I Am (Justice)
i am, become...
i am the African slave
working in the deep Mississippi sun;
his eyes, his muscles, his back, his heart,
all shouting 'freedom'...
i am the college student,
hanging from a tree
in the sixties south,
who died for his conviction...
i am the minister
who joined the protest for peace,
dignity, and equality,
his face bashed in by the officer's club,
handcuffed in the back of the van...
i am the turning of the seasons
through prison bars,
the watered down coffee,
the tiny cell.
i am the one ridiculed and rundown
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Soul Calls!
white twin, black twin,
concepts and lies.
images on images,
truth revealed dies.
prayers, simple touch,
falling prey to fate.
fires consume fires,
love is born of hate.
light fails, shadows talk,
the stranger stinks like god.
swords being sharpened,
horses being shod.
bombs fall, bodies cry,
the battle for the self.
the dead sing, the lost dream,
the book still on the shelf.
the hammer strikes the anvil,
the wind cuts you to the bone.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Battle Cry
overpopulation, deforestation,
linear salvation...
who gives a damn?
educated hobos, West Point Nero's,
girl cant keep on her clothes,
kingdoms in the sand...
sexual confusion, holy transfusions,
nuclear fusion...
time is running out!
on the edge of class wars,
subjugated workforce,
pimp kings and crack whores,
consumed by fear and doubt.
thoughts seered by fire, drunk on desire,
fake prophets, well paid liars,
nothing's what it seems...
puppeteers well hid, never know what they did,
empty jars with gold lids,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Crosses Burning
black-eyed poverty,
angry negativity,
sanity or vanity,
aint nobody free...
still the wheels of life
keep on turning;
in the land of want,
crosses burning.
hate me, hate yourself,
liberty on the shelf,
worthless unless it sells,
drawing water from the well...
still the wheels of life
keep on turning;
in the land of need,
crosses burning.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Lift Your Voice To The Wind.... (For Frank)
i kneel...
on time worn knees,
facing the distant hue
of the Statue Of Liberty.
and touch the hallowed ground,
that Jefferson and Adams dreamed,
would give birth to a freedom....
never before seen.
and now even the shadows shiver
with the indignity of the lie.
the ghosts of the freedom fighters,
howl in mourning.
the truth suppressed
by the hands of greed,
the eyes plucked from their sockets,
tongues stapled to the pavement.
they're burning books in America,
they've chained freedom of speech.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Who Am I? I Am!
who am i?
whose voice do you hear
when i growl?
whose face do you see
when i moan?
i am the train
that hasnt come
for twenty years,
the tracks left to whimper
like a deserted bride.
i am the lock rusted,
and the key that is lost.
i am the cross of silver
on the neck of the corpse.
i am the soldier come home
to no home at all.
i am the father burying
his only son.
i am the vote not cast,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am Sick......
i am sick of your justice...
sick of dead bodies strewn,
sick of your bursts of gunfire,
and your bombs without conscience.
sick of the napalm fingers of your equality,
trading flesh for nickels and dime.
sick of your powder and your pills,
sick of the rape of the young girl
beneath your flag!
i am sick of your nuclear bibles,
sick of your buying and trading.
i am sick of the pound of your oil rigs,
sick of the stink of your morality.
i am sick of your hanging trees,
your courtrooms stacked.
i am sick of the money you sleep with,
sick of your colorless freedom.
i am sick of your smokestacks gone silent.
sick of your riot squads gassing.
i am sick of the amendments you've twisted,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Children Of Cain
it has always been
inherently taught,
said without saying,
in this country,
(and i'm sure in others)
that killing someone
of a different nationality,
a different race, a different faith,
as an act of war,
is not murder...
but it is!
i'm probably not as passive
as i should be...
if someone breaks in your house,
and threatens you family,
i say fight back.
if someone tries to rob you,
fight back.
if someone rapes your wife,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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American Slaves
blatent mediocrity, constant uniformity,
tongues pierced with an anvil.
eyes fogged from realization,
minds trained for situations,
paper hearts, electric candles.
cry of desperation, self becomes a nation,
stepping over bodies without heads.
the newscaster plots his story,
selling condoms in purgatory,
fanning the flames o'er the dead.
ghosts in hell, souls without conscience.
take another pill for deliverence.
children buried in unmarked graves.
oil rigs pumping, American slaves.
flag waving, constant craving,
neon lights blink on and off.
sex heals, addictive thrills,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Poet
who is the poet then?
the master of words,
phrases, rhymes, and symbols...
or the one who wipes the ass
of the old man in the nursing home,
whose family does not come anymore.
or the young gay teacher
in the projects, walking the thin line
between the hatred of gangs, and hope.
or the small time farmer
who planted one last crop,
knowing that the bank was coming
to take it all away.
or the soldier in Iraq,
who stops to help a child up,
and sees his own children miles away;
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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