I Was Not Born To Follow # 2
i am the nail half-bent,
....tossed to the side,
......rusted by the rain.
the body of the young man shot
...left in the streets,
.....the bullet, and the silence.
the trembling hand that lights the pipe,
....and the anger deep inside.
......the young woman giving birth,
the light that screams for darkness.
...the door latch broken
.....on the vacant house,
and the roar of the empty.
...the waves that break the barricade,
.....leaving dead fish on the sand.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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What If I Took The Time?
what if i took the time
to name every star,
every grain of sand,
even the deserted web
blown by the wind!
every unwanted child,
every family made refugees
by war, or by poverty.
every angry kid on the streets,
every forgotten man in prison.
would my work be finished?
what if i took the time
to wipe away every tear,
to clean the wounds of the wretched,
to fill the bowls of the hungry...
to touch the untouchables,
to free those in chains...
would my work be over?
what if i took the time
to forgive the unforgiven,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Children For Sale
'children for sale,
...children for sale, '
the street vendor cries...
'we've got all kinds...
...black and white, brown
....and red...
..boys and girls, take your choice!
...spin the wheel, take a chance! '
who chooses what opportunities,
what chances, what quality of life?
how much education?
what kind of family life?
a degree, a job, a future?
or work with the hands, skilled labor?
or menial work, no work at all....
a life of crime, taught by the prisons?
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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His Own Small Store
he's just an old man...
working behind the counter
of his own small store
for forty years...
the young toughs
kept robbing him...
grabbing stuff off the shelves
and running...
threatening him,
and the old woman...
till they lived in fear
day and night...
then they went too far!
coming across the counter
and grabbing him by the collar:
'give me the money, old man! '
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Value Of A Man... (And A Woman!)
if i were a woman,
what i would value in a man:
one who listens, is kind,
one who is honest...
one who is sensual, spiritual,
one who questions...
one who is as good at changing a diaper
as plowing a garden...
one who reads extensively...
one who enjoys long walks in the rain,
quiet conversations in a corner booth,
would rather make love by candlelight
than go out on the town...
one who stands firm in his convictions,
but respects all points of view.
one who can cook,
and has no qualms about
letting the dog curl up in the bed...
one who is strong, and weak,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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On The 'I Am' Series....
the 'I Am' series for me has been
a journey, a constant and continual
sense of evolving, finding the self by
'losing the self in the selves of all others',
the identity that has not a name, but many names...
many faces, many colors, many smells...
the raw sense of the connection,
the sacredness of the common,
the ecstatic weeping of souls joined by need.
the dance of the spirit, the sensuality...
and the pounding beat of hearts within hearts.
if i ever put together another book, this
will be it! this is what i have to say!
this series contains the wholeness, and all
the broken pieces of my life.... these poems smell
like me, and like you!
thank each of you for bearing with me....
we are the journey!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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There Will Come A Time!
there will come a time,
when you eat your own flesh,
and drink your own blood...
when the air you breathe
will be filled with smoke and ashes.
when a man will kill a man
for a gallon of gas,
or a jug of water...
there will come a time!
there will come a time,
when you'll sell
your sisters and daughters.
when you'll bury
your mothers and fathers
for their houses.
when you'll burn your faith,
and deny the truth...
there will come a time.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am
i am, become...
i worked your steel mills,
i walked the i-beams of your scrapers.
i dug deep in your coal mines,
i plowed your fields, picked your crops...
i picked your cotton, milked your cows,
worked your furniture factories,
in your cotton mills...
built your tracks, rode your trains,
popped your trucks, poured your concrete...
my sweat and blood, the foundation,
the nails in the wall!
i an America, the common,
and the magnificent...
i am the pulse, the breath, the beat.
i am the lover, the fighter, the dreamer...
i am the father, and the mother...
i am the sinner and the holy.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Perhaps A Brandy
perhaps a brandy....
the shovel still caked with dirt,
the body restless, turns and groans.
the shade o'er the window
yellowed by mold,
the frail hands of the clock
do not move or whisper.
the scent of love,
lingers and stutters.
the fireplace empty,
the books weep on the shelf.
the old tree fallen
just outside your window,
the barking of dogs,
the prayers of rust.
children without faces
carry the box into the night...
the hoot of the owl,
another mockingbird dead!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Harness The Mules....
you would harness the mules,
and put blinders on them....
you would muzzle the dog,
clip the wings of the hawk.
you would cut the ancient oak,
without thought or remorse.
you would dam the river,
and the consequences be damned.
you would harness the sun,
and enslave the wind....
in the name of your god,
to the beat of the drums.
let the bones be your footprints,
of the flesh make your boots.
pluck the eyes from the truth,
rip out the tongue of courage.
yet in the dark of night,
in your neon lit rooms.
the ghosts of your children's children,
shake the panes and tear at the curtains.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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