I Pray For Darkness...
i pray for darkness...
wrapping splintered lights
in perfected stillness...
stillness that heals
without questioning
why or who!
stillness that sings,
with every pulse of blood
through bodies worn...
stillness that redeems,
bringing the searcher
to his final destination...
stillness that removes,
the cross, , the crown of thorns,
lays down the shield of honor...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Looking for You
looking for you...
in all the small things
i do to get by every day...
in the clouds in the sky
that turn at sunset...
in the song i hum
that has no name...
looking for you...
in the dishes i dry,
and stack on the shelf...
in the quiet time walking
with my old dog...
in the books i read
in the failing light....
looking for you...
in the aches and the pains
this old body feels...
in the softness that
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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When I Made That Choice
god came to me in a dream one night,
and whispered, 'by your gifts you are named'.
to some i give dignity,
to some i give grieving.
to some i give prophecy,
to some i give doubt.
to some i give determination,
to some i give faith.
to some i give patience,
to some the gift of listening.
to some i give peace,
to some revolution.
to some i give healing,
to some i give suffering.
to some i give love,
to some i give loss.
to some i give eyes,
to some i give feet.
to all i give understanding,
though few choose to take it....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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It Is More Than Enough.... (For Greg Uhan)
sometimes when we forget
the reason that we are walking,
and what path we're on...
when one star looks like another,
in the darkest of skies.
when each board in the bridge,
seems just another cross to carry.
when we look behind us,
and there are no footprints
in the sand.
...when the prayer we prayed,
keeps haunting sleepless nights.
when after we've given our all,
we find we have something left to lose.
when we light the lantern,
and still it seems no one is near.
when we lay it all down in final sleep,
and birth calls yet again.
when our every ounce of being,
doesnt fill the bottom of the cup....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Simply, For You
why is it so hard to talk
to the one you love most...
when time and years and chapters,
testify in tired feet?
the wars have ended,
the guns are now still.
even the storm left,
a candle lit by the bed.
do i know you?
do you know me?
or are we the sound...
of doors opening and closing?
i cant say your name
without something in me dying...
i cant see the sky,
without seeing your face.
are we so old,
has time written our epitaph?
just old polaroids,
in an album boxed up....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Working Class
hard calloused old hands,
back bent with time and work.
feet beaten and worn,
old tired eyes that still twinkle.
i love the working class.
am more at home
with truckers, farmers,
and factory workers,
than politicians and priests.
the lives built brick by brick,
silent years of sacrifice.
hard lines of faith and worry,
and moments of gentle caring.
the hand extended,
the heart that's honest.
the love of passion,
and blowing off steam.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Beginning Just Begun!
we walk barefoot the stony path,
in the company of crows.
our eyes wet with the dew,
dreams clinging to our tongues.
and the song of the ancient ones,
from some dark valley within.
we carry the cross of self denial,
on the path to find ourselves!
to the beat down house
that time forgot...
up the steps to an open door.
while spiders race across broken glass,
and rats race across the floor.
we sit across the table,
and light a single candle.
then one by one confess our thoughts,
and undress the pain of being.
then drained, and strangely empty,
warmed with release,
we touch fingers beneath the flame,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Prophets Of Profit
in the shadows
beneath the trees,
the men with the long
knives wait;
call them unholy, call them
prophets, men of vision,
men of change...
soldiers of the grey kingdom,
where nothing is revealed.
every starving child,
every bomb dropped
on indiscriminate huts...
every girl baby aborted,
every young boy sent to prison
for his education...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Poetry (The Real Deal!)
poetry....
16 penny nails
...hammered in the
.......outhouse wall,
the rope,
...still tied in a knot...
.....the still warm bodies
......quivering, in shallow graves.
the children of the man
....who pushed the button,
......who made the choice....
the Mexican immigrant
....who washes the car
.......of the oil field supervisor,
....whose family lives
......in a broke down bus...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Those We Encounter!
there is only one race
of people, the human race!
the leaf that's green
in the springtime,
that turns to red and gold,
then to brown, and falls...
is always a leaf!
the human heart,
regardless of skin color,
language, or faith,
is the same in each of us.
when we fight and kill each other,
we are killing ourselves.
what we take from those less fortunate,
we take from ourselves.
what we hate, and fear,
and dont understand,
is the darkness inside of us all.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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