Sent By Sparrows...
if i undress your eyes very gently,
will i find the last vestiges of fire?
did the great wings of hunger
scar the skies of your soulless darkness?
is the screech of the owl
hidden in your tight numbed lips?
does the snail trail of my body,
still cling to your need in the moonlight?
must my fingers fumble with the latch,
and my footprints haunt your sleeplessness?
or am i just the tree that fell
in the fury of the storm?
am i the leaf floating on the still pond?
the things i buried in the small wooden box,
that night beneath the willow.
perhaps among them were you and i....
will the spiders resurrect us?
if i am dead then let it be,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Too Many Lies
too many lies,
desecrate the ground.
the footprints of fallen angels,
covered by the dust of hate.
spoon fed history turned bitter,
the sound of children's voices lost.
even the old juke joints,
deserted and vacant.
handmade guitars,
strings made of human flesh.
the howl of an angry wind,
pierces cardboard shelters.
cars abandoned on the side of the road,
fresh turned earth, no hands to plant.
passion's legs wrapped around,
the bodies now hollow.
young girls fall like rain,
forgotten by time.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Awareness Notes... (Part Two)
it's not the bullet that killed
the man... bullets by themselves
are harmless. it is the intent
of the man that loads the gun,
that points the barrel, and pulls
the trigger.
it is also the inactions of the
people who knew his anger, and of
the system that allowed him the gun.
the apathy of those who didnt get
involved, and the moral code that
fed his anger
but taking the gun away doesnt solve
the problem. an angry man will pick up
a stick, or a knife, or even rocks,
to act out his anger.
to disarm the angry you have to remove
their anger, and that begins with getting
to the cause. the cause must be met, and
dealt with.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Hard Dog Blues
baby, i've been to Babylon,
and downtown Chicago.
i've smelled the stink
of poverty's greed.
i've lain helpless
in your burnt out apartment.
and sold my soul,
to fill the need.
i've seen god,
and walked with the devil.
i've stood naked,
while the building burned.
i've been the storm,
destruction and hunger
in the executioner's line,
just waiting my turn!
so dont give me half empty,
half full, or half lit.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am.... (Here, I Am Gone!)
i am...
the screen half torn from the door,
the print of the raccoon,
on the hood of the car.
i am oil tinged rainwater,
caught in a bucket.
the sound of trucks
on a distant highway.
i am snake skin, and spider's web,
and the trail of the ants.
the old woman hanging clothes,
the dog on the porch.
i am children dirty half naked,
the watermelon, and the broomstick.
i am poverty boiling,
on the salted burner.
i am the funeral suit,
and hymns made of wool.
i am spit dripping,
from the chin of eternity.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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American Heroes
she had one hand on her Bible,
the other at her throat.
they fired the volley,
folded the flag....
and buried her only son.
she didnt know about politics,
didnt know much about the war.
she only knew what she believed,
about right and wrong, , , ,
about her country, and salvation.
he'd been a good kid,
all boy, found trouble pretty easy.
but he listened to her,
and he believed what she believed....
he died fighting, scared, and unsure....
she had one hand on her Bible,
the other at her throat.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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An Atheist, And I Dont Know!
an atheist told me:
'i dont believe in God....'
'okay, what do you believe? '
'well, you know,
there's something out there,
something bigger, beyond
all our conceptions,
some reason behind creating
and destroying....
i dont know... just dont know....
some reason we feel the things we feel,
some reason we do the things we do.....
some reason we live our lives,
some reason we love who we love....
something that knows why things are,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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In Every Dawn
there is a moment just before darkness,
when every sound is amplified.
when the senses come alive,
and smell and taste take bodies.
when the eyes see, really see,
and there be no more need for words.
when memories like trees walk into stillness,
and the heart names every stone.
when the butterfly becomes the teacher,
and the dew is strong drink indeed.
when scars and bruises put on their jewelry,
and the soul becomes the earth.
when clouds come like ghostly chariots,
and the sun tips its hat in farewell.
when every battle is forgotten,
and every truth etched in time.
when nothing is left but love itself,
to wrap the night in eternity.
now timeless and without borders,
the simple man has but one request.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Deep Level Concern
deep level concern;
our own national parks
used as collateral
on loans from China!
water rights to the Great Lakes,
and other bodies of water here...
sold to China!
our jobs, Joe blue collar working
families.... sold to China!
our oil profiteer wars,
financed by China!
sleeping with the country
with the worst human rights record,
dancing with the devil!
and now, our own police forces
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Who Am I? I Am! (Part Two)
i am the abandoned dog,
covered with ticks.
i am the wedding ring
flung against the wall.
i am the old man
who cant seem to remember
why he did what he did.
i am the restless boy
roaming the streets.
i am the old woman waiting
for her check to come.
i am the rent unpaid,
and the lights cut off.
i am the gun in the corner,
covered with dust.
i am the broken teeth
of the homeless man.
i am a child of Jesus,
and a renegade sinner.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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