The Final Question!

what's it going to take
for you to see me?
for the world to hear my voice?
to put a name to my face?
for time, and redemption,
and a reason for being?
what's it going to take
for me to die like a man?
what's it going to take
for my life to have value,
for my body to be a bridge?
for my soul to give shelter,
my spirit to cut through chains?
what's it going to take?
baby, what's it going to take?

what's it going to take
for me to bring forgiveness?
for the words that i sing
to bring healing and hope?

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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You Are The Empty...

i am the cross,
and i am the kiss...
i am the embrace,
and the parting stillness.
i am death falling from the trees,
i am eternity in the promise of snow.
i am the word spoken and heard,
slowly undressed with awe and hunger.
i am the tongue drawing history's face,
in every secret place, in every hidden treasure.
i am the fluid of love spillt with passion,
i am the touch, trembling and sure.
i am the shadow that lit the candle,
the shoe that fell to the floor.
i am the covered bridge,
and the sound of horses' hooves.
the screech of the owl,
the taunt of the moonlight.
i am the glass broken,
the panting of the darkness.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am... (Tongue)

i am...
the tongue that sleeps inside the mouth.
the erection that falls on darkened alone.
the crack of thunder over distant hills.
the simple prayer of a child in need.
the whore, the thief, and the addict.
the liar who leads running from himself.
the young girl sold in the cattle stalls.
the shot fired before guilt could breathe.
the hammer, the nails, and hands that know.
the woman giving birth, her screams, her desire.
the fallen priest, and the migrant worker.
the truck loaded with a lifetime's ghosts.
the father, the mother, and the empty house.
the well run dry, the roof that leaks.
the willow tree, and the mockingbird.
the citizens killed by the armed squad.
the activist buried without a word.
the woman strong, the man bent and broken.
the tears of an unknown god

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Alone

it is embarrassing to me
to be a citizen of this country,
or any country, where
acts of prejudice and
racial hatred are still committed
on a regular basis...

where people can run for office,
and win, backed by the dollars
of prejudice....

where minorities, children,
and women are treated
with disrespect....

where the elite 10% are filthy rich,
and are not taxed! ...
while many of us go without food,
housing, or medical care...

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Conversations With Hune

who names the flower a flower,
and the weed a weed?
and are not names
cardboard boxes
meant for the fire?

from the womb of darkness,
the sun reborn again and again...
each time with different faces,
different fingers, different hands...
or perhaps we see with different eyes!

do we speak the truth?
or doth the truth speak us?
perhaps 'we' are an illusion,
and there be only truth.
or perhaps truth is an illusion...
and we are only what we are...

what we are...

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Hammer Purged By Rust!

in cursed dread
with iron thoughts,
the rebel plows his fields.
neath napalm skies,
infested by drones and crows,
his hands are bound by time.
tis murder by execution,
truth revealed by blood!
the carnal cross,
the skulls of dreams,
and virgin bodies for seed.
who pays the price,
who tames the beast,
the child devoured by wolves.
with flags betrayed,
by human conscience,
and gods that shed acid tears!
and the sound of voices swells,
till the earth trembles and shakes.
faces drawn on tombstones,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Old Men.... (Doesnt Change)

old men find stars
in the blackest sky,
that young men never see.
see years in every moment,
and know to be silent.
they know the futility of wars,
and the bitterness of loss.
they know how to be lovers,
lost in every movement, every scent.
they know about tears and touching,
are familiar with the empty place
deep in your soul.
they know about freedom and failure,
hardness, softness, and death.
old men say thank you without speaking,
give more than they take.
old men listen,
even when you're not talking,
and hear what you dont know
that you're saying!

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Apocalypse, And Good Bourbon

apocalypse, and good bourbon.
the beat of the news feels like
shovels digging graves by themselves...
deaths without purpose, lives
without purpose....
the cash register rings,
someone else is evicted,
another factory shut down!

the stench of oppression
is almost unbearable....
fresh manured fields of lies,
pull the strings of the puppet,
make him dance....

(you cant see them,
cant touch them,
they're insulated, shut off
from the sounds of hunger
and naked hearts beating!)

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Heart In My Hands

if i laid down my cross,
by the riverside.
and built a fire
out of things denied.
if i took off my mask,
revealing all i tried to hide.
if i took the chance,
and let you look inside.

would you love me?
would you know me for a man?
would you see me for more
than kingdoms built on sand?
would you if i would?
i know that i can...
i'll stand where i am,
with my heart in my hands.

if we forgot and forgave,
the stumbles and the falls.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am.... (The Woodcutter)

i am...
the woodcutter,
cutting and stacking wood,
for the fire i'll never know.
i am the taste
of rain drenched leaves,
and the silence just after.
i am the soot
on the miners face,
his only mark of identity.
i am the black man,
who knowing his journey well,
having pride in his roots,
steps beyond bitterness.
i am the woman,
forced to sleep in the closet,
hands worn by the broom...
who finally steps free.
i am the poor man,
with tired calloused hands,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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