Snail Crossing.... (Part Nine)
the lives of every child,
of every color, every nationality,
and every language,
whether male or female,
born in or out of wedlock,
born in wealth or poverty...
are sacred.
and therein lies
the greatest responsibility
of the human race...
and at this moment,
the greatest failure!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Tis But Death
the stranger arrives,
his voice almost remembered,
his smell like rain,
and something else.
his soft insistent knock
rings like a bell,
his hand on the knob...
can you hear?
the sound of his footfall....
tis but death come knocking...
he brings no baggage.
will you open the door?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Touching You Again
touching you again
would be like
making love in a church
on a weekday.
sunlight sifting through
the stained glass windows
throwing colored shadows
on the empty pews,
the smell of burnt candlewax,
closed hymnals.
and stone silence.
a cold brass offering plate
waiting for your heart!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Because!
a simple prayer...
to be a bridge, a boat,
a cup, a key...
a candle in the night,
a small fire by the road.
an old oak that stands
through the winter storm,
a barn, a saddle,
a hand-me-down coat.
whatever is needed,
whatever can be used.
given without regard...
just given... because!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Capitalism (The Sword)
capitalism...
the sword of the godless
raised against the children
left without a country!
the fire never quenched,
that consumes the nameless,
and scorches the feet
of those of conscience.
the empty house padlocked,
the stove unlit...
the vampire kneeling
before the cross of the lie!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Drown Out The Rain
the quiet beauty of
rain swept streets...
the deep sadness
in the lost stares
of people walking them,
no direction, nowhere to turn...
and the agony of the apathetic,
standing behind windows,
curtains closed,
who turn up the music
to drown out the rain,
and so, feel nothing at all!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Intertwined
there is a music in the still darkness
that no human hand could ever play...
that opens doors in the heart,
that the heart never knew were there!
and, if but for a holy moment,
i'd build a shelter from fallen branches.
i'd invite the darkness to be my guest,
and so sleep intertwined.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Critic
with an impotent hand
and a limp pen
he scratches at the scabs
pf the exposed soul...
having no soul
of his own...
to draw from.
no fire in the night
he sits 'neath a neon light
and vomits commands
to the frigid and lifeless...
without shadow, slowly
eaten from within...
ego, and dust!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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How Many? (Holiness)
for every bomb that you drop,
how many hungry people could you feed?
for every time your planes fly,
how many homeless people could you shelter?
for every country you tear down,
how many could you help build up?
for every lie that you tell,
how many people would the truth set free?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Robert Kennedy
Robert Kennedy killed...
Sirhan acting, (alone?)
hypnotic mind control trance...
stood up to the Mafia!
told LBJ he knew the truth...
stood up to J Edgar Hoover,
and you couldnt do that...
race riots, war protests,
Vietnam machine rolled on...
how many dead?
who pulled the trigger?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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