A Pebble Is A Mountain.....
i was there the day you were born...
you were there the day that i died....
i entered your mother with fevered passion,
you were the grandmother knitting outside.
i killed your son in battle,
you buried my wife in an unmarked grave.
you baptized me in the river,
i lit the fire when you were martyred.
you went to sea in search of a new land,
i sat in my tepee waiting for death.
you slew me with righteous indignation,
i prayed to the Great Spirit for your soul.
i worked forty years to feed you,
you stole the cross from around my neck.
i led the immigrants by night,
you waited with a gun and a badge....
you died inside my prison,
i felt the blow of justice.
i starved outside your window,
while you drank and danced till dawn....
i was an addict and a murderer,
you fed my addiction with greed.
you saved the world one winter night,
while i wandered lost again....
or perhaps, the other way around,
i cannot tell the difference.
there be no walls in an empty room,
and a pebble is a mountain!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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One Hundred Lit Candles
sitting alone in an empty room,
surrounded by one hundred lit candles...
slowly, one by one,
naming them,
blowing them out!
hunger, apathy, pride,
poverty, prejudice,
sorrow, despair, greed...
self image, self fullfilment,
ownership, anger, judgement,
righteous indignation...
the stranger on the street corner,
the soldiers standing across the line.
the protestors carrying signs,
the pale faces behind
the covered window...
the preacher and the addict,
the whore, and the convict.
the young unwed mother,
the child crying in the night.
the young gay boy who hung himself,
those who stood and jeered...
the out of work factory worker,
face down in a corner bar.
my neighbor, my enemy, my brother,
and the ghosts that haunt my night.
empty graves and unmarked stones...
and more...
blowing them out!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Lonely Fool (The Window)
Here he lies in his grave,
The lonely fool,
In his lonely world,
He was trapped in his cage,
Where waited for a friend,
Someone, anyone to come,
He waited till he was beneath his tombstone,
But no one came,
As he watched,
From the only window in his prison,
The only link he ha d to the world outside,
His connection to others he knew,
Who did not know him,
He tried to escape so many times,
But ever time he exited one room,
He found himself in another lonely room,
Though all alike,
With the same window,
Still I each new room,
He felt lonelier inside,
poem by Paurakh Shrestha
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The Prisoner Of War
he waited from night to night
he waited till the son started peeling over the horizon
he waited till he heard the morning birds chirp
he waited for a long time
he waited for his father
his father lost at war
his father he knew since he was born
but as time grew
the boy felt so weary
the boy waited and waited and waited
his mother giving him the same face
the same face when his father left
and the same face when he didn't comeback
but the boy did not notice this
the boy never knew his dad has been lost
but until
until he strayed up one night
a night he would never forget
he saw his father walking about in the streets
his uniform on but he noticed something else
his father had many medals
but he knew nothing of them
all that he cared about was his father was home
the boy waited 10 years
his mother fell asleep in tears
for all those years
but then he finally came home
this poem is dedicated to all POW
poem by Montana Hohensee
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You Are So Far Away
You are so far away, I say,
My life is an empty cage
Inside which they put me into last night-
An empty room, an empty space,
An empty heart and a forbidden soul-
Grabbed by my limbs, Kicking and screaming?
All I could hear were the tears my own despair,
It only matters that they brought me to this prison last night- and
The only light I see is creeping through the crack
Of a locked door and reflecting against the
Aluminum strap of my restraints- You are so far away-
You, my family deceased as of nineteen years,
You, my home in my solitude-
You, what was left of my sanity? I scream to be set free,
I beg to be let out of this tenement of my suffering-
Nobody hears my cries- Silent or loud and desperate,
I call myself a wild animal, fearful of human assassins,
None but a helpless child not knowing right from wrong.
The key to this door that I am locked behind,
Within my state of terror and the indifference of this
Cruel and mindless world,
I am a child who has never known her mother's love and
Who never learned to run from the confinement of the hell into which I was born?
I stand upon the peak of a phantasmal mountain
Looking down upon a river in which I could drown
If I were to jump-inside the world of my dreams
I would like to jump and swim the length of this river below
Until I return to the solitary universe I had once created for myself-
And the people I have created inside my own mind and right now
I speak to you, these people- 'You are so far away, ' and
I have begun to realize that my life has been none but a glorified delusion-
Please set me free from this suicidal prison- set me free from
These devilish beings tampering with my mind,
Has the horrific day now come to lock me away forever?
