O My Soul...
where have you gone,
o my soul...
where have you gone?
are you lost in the tears
of a thousand faces
blackened by hunger?
in the cries of the dying?
of the homeless?
in the defiant feet
of those standing in line?
the unemployment line?
the soup line?
the line just outside
the prison walls?
in the lover left desperate,
who takes his own life?
in the students beaten,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Ballad (Bells Of Eternity, Part Two)
and the bodies of the children,
testify against the night.
we cover the graves, mechanical slaves,
never dividing wrong from right.
leaving the ghosts of eternity
to sweep these dusty floors.
by the fire of our own desires,
waiting for the knock upon the door.
and battered hands never reaching,
bridges we never crossed.
too drunk with fear to name our tears,
too blind to count the loss.
only the few who dared to bleed,
who made the human sacrifice...
will wear the wings of freedom's dreams,
when the truth defeats the lie.
we take the plunge of consequence,
cursed by the die that's cast.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Epilogue (Part Two)
picked up late summer,
convict pipe streets,
cuffed and stuffed,
tagged and thrown
into a cell of fourteen.
plaster walls,
cold iron bars,
playing poker for smokes.
drunks, thieves,
an axe murderer no one spoke.
and crazy old Walt,
spinning stories for all.
town barber, church deacon,
came home to find his wife
in bed with a friend.
had been drunk ever since,
more time in than out.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Wind Of The Human Spirit... (Part Four)
i stood on the brink of tomorrow,
wading through the ashes of yesterday's failures.
i choked on the oil in the oceans,
and the smoke that filled the air.
i wiped the tears from my face,
and the blood from my own hands....
and felt the weight of humanity's sins,
the deep mark upon my brow...
and when each had finished their task,
mine had just begun.
'who am I? ' you cry,
'how dare you speak! '
i am nobody, i am everybody,
i am not me, but i am!
i am not you,
but i couldnt be else!
i am not more, yet i am not less...
and this task is shared by all!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Bowl and The Spoon
i hear the sound of humanity's voices,
the sound of suffering and need.
i smell the fear, and i feel the anger,
of those left alone, the victims of greed.
i feel the hate of the guns and the bombing,
the terror of women and children.
i cry the tears and shed blood with them,
i hear the prayers of the dead for the living.
i feel the hunger of children left starving,
i am the anger of the unemployed in line.
i breathe the despair of those left homeless,
i am the hope of those looking for a sign.
i am the body that somehow god needed,
i am the ears the lonely pray for.
i am the eyes that see through the heart,
the prisoner walking through the last door.
i hear the sound of the baby crying,
i feel the mother walking across the room.
i am the father praying for work,
i am the bowl and i am the spoon.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Dead Silence of the Heart
i dreamt of strawberry-rhubarb pie,
and fresh brewed black coffee...
long slow tender sensual sex,
lips hungry for mine.
the sound of rain in the night,
wrapping the earth in stillness.
walking in the frozen sunrise
with my old dog by my side.
climbing Hawksbill on a spring day,
looking down over the gorge in awe.
barefoot, planting a garden,
believing in the sun and the rain.
playing an old Gibson on the porch,
deep rich tones lost in the breeze.
the taste of good bourbon, and a smoke,
paying tribute to the sunset.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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To Make A Difference!
take your finger from the trigger,
lay down your gun...
you have a chance to make a difference....
make the right choice!
lower your hand, soften your voice,
let go of your anger...
you have a chance to make a difference...
make the right choice!
put down your checkbook, close the register,
do something you really feel....
you have a chance to make a difference....
make the right choice!
throw out your pill bottle and your pipe,
stand up and face life....
you have a chance to make a difference...
make the right choice!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Black Hooves, White Snow
black hooves, white snow
candlewax dripping,
water from a rusted spicket.
brass doorknobs,
forbidden rooms,
where spider webs cover
forgotten books.
and the chant of the ancients
rolls like thunder!
strike the bell, mountains quiver!
somewhere the gods of old
walk deserted streets,
while the shepherd kings
raise their flutes and play.
and the old mad monk
walks into the hills,
never to be seen,
or heard again.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Human Chronicles (Part Three)
the fires grow,
fed by broken dreams,
and a sense of helplessness...
but there is hope in this,
there is a distant light!
when we wake up naked,
and see the truth for what it is.
when we look at our enemies,
and see only friends!
when we lay down our gods,
and find the god present
in all that lives...
when we find our differences to be
the fringe on the coat of sameness.
when we finally learn,
that we are indeed
responsible for each other,
and act like it!
knowing, that when one suffers,
all suffer... when one hungers,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Nameless!
if the wind took a body,
would it wear your face?
if it inhabited stone,
would you use it to build temples,
to worship in?
or simple walkways
for your soul to walk?
if it became anger,
would it sweep away
the violent guns of war?
if it became compassion,
would it turn rivers
to find those that thirst?
if it became a bowl,
would you fill it with rice?
if it became rice,
would you be the bowl?
if it became kindness,
would it sing to those alone?
would it blow away the tears
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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