I Am # 2
i am, become...
i am the poet, the prophet,
the clown, the fool...
the old man running the pawn shop,
the teacher who tries but cant seem...
the whore working her corner,
the policeman walking his beat,
the old woman shivering under her quilt,
who cant pay for heat!
the murderer, the dealer,
the victim, the prisoner...
the soldier come home to no home,
the farmer whose farm foreclosed.
i am the bow, the arrow,
the hammer, the nail...
the sacred relic, the condom,
the head on the platter.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am (More)
i am, become...
i am the tear on the cheek
of the child sleeping alone.
i am the fear on the face
of the young couple
who have nowhere to turn.
i am the bullet loaded
into the gun held by shaking hands.
i am the family Bible
packed away in a closet forgotten.
i am the Muslim man
treated with contempt...
i am the sheriff of a small town,
and the meth lab busted.
i am the trailer burning,
the family that just got out.
i am the cancer patient
who has no insurance.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Body Of Struggle
we earn the body of struggle.
time beaten well worn pages
of a book no one cares to read...
anymore.
having learned to trust what we feel,
what we know that no one can take,
and to question everything else!
what we've lost merely feeds the fire,
what we've given at all costs remains.
and the truth we know is the pathway
of the heart... our feet bruised
by stones and hard travel... keep walking.
this body of struggle laid down... and the box
opens, letting the bird fly free.
we are the bird, the wings, and the
spirit... we leave the body for our
children!
from a song i wrote 43 years ago:
'travellin' on,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Language Of The Wind
i took a hammer
to the altar and destroyed
every image i'd made of god...
threw my holy books
out into the trash,
my beads, and my necklace.
stopped praying, stopped thinking,
got up off my knees...
walked out into the yard,
and built a fire!
i took off my clothes,
and crawled on all fours.
bayed at the moon,
growled at a rabbit,
and burst into tears
when i tried to howl.
took a lit branch from the fire,
and threw it at the house...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am Nothing!
nothing....
i am nothing,
nothing but the breeze
walking through the trees.
nothing but the caw of the crow,
the echo of the mountains' silence.
nothing but the empty bowl
held by the hungry child.
nothing but the dark face,
the white hands,
spoken in different languages.
nothing but the blood,
of the family killed by the bombs.
nothing but the lonely terror
of the suicide just before dawn.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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My God In You
clothes piled in an old van,
just enough gas to go
to another mission....
a slow rain falling
on the bent heads
in the nameless soup line....
homeless men leaving
abandoned factory buildings...
just a place to sleep....
amid the ghosts and lives
forgotten... foreclosed houses,
broken homes, and cheap wine.
young girls selling their souls
on foggy street corners
for a fix.... for forgetting...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Words... (I Am)
words...
fall like bombs
on the straw huts
of the soul...
the sky of silence
torn by the colors of noise!
or silent epitaphs,
that only whales understand,
or perhaps elephants...
written on the inside of the turtle's shell.
spoke into being...
or being adorned,
with the trinkets of ownership...
do we choose?
what is language then?
should we ask the trees?
perhaps the mountains will tell.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Behind The Final Curtain
it is then only this....
the bark peeled from the ancient tree.
the yowl of the cat in hunger,
the slap of wings against gone.
tis the height of passion;
i have turned my deepest colors,
yet my dreams have begun to fall...
i cant stop them.
and the sound of voices like hammers on tin,
be the bottle broken before it hits.
when memory becomes history,
and tired clouds wink and disappear.
the setting sun tastes of vinegar,
as smoke rises in wistful plumes.
and beliefs crawl in empty nests,
while squirrels madly drink and die.
as holiness runs like rain,
down the trunk and into the ground.
the sacred dance of the senses,
while lovers touch in secret closets.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Chapters In Bodies
we write chapters in bodies
wrapped around shared thought...
constantly dying, constantly being born.
sweat, semen, urine, and breast milk,
spilled on the altar of being.
the nipples, lips, and balls of the infinite...
we create fire from darkness's tears.
hands come together across lifetimes,
bridging oceans, distance, and time.
what fools to think it is by chance!
perhaps miracle, but neither magic,
nor opportunity!
we are the tree falling,
the ground waiting,
and the space between.
we are cosmos, litter, and dust!
the kiss a cross, the touch a journey,
the beating of wings that shudders and joins!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Civil Disobedience
civil disobedience...
daring acts of courage?
peaceful rebellion.
when, by choice, the freedom
of one is sacrificed for the
freedom of many.
believing that all men, and
women, are indeed equal...
in needs, rights, beliefs, and desire.
believing that no man
ever owns another man....
that dignity is not for sale.
believing that no man, or woman,
is ever free until all are free....
and all share the right to respect,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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