You Call This America!

morning splintered,
justice stinks like the
dried blood on the concrete walls
of an abandoned building.
you call this America!
lives wrapped in color,
in calloused hands.
standing in line
for a loaf of bread.
a bullet, a token,
a fresh covered grave,
you call this America!
you wear your god in sunday best,
throw words and prayers
into a bottomless well.
afraid of your shadows,
you arm yourselves,
you call this America!
the hands of take flex
and shout...

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Colored By Oil

your wing has healed;
the door to the cage
is open.

we go on walking
as if the war never happened;
the line of dead bodies
are just roses that bloomed.

and now are gone.

if love is a cross,
then the nails are twisted.
those that run at the first sign
of gunfire never really lived.

day by day prayers,
folding clothes and washing dishes.
it's hard to think
beyond each nickel and dime.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I'm Human

my skin is black,
my skin is white;
my skin is brown,
my skin is red.

i speak my own language,
i have my own God,
whose name is different...
whose wisdom is similar!

i love my wife,
i love my children;
when they are hungry,
i do what it takes to feed them!

i want to work,
i dare to dream.
i care about what happens,
pray about what i cant change.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Things I Forgot To Say

things i forgot to say...
smell like your hair on my fingers,
like the last glint of sunlight
trapped in evening trees.
taste like the charred flesh
of the family killed by war;
like the baby's mouth,
and the mother's nipple.
feel like poverty's prodigal children...
the heavy breathing of the old man
who works too much for too little.
hurt like the addicts eyes
staring through the empty window;
like the still a child
turned street whore,
who cannot turn away.
die like the noose around
the bullied boy's neck;
the harsh words of fear,
the trembling hand that holds the gun...

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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As Far Away.... (As Near Can Be)

there is a still joy in the night,
every sound, every movement.
when shadows come to life,
and time is forgotten.
and intimacy is restored.
one can almost taste the darkness,
the scent of trees, and grasses,
bathing in moonlight.
the dog barking in the distance,
is as near as only far can be.
somewhere lovers wrap in passioned ardor,
and children sleep in make believe wombs.
and god walks naked beneath windows,
and by locked doors, sprinkling the dust of hope.
while alone i drink in the stillness,
dying with the moths drawn to the lantern.
thinking of rain i smile, and whisper to lightning,
as far away as near can be!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Dare We Speak Of Freedom?

dare we speak of freedom
when children are starving?
when families are lost without homes?
when speaking the truth has become a crime?
when we bomb women and children
in the name of oil?
when the jobless roam long forgotten lines?
when religions persecute each other?
when prejudice is so deep we dont even see it?
when poverty's children have no means of escape?
when the prison business thrives?
and justice for profit be the way?
when medical care is a privilege for the few?
when everything we do, and everything we say,
is being watched?
when hatred beats the drum, and rattles the swords?
dare we speak of freedom?

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Words.... (Poetry Itself)

words do not heal the broken hearted,
words do not end wars.
words do not change the face of indifference,
words do not impress god!
words do not feed the hungry,
nor set the captives free.
words do not give shelter to the homeless,
or hope to those ridden with despair.
words do not stop discrimination,
words do not bring justice.
words do not bring forgiveness,
nor do they bring understanding...
words do not fill the empty,
nor erase the scars of love...
words do not define dialogue!

it is only then,
the hands and feet of the human heart...
and poetry itself is nothing more,
than the action of involved compassion!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Come, Night...

come, night...
night of the holy,
open arms outstretched,
wrapping all that hurts
and burns in cooling blackness.
come, night,
night of the candle lit,
of the curtains blown,
of the silent whispers.
come, night,
night of the glass upturned,
of the laughter of comrades,
of the talking of the eyes.
come, night,
night of the bodies wrapped,
the tongues electric,
the hardness and the wetness.
come, night,
night of quiet reflection,
of soulful introspection,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am.... (Disgust)

i am the soldier,
crying in his helmet.
i am the gas pump,
guarded by guns.
i am the foreclosed house,
weeping and vacant.
i am the oil rig,
convicted of murder.
i am the big truck,
parked in disgust.
i am the nursing home,
with grave like beds.
i am the field,
unplowed and untended.
i am the bowl,
filled with empty.
i am the boots,
left by the door.
i am the ache,
the want and the need.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I... Then!

i am... then,
the fallen sparrow,
the broken pane,
the house where no one lives!
the worn out shoes,
the guitar in the closet,
the child with cancer
staring from the window...
the book signed and forgotten
beneath the pillow,
the shotgun in the corner,
eyes painted that hide.
the telephone that doesnt ring,
love stains on the sheet.
the old man trying to bum a cup of coffee,
and the young girl behind the counter
who takes him a cup.
the political prisoner,
his blood on the floor.
the refugee... his blood

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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