The Cry...
i know what...
poverty smells like,
oppression feels like,
having my freedom taken
tastes like...
if what i write offends you,
open your eyes...
and walk down the street.
the sound you hear
is the cry...
of your brothers and sisters in need!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ghosts.... (Nursing Homes)
when the hand that pushed the plow,
cut the wood, built the house,
loved the woman, and painted stars
in simple acorns....
trembles with age...
be his name forgotten?
the ghosts that scream from nursing homes,
are the pigmants of your souls!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Thinking Man...
the thinking man...
always walks somewhere between,
the cross of Jesus,
an elephant's tusk,
and Hemingway's shotgun!
always exposing the ragged edge
to both sun and rain....
as if daring,
the soul to breathe,
and the hungered heart to beat!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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At The Crossroads
at the crossroads,
kneeling before the fire,
exchanging spit
with the shadows.
surrounded by ghosts,
familiar, and real.
laying aside all else,
reaching deep within,
kicking the ashes
from my boots.
flesh unto flesh....
daring to live.....
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Desperate Man
with hard desperate hands,
and cold desperate eyes,
he stands on the precipice
looking for a way...
and all his ideals, morals,
and convictions fade
into one pulsing need...
to survive.
hand on the gun,
eyes fixed....
back against the wall!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Incarcerate...
incarcerate,
poverty's grip.
human rights taken,
rape of soul.
colors,
human cries.
black and white,
Satan's grip.
patriot,
or citizen?
stolen land,
or the gift of earth?
burn your money,
burn your hate.
we live free...
hand in dirty hand!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Prepared
dried beans, salt pork,
flour, lard, coffee,
and whiskey...
matches, sharp knife,
a coat, boots, dried dog food.
candles and books...
pull the blanket close,
hold those that you love.
storm clouds, hard lightning,
eyes squinted, lips tight!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Rape
rape...
hair tongued monster
devouring,
all sense of light
swallowed, and banished.
angry impotent ego
driving nails in a hollow coffin..
desecrates
the ground
no angel dares tread.
the sickness
that stinks of death.
the demon
no god could forgive!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Bowl Of Rice
sad, but true...
for so many
people in this world
redemption is
a bowl of rice,
and a tent that doesnt leak...
what do you believe in?
what do you hope for?
do you believe enough
to make an effort?
a bowl of rice,
and a tent that doesnt leak!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Womb, And The Passion!
stillness...
the voice of God,
calling us back
to our true selves...
the healing touch
of the Lover's hand;
that drink of water
that quenches parched lips,
and restores life
to the living...
the music of the eternal,
the womb, and the passion!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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