Keep On Walking!
sometimes it just seems like
it's just raining so hard,
that you feel like you're drowning!
cant see where you're going,
all sense of light swallowed up
in a grey fog....
keep on walking!
sometimes it seems like
you lose everything you thought
that you had...
everything you've worked for...
everything that mattered....
keep on walking!
sometimes it seems like
everything you do, everything you think,
everything you say, and
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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You Cannot!
you cannot win freedom by bloodshed!
fighting for preordained sections of land,
oil and mineral rights....
we dont own the earth,
................and never will!
you cannot convert other peoples
to your capitalistic form of Christianity
with a sword and vengeance....
ask the Native Americans
.....how they feel about this!
you cannot bring about justice,
when your judicial system is oiled
with money and color...
when you have more people in prison
than any other country!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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For Trayvon...
what color is justice?
and what does it cost?
in the end who is guilty?
the one who pulls the trigger,
or the ones who close their blinds,
close their eyes,
and go off to bed?
who gets convicted?
who pays the price?
the one who killed,
the boy dead?
or the system that
doesnt even press charges?
the ones who hurry off to work,
buying plastic dreams
with plastic cards?
the ones who sit in empty rooms,
drowning in helplessness?
the gravedigger, the preacher?
the pawn shop that sold the gun?
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am (Defiant)
i am, become...
i am the seat on the bus
Rosa Parks would not leave..
i am the fires of anger
when Martin Luther King was killed.
i am the grassy knoll,
where the true killer stood.
i am the Little Bighorn,
and Crazy Horse weeping...
i am the men that built the bombs,
and all the faceless souls screaming
through their long sleepless nights...
i am the brothers that killed each other
in the long Civil War...
i am the slaves set free,
i am the Native Americans sent
to live in poverty on reservations
in the name of a white god...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Next Great World War!
the next great world war
is already being fought...
within... within the hearts
of the poor of all nations,
struggling to survive,
for food and shelter.
in the hearts of the jobless,
the homeless, the sick.
in the hearts of prisoners,
of victims...
in the hearts of the takers,
the movers, the ones that make
the decisions, that hold
the key and the whip.
in the hearts of soldiers,
of politicians, of the innocents
killed by the bombing.
in the hearts of seekers,
of the lonely, the desperate.
in the hearts of the angry,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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To Live Or To Rot!
we have crawled back
into our shells,
made primitive by technology,
still drunk with past successes,
we would deny the pain of loss.
conditioned to become nonpeople,
we build divisions and walls...
that in the end become our prison,
and finally our graves.
what are we so afraid of?
does it take being slapped
in the face by devastation?
does it take being hungry
to bring back taste?
the god we've wrapped in moth balls,
deserts us, and well should!
we are flesh and blood,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Modern Day Okies!
hard dust bowl depression days,
the banks came with tractors and guns
and papers to take away...
the old home places, the farms,
their way of life, their family way....
kicked them off like they were trash...
called them Okies...
white trash, despised by
all the 'good' people who still had....
drove them west, migrant camps or die...
faceless, homeless, expendable...
and now the tide has turned,
and more American people
kicked off, kicked out...
the bank comes 'round again....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Novacaine
the taste of your fingers
digging in the dirt
the touch of your hair
falling down your shirt
the smell of your skin
blowing across the bed
the gasping of your breath
the silence never said
the silence never said
you are my chocolate
you are my Magdelene
you are my Everest
jumping on your trampoline
you are my daybreak
falling down like summer rain
you are my flash of life
you are my novacaine
you are my novacaine
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Death Papers... (Part Four)
i name the bullet, the noose,
the needle, and the disease.
the failing heart,
the body bent and broken,
the moment that breath is taken...
for you have not killed me!
i name the war, the planes,
the bombs, and the guns.
the lying flags,
and oil tainted chants.
the strike, the stab,
the tearing of flesh...
for you have not killed me!
i name the empty plate,
the orphaned bed
by the endless road.
the goon squads of indifference.
the prison cell, the alleys burning...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Hands.... (That Dared To Speak!)
the hands....
that cleaned the old man
lying on urine stained sheets,
that planted the bulbs
in the old woman's flower bed.
that washed the dishes
for forty years....
the hands...
that built the old barn,
that plowed the fields,
that harvested the crops....
the hands...
that stroked desire's body,
that found each secret treasure,
that closed the window.
that held the baby,
that taught the child to write,
that buttoned his suit
on the day he was married.
the hands....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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