No one can hear my desperate cries,
I am a lost spirit on the verge of emotional death-
Who is to be snatched away from all that is real-?
I have never been heard because in so many misunderstood ways,
I have been deemed to be none but a wounded soul whose thoughts are so far away
From anything real and only I can only live inside the world of my dreams which is to
Everyone else is too far away to reach? And my voice-too far away to be heard?
poem by Claudia Krizay
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The Cross of Snow
In the long, sleepless watches of the night,
A gentle face -- the face of one long dead --
Looks at me from the wall, where round its head
The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.
Here in this room she died; and soul more white
Never through martyrdom of fire was led
To its repose; nor can in books be read
The legend of a life more benedight.
There is a mountain in the distant West
That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines
Displays a cross of snow upon its side.
Such is the cross I wear upon my breast
These eighteen years, through all the changingscenes
And seasons, changeless since the day she died.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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I Stand Redeemed
I stand Redeemed, for through The Blood of The Lord I was bought,
It was on The Cross of Christ that the war for my soul was fought.
He did not come for the righteous, but to seek and save all the lost,
His search did not bring Him treasure; instead it came at great cost.
The Lamb of God for me was slain and crucified upon a bloody cross,
Christ died for me, so that through Eternity I would not suffer loss.
The Son of God came to save but was mocked, scoffed at and despised,
This was by His own, lead by those who were wise in their own eyes.
When they were asked about Jesus, Crucify him! Is what they screamed,
Little did they know that through Christ God was saving the Redeemed.
He was lead to The Cross to die by men who were spiritually deceived,
But there were also men like Nicodemus who saw Christ and believed.
It was for the sins of His people, that The Lord Jesus was stricken.
And then Isaiah says that He was assigned a grave with the wicked.
It wasn't only for Israel He died, for on The Cross He took my place,
And all who like Nicodemus, can be saved through His Wonderful Grace.
Just as The Lord will discard all the wicked of the earth like dross,
The sins of all who believe are covered by The Blood of The Cross.
For ages the prophets looked towards a day of redemption and dreamed,
Now two thousand years later it's at The Cross that I stand Redeemed.
(Copyright © 04/2003)
An Old Story
(Retold in Rhyme)
They threw him in a prison cell;
He moaned upon his bed.
And when he crept from coils of hell:
"Last night you killed," they said.
"last night in drunken rage you slew
A being brave with breath;
A radiant soul, because of you
Lies dark in death."
"last night I killed," he moaned distraught,
"When I was wild with wine;
I slew, and I remember naught . . .
O Mother, Mother mine!
"To what unbridled rage may lead
You taught me at your knew.
Why did I not your warning heed . . .
And now - the gallows tree.
"O Mother, Mother, come to me,
For I am sore distrest,
And I would kneel beside your knee
And weep upon your breast. . . ."
They stared at him; their lips were dumb,
Their eyes tear filled;
Then spoke the Priest: "She cannot come . . .
'Twas she you killed."
poem by Robert William Service
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Murderer
(m&l - hansen)
He said get ut of here nobody wants you here
You smashed his head and the man died
And theres a murmur loud
From the appearing crowd
Searching for motives and reason why
Now take a look at yourself and youll see
What you are in the eyes of the world
You didnt want it but now hes dead
And youre on the run of the law
Youre a murderer in every town
Murderer to the whole world
Murderer youre on the run
Murderer youll have to kill... again
And like an animal which scaped from the cage
Theyre hunting you over their holy land
Traps waiting everywhere you fall in deep despair
Darkness and night your owly friends
One day the chase will be over for you
And youll find your own peace in the end
Some day you will find a sanctuary
Death!... but so long my friend...
