Fake Dreams!
snowflakes coming,
Christmas, and what it's become.
a mad rush to Walmart,
a fight for the deal....
too many lights, too many adds,
credit cards and borrowed diamonds....
plastic Jesus's 'neath plastic trees!
and all the while the soup kitchen
struggles to keep up....
the shelters already full....
and the homeless walk the streets.
young men dying overseas,
young men and women dying on our streets...
a boy waits in his cell
for a card that wont come....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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To Search The Night
the lie hidden inside the stone,
buried in the field;
slept waiting for nuclear rain,
and the lamp that portayed the sun...
then with a burst of reptile genius,
grew and blossomed into a city,
heavy with the musk of empty bodies...
and they prayed beneath neon lights,
dancing to synthetic music.
as she devoured her young,
on the day after progress!
while gods wore masks and demons shuddered,
to the sound of wheels biting pavement.
the gravemakers wore plastic gloves,
their eyes red with smoke.
and judges stood in bank lines,
while convicts gave blood.
Jesus stopped, and vomited,
on the highway to Gethsemene!
and crosses wept for meaning,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Your Lips Taste Like
your lips taste like
my heart wrapped in brown paper,
and left out in the rain....
the cloud that drifts by taunting,
the old dog dying in the field.
the rose just before it opens,
the blood surging from the bullet wound.
the bottom of the bridge
the homeless sleep under...
a falling star, a leaf blown by the wind.
the hungry child's whimper,
the howl of the wolves.
the desire of the turtle,
a flat tire on a deserted road.
the surge of the ocean,
and the pulse of the mountain.
like a postage stamp
from a faraway shore...
like the little girl's hands
opening the door of the cage,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Beyond The Veil.....
nothing lives here anymore.
they closed that tiny bookstore,
and the bar on the corner is gone.
the sidewalks swept and empty,
windows covered with dust.
would be lovers ride by radios blaring,
cell phones grafted to their ears.
no one makes love anymore,
masturbation detoxification.
crows hanging on the brick walls,
apartment doors bolted and locked.
caught a meth lab in the church basement,
and they've cut down all the trees.
no one jumps from windows,
babies born in sterile rooms.
tongues lie dormant in desire's mouth,
perfume suffocates the senses.
the threat of rain, everybody scatters,
for fear of getting wet!
cept the old blind man walking his dog,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Stand By The Graves....
i stand by the graves
of those who came before,
those who walked beside me
on this lonesome path....
those i worked with, fought with,
loved with, exchanged poetry
and thoughts with...
sang the songs of freedom with,
prayed prodigal prayers with...
those who burned too bright,
and fell like renegade stars.
who fell by drugs, violence,
hard living, or by suicide...
those who lived too hard too fast!
who took me in when i was a fugitive,
who took me for what i was.
those who dared to bleed
in an angry world....
those who cared without reason!
i stand by the graves silently weeping,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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If Poems Had...
if poems had hands,
they'd unload all the guns,
tear down the walls that divide us,
wipe tears from the face of sadness.
if poems had wings,
they'd fly over the barriers
and through the storms,
to nest on the cliffs of freedom.
if poems had hearts,
they'd feel all suffering as their own,
they'd forgive without hesitation,
and love without condition.
if poems had homes,
they'd unlock and open the door,
and let the stranger in,
giving shelter to the lost.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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State Of The Union
President Obama,
your firm resolve
very admirable...
you preach your dream
for America with
light in your eyes...
you drew your line
in the sand...
but we your people
are still hurting...
we cannot feed our children
on dreams alone..
we need the body
to follow the heart.
bringing the soldiers home,
finally, keep them home!
should have been done
long ago!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Burning Flags
they're burning flags again....
sit down stand up protesting,
cracking heads like eggs,
yolk running down on hallowed ground....
they're burning flags again...
soldier boys coming home
to no work, living in cars,
no help, without a country...
they're burning flags again...
your sister died giving birth.
your brother-in-law cant get work,
making meth in the tub...
crying at night 'neath a picture
of Jesus hanging on the cross....
they're burning flags again...
small town football heroes
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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From The Jesus Papers... (Part Two)
'Follow Me...'
can i walk beside You?
i want to see what You do,
i want to be what You do!
i want to get my hands dirty.
feed the hungry, share what i've got....
heal the sick, listen with the heart.
not so much worried about calming the storm,
i just want to stop the wars!
stand up to the political and religious leaders...
i'm with You!
'forgive to be forgiven...'
'let him who is without sin
cast the first stone...'
'the kingdom of heaven
is within you...'
yeah, i knew that one!
'if you do it to one of the least of these...'
same thing! we are all joined!
sweating drops of blood, we've done that.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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In The End!
madness, churning, burning,
turning on a spit....
they feed the fire with the bodies,
drink the blood of the expendables.
life bruised, pulsing, throbbing,
all stand naked in the end!
and only the flesh that stinks with being,
finds the path of true holiness!
the street vendors, and the charlatans....
laugh to hide from the sound,
of the tiny beat of a single heart,
a universe inside itself!
in the end the crows will eat the flesh,
of those that bought and sold;
who traded souls for power,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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