Grey Windows...
grey windows, grey buildings,
grey streets, grey skies...
grey figures staring,
grey deals are done!
manipulate gas prices,
manipulate food...
manipulate the economy,
manipulate the election.
right and wrong,
never thought of.
hungry mouths and desperation.
win the war,
never raise a gun,
bodies strewn everywhere!
money makes gods,
without conscience or morals.
human lives just tokens,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Looking (Meditation)
looking for awakening,
i gave up, and quit looking,
- the petals opened!
i do the wrong thing,
say the wrong thing,
think the wrong thing,
feel the wrong thing...
so many times every day
that it pisses me off!
seems like the harder i try
the worse i become!
maybe i need to quit trying!
looking for freedom,
i gave up, and quit looking,
- my chains fell to the ground!
i walk down this same road
again and again, and
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sunday Morning Redemption
Sunday morning redemption...
black coffee and cigarettes,
the silence that only Sunday brings.
the week behind, jumbled and lost.
sifting through the news,
what needs attention?
what cant be helped?
where do we turn the wheel
and place the blade?
whose faces, whose names?
an invitation to think,
and ghosts that walk beside.
the righteous shave and shower,
putting on their best.
somewhere a street bum asks
for a coupla dollars,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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For The Grave....
three minutes past dying...
the body still warm.
the cat and the dog sit quietly
by the grieving door.
sunlight drives shadows to corners,
as the sound of low voices.
speak up, sister!
he cannot hear!
yet the damp place in the palm,
maybe the hummingbird outside the window.
a truck hurtles down the street,
with frantic need.
dont call the preacher...
call the farmer, the carpenter,
the garbage collector,
the transient bum!
past the point of kindnesses,
shout 'ha! ', pour a drink...
give the thief an incentive,
unlock the door.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Honest Thoughts
where do we go from here?
our lives controlled by mechanical arms,
that oppress and drive without conscience.
we've been fed for years on a steady diet
of lies, of half truths, of illusions.
and now the walls of the false kingdom
have come tumbling down...
we have been driven by fear to participate
in their unholy wars... by misguided images
of patriotism... by a graven image of what's
right and wring...
and we're not buying it anymore!
the American dream has crumbled... we're
jobless, homeless, desperate, and hungry!
maybe that's what it took to open our eyes!
they've taken away our hope of a future...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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In Memory of an Old Man
he was an old man then...
6 foot 4, still strong
as an ox...
a carpenter...
and i was his helper;
building interstate bridges
in the south,
walking i-beams,
60 foot off the ground...
2.50 an hour!
we used to go
to his house
after work...
he'd scramble a dozen
eggs, or so...
and break out the sugarhead.
we'd spend hours
listening to him talk
about women, fighting,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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When the Wind Returns
a soft strong voice called me,
a voice i'd heard before
but couldnt quite remember...
and my spirit rose from my body,
and left through the bedroom window
without looking back...
there is a space beyond the stars
in the darkest sky... a place
beyond the mind's understanding...
when light returns to darkness
and is reborn.... in tiny particles
of dust that gather and are formed....
a song that has no human words...
but is known and knowing... and
can only be played by human hands...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am # 3
i am, become...
i am the Roman gladiater,
the last Christian thrown to the lions.
the cop in riot squad gear,
the young woman arms linked
in the name of peace
whose skull he just crushed!
the Wall Street banker,
the man who just lost his job,
his company sold overseas,
the bottom line grows.
i am the cape, the bull,
the rage, and the sword.
the bank, the robber,
and the money just taken.
i am the Bill Of Rights burning,
and the vote that was bought.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Woody Guthrie
Woody Guthrie,
where are you now?
with your dust covered boots,
and your old flop hat.
your rusted strings
ringing out freedom
for all to hear...
your words exposing fascists....
your heart free as the sky...
Woody Guthrie,
tell me which way to turn....
those dust covered roads
filled with the lost again...
aint no more trains to hop,
aint no work to find....
and the armed thugs are coming
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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And Eat Our Own Flesh....
we who are not alive,
and yet not dead.
poured into cups,
that dont exist.
held by a hand,
no more than shadow.
we cling to memory,
yet do not remember.
lighting fires with darkness,
drinking kerosene in circles.
we pray to old tires,
never seeing the wheel.
having made peace with war,
entrapped by our concepts.
we drain oceans of thought,
while dying of thirst.
afraid of the image,
the acorn worships the tree...
while the tree reaches feeble branches
to embrace eternity.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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