Judgement, And Holiness
you who would judge
from atop your virginal towers
of self assurance
who speak with the voice
of the god that your money bought,
your god of wars.
with swords of glass,
and the vengeance of
prejudicial morality
save your breath!
the lie exposes itself.
eternity doesnt stand trial
in small minded courts.
'no difference between the
sacred and the profane'
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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On Abortion
on abortion...
those who rage against abortion
most often do not put themselves
in the position of the mother.
while all of life is sacred,
there are times when abortion
becomes necessary.
when the mother's life is in danger,
in cases of rape,
in cases where the mother
cannot be the mother...
and only the mother-to-be
has the right to make this decision.
it is the woman's choice, bottom line.
we must educate ourselves
so that we know that all choices
have their costs...
again, it is the woman's choice.
abortion was never meant to be birth control,
but sometimes, it is the best option.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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What If... Again And Again!
what if it never rained again?
what if the night went on forever,
and the dawn never came?
what if all my dreams turned to salt,
and lightning left the skies?
what if my body turned to ashes,
and my bones were scattered unknown?
what if my name were lost
to the emptiness of time...
and my heart, cut as firewood,
to feed a stranger's fire?
what if everything i've done,
forgotten as if i never lived?
what if i never held you again,
never kissed your lips,
never looked into your eyes?
what if there were no God,
and death were the end? ...
what if for the simple touch of your hand,
i'd do it again, and again!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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What Then Is Love?
what then is love?
if it be not this...
the sound of your voice,
the stillness i breathe.
your scent, rainswept pines,
and wet plowed earth.
your skin the feathers
of dead crows seeking flight.
your hunger the thunder,
splitting clouds swollen with passion.
your eyes a bucket of rainwater,
shimmering in the moonlight.
your breasts the river,
your heart moss covered stone.
your soul the wind,
coming and gone without restraint.
your kiss the crackle
of branches in the fire...
your taste the shadow
that just stole the light.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Bodhisattva Nightmare
i felt the bullet
as your body fell,
the sickening gasp of light
lost in the void...
i felt the empty
of your stomach turning,
as you staggered weakly
down that long dusty road.
i felt the bone crushing pain
as he struck your face,
again and again....
i felt the sickness
of the stench of the alley...
i felt the fear and despair of the cell,
the not knowing when
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Note To The United States Of America!
we cannot be a nation proclaiming human rights,
without closing Guantanamo!
we cannot proclaim justice,
as long as money controls out courts.
we cannot proclaim freedom,
while invading other countries.
we cannot proclaim democracy,
as long as corporations have more
rights than individuals.
we cannot proclaim dignity,
while letting our children starve.
we cannot proclaim progress,
till all stand side by side with opportunity.
we cannot proclaim respect,
till all are equally respected.
we cannot proclaim spirituality,
until we live the words we speak.
we cannot proclaim peace,
until we come to peace with ourselves!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Is Mine!
lover, dont lie...
the stench of silence overwhelms.
the stray cat sleeps in a cardboard box,
the old oak tree groans with morning.
table set for three,
you, me, and the guest...
too long on the road,
he's forgotten the turn,
and love's address is unlisted.
the feather drawn lines of arch and thrust,
define your eyes with headstones.
your hand slips between the bread,
tastes better without mayonnaise.
the cup of whispers grows cold,
deer stand at the edge of the clearing.
the rusted old truck sputters and starts,
crows fly in slow mournful lines.
the feet beneath the table are dirty,
the heart on the plate is mine!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The AntiChrist Lives...
the AntiChrist lives...
in the harsh decisions
made by your callous leaders.
in your turning of the head,
and closing of the eyes,
as injustice is piled upon injustice.
in the countries you invade,
in those you imprison without cause...
in those you let go hungry,
in the sick you do not care for.
in your prejudices and righteous judgements,
in the closed minds of your fundamentalist fervor.
in your closed doors, closed borders,
in your profit at all costs.
in your churches, in your courtrooms,
in your fear to touch the untouchables!
the AntiChrist lives...
in the well dressed faces of apathy
that haunt your mirrors!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Who Bears The Guilt.... (In The End)
i close my eyes and go back...
sixties angry churning deep south,
to the old oak tree in the clearing.
where two bodies hung side by side;
one young black man, local,
one young jewish man,
who came from the north to protest.
both stripped naked, badly beaten,
whose sins did they die for?
black and white Jesus's,
neath a guilt ridden limb...
whose crown of thorns?
and who will roll away the stone?
45 years later,
a couple lines in the news.
a young gay man hanging from a rafter.
the victim of bullying and discrimination.
will we never learn?
how many Jesus's?
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Judas
like Judas,
i too oft kissed compassion
on the cheek...
betraying my conscience
to feed my hungers...
too oft dug shallow graves
in my haste to keep going....
too oft took a sip of water,
and poured the rest on the ground....
too oft crossed myself,
gave a couple dollars to a begger,
but kept some back for myself....
too oft looked into the eyes of need,
and only saw a stranger....
too oft gave half a heart....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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