Rust And Burnt Coffee
robin's nest,
woven tight,
from scraps
of living.
rainswept,
the earth,
a lover satisfied!
shadows of the wheel,
turn slow as the sun.
tiny deaths,
the spider's web,
glints in the light.
the last bark
of the mongrel dog,
cups and plates stacked
in the drainer to dry.
forever, the book falls
to the floor.
love tastes like rust,
rust and burnt coffee!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Searching For America
give me an old Rambler Classic,
6 cyl., three-on-the-tree....
a double-bitted axe, and
a twelve gauge pump...
a coupla sleeping bags,
and a pretty good tent.
a half dozen books, a coffee pot,
and an old cook stove...
an old Gibson acoustic,
and an old Case knife.
my old dog, and a woman
with a little color in her soul...
and, by God, i'll find America!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Smell Like!
you said:
old men smell like nuts,
and greying tree limbs...
wet ashes after the rain...
you smell like
the book on the shelf,
that goes unnoticed,
and needs to be read!
and we probably smell like
the broken glass, the limbs
on the car, the rain drenched seat...
and love stains aged
from under the wheel,
in the gravel drive
of an old abandoned house!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Only Light
the soft touch
of your hands
brushing mine...
almost like strangers,
it's been so long...
and the wrinkles of
gentleness 'neath your eyes,
eyes that have seen me
at my best and my worst.
some things were just
meant to be.... autumn
follows summer, then winter.
your soul lies in the empty
shell of my being....
the only light my darkness
[...] Read more
poem by Eric Cockrell
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30 Days
poor man talking this morning,
told me his insurance lapsed...
he went up and reinstated....
but they took his tag for 30 days....
makes about 8.50 an hour,
the only job he can find...
now he's afraid he's gonna lose it....
cant get to work for 30 days....
living on the edge....
good people, hard lives....
just trying to get by....
30 days, God only knows!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Gun In The Hand
the gun in the hand
of the shadowy figure
wearing the mask of oppression,
is prejudice!
the poison gases he sprays,
are ignorance and fear.
the bomb he drops
is absolute poverty.
the flag that he waves,
is corporate and consuming.
the prophecy he speaks
is a damned lie...
we take the gun from his hand,
when we dare to stand up,
and demand the truth!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Vacant Eyes
standing in line
for a cup of soup,
second hand coats,
and worn out shoes.
the hands that
built your houses,
paved your roads,
worked your steel mills...
harvested your crops,
worked on your cars,
built your cities and towns,
your stores and your churches.
tremble with the cold,
hold the steaming cup
like a prayer...
wipe the corners of vacant eyes!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Buddha Steps # 7
take all of your clothes off!
stand in front of a long mirror.
there you are!
no costumes, no makeup, no lies.
just you.
greying, wrinkled, toes and fingers
bent;
shadows under your eyes,
bruised, and worn.
there you are!
in all the beauty
of years and scars.
breathing, aching, just being.
lifetimes and stories written
in human flesh, and hope.
beauty!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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In The Shadows
who's invading whom?
shall we kill again in the name
of freedom?
does capitalism have its own
savior, complete with cross and grave?
in the name of security,
we take human rights...
now the truth becomes a threat.
bodies bought and sold, sacrificed to wars,
bodies without faces!
and freedom well armed and lusty,
kills justice and equality in the shadows!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Kingdom Of The Owl
curled into the trunk
of an old woman tree,
listening to the owl,
and sleeping in the shade.
arms outstretched,
as if touching the sky,
roots deep in the earth,
swaying with the wind.
bark to bark,
he and she intertwine...
till only one remains.
seasons put down and lost
in the steady and sure,
waiting on moonlight and darkness
in the kingdom of the owl!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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