The Poets
an old woman poet,
stood behind the table,
doling out plate after plate,
to the line of faces...
taking the time...
to ask each their name.
a young student poet,
jerked from the picket line,
beaten, and arrested...
now sits in jail.
the young man poet,
just home after a 12 hour shift,
went next door and mowed
his elderly neighbor's grass.
a young girl poet,
took in the stray cat,
fed it, and held it...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Waiting For The Storm
snow birds screeching in the trees,
bare limbs bent with time and promise..
desolate, hungry clouds from the south,
and the quiet before the storm.
and those i love are sleeping, or far away.
there's nothing that can be done just now.
all the fires and smoke are as distant
as hours and days will allow.
stillness, and waiting... for something
that hasnt taken form or spirit yet.
walking through the museum of my heart,
searching for answers, and finality.
i cant find God in the garden,
or in the pounding of the big guns.
or in the broken bodies strewn by greed,
or in the voices wailing with hurt and hunger.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Thoughts And Keys (Continued)
bottom line...
life is a gift.
what authenticates the gift
is the giving!
love is a trail of tiny sacrifices
made over small fires at night
to an unseen god.
the word 'god' is a failure,
much less the concept.
we try to define the ocean,
and cant contain the wave!
prejudice, our greatest weakness,
comes from the fear of seeing
the sameness in all the colors
of the rainbow.
the Freedom Riders took on
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Painting The Walls
painting the walls,
rolling over handprints,
cobwebs, and smoke stains....
over splashes of color,
over peels of time.
painting over the sounds
of voices whispering, laughing....
painting over tears hidden
from the world, from each other.
painting over running, and working,
working all day and half the night.
painting over children, and dreams,
folded like old clothes, and put away.
painting over notes from God,
that were often barely noticed...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Pillars of Truth-4
the middle class is gone!
vanquished! extinct!
the american dream distorted,
dissolving into nightmarish need!
milk and honey are now
black market items only.
shut down the schools,
lay off the teachers.
close libraries, ban books...
firemen stand and watch
a house, a life burn down...
because the fee was not paid.
emergency rooms full of people
who have no insurance, ...
others wait in long lines
at the clinics...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Silence Of The Grieving
i weep...
for i cannot help but feel,
the etched lines in the starving child's face,
the fear of the soldier's conscience.
the desperate blade of the homeless,
the anger of the addict...
the hatred that is poverty,
the hopelessness of the unemployed.
the slap against the face of color,
the rage of prisons, and trailer parks.
the half naked children playing with broken glass,
the kid who cant take it anymore.
the blow against those who dare to be different,
against those who dare to be what they are.
the hardened path of the single parent,
the lostness of the child who doesnt understand.
the sound the dying make when they're alone,
the labored breath of the sleepless night.
the touch of the rain on the fallen leaf,
the silence of the grieving.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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On The Road To Gethsemane
on the road to Gethsemane...
i pass burned out buildings,
farm lands scorched by the bombing.
i pass the skeleton bodies
of young children who starved.
i pass the unmarked graves,
of young boys sent to war.
i pass the flag of the liars,
and the tents of mourning.
i pass vacant factories,
and houses left empty.
i pass through cocaine streets,
where all flesh is for sale.
i pass the unemployed masses,
and their desperate eyes.
i pass the baby born unwanted,
and the prison's stink.
i pass empty churches,
and hollow ringing bells.
i pass families broken,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Have No Body....
i have no body...
i am starlight and dust.
i roam fields and pastures,
and pound city streets.
i haunt the owl,
chase shadows into hiding.
i am the howl,
the wolf cannot speak!
i walk through locked doors,
and blow through open windows.
i am the moan,
that startles your sleep.
i burn in the lighthouse,
and walk stormy seas.
i dance barefoot on pine needles,
leave no tracks in the frost!
i have no body...
i am breath hot and hoarse.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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We Are! We Are!
we are not bolts of lightning,
or even unexpected rain...
we are the work of chapters,
the forging of steel.
the spider's web empty for a month of nights,
the garden sowed again and again.
trees cut and stacked in firewood lengths,
babies born in cementaries,
atop unmarked graves.
maps lost, histories forgotten,
dull knives sharpened again and again.
footprints in sand,
that the waves wash away.
wise men following the star,
generation to generation.
brown hands picking fruit,
that never touches their lips.
we are a thousand deaths,
fires that raged and were spent.
stars formed from dust,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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His People
the old man sat out here on the porch,
shaking, smoking a cigarette... waiting
on his ride.
i sat down to talk to him, mostly to listen...
'you know, my daughter and her husband
lost their jobs, and their house. so we
moved them and their kids in with us...
they're strung out on them pills, we cant
get them off... hell, she's took everything
in the house she could sell....'
and i just listened.... him, and his wife,
both on disability... barely able to get
from point a to point b...
every day i hear these stories... all different,
but all the same in the end.... no jobs,
nowhere to stay, no health insurance...
and dependence... usually pills...
these are the forgotten people, the people
without a voice... if Jesus were alive today,
these would be His people!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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