If You Need Scriptures....
if you need scriptures,
read the scriptures written
on the walls of your soul!
read the scriptures written
in trees, in rocks, in rivers.
read the scriptures written
in the broken alley.
in the homeless man's eyes,
in the addict's desperation,
in the shuffle of jobless feet.
in the cry of the newborn baby,
in the lovers moan of fulfillment,
the scriptures written
in the sweet darkness of night,
in the jail cell,
in the picket line,
in the monk who sets himself
on fire for freedom and justice,
in all the colors of equality...
in the hungry child's hand reaching out...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Love Defiled
spirits wail in the napalm night,
bodies without faces walk deserted streets.
dreams whisper from cardboard boxes,
ants walk with angel's feet.
the sound of mouth's stricken,
deeper than just need.
the soul of fire shudders,
while glass eyed leeches feed.
history written with grave cost,
we are what we have done.
while outside the door anger lurks,
and the bullet seeks the gun!
gods? i think not....
even demons fear to tread.
the hand takes from its own heart,
and leaves the hunger for dead.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Guilty and the Innocents
the guilty and the innocents
trudge through life side by side...
never knowing names,
sometimes reading faces,
often not!
and that which is done
in the name of glory,
by the light of greed,
is justified in the 'holy courts'
where lives are bought and sold
by the takers...
is there a God?
in Whose name the murdering
hand moves swiftly...
the price of blood, the wailing beat
of hearts without identity.
the march of those that conquer
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Thunderous Snow!
thunderous snow,
born o'er dark silent mountains;
the final prayer,
the last turn of the plow.
air frozen and heavy,
the wind shakes the bones,
the bare trees wait,
naked, and obedient.
time come and gone,
the memory of a kiss fades
into the deep stillness,
and the sleep of the soul.
cries of passion lost,
in the darkness so deep,
that ending and beginning are one!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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You Cant Hide...
grey face ghouls
dressed in suits,
tongues ripped out,
human skin boots.
thought marines,
black cloud guns.
you cant hide,
and you cant run.
babies taken,
sons in prison.
wearing masks,
violent 'Christians'.
ignorance drugs,
prejudice and hate.
you can barely stand
beneath the weight.
white men, black men,
all men inside.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Ashes, Dirt, and Wicker
dead bird lying
in a wicker cage.
hands on the old clock...
...... stopped!
train tracks that tremor,
and nothing comes.
you cant build a fire
in ashes....
look back. the fields
behind you are brown,
and barren...
the memory of rows
gone back to dirt...
just dirt!
the stranger at the door
never speaks, never asks,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Cats And Dogs!
whose hand on your heart,
whose back beneath the load?
whose time in the memories,
that color your world?
whose identity the touch?
whose image in the stone?
whose kiss on your lips?
whose stillness in your night?
i am the turn,
and the lantern without price.
i am the touch,
you thought was the wind.
i am the bed,
where your prayers go to sleep.
i am the intimate stranger,
throwing logs on your fire!
you wrap up pieces
of your heart in cardboard boxes.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Crawling Without Feet
women that smoke cigars,
and books that start with the ending.
the things dogs smell
written underneath stones.
the day guns rise up and walk out,
in utter protest.
the long trek cows and pigs and fish make,
on the way to becoming part of you.
the sound potatoes make
when you dig them...
the fire you built before you built it!
the things green beans whisper in the rain,
the groan of tomatoes ripening.
the sound of rust and leaves turning,
the name written in the first autumn chill.
the day we left the sea,
crawling without feet to the land.
and the day we'll return, utter failures,
or with the memory of a thousand small victories.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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In A Can
sitting in my old chair
on the porch breaking
green beans... waiting
on the storm.
wind whips through the trees,
a streak of lightning, occasional
thunder... breaking beans.
thinking about my grandparents,
working down at the mill...
farming, grew four gardens...
cows, pigs, chickens, and
turkeys...
no one ever went hungry
there... no one around them
went hungry...
there was always food to eat,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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This Body
this body's not my home...
just a nest, frayed and tattered.
a tumbledown shack,
weathered by the years.
a cup stained by use.
a fire gone to embers,
a prayer lost in the din.
the sound of the hawk's wings
in a sky no one can touch.
bury it, or not! i dont care!
you can burn it on a pyre,
or leave it for the wolves.
i cannot take it with me,
have no use for name or identity.
the bird upon leaving the cage
doesnt come back for the cage!
the ego dies and dissolves
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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