Lost In Echo.....
you cut off my thumbs,
strung them on a necklace.
split my tongue with a razor,
and burned my shoes.
now i go howling,
in half darkened rooms.
drawn by the scent and the symphony,
of red pulsing blood!
you arched your back,
and the curtains trembled.
the vase full of water,
fell on your pillow.
i awoke from a dream,
my lips dry and aching.
moaned without thinking,
the willow bent, and sure!
who are we? the forgotten,
the silence lost in echo!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Martyrs!
martyrs...
silently trudging head down
to the promised land.
familiar?
a neighbor, a forgotten uncle,
the stranger you saw on the corner;
the faces...
bombing victims in the Middle East,
hungry children on foreign soils,
the kid picked up for looking suspicious.
the bullied kid that hung himself,
the family living in the backseat
of a car in Florida.
the tired eyed man standing
in the unemployment line.
the protesters, and the cops
with pepper spray and clubs...
the face of the young boy taken
from his drug addict parents...
bodies and faces,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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One Last Cigarette
i took off my carpenter's apron,
laid my hammer on the nightstand.
unloaded my old shotgun,
and stood it against the corner.
i lowered the flag, put out the fire,
put sheets across the windows....
turned off the lights, pulled off my boots,
and walked out barefooted into the night!
sometimes you just get tired of
trying to save a world
that doesnt want saving...
when you cant even manage
to save yourself from yourself!
and sometimes it's just about the night,
and the way the darkness feels
wrapped 'round you in perfect stillness...
standing barefoot in the grass,
smoking one last cigarette.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Side Of Truth
i dont lie well,
never have...
and wont say things
you want to hear.
the truth is the truth,
i paint the picture naked.
but i do so with the knowledge
that we are all human,
very much so.
i dont judge other people.
i dont sell out.
i dont care about convenience.
and i wont blindly follow.
and at this age,
i wont shut up till i'm ready,
and i wont back down.
i'll admit to my own mistakes,
you deal with your own.
i try to always be compassionate,
and i fiercely demand freedom.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Tis America.... (You Vote)
the long haired tongues
of your poet kings,
burnt tenement stoops,
crack dusted windows.
bare breasted brown skinned girls,
popping gum on skates.
the ghosts of lost fathers,
who swallowed heroin spoons,
or bodies of the movement,
long dead of hunger and want.
no job, get a gun,
locks are made to be broken...
higher education,
behind white tainted bars.
when equality means,
an equal chance to die,
and living tastes like daylight,
sucked through a straw!
tis America, you vote,
sell blood, pop a car.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Heat The Body Gave
rain falling...
cold salvation drops,
tis blackberry winter...
the earth groans, trembles,
and shakes.
birdsong and coffee,
a warm place on the sheets.
coat on the hook, shoes on the floor,
but the body is gone.
now its bad news, hate news,
gunfire and heavy fog.
night and day, black and white,
the footprints all look the same.
the tin roof whispers in rhyme
to the cobwebs and shadows.
the tree that fell last winter,
becomes a house, perhaps a home!
the angry taste of change
still lingers in the mouth.
the hammer worn, the nails heavy...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Old Man Dying
there's an old man dying
in a small bedroom filled
with books and worn out clothes
and old socks with holes
there's an ashtray that always
needs to be emptied;
blinds that are as twisted
as his fingers and his toes
there's an old man dying
in the shadow of his
father's dreams, his father's world,
choking on the bad taste
of his own prayers forgotten
and mountaintops bartered;
in the mist of cannot touch,
can't lay with again
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Will Not Be Used!
you cannot tell me
that we are free!
when you would take away
my thoughts, my desires,
take away my chance
to speak out, to stand up....
when you would take away
the words i write,
the songs i sing....
the very dreams i dream!
you cannot tell me
that we are free....
when i cant afford your freedom.
when by my choice
to be who i am
i am judged,
and found unworthy!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Best Poem
when you plant a seed
in the ground, and
water it, work it, weed it
till it grows... you've written
the best poem you'll ever write.
when you make a baby,
waiting and planning for birth;
and you raise this child to adulthood
with respect... you've written
the best poem you'll ever write.
when you live your life
working honestly, giving
all that you are and can be,
never holding back... you've written
the best poem you'll ever write.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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You Never Sleep On
that book on the shelf,
the one you've forgotten,
waiting in silence,
untouched and unread.
the crack in the window,
rainwater seeps through.
the lamp by the table,
you never turn on.
the axe in the corner,
covered by shadows and web.
the limbs ripped from the tree,
blown by the storm.
that old photograph album,
pictures yellowed by time.
the guitar in the closet,
waiting to be strung.
and the sound of the ocean,
in the shell you never pick up.
the skin left by the snake,
clouds that cover the moon.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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