The Fire Of Redemption

i am a dissident,
a fugitive, a renegade,
condemned by apathy as subversive.
i am an individual,
a burning bush,
a fire in the night.
i am a homeless star
in a sky gone black,
the mouth and face of hunger.
i am passion's anger,
and compassion's hands,
i am a man and not a body.
i am a spiritual heretic,
a relic from a time
when the spirit was the cause.
i am a bridge, a pair of shoes,
a jug that holds water.
i am the seeds, the sower,
the rain and the sun.
i am the common dance,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Without Hope Of Redemption....

it is then that we dance,
sitting hunched in silent contemplation...
without moving a finger,
perhaps it is in the eyes.
as leaves most certainly dance,
turning color awaiting the fall.
and old glass bottles turned on their side,
are filled with something we cannot fathom.
it seems saviors come and go,
while detours become some kind of destiny.
the only scriptures i know curl from chimneys,
to haunt the wings of nameless birds.
i am not alone, small creatures make good companions.
there are things they know that need no definition.
i sleep with mountains no face has seen,
and know well the scent of their longing.
do you love me, dare i ask?
my heart mows the grass beside your grave.
while cattle graze on silent hope,
and my fingers walk the grain of weathered oaks.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Wind Of The Human Spirit...

i climbed the mountain with Moses,
and watched in silent awe.
i lay in the well with Joseph,
as they tore my coat of many colors to shreds.
i stood on the rooftop with David,
watching Bathsheba bathe...
i walked to Gethsemene,
and wiped the tears from Jesus' face.
and when each had finished their task,
mine had just begun.

i sat under the tree with Buddha,
the image of my son burning my eyes.
and lost myself in the darkness,
to find my heart in the dawn.
i rode away with Lao-Tzu,
leaving words written on the wind.
i died with the last buffalo,
while the Great Spirit wept.
and when each had finished their task,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am.... (Rotting Wood)

i am...
the old man smell of rotting wood,
the stagnant pool of water,
devoid of life!
the smell of young lust,
and the stink of love over years.
i am the children raised,
and the empty room.
i am the mistakes made,
and the chances long gone.
i am the moments of joy,
that no one can steal.
i am the prayer of the doubter,
the honesty of the naked moment.
i am the naked body of an old man,
where sparrows build nests!
i am the turn of the wheel,
the hum of the beat.
i am the hunger that races
through the darkness by moonlight.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Well, It's Nuclear...

well, it's nuclear rain,
voices without names,
faces etched in pain,
lives given in vain,
it's nuclear rain.
well, it's nuclear night.
cant tell wrong from right,
hope is out of sight,
men stand alone and fight.
it's nuclear night.
well, it's nuclear stillness.
past the point of forgiveness..
the dying cry out to witness.
the ego driven illness.
it's nuclear stillness.
well, it's nuclear devastation.
the home divided by the nation.
the individual sold to exploitation.
to bondage and incarceration.
it's nuclear devastation.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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That Old Woman.... (Sunset)

that old woman who walks naked
in the garden at night...
stepping barefoot on fallen petals,
leaving her footprints in the dew damp earth.
who feeds all the cats in the neighborhood,
and pours a little bourbon in her coffee.
who uses the same cup and plate everyday,
and likes to read just before dawn.
who smokes unfiltered Pall Mall's,
and keeps all her pictures turned down.
whose phone is always off the hook,
whose lips are alway moving...
that old woman no one really knows,
and most just try to ignore.

but that old woman ran with the wind,
made love with intimate strangers.
smoked dope and marched in protest,
spent several nights in jail.
wrote poetry and read Jung,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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They Call This America, Dont They?

the cum stained prayers
written on tenement walls,
where brown eyed girls, head held high...
wear poverty's drench,
backs strong and straight,
amid the pale cries of babies birthing.
roaches scatter, bare feet skim the floors,
empty cupboards whispering moan.
food stamp dreams, two days away,
they call this America, dont they?

the trailer wrecked, paper thin walls,
duct taped tile by molded tubs.
the broke down truck, the mailbox spills,
unemployed and out of time.
box fans on stolen power,
dirt faced children, starving dogs.
an American flag, a worn out Bible...
they call this America, dont they?

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Dust # 2

the old man fell asleep in his chair, and dreamt:
he was swinging the sledge barechested in the
hot summer sun, driving iron fence posts. his
daughters were pulling the wire fence every
now and again he stopped to help them pull it
tight. the dogs ran free, chasing each other, and
barking

finally, he stopped. 'gonna go in and check on your
mom. y'all watch the dogs! '
he opened the sliding door, and walked into the coolness.
letting his eyes adjust for a moment, he stared across
the room. his woman sat on the counter, her feet in
the sink, shaving her legs. grinning, he walked across
the room.
she looked up. 'what are you grinning at, fool? '
'the prettiest damn thing i've seen in a while! '
she wrapped her legs around his sweaty waist. 'well,
what are you going to do about it? '
he picked her up. one of his daughters came to the door.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Poet Is....

the poet is a vase,
collecting tears like rainwater,
with a tiny hole in the bottom,
connecting to the ground.
the poet is a prism,
seperating colors from black and white,
then drawing black and white from colors,
dissolving and evolving.
the poet is an illusion,
that looks and smells like home,
redefining distance by closeness,
finding the familiar in a stranger.
the poet is an orphan,
a messenger, and a thief.
bringing you a lit candle,
and stealing your heart for a stand.
the poet is a carpenter,
building from scraps of wood.
using time rusted nails,
and an eye for dreams.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Both Familiar And New!

i have an inherent belief
in what i have seen, felt, and heard...
in evolving through experience,
i do not follow well!

and yet i know things,
beyond definition or reason...
and have no need to limit
by concepts or by theory!

every leaf belongs to the tree,
but each is distinct, and individual!
even the wind has a name,
that few can hear or comprehend.

god is much more than god.
truth so simple it's complex.
death no more to be feared
than the coming of winter....

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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