Lover, Come To Me!
lover, come to me!
i am the wind,
the sound, and the fury.
the small patches of fur,
left in the ditch.
the stained sheet,
the crack in the window.
i am the barking of dogs,
the song of cicadas...
i am the broken plow,
the hammer laid aside.
the bucket full of rainwater,
the tree bent by the storm.
i am the bodies of the innocents,
the nightmares of the guilty...
the stink of blood
dried by the sun...
the wagonload of melons,
the tornado swept roof.
i am the small shop,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Baby, I'm Gone!
well, i've searched the skies
and followed the wind.
there's not any place
that i havent been.
i've known hunger and sorrow,
walked poverty's streets.
with my heart in my hands,
and my faith in my feet.
i've drowned in the water,
and felt the fire's heat.
i've tasted the thunder,
and felt its dark beat.
and i'm alone,
still strong,
still waiting for the dawn...
baby, i'm gone!
i've heard the great guns,
saw the bodies of children,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Smell The Stink!
sticks and stones,
Smith and Jones...
pedantic thoughts,
and mechanical arms.
broken shell, dipped in hell,
buy or sell, price foretells...
hearts dont beat,
safe from harm!
tried and true,
old and new...
bruises worn,
scars are touched.
me and you, dare to do,
only the few, coming to...
so take little,
give back much!
feel too much, too hard to think,
light a smoke, take a drink.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Nobody Has A Name!
down in the poverty south,
dead body by the tracks.
another football hero,
bathtub meth and anger.
dark shadowed mother weeping,
waiting on the preacher.
while the unemployed old man,
scratches up pennies for smokes.
baptism remembered,
before erections and gunpowder.
neath the picture of his cousin,
who died in Iraq...
the old factory building collapses,
empty on empty...
Jesus died for your sins,
even He cant get a job!
sister hot and pregnant,
turns the fan on high.
the last beans have been canned,
and the rent's past due...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Shavings Of Light
inside the spider's web,
held against their will
tiny lights held by longing,
pressed close to the
heart of need
reflected from the smoky eyes
of an old blind man
a lifetime of things seen,
and then forgotten lost
in the forever dark.
lamplight on the wet lips
of young lovers swept to sea,
lost in the eternal moment
of passion that breaks
against the shore.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Sound Of Wings.....
from the bars of the cell,
i learned freedom from the body.
from the underside of the bridge,
i learned home has not a house.
from forty years of working,
i learned the bitterness of the slave.
from the political lies,
i learned that truth cant be bought.
from the books i read,
i learned to reason and question.
from the heroin needle,
i learned the value of life.
from love lost,
i learned how to love.
from doubt i learned seeking,
in seeking i found god to be more.
from the scars on my heart,
i learned to be a man.
from battles fought and lost,
i learned the need for peace.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Dead Poets... In The Night
dead poets visit me in the night....
we walk the darkened hollow streets.
talking softly, or not at all....
listening to the sounds of darkness.
doors closed, curtains pulled;
those who can, sleep....
and lovers wrapped inside each other
talk in a language known only by gods.
while the broken ones stumble by,
the sound of their weeping heavy,
and cold as the night....
clouds race across the moon
leaving scars on the homeless and hungry.
young women cry out giving birth
to the screech of the owl....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Respect The Earth!
why do we always mistreat
the people who do our farm work?
why would we starve the people
who pick our crops?
why would we deport the only people
who are willing to do the work?
and you wonder why your kids
think that all food comes
from an aisle in the grocery store!
gas prices keep rising,
food prices keep rising...
what happens when the trucking
industry goes down?
what are you going to eat then?
we need to as much as possible
go back to raising our food.
at the very least support
your local farmers...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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To Be Remembered As...
i want to be remembered as...
the cup of coffee
in the street bum's hands,
the vacant building
where he slept...
the plow, the harness,
and the old mule.
the needle laid down
for the final time.
the church left open
both day and night.
the unknown person
who paid the rent.
the old man who stopped
in the pouring rain,
and changed your tire
without a word.
the old woman who ran the mission,
the stray dog that never left.
the family farm, the old homeplace.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Late Spring Frost
spreading straw over young plants,
to protect from a late spring frost.
counting nickels, dimes, and quarters,
to pay the rent.
turning down the pot to simmer slow,
listening to the news with a hollow ache.,
thoughts come and go, the air still chill.
nothing changes much, except the date.
a half a tank of gas, and a borrowed hoe...
hands moving in silence, back to the sun.
death waits patiently, like an old friend.
never asking for much, in a corner by the door.
the terror of living comes in gasps that tremble,
always afraid to leave something undone.
the book unsigned gathers dust on the table,
the old dog groans with knowing surety.
days marked on the calendar, invisible ink...
spreading straw over young plants,
to protect from the late spring frost!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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