What Color? (Hope)
what color
was the dust
from which the stars
were made?
what color is the hunger
written on the child's face?
what color is justice,
forgiveness, desire, truth?
what color is the wind....
the rain, gravity,
and knowledge?
what color is equality?
what color is freedom?
what color is eternity?
what color is redemption?
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Behaving Like Monkeys!
revolution, evolution...
the lid to the mayonnaise jar,
contemplates.
blackberries, strawberries,
and blueberries mingle on a plate,
perhaps plotting upheaval.
the leaf from the oak
blown onto the needles of the pine,
his brothers yell, 'dont be too long,
you might be converted.'
rainwater running from a rusted gutter,
repentance, absolution?
the leaf being formed, an unseen bud,
on a snow covered limb...
DNA?
the stray cat lays down with the dogs,
neath the spider's gigantic web.
the grass runs naked in the dew,
we know! moonlight saw them!
and mountains embrace whichever cloud comes,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Delicious Torture....
ah.... delicious torture!
my lips drip like rain
around your body in dust.
swallows starve, cracked windowsills,
as sunlight courts the trees
with lies too intimate to be...
cobwebs refracting daylight's passing,
snails burp in disgust...
always, only, the scent of your trail!
while somewhere old milkmen
die in horse drawn graves.
and dead soldiers dance
in a world drawn of shadow.
red wine, pipe tobacco,
curling in plumes...
the cat on the ledge waits,
a tongue etched in claw!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Celebrate Woman
i celebrate woman...
cosmos, storm, flower
opening and closing...
giver of life, bringer of death!
falling star, rhythm of seasons,
the flesh bound words of the poem...
daughters of the Goddess,
mother of earth, earth and all within.
i celebrate woman...
strong, tender, lightning,
embers smoking in the soul.
beauty, spirituality, sensuality,
wisdom of the ages.
fresh plowed dirt waiting
on seed, rain, and sun.
hope in the night,
a beacon to the lover's soul.
i celebrate woman,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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They Say I Am Mad, But....
i spend a lot of time
talking and listening to...
dogs and cats,
trees, abandoned buildings,
gardens plowed...
old outhouses,
worn out shoes,
candles burned down,
and wet matches!
i follow spirits in the night,
bathe naked in the moonlight.
whisper to old tire swings,
pray with tin roofs....
listen to the agonies of slugs and snails,
and rescue turtles from homicidal men.
i write names in tire tracks,
and sweep footsteps into dust.
i burn old coveralls
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Destiny's Breath!
the face of my god is dark,
her eyes coal more precious than diamonds.
she whispers to fallen petals,
and mountains and rivers speak forth.
her lips call crows and name them eagles,
her hands are filled with bowls.
she names the darkness morning,
and from the light she weaves the night.
she bathes the human spirit,
in the sweat of tribulation.
she nurses the unwanted child,
and places flowers on unmarked graves.
she gives lost lovers candles,
builds bridges for weary pilgrims.
she forges doubt into the journey,
and plants dignity in fields gone fallow.
she walks with poets in intimate silence,
from grieving she harvests prayer.
from prayer she forms bodies,
filled with destiny's breath!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Graves Of Your Fathers
dead poets stacked like saltine crackers,
in the hangers where the bombs are loaded.
the smell of flesh burning
doesnt change with skin colors,
screams in the night defy language!
justice oozes from pus filled wounds,
faces stolen from bodies marching.
death falls like the rain that has no after,
on the poor and the ignorant without discrimination.
the power surges, lights flicker and fade,
the children of the poets sharpen knives,
and sleep with stray cats....
when even darkness sickens itself,
and women gather garbage by flashlight.
the beast you fed the poets' tongues,
sits staring at your mother!
and you walk blindly down the tracks,
throwing pennies on the graves of your fathers!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Bucket of Water
carrying a bucket of water
up a hill... careful not to spill.
whose life will i come
in contact with today?
and what kind of impact
will i make?
do i do enough?
or am i deluding myself?
do i really care?
or am i just going
through the motions?
when someone talks,
do i listen?
when i listen,
do i really hear?
when someone is hurting,
do i feel it?
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Have I Spoken Lately?
have i spoken lately
too often of death?
hard not to...
when i can feel
the hot breath on my neck.
and the shudder of blackness
that rattles my bones!
the knock, the figure in shadow,
too familiar to feel safe.
the hand as cold as ice,
that takes all,
leaving nothing behind.
but tis not fear i feel,
just a tired resignation.
and a powerful sense
of things left undone,
and stars i forgot to name!
as for love,
i know not what else,
or what more i could have done.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Guest
black coffee, and
cigarettes... clearing
the cobwebs from my head....
spent all night talking
to dead poets, and
standing by my mother's grave...
mortality hangs from my
neck like an anvil... waiting...
for the train to come....
sunlight pouring through
my fingers like dust....
falling to my feet with finality...
it comes down to this...
who have i loved by my living?
small children, women, companions...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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