Why We're Angry!

spent some time talking
to a man from Michigan this morning...
he'd been a plant supervisor,
personally developed a product
that became his company's mainstay.....
which the company patented....
they then moved the patent and the
whole operation to their Mexican affiliate....

he lost his job, his house, his life....
living on unemployment, and side jobs....
another angry working man.

they want to know why we're angry!
just another story, another faceless number.
he said, 'it's like being 19 all over again,
with no world out there! '

homelessness, foreclosure, evictions....
empty houses every where you look!

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Gods We Become?

we kill...
'holy' hands forming gods
out of our paper bag hungers,
in the image of our fears.
we sacrifice blood,
in the name of redemption.
and the ghosts of the innocents
burn our thoughts and our eyes.

what kind of father
teaches his children
to kill each other?
are we bastards, or liars,
afraid of our sins?

even the earth we defile,
cries against us in anguish.
the morality we buy and sell,
is bitter to the taste.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am.... (The Branch, Part Two)

i am...
the orphaned child and the abandoned dog,
the woman raped, the young man killed.
i am the body hanging alone and cold,
the old woman shaking in an empty room.
i am the young girl taken and enslaved,
the needle, the spoon, and the revolver.
i am black skinned, brown skinned anger,
and the bones of bodies hidden...
the speaker of truth detained and tortured,
the invisible trail left behind.

i am...
the rage of jobless, homeless, hopeless...
the unemployment line and the sweat shop.
i am the family living in a stolen car,
and the child who runs away.
i am the store clerk killed by the robber,
her minimum wage death unnoticed.
i am the shadow crossing the border,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Reading

reading...
Robert Bly and Maya Angelou,
in a room put together
like second hand clothes,
or a mad thrift store.
the shade on the lamp gone,
lost to the years...
the bare bulb flickers
from time to time,
as if to catch its breath.

and the worlds still on
a runaway train to hell.
people pass each other
like unaffiliated ghosts,
sucking on plastic nipples.
the plate in the sink,
chipped on the edges.
the cabinets empty,
martyred by time.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Communion (Dance of the Lovers)

if you can hear me
before i speak, and
know what i'm saying
even before my heart knows...
if you can touch me
across the miles,
leaving no doubt
that it was you...
if you can smell me
in the wind... and your
lips quiver, your heart races...
if you can taste me
in the rain... and your body
burns with a holy fire...
if you can miss me
amid the lights and
the hustle and bustle
till your soul moans
with darkness....

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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We Make These Choices!

who makes the choices
that change the world?
that decide who eats,
who has shelter,
who has medical care?
the choices...
whether or not to bomb,
whether to pull the trigger.
whether to see that justice is done,
or to turn the head,
and walk away...
whether to accept
people for who they are,
and what they are...
whether to stand up
for the other person's rights,
the other person's beliefs,
the other person's way of life...
whether to walk in dignity,
and respect,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Life Gone Crazy

shots ring out,
sirens wail.
street grinders turn,
the gates of hell.
we push and shout,
we take and drive,
aint nobody
gonna get out alive.

the price of life,
nickels and dimes.
faceless souls,
redeem the time.
the weight of skin,
and rusted chains.
take a pill
to numb the pain.

life gone crazy,
life gone mad.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Freedom Doesnt

freedom doesnt starve it's children,
freedom doesnt sell it's people into slavery.
freedom doesnt see skin color,
doesnt always speak english.
freedom doesnt have one religion.
freedom doesnt choose sexual preference.
freedom doesnt regulate love.
freedom doesnt trade joblessness for profit.
freedom doesnt take your home.
freedom doesnt create reservations, slums,
and low rent trailer parks.
freedom doesnt ban books.
freedom doesnt invade and conquer.
freedom doesnt trade blood for oil.
freedom doesnt imprison those it cannot use.
freedom doesnt live by the lie.
freedom doesnt have different levels of justice,
depending on how much money you have.
freedom doesnt abandon it's elderly.
freedom doesnt turn away the sick.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am (Unraveled)

i am, become...
i am the fallen tree,
the broken lamp, the axe,
the message never received.
i am the flag draped
over the casket in the silent room.

i am second hand clothes,
and hand-me-down hearts...
i am your grandmother's quilt,
and your son's grave...
i am the song of the whipporwill,
and the porcupine's quill.

i am the child dreaming of a grownup world.
i am the last letter written
by the soldier far from home...
i am your father's pipe,
and your mother's favorite pot...
i am memory and woodgrain,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Lonesome Refugee's Song (Part Two)

tis not magic, nothing more tragic,
than the works of mankind.
with instant salvation by quick donations,
the blind follow the blind.
while the rich cast bread to the nearly dead,
and kick the dogs as they eat.
with boots of flesh that stink of success,
they grind the bones beneath their feet.

the time clock shouts, undresses doubt,
till the truth is revealed.
dignity cries with unbound eyes,
till the cup of cost is filled.
god removes her mask for those who ask,
who've nothing left to lose.
while pilgrims search the trash and the dirt
for the things that can be used.

the distant shore, beyond the door,
the key won by fire and trial.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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