Youre a murderer in every town
Murderer to the whole world
Murderer youre on the run
Murderer youll have to kill... again
He said get ut of here nobody wants you here
You smashed his head and the man died
And theres a murmur loud
From the appearing crowd
Searching for motives and reason why
Now take a look at yourself and youll see
What you are in the eyes of the world
You didnt want it but now hes dead
And youre on the run of the law
Youre a murderer in every town
Murderer to the whole world
Murderer youre on the run
Murderer youll have to kill... again
song performed by by Helloween
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Three yards up the road
When your great-great-Grandmother
sold across the brush of cotton
was singing songs of Africa
and working under lash and lock
and yoke the white man slaver set
the child in England shivered
Silently as Dada died or Mama died
she moved to separation from her own
became a Parish burden picking oakum
was sold to northern mills in groups of slaves
locked inside forbidding winter temples
stocking dross the Parish sent away
When your great-great-Grandmother
sold by stronger tribes in Africa
to make them rich and build their acres
to feed the rich man's people hunger
passing cramped across the ocean
watching daily deaths - or hourly
the child in England shivered
Wearing worn out summer clothing
shoeless in the depths of winter
working fourteen hours unstopping
Hunger semi-slaked by gruel slops
in mills where childhood took a beating
When your great-great-Grandmother
had her babies traded from her
on plantations where the working time was long
and overseers beat and sometimes killed
and raped and pillaged every woman
drunken eyes could squander
the beaten child devoid of mother
dragged a body dwarfed by starving
mis-shapen from the broken bones untreated
locked inside her working prison
sealed at night with others in a tomb
where straw - and other ill-used bodies - comforted
And you can say and lift your head
When my great-great-Grandmother
was taken out of Africa by white men
she ceased her African-African slavery
began her slavery to white men
Then you turn and call me racist
And I have nothing more to say
except my great-great-Grandmother
having parents dead or starving
was a burden on the Parish of her birth
which sold her into untold desolation
in a country which pretended to be kind
and left her slave and starving
as a cog inside an Empire
where the rich grew richer still
on the blood of starving children
out of Africa or three yards up the road
poem by Charlotte Peters Rock
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The Poet Endureth!
i stare at my face in the mirror,
and count with the heavy rhythm
of the clock... moment by moment...
every feeling, born and unborn,
every taste, intoxicating, burning the lips...
every smell, faint and overpowering...
every touch... real and imagined...
and who am i? and what have i to give?
i am the sound that you cant define,
cant put to words, cant control.
i am the fire that warms you, and destroys you...
the water you drink that drowns you;
the wind at your back, the infidel wind
that whispers to you in the middle of the night.
i am the small child, lost and crying,
i am the murderer, still someone's son.
i am the woman you'd die for,
that leaves you broken and bleeding.
i am the priest, the prophet, the thief,
the addict, the whore...
i am everything you believe in,
everything you're scared to admit you feel.
i am the tear no one sees you cry,
i am the fear you keep hidden.
i am the hungry man standing in line,
whose family is long gone.
i am the casket they buried your mother in...
i am the words written in stone,
that no one ever reads.
i am the stranger who steps in front of the car,
pushes you away, and is killed.
i am the path grown over,
... that you'd forgotten!
i am the kiss, the touch of flesh,
the cry of passion in the night.
i am the soul damned to hell,
burned at the stake by the righteous!
i am the hand that touches forbidden places,
that holds yours when you're alone.
i am every mistake you've ever made,
and some you want to make!
i am a lost soul with a glimpse of eternity,
nothing more, nothing less...
i am the poet endureth! i am nothing
but the dust beneath your feet...
i am merely the echo of what makes you human,
i have no name... i am everybody!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Border Town
An old caballero with his worn out sombrero
came riding into town.
The town had been banished. Everyone vanished.
It seems there was no one around.
The buildings were broken. No words were heard spoken.
Everyone now was all gone.
He'd once had a wife here and children with life here.
The banditos had come, killed and rode on.
He'd been away. He'd gone hunting that day
and returned to the grisly sight.
He'd buried his wife and his bambinos three
and rode away into the night.
He lived with the thought that he could have fought
if only he had been there.
The thought had ruined him and it consumed him
It was more than he could bear.
The shot from the gun was heard by no one.
He died right next to their grave.
He'd prayed to his God to forgive him
and that his soul He would save.
.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Mexican Blood
She was a mexican girl, she had mexican blood
I seen it the night that she died
She was a mexican girl, she had mexican blood
Oh how she could drive that mexican boy wild
Hes on the run near el paso
And hell cross all across america
Hes leaving behind old mexico
And his girl that pretty mexican girl that died
She had mexican blood
He was a mexican boy with a mexican smile
And he drank a little tequila
He was a mexican boy in a mexican town
And oh how he loved his young senorita
Now and then hed cross the rio grande
And hed come back a wanted hunted man
And his mexican girl was his mexican prize
And that girl was his girl that pretty mexican girl that died
She had mexican blood
He was a cowboys boy and a cowboys son
And on his side he had a gun
He was a cowboys boy, he was the law
He was out looking for someone
That night he rode into town
The mexican boy tried to gun him down
Thats when his heart broke up inside cause lying on the ground
Was his girl that pretty mexican girl, she died
She had mexican blood
He loved her and she loved him
And when he lost her
Oh how it hurt him
He loved her
I seen it the night she died
Thats when he lost her
Now his heart is broken
He loved her and she loved him
And when he lost her he lost everything
song performed by by Thin Lizzy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Vain Death
ALL the first night she might not weep
But watched till morning came,
And when she slept at dawn, she heard
The dead man call her name.
