I Am Human, I Am Love!
i am the stranger,
the drifter, the hobo...
the rebel, and the lost one....
my voice is a small whisper,
my body a twig.
i am the gift left
on the doorstep of the unwanted.
i am the prayer
that even god does not hear!
i am the child no one wants,
the woman no one loves.
i am blood on the hands,
i am guilt, and forgiveness.
i am the old man's touch,
that no one wants.
i am the child and the dog,
that love the old man.
i am the stray cat,
curled against the step.
i am Judas weeping,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Death Papers.... (Part Two)
i, the body
of earth and wind,
cry for the mountains,
the valleys, and rivers.
i am man,
the warrior naked,
muscled dark and lean.
with eyes borrowed from the hawk,
and hands that turn the ground.
i bear the feet of time determined,
the marks of the whip scar my back.
with hardened phallus,
and panting breath,
i follow the trail of the wolves.
i am woman,
the warrior naked,
long hair swept by the wind.
with eyes borrowed from the owl,
and hands skilled in healing.
i bear the feet of time determined,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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And With Faith....
i have tried, especially in my later years,
to surround myself with people who know
more than i do, whose understanding is
deeper...
people of diverse backgrounds, who hold
strong opinions... strongwilled people, who
are not afraid to speak and to stand...
and i've worked hard on learning the art
of listening... you'd be amazed what there
is to hear!
especially old people, who've worked and
struggled for years, passionate people with
dreams, hopes, and needs.
what i write is a mixture of my journey and
theirs.... but arent all journeys interwoven?
it seems i'm in constant contact with god,
in various forms, simple acts, usually when
least expected.
i guess what i'm trying to say is thank you...
something i think we all forget to do.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Write....
i write...
what is given me to write,
with all consuming fire,
burning every branch of self.
i doubt all...
and therefore believe,
touching the untouchables,
with reverence and awe.
i chant...
with dirty hands plowing,
urine drenched eyes searching,
living beneath all thought.
i mourn...
hearing the lament of dead bodies,
doubled over with hunger,
no place to lay my head.
i burn...
with uncontrolled passion,
for the leaf, for the river,
and the prayers of small children.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Just Folks (Common Faith)
tater fed, cornbread,
chicken rolled in flour.
backyard plowed up,
supper in an hour.
short week, belt tight,
make do with what you got.
invite your neighbors over,
coffee dark and hot.
say a prayer, thank you,
lucky to be alive.
grandkids going crazy,
look over at your wife.
'there's enough, pass the plates',
talk settles down.
glad to be together,
watch the sun go down.
after supper, pick a tune,
pass the bottle round.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Lover's Chronicles
what we look for is something deeper
than what we call love... if love is
the taste, we long for the substance.
we run afraid of the dark towards the
neon lights... but we long for chocolate,
for broth, for fruit, for just baked
bread. we hear the rumor of ecstasy,
but we settle for the numbness of not
being alone... for we fear ourselves,
and what is behind the door! we jump
into bed and pant against the cold,
never even getting close to the fire.
we settle for sex, we barter for sex,
using sex like a drug, mere children
sailing on a plastic globe. we are
afraid to touch, we take off our clothes,
but are afraid of being naked. afraid
of the stillness, we talk, we chatter...
like bones rattled by the wind, or the
window we latch. but the darkness calls,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Candle
if we lit a candle tonite
for every child that's hungry,
for every family that's homeless,
for every drug addict without hope,
for every soldier fighting
in an unholy war
for every immigrant
fighting for a chance,
for every prisoner
that becomes a victim
of the system.
for every victim
of violent crimes.
for every husband and wife
who cant find their way,
and give up and walk away.
for every child with a disability
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Empty Pockets
what does it mean to be free
does anybody care
the lost sounds of liberty
the last honest prayer
if Jesus died for my sins
then why do i still hurt
cant justify where i've been
drawing circles in the dirt
does love have a face
or no face at all
yes, and is there any place
for the little man to fall
and if God still cares
why are things so hard
crosses burning in the night
empty pockets in the heart
now what's the price of life
will anybody pay
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Live, By God, Live!
perhaps i've said what i wanted to say poorly...
the crux of the matter is this:
we are where we are because
we've put ourselves here,
we've allowed this to happen to us!
we blame the government,
we blame people who are 'different',
we blame the economy,
we blame god,
we blame each other.
bottom line, we are to blame.
we cannot evolve as human beings
without evolving as a society.
we cannot evolve as people,
without evolving as a nation.
we cannot evolve as citizens,
without evolving as citizens of the world.
we've stood by, and done nothing.
we have run from the truth,
we have betrayed ourselves!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Snail Crossing..... (Part Thirteen)
i've never had any desire to be rich....
like millions of people...
all i've asked is the right to work,
to have food and shelter for my family,
to have just a little time
to do what matters to me...
to be honest and giving,
to celebrate tiny moments,
to love and be loved,
and to go deep inside, and search.
determined to help anyone i can,
in whatever small way...
always willing to listen,
always ready to learn.
working every moment to be open minded,
taking responsibility for my mistakes,
and my failures...
drunk on the act of living,
at peace,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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