Song Of Autumn
we have become old...
and have earned this time
of turning... turning wind,
turning leaves.... day turning
to night with a suddeness.
every stroke of color,
every shade of black and white...
and this sudden chill brings
a warmth that our lives define!
our passion is falling
like leaves to carpet the earth....
our bare limbs reach heavenward...
to God, or the next page...
we wait on the snow,
and the small fires the living
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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We Are The Same...
gas rices up,
fuel prices up,
grocery prices up,
heating prices up...
and the poor man's dollar
is still a dollar!
cant afford sickness,
cant afford hospitals,
cant afford shelter,
cant afford, cant afford.
it's time to band together
in small communities,
and be neighbors again.
we cannot rely on the government,
on churches, on the elite...
we have each other,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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As If... (You Never Owned A Thing!)
if you listen at night,
the trash in the alleys comes alive.
there is a whispering
that fills the cardboard boxes.
the cans and bottles play
an unearthly music.
and vacant houses talk to god,
or perhaps the demons of poverty.
the wind stops blowing,
and the stink hangs like a cloud...
the evidence of blind excess!
the bodies of the nameless ones,
rise from the filth of forgotten.
the rats join ranks with stray dogs,
and testify against your indulgence!
soon, probably sooner than you think,
your eyes will be covered with dirt.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Every Color!
'prepare for war with Iran,
with the Islamic Republic'...
God! what irresponsible,
ignorant asses!
when are we going to understand
that you cant go around killing
everyone you dont understand?
no God picked us out to save the world
from color, and other religious views!
democracy does not divide and conquer!
we are not the 'chosen people'!
every human being is responsible
to and for every other human being!
we're not here to kill each other,
but to learn how to live with each other.
dammit, we need each other!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Had A Chance!
i had a chance
to feed the hungry,
to stop all the wars...
to house the homeless.
to name undiscovered stars,
to know the depths of the oceans....
to fly with the hawk,
to discover fire again.
to cure the disease,
to replant the forests.
to take the secrets of nuclear
power and hide them away...
to take in the orphans,
to climb the highest mountain.
to tear down the pyramids,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Say Then The Wind...
i say then the wind,
to thee who preach temples and banks.
i say the stink of the homeless body,
to you who quote perfume.
i say the baby being born,
to you who shout invasion and conquer.
i say silence,
to you who preach success.
i say equality,
to you who strut religion.
i say justice,
to you who would win.
i say suffering,
to you who live indulgence.
i say family,
to thee who carry nations.
i say then the wind,
to you who doubt in anger.
i say dying,
to you who would live...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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No Reason To Speak!
one who does not dare
to ask the hard questions,
will never find the truth.
one who does not pull the mask
off of the human condition,
will never find freedom.
one who does not respect diversity,
will never find respect.
one who blindly follows is not faithful,
but a slave.
one who ignores prejudice,
becomes the food of all prejudice.
one who supports war,
becomes a murderer.
one who would judge others,
in the end judges himself.
one who turns his back on injustice,
is the greatest criminal of all.
one who has too much,
takes from those who have too little.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Earth Weeps
the earth weeps
for its children,
lost in the darkness
of passion and greed.
turned away from the limitless skies
of their father.....
turned away from the breasts
of she who succored them....
burning the home they live in
for the sudden rush of fire!
breaking out the windows of hope,
eating food they cannot swallow.
wild hogs,
blindly, stupidly,
destroying everything
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Moon To Weep
be it the petal of the flower...
or the edge of the blade.
love demands all,
and takes no prisoners.
be it the tongue,
or the pounding heart...
we leave no trace,
when the wave is gone!
whose history etched in silence?
choirs mourn without sound.
be it shadows or angels,
or demons set free...
they call it the last war,
will there be survivors?
who hears the oak tree fall,
in the deserted woods?
letters written by breasts,
whose milk gone bitter.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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America, America...
i remember...
$1.55 an hour, furniture row,
55 hours a week.
getting up hay, milking cows,
and them cotton mills
we worked in...
family member to family member,
generations of workers.
no running water,
carrying buckets up the hill,
spiders on the outhouse wall.
the hoe, the shovel, and the plow.
reading by candle light,
and writing socialist manifestos
on a 1913 underwood typewriter!
making love in the front seat
of a 1966 Rambler Classic.
raising babies, raising hell,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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