The second night she watched and wept
And called on death for grace,
And when she slept before the dawn
She saw the dead man’s face.
The third night through she laughed as one
That knows her way to bliss,
And in the instant ere she slept
She felt the dead man’s kiss.
She rose and faced the flickering fire
(And oh, but she was fair!),
Like a wild witch behind her danced
The shadow of her hair.
She took her penknife from its sheath,
The tender blade she kissed,
And by the firelight’s dying leap
She bared her little wrist.
And where the vein ran large and blue
She cut, once and again,
Yet ere she swooned from life, she knew
Her death had been in vain.
For while life thundered in her ears,
Ere yet her pulse might fail,
Far off across the kindless night
She heard the dead man’s wail,
And knew her doom was one with theirs
That kill the life God gave,
And that she might not leave this earth
Her soul alive to save,
But ay must dwell within that house
As in a living grave,
While he for whom she died might ne’er
Win to her in that place,
But must for ever make his moan
Ranging in agony alone
The trackless void of space
poem by Archibald Thomas Strong
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Death, and Life
so many forms of
death so many chapters
ended abruptly without
resolution
the father or mother
you thought you'd never lose
that you didnt spend enough time with
the son lost to a foreign conflict,
draped in a flag
the abortion you opted for
cause you couldnt see
any other way and now,
years later, you have doubts
the teenager who committed suicide,
that you couldnt reach,
somehow couldnt tell them or
show them they were not alone
the young man who overdosed
alone in an empty apartment
the baby left to die
in an alley and the teenage mother
who died there too!
the companion who walked away
after so many years and the
best part of you died there
the old man diagnosed with a cancer
that they cant treat and the death
of waiting to die.
the young family who loses everything,
and the dream of a future dies
as they become numbers lost
to the din of hopelessness
but what is death?
is it an ending?
or a beginning?
time worn brown leaves crumbling,
dissolving into dirt,
waiting through the winter
for a new spring to come
winter doesnt last forever!
spring is already there
in those time browned leaves
open your eyes, open your heart,
life never ends!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Democracy Died
democracy died...
and no one noticed.
freedom flew from the window,
left a shadow on the perch.
they buried equality
in an unmarked grave.
put the faces of unborn children
on milk cartons no one saw.
they sold justice on the block,
and invested in oil...
now the only sounds in the wasteland,
oil rigs pumping, and the cawing of crows!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Three Hours of Darkness
When upon the Cross of Calvary, great darkness fell for all to see,
For three hours upon the land, a darkness many didn’t understand,
That time after Christ was crucified, the time He suffered and died,
A time filled with silence too, when Christ had died for me and you.
Darkness surrounded His death, as He approached His last breath,
Darkness on the land was unfurled, around The Light of The World.
Silence fell on the mocking crowd, whose evil shout was very loud,
As the light scattered the darkness, hearts again, showed hardness.
Upon Christ God placed on Him, the darkened iniquity of man’s sin,
Made to be sin for Adam’s race, upon that cross He took our place,
And God couldn’t look and see, that sin Christ bore for you and me,
So through that dark span of time, God the Father had turned aside.
As Christ was on that bloody stake, the Son, the Father did forsake,
He gave His spirit, at His last breath, to His Father, as He saw death,
The earth quaked, opening graves, and bodies of saints were raised,
And as that Temple Curtain torn, the Age of Grace by God was born.
A soldier with sword and rod, said “surely that was The Son of God.”
The Son of God for all sinners lost, was taken down from the cross,
Thinking of that cross, we must recall, the Lamb of God died for all,
He died upon a bloody stake, so His Resurrection we could partake.
