Weariness Of The Soul....
i have become wearied with the vain
arguments of men.... with the constant
striving over religion, politics, and ego
driven patriotism...
the constant struggle of we the masses,
faceless and numbered, to just survive,
to barely get by...
and i have come to doubt many and
various things...
i have a distinct hatred for the lie...
for emotional, spiritual, and physical
slavery...
i have no desire to do anything to win
the accord of the ignorant...
i have no desire to be anything that
i'm not...
i make no apology for who i am...
i have tried to live in respectful fashion....
i own my mistakes, i wear no disguise.
i am simply, a man!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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In The Presence Of God...
dont try to sell me
your roadmap to heaven,
with your streets of gold,
and angelic harps...
i am not interested!
in the presence of God,
(i didnt name her that, you did!) ,
all your spiritual writings
become mere pornography,
your church bells tiny bells
on the legs of ants!
i walk with her through poverty
and despair, touching, reaching out,
and touching.
holding close the child that's dying...
sitting in the cell with the prisoner waiting.
feeding the hungry, building simple shelters
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Fading Into Black
her daddy drank cheap whiskey
her momma never said much
she lost her virginity
in the bed of a pickup truck
ran away at seventeen
vowed never to come back
now two abortions later
she's fading into black...
fading into black...
lost child of a forgotten God
a number without a name
with nothing left to lose
and nothing left to gain
racing down a dead end street
half crazy and nearly sane
too tired to stop the running
too numb to feel the pain
her daughters a crack whore
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Some Distant Day
stillness wrapped in stillness,
memory ingrained in time.
an ancient holy book written
on a leaf, that falls freely,
turns bright with passion,
and crumbles into death!
who are we?
and what remains?
more than the inflection of voice?
less than scriptures etched in stone?
a star? a caterpillar? a gust of wind?
does the soul retain identity?
the spirit have a familiar face?
does the name change...
from Henry to pebble,
from William to speck of dust?
angel's wings, i think not!
neither pitchforks, nor hideous horns!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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By The Fires Of Hell
i kissed the cyanide lips,
of the god of my childhood.
walked the desolate streets,
strewn with human refuse and garbage.
under the heavy curse
of false morality and judgement.
to the edge of town,
where the hanging tree stood.
the sweat stained pits,
of bodies faceless and rotting.
a black and white movie,
dirge of the pilgrim.
walls made of wax,
and ideals with numb fingers.
church bells ringing,
forever just ringing!
why is it true souls are always homeless?
i hear the voices, i feel the weeping.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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America, Grieving
America, grieving...
your oily fingers on
the wheel of the world,
your black heart of prejudice...
you pull the crumbs
from the mouths of the needy,
and litter your walkways
with the bones of children.
you poison your own crops,
and defile your own water.
you educate your children
in prisons dark, and
on foreign sands fighting...
for freedom, no!
you batter the people of color,
bruise them with your stars and stripes...
your hanging trees condemn you!
you cut the hearts out
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Six O'Clock News
he sat in the parking lot,
a Vietnam vet, breathing hard,
fog rising in the cold....
across the way two kids
were getting ready to raise
the flag... just another day....
they'd been married for 30 years.
he met her when he was thirty,
and she was just sixteen....
now he was over sixty,
and his health was bad....
and she'd been fooling around
with a man her own age.
he just couldnt see, just couldnt
believe... nowhere to go.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Nowhere Left To Stand!
angels made of dust,
stray dogs, homeless children.
righteousness invades,
who forgives the forgiven?
the hands on the clock prophesy,
and the darkness demands.
god stares back from the mirror,
moves with human hands.
empty houses on fire,
empty hearts strike with fear.
and all that remains,
words spoken, unseen tears.
pay the cost of the choice,
pay the price of a life.
but you cannot learn to live,
till you learn how to die!
faces without names,
names written in the sand.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Independence Day Thoughts
if you've ever spent any time in jail,
you know how a caged animal feels...
now all of us here on the bottom end
of the economic system know this feeling again....
trapped, caged, angry, fearful....
it's not about color, religion, language, or whatever....
these are only the clothes we wear.
it's about human beings being disrespected,
about dignity and honor taken.
we went about our ways,
working, dreaming, just trying to live...
and turned a blind eye to what was going on...
now our indifference has bitten us!
but the courage of the individual,
the neighbor, and the family remain...
and it is in the grain of this tree
that the birds of freedom nest.
the human spirit defies the cage,
we will fly, or die...
it doesnt matter... these, our only choices!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Standing in the Cold
and so it comes to this.
standing beneath the archway
of passion, and unbridled emotion.
my old worn hands tremble
a little as i pass the cup.
and your eyes have a faraway
glint; not conscious, not here anymore.
lips that once knew the language
of mine, are terse, and set.
where did the living go?
the laughter, the touching,
that lay awake at night and
watched me sleep, as if drunken.
and all the words whispered
as if magic and secret, hidden
in the place that no one else knew,
that no darkness could touch...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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