in the waves,
and insects that sing of night.
have we lived our life,
to be flashlights and rubber boots?
doth not this ache strip silence,
to that which is raw and beneath?
and nothing i say,
nothing that i choose to leave behind...
can touch the edge of this blade,
can name the hand rising from the grave!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Waiting For The Spider
how many small deaths?
nickels and dimes in dust filled pockets...
are we drifting off to sleep?
out to sea?
or further from the core?
we die in circles,
circles within circles.
with small short breaths hurled
on the hairy plate of eternity.
a thousand tiny fires,
built by unseen hands
on darkened roads...
a thousand tiny deaths!
or a thousand stop the world kisses,
when names and identities are forgotten,
if but for an eternal moment.
how many times must i be the butterfly?
the snail? the hummingbird flying backwards?
or just stagnant water in a cast aside tire...
waiting for the spider?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Walking Home Alone
hurricane, screaming pain,
bodies truth, sold out youth;
earth burning, a new page turning,
wont shut their eyes, wont buy the lies.
midnite to dawn, something's going on.
men with guns decide who's right or wrong.
the weak are just the victims of the strong.
too many strangers walking home alone....
despair wearing faces, human traces,
houses empty, homeless cities.
suicides, lonliness hides,
no connection, no direction.
midnite to dawn, something's going on.
men with guns decide who's right or wrong.
the weak are just the victims of the strong....
too many strangers walking home alone....
poem by Eric Cockrell
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