The Language Of Silence
we cannot often hear...
the whisperings of the grasses,
the chant of trees swaying,
those intimate voices in the wind...
we have no names for these sounds,
these doings outside the cage.
does the body call from the grave?
do bird's wings exchange secrets with the sky?
is the moment just before, and just after,
the last breath... the only eternity we know?
why do we call god, god?
is the atheist closer to the presence?
we go to wars with righteous fever...
we kill as if a gift.... to whom?
we draw our morals with black crayons
on the sheets of our indiscretions..
wearing our holiness like halloween masks...
who are we fooling?
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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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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In Search For The Beating Heart
words break on cobblestone paths,
as bare feet testify.
hearts spill from fugitive ashtrays,
while thumbs stand in line to pray.
damned souls with railroad faces,
shuffle by the barrel.
small babies paint their faces with ashes,
dogs crow, and fences stutter.
bodies cling to scattered dirt,
messages written on dirty windows.
if it is for this that god expressed,
then let the funeral begin!
how far we walk in search of near!
at each scent of identity we shudder.
even water burns in this wasteland,
and robins walk on broken eggshells.
there be no tongue that is not lit,
as frost scorches the pilgrim's eyes.
if love then breathes it sweats and growls,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Call For Revolution!
a call for revolution...
rivers rise, and overflow their banks!
branches bud with leaves in the autumn,
butterflies arrive to bring the snow!
every window opened, every lock is broken,
every pot is filled, every table shared.
the language of ears sees no colors,
and dignity wears no chains.
prophets return to being carpenters,
and poets till the earth.
soldiers lay down their guns to become fathers,
nations give way to family.
the faces of god all become one,
the hands of god become many!
freedom becomes a verb not a dream,
hunger is buried by compassionate hands.
forgiveness a way of living,
respect the bridge all must cross.
truth is applauded for asking questions,
as the young and old exchange gifts.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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History And More!
tis the buttered squash,
the chipped plate that whispers.
the dumpster box the cat sleeps in.
the scar on the hand,
and you cant remember when.
the blow to the face
of the child born in poverty.
the overthrow of the kingdom,
leaving mice to run amuck.
the broken key on the typewriter,
the cricket trapped in the bathtub.
mold around the window,
the stack of old tires.
the strange feel of love's body,
too long distant and gone.
the hands on the clock,
that stopped too long ago.
the place just beyond thoughts,
where stars breathe and have bodies.
the smell of the soul,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Infinity Expressed!
i am the hammer smoking
on the abandoned shelf...
the taste of chocolate,
the residue of gunpowder.
i am the delicious sin,
and the goal achieved.
the dead sparrow's wings,
the goat chained to the house.
i am the drunken dance,
blowing off steam.
i am the baby buried
in the grandparents' yard.
i am the worker laid off,
after forty years.
i am potatoes spread
on the cellar floor.
i am the softest part
of your inner thigh,
i am age marks on your hands.
i am the sleeping moan
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Cross Of Jesus....
I carried the cross of Jesus,
stood inside the Nazi camps.
i fled with many at Hiroshima,
died again and again in the jungles
of napalm Vietnam...
i buried the scattered bones
of Native Americans,
slain by the Bible's swords.
i rotted in a Chinese prison,
where they tortured me with cattle prods.
i marched the famines of Africa,
weeping over the bodies of children.
marching the sands of Iraq,
the mountains of Afghanistan...
but there is more!
the broken down projects,
the trailer park cementaries.
the unemployed lines,
the soup lines,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Revolution Began....
the revolution began this morning...
the trains and buses stopped running,
long haul truckers shut down their rigs.
miners came up out of the mines,
gulping air free and clear.
migrant workers left the fields,
farmers got off their tractors,
and walked for the house.
teachers put down their papers,
and locked the doors.
nurses and aides left the hospitals.
minimum wage slaves left stores,
restaurants, and trash trucks.
while bankers bolted the doors,
and sat in suicidal silence...
and Wall Street went deadly black.
armed troops deployed to guard assets,
laid down their weapons and walked away.
the wealthy shuddered in sudden panic,
as the tables were finally turned over!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Statement We Make!
the statement we make,
be not written on paper...
it is written,
in the tired eyes of the workers,
underpaid, and struggling.
in the hunger of the unemployed,
in the rage of the homeless.
in the walking of the broken,
in the families of dead soldiers.
in the anger of the young,
with no place to turn.
in the seething of the prisons,
and the tomb infested colleges.
in the smoke filled air,
and the rivers full of waste.
in the haunted mines,
behind the wheel of the big trucks.
in the pot standing empty,
in the fury of the poets.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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He Already Took The Cat
we live our lives in sudden ashtrays...
always running over, needing to be emptied.
the old man on the corner
who drove that ancient Chevy,
died somewhere between sleep,
and the back door.
it rained for days,
and his cat hid neath the house...
then it too was gone.
they write pretty things in newpapers,
that end up resembling no one.
life goes on, the neighbor
across the street was evicted.
he left boxes of god knows what,
stacked on the porch.
the woman down the street
got her lights cut off...
she sits in the darkness with her dog.
while the man on the tv says it's getting better...
wonder how much they paid him for that lie?
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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