A Sparrow's Thoughts... (Number Seven)
when we sit numbly staring
at the six o'clock news...
at the cops in riot gear
dispersing the student protesters...
protesting against Wall Street excess,
against the greed of big business,
against the destructive thrusts of big oil,
against the wars over seas...
against human rights being taken,
against the lie we're being fed...
when these young people are beaten,
gassed, and arrested for standing up
for their ideals of freedom...
do we remember that these are our children?
do we know?
even more, do we remember,
when we were young and believed?
the anti-war protests,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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One Hundred Lit Candles
sitting alone in an empty room,
surrounded by one hundred lit candles...
slowly, one by one,
naming them,
blowing them out!
hunger, apathy, pride,
poverty, prejudice,
sorrow, despair, greed...
self image, self fullfilment,
ownership, anger, judgement,
righteous indignation...
the stranger on the street corner,
the soldiers standing across the line.
the protestors carrying signs,
the pale faces behind
the covered window...
the preacher and the addict,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Cross On Your Hill
tis the beat of sorrow
that undresses the body of god.
the wind driven by need
that blows out the candle.
and the darkness that holds suffering
that wraps around the desire...
tis my tongue nailed
to the cross on your hill.
i run with the wolves,
and swim with the whales.
i know the sound of the bullet striking,
and the echo of the fall.
i taste the empty of the cup
held by the grimy hand...
i've stood by the fires,
where lost souls shuffle and stomp.
i am heart and hand,
penis, and spirit.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Edge Of Beauty...
wherein lies the edge of beauty?
of true expression?
be there more truth
in a picture of fruit....
or a picture of the eyes
of a starving child?
be there more love
in an ancient picture of Jesus,
or the picture of an addict,
shaking on a stoop?
be there more reality
in numbed words carefully written,
or in the story of the evicted family,
penned in raw blood?
be there more beauty
in a picture of supposed angels,
or in a tasteful nude?
be there more freedom
in a picture of the revolution,
or in a photo of freedom's protesters,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Words... (Tiny Bodies)
words have tiny bodies,
some young, some aged beyond thought.
words carry swords and plant tears,
words form tiny lamps in darkness.
words express the unexpressable,
ride bicycles on children's journeys.
words taunt silence with definition....
and some of the best are never spoken.
words heal wounds, and fill bowls,
weave webs while we sleep.
words often turn and betray us,
and often die for our sins.
words create universes,
and shed their clothes on well lit stages.
words translate both the wolf and the whale,
and bear the flag of mountains.
words bear children, but leave no tracks.
words hammer rusty nails.
words never ever wear shoes,
and dance with every other step.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Somewhere Between....
somewhere between....
a small fire and a rainy night,
an open book, a candle in the window.
the words of Jesus, revolution without restraint...
an agnostic, and a dreamer.
a murderer and a healer,
a poet and a farmer.
a pair of worn out shoes,
and a stone statue of Buddha.
a mad lover crawling in windows,
and a monk staring at the stars.
the last wolf in the night,
and the first rays of dawn.
somewhere between...
hope and despair,
understanding and anger.
a child and a dying old man.
a prayer and an erection.
a train coming in the distance,
and a lighthouse in the harbor.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Back When.... (The World Was New)
we used to say 'i love you'...
rushing out doors we never locked.
leaving the fire untended,
and dishes in the sink.
summers came and died,
and neighbors seemed to follow.
as the footprints of small children,
became shadows that grew and left.
we who were forever young,
drinking dawn after dawn.
who are we now?
forever rusting in autumn....
the old spicket drips,
and dogs sleep as if they knew.
even the bricks begin to crumble,
the tin torn from the roof.
the setting sun names its own births,
and validates its deaths.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Gives A Damn!
the day i changed
my last name to 'gives a damn',
that's when the trouble began!
why does it make people so mad
when you speak the truth?
and why so uncomfortable
when you admit your mistakes,
take off your mask and stand naked,
revealing that you're human?
and why the anger
when you treat everyone the same?
no favorites, no elite, no righteous!
no political agenda, no religious fervor,
no attempts to convert....
no need to lead or follow,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Buddha Thoughts (Hands On The Clock)
the old woman
shot and killed
the boy that broke in
and tried to rob her...
she sat staring into space
while the policemen
did their job...
suddenly she began to weep...
they tried to comfort her,
but she just wept harder.
they told her it was over,
that she was all right.
she finally spoke in a broken voice:
'i was thinking about my son...'
'where is he? we'll get him
for you, bring him to you...'
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am.... (The Branch)
i am...
the branch that bears no leaves,
my grandfathers were trees of old.
i am the axe and the chopping block,
the shell of the ancient turtle.
i am the brook, and the setting sun,
i am the mockingbird's lover.
i am the moccasin sure as the path,
the chatter of squirrels, the empty nest.
i am the plant hungrily gulping rain,
i am the place the cloud came from.
i am the holy reverence of night,
i am the tomb left empty.
i am...
the clock, the breast, the curve of the thigh,
the heat that comes from within.
i am the hate undressed by loving hands,
the eyes compassion restored.
i am the dead and dying,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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