I Call It Slavery!
how much do we really know?
how much of what we think we know
is the truth?
can we handle the truth?
most of what we read in the papers,
most of what our politicians tell us,
most of what we see on the news...
is a carefully directed lie!
we have been owned for decades,
herded like sheep to the slaughter,
manipulated and used by an unseen hand,
for a purpose that only they know...
conspiracy? no, more a global mission,
complete control of the world,
complete control of the future...
as Dylan said: 'only pawns in their game...'
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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It's Now, It's Time
albino skunks,
nuclear rain.
on the tracks again,
no whistle, no train.
sit down and stand,
occupy your rights.
you gotta be honest
to join the fight.
black man, white man,
your blood colored red.
throw down your anger,
forgive and forget.
the time of the end,
or the time of change.
freedom's never won
without forgiveness and pain...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Or Just The Wind!
the hand of eros
wipes the sweat
from my forehead...
or perhaps it's only the wind
that i have come to know...
the mountains i climbed
now look like foothills....
the tips of my wings charred
and dredged through oil.
the dreams i held,
dreams of flesh and spirit,
now blow like dust
into the darkness of night.
and the taste of blood
now need be nothing more....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Praying For Rain
the farmer poet
walking barefoot
in the dust,
looking upwards
towards heaven,
praying for rain.
the blue collar poet
walks between the rows
of machines gone silent
in the deserted building,
looking upwards,
praying for work.
the nurse poet
stares at the line
of people wanting help,
no insurance, no money
looking upwards,
praying for hope.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Even The Stars Cannot Weep!
the Vietnam vet,
his plant shut down,
too old and crippled to hire.
draws just enough
to pay half the rent,
sleeps with one eye open.
tossed by napalm dreams,
and Nixon's lies...
bourbon, god, and country...
his heart skips a beat,
his penis flees to Canada,
waiting for burial and bugles!
the heroin ghost
on the paint peeled steps,
watching the shuckers and the jivers.
old woman gone,
cancer struck...
ashes on the mantle.
a broke down chevrolet,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Follow (I Am The Flute)
i follow...
the hoot of the owl,
the smoke that leads
to the fire.
the hollow of the hand,
to the hard and the soft.
the salt of the sea
to the dark and murky unknown.
the erection and the breast,
to the womb that creates.
lightning to the thunder,
and thunder to lightning.
the hammer to the nail,
the bullet through the barrel.
the spirit through the book,
back to the tree in the forest.
the body to the grave,
the universe back to dust.
i follow...
the sound of the flute,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Evolution Of Revolution
i can still taste,
frozen moonlit blood night
dripping from my fangs,
can feel the earth writing pawstruck,
the cool damp loving grasses.
still shudder with the howl,
that opens and spills my soul,
my eyes alive and searching
for the hint of passion.
pour a glass of wine,
we'll speak softly
like civilized men and women...
talk of books, ideals,
the evolution of revolution,
and paint a portrait of god.
still the drums beat,
the wind calls with a lover's need.
the trees mumble with magnetic sweeps,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Life For The Living, Nothing More!
he lies awake,
the room cold and dark....
except for moonlight pouring
through the curtainless window....
she lies naked, wrapped into
every pore of him,
their breath hanging like small clouds.
the smell of love and woodsmoke,
the heartbeat of silence
resonates off bare walls....
no money, little food, tomorrow
to look for work......always tomorrow!
the sound of gunfire, and children's voices
haunt the back of memory forgotten.....
they called it history, the great change....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Brunt Of The Storm
the old woman
sits on the floor,
talking to the vacuum cleaner,
and laughing with the broom.
and the pictures of children,
like leaves turning seasons,
stare silently from a distance,
both chosen and not!
the dog bows her eyes,
with worry and love.
and the drone of the tv,
bores holes in the wall.
long grey hair glistening,
as sun sifts dirty blinds.
and the smell of passion,
has turned to old feet.
and no one gives a cold damn,
or understands why...
she has no need of people,
no need for chatter.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Be It Mission Or Bad Decision!
the bastards lied!
gunpowder doesnt taste like sex,
and the bombs exploding,
dont sound like liberation.
while the flesh torn faces
running in fear,
haunt my sleepless nights.
victory doesnt rhyme with oil,
freedom doesnt stink like dead bodies...
my brothers that fell beside me,
are not heroes, they're just dead!
as democracy nails down coffin lids,
while the traders wear new suits.
and the real terror is exposed
in the money on the table!
sure they hate us, you would too!
terrorists come in the middle of the night.
in foreign tongues killing the innocents,
in the name of a foreign god...
no weapons of mass destruction,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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