Troubadour, For Clyde, Dwight, And Tim
the troubadour...
sleeps neath the willow that weeps,
wipes stone dust from his lips,
passes out pieces of heart.
for a glass of wine,
a quiet corner table...
he unfolds his souls,
and the tales of his lives.
catch a D chord,
on a blue night B minor.
loves gained, loves lost,
like stardust on his hat.
his worn boots a prayer,
that common people know.
the light in his eyes,
unlocks doors and heals wounds.
his voice left hanging,
smoke from factories long gone.
his footprints fade,
but not the scars on his heart.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Buddhist Lesson # 2
enlightment,
the act of opening,
like a rosebud,
like a mother,
opening the door...
like a child
opening a present,
like a woman
opening to a man....
opening...
all the hidden chambers,
every door to every
secret kingdom of the soul.....
opening the box that holds
your secret thoughts, desires....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Cannot, Or Can I?
i cannot stop world hunger,
tho i've been one of the hungry.
i cannot heal the brokenhearted,
tho my heart has been broken.
i cannot put an end to prejudice,
tho there are many colors in my soul.
i cannot disarm the violent ones,
for i've been violent too.
i cannot put an end to greed,
tho i am a victim of its hand.
i cannot heal the environment,
that i've been a part of killing.
i cannot fill the cup of the lonely,
tho i've drunk from it often.
i cannot free the political prisoners,
that my apathy put in chains.
i cannot change the path of despair,
on which i walk, numb and faceless....
i cannot... or can i?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Finding Shelter In The Silence
my tongue probes the leaves
of your forbidden tree...
you teach me the language of wetness.
ah, to die again and again,
in the deep wells of your eyes!
the side of your neck tastes
like the bank of the river.
i dive into the dark murkiness,
my teeth bared with pulsing need.
even the bark of the fallen tree,
rises and pants...
i groan, and nations fall!
you growl, and children are born!
who are we after all these years,
lovers, owls, bats, insects burning!
or the lonliness of god,
feeding on tiny eternities....
both the sound and the echo.
it is night then that we know...
infidels finding shelter in the silence
poem by Eric Cockrell
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One Last Letter
writing one last letter...
not sure who it's to
- dont think it matters!
the words are composed of
the things i've done... both
good and bad.
the commas are for my mistakes,
-Lord, we're gonna have a lot of commas!
mistakes both of omission,
and commission...
the periods are for the times
i gave up, quit trying,
lost my way...
but the body of the letter
is filled with hope....
hope that sees things as
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Perhaps Only Rainfall....
evolution,
or perhaps only rainfall.
kind words given,
dripping from autumnal leaves.
rose petals weep at the funeral,
then drink till dawn.
and old men draw highways,
that lead to the eyes.
destiny, dirty socks
and old coffee cups.
while shadows taste like the dirt,
on the bank of the creek.
the cry of freedom seems bitter,
somewhat hot to the touch.
as the face of the stranger,
dissolves in the mirror.
the sky still as if waiting,
drawn by the memory of wings.
the book on the shelf,
smells faintly of love.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Mystery Written
it is the mystery written
in the bed of pine needles,
in the broken branch,
in the bad place in the road.
in the hours between 3 and 4 in the morning,
when the spirit grieves itself with prayer.
in the cool of the darkness,
in the window cracked.
in the homeless dog's eyes,
as he stands in the road.
in the box unopened for twenty years,
in the eviction notice,
and the lights cut off.
in the kerosene heater,
and potatoes strewn in the cellar.
in the tear in the sheet,
in worn out shoes.
in love lost in waiting,
adrift, searching for a light.
in the answer that smells like dawn,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Knew The Smoke (To Be A Prayer)
he said:
'i went four years
without a lover,
trying to do the right thing...
then one day i stood up,
packed my few belongings,
and walked off...
in search of...'
i watched him as he rolled
a cigarette, his gnarled hands
sure and steady...
stared at the light in his eyes,
and the doors...
only he knew what
was behind them.
bought him a cup of coffee,
and shook his hand,
no need for words...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Prayer Eyes
i learned to pray
almost as soon
as i learned to breathe...
i'm not sure there's
much difference.
sometimes i think
if you get beaten down
so much in life....
it allows you to let go
of everything you thought
you had to have, of everything
that you thought you had to be....
and you learn to feel,
and to see with new eyes,
with prayer eyes....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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What Have I To Fear?
if death be but a step,
a flower fallen with silent shouts...
a kiss blown by wind but never lost,
a friend who tends the grave.
a hymn, a prayer, kind words spoken,
a drink at a corner table.
a book placed back on the shelf,
a child's drawing done in crayon.
a door closed, left unlocked,
cattle left in the pasture all night.
an empty bowel, a candle burned down,
a sparrow sitting outside the window.
a shovel of dirt, a broken glass,
boots left in the corner.
the dog's leg cocked,
the fire burned down....
the still darkness waiting on dawn.
the river overflowed,
the cage door opened...
then what have i to fear?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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