Be It Then For This.....
be it then for this
that we are born,
again and again,
moment by moment...
the cat curled against your chest,
sunlight dancing in a raindrop.
the baby's cry, the old man's groan,
wildflowers on the hill where bodies fell.
woodsmoke, and snowflakes,
the cup with handle broken.
flowers placed on your mothers grave.
the inside of the turtle's shell,
the scent of fresh cut pine.
turnips boiling on the stove,
the stubbled beard of the homeless man.
the child that goes to sleep on your lap,
heartfelt words, heart driven ears.
the toothache of the soul,
for something more....
the gentle kiss on troubled eyelids.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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We Speak Often
we speak often...
of revolution, yet
we almost never speak,
of the old woman left alone,
her husband dead two years...
who sits in the dark,
and sometimes eats,
and cant see to clean her house.
we speak of peace,
and send troops to liberate,
teaching seperation in our churches.
we speak of hope,
yet horde all we can,
and keep our revolvers loaded.
we speak of justice
in terms of 'i' and 'they'....
and applaud wordplay in our courtrooms...
we speak of equality,
then call each race by name,
and demand that they speak english.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Limitless Thoughts, For Hune
Buddha was married, had a child, was a prince
with all anyone could ever want in the material
world. when he got out in the world, he saw
suffering, he felt it, and change began.
he left behind what he had, and began his search...
but what he searched for for so long was already
there... it always is!
there is truly no inner and outer world, that is
an illusion put forth by our conceptual minds...
what is, is!
he learned to let go of conceptual understanding,
and to just live! a part of that which breathes,
and is beyond time and human understanding...
there are no words for this, words are limited,
and often misconstrued! and what we are talking
about is limitless...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Praying For Emptiness!
walking barefoot down the streets
of the holy city...
listening to the sounds,
the whimper, the cry, and the roar...
praying for emptiness....
the clock beats in rhythm
with the sidewalks and the walls.
the smell of burnt flesh
hangs in the air....
'Jesus Saves' painted on a fence....
oil rigs and chemical sprays,
fields filled with unmarked graves.
windows broken, doors sway, rusted hinges,
cars abandoned, vacant buildings,
dead bodies, eyes lost stare!
the spirits of the children
sing haunting and low...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Simple...
follow that star...
to forlorn manger bare
'neath skies of poverty's making...
the simple, the common,
the calloused hands,
the baby's cry in cold night's grasp....
the light so few could see...
no temple, no righteous robes,
only a carpenter and wife...
no kings, no prophets,
no blaze of fury....
a child born in stillness,
that stillness formed....
abused, misunderstood,
his memory used and twisted
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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If I Go To A Place....
if i go to a place
that you cannot go...
it is not because i didnt love you,
not because we failed.
if i follow the shadows
to the morning light,
you are not alone...
i left my heart by your pillow.
if i ride the wind,
to just beyond the sky...
i have not deserted you,
i live in your every breath.
and if they bury me,
just before the first snow...
i will return with the spring,
in the buds of your longing.
for with each dawn,
the night must pass...
leaving wetness and the scent of hunger.
and when the river turns to find its source,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Wait For The Bus!
you can read the grain
of timeworn faces,
much as the grain of the ancient oak.
and rivers exist somewhere,
behind tired eyes, universes beneath dirty nails.
no one gives much of a damn for old men,
that's why there are benches, stoops,
and worn out old chairs.
perhaps god is knitting, or discovering
another Einstein....
and just doesnt have time to collect the lost!
while women bury their dreams in flower pots,
and the young burn clocks to the moon.
dogs piss on blades of unmarked grass,
giving names to faces unseen.
as old men with erections and scars,
translate the forbidden tongues.
seeing the naked light inside shadows,
they fart scriptures, and wait for the bus!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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True Love (Crucifixion)
must true love
always come to crucifixion?
who drives the nails?
who stands at the foot
of the cross and weeps?
who carried the cross?
who conducted the trial?
and who are the faceless ones
who stand and jeer?
who judges life worth giving,
and how much does love demand?
will love forgive?
does love have a name?
who'll bury the body?
who'll guard the tomb?
and on the third day,
who'll roll away the stone?
our journeys together,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Truth And Justice.... (Part Two)
do i advocate violent overthrow of
the government? .... no!
but i do not advocate the abuse of
the individual either.
we need to arm ourselves with the
weapons of peace, reason, and understanding...
we need to see things as they are!
and we need to reach down deep inside,
and pull out the fortitude to stand...
for a freedom that is equal in all ways.
we need to take our anger at hunger,
homelessness and joblessness...
and turn it into a plow...
we need to plow the fields of parity!
whether we do it the right way,
or the wrong way....
something will be done!
the load has become too much,
and the stink too foul!
we will change!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am... (Human Heart Beating)
i am...
the silent tomb that has no face.
the burnt edges of the holy book.
the hand that fits the yearning hand.
the light inside the shadow.
the cross carried without a murmur.
the house built out of simple things.
the grandchild, and the old dog.
the plane dropping medicine
instead of bombs.
the oil rig shut down and deserted.
moonlight on the ocean calm.
straw huts burning with devouring fire.
lines of women and children going nowhere.
the stock market crash, and the day after.
big trucks shut down, and markets bare.
familes joined together to share the little.
the wind crying freedom's hidden name.
white skin, brown skin, black skin one.
the human heart beating, red and raw!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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