(Copyright ©04/2009)
The Power Of Prayer
The addict trembled, terrified,
Death stared him in the face
And that poor soul was mesmerised,
Transfixed in that one place,
No will to move, not left or right,
With nowhere inbetween,
A dreadful Twilight Zone in sight,
The like he'd never seen...
The addict gulped, held back his tears,
As Death displayed its form,
As Death's wings stretched behind his ears
And he felt cold not warm...
And then Death laughed with utmost glee,
One victim on its mind,
One victim from this life set free
To leave this world behind...
The addict prayed in Jesus name,
For mercy, peace, joy, love
And Death stood back, not quite the same,
As God began to shove...
The man still prayed, his eyes still closed,
Regardless, unaware
That God defended and opposed
In answer to his prayer...
The addict sensed God intervened,
Somehow new life began,
With Death no more the awesome fiend
Because God had a plan...
Thus Jesus saved the man from Death,
From judgment and from Hell...
God's Son... Jesus of Nazareth!
What stories He could tell...
poem by Denis Martindale
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Love was True to Me
LOVE was true to me,
True and tender;
I who ought to be
Love's defender,
Let the cold winds blow
Till they chilled him;
Let the winds and snow
Shroud him—and I know
That I killed him.
Years he cried to me
To be kinder;
I was blind to see
And grew blinder.
Years with soft hands raised
Fondly reaching,
Wept and prayed and praised,
Still beseeching.
When he died I woke,
God! how lonely,
When the gray dawn broke
On one only.
Now beside Love's grave
I am kneeling;
All he sought and gave
I am feeling.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dum Vivimus Vigilemus
TURN out more ale, turn up the light;
I will not go to bed to-night.
Of all the foes that man should dread
The first and worst one is a bed.
Friends I have had both old and young,
And ale we drank and songs we sung:
Enough you know when this is said,
That, one and all,—they died in bed.
In bed they died and I ’ll not go
Where all my friends have perished so.
Go you who glad would buried be,
But not to-night a bed for me.
For me to-night no bed prepare,
But set me out my oaken chair.
And bid no other guests beside
The ghosts that shall around me glide;
In curling smoke-wreaths I shall see
A fair and gentle company.
Though silent all, rare revellers they,
Who leave you not till break of day.
Go you who would not daylight see,
But not to-night a bed for me:
For I ’ve been born and I ’ve been wed—
All of man’s peril comes of bed.
And I ’ll not seek—whate’er befall—
Him who unbidden comes to all.
A grewsome guest, a lean-jawed wight—
God send he do not come to-night!
But if he do, to claim his own,
He shall not find me lying prone;
But blithely, bravely, sitting up,
And raising high the stirrup-cup.
Then if you find a pipe unfilled,
An empty chair, the brown ale spilled;
Well may you know, though naught be said,
That I ’ve been borne away to bed.
poem by Charles Harper Webb
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I Am.... (Falcon)
i am...
the lament of oceans,
grieving lost children.
the latent sound of artillery,
mother and son huddled.
i am women oppressed,
sold into slavery.
i am the crack in the window,
through which freedom stares.
i am black skin white skin
drenched in blood,
i am sweat and toil,
fields swept by heat.
i am the american poet,
who learned his craft in sawmills...
built houses by hand,
and grew his own food.
i am pigs and chickens,
slaughtered in cells.
i am pride in prison,
and self education.
i am the grandfather weeping
over a picture of his grandson.
i am the price of justice,
names spent and forgotten.
i am the lover stalking,
the shadows of night empty.
i am the fire and the cross,
the curse and the cost.
i am mistakes and failures,
i am guts and desire.
i am balls and fury,
gentleness and understanding...
i am the prodigal son,
my mother is the wind.
i am the fighter
who stayed too long...
i am the pilgrim naked,
the owl in the night.
i am jesus and buddha
weeping over hitler's grave.
i am the victims of holocaust,
the victims of everyday choices.
i am the immoral saint,
and the renegade monk.
i am the lie of america,
yet the truth and the hope.
i am the murderer and the murdered,
and the child abused.
i am the promised land,
and the walls of jericho.
i am the reservation,
bad whiskey and poverty.
i am custer sent to
vietnam, iraq, and afghanistan.
i am the tears of crazy horse,
and the death of the earth...
i am sackcloth and ashes,
and the sin of blindness.
i am heat and desire,
i am hunger and want.
i am the heart beating,
defying all odds.
i am the falcon,
the wolf, and the turtle...
i am the kiss
that turns shadows to light!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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