Bhakti Path (Memory Of God)
if you think the wind
comes from nowhere
with no reason...
you are a fool!
your scriptures
are the ashes
of a fire long dead!
the bodies of those
you have killed
by your choices...
a sacrifice to your god!
you cannot deny
the blood on your hands,
the soot on your faces...
cannot muffle the cry
of babies unwanted!
holiness, pus,
semen, and sweat...
the hands on the shovel
that digs the shallow graves!
the wind prophesies,
with the memory of God!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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All God's Hands!
how many Jesus' babies
have to die before
we wake up to the fact
that all life is sacred?
how many dead bodies
wearing God's face?
how many hands holding the gun,
how many hands on the shovel...
all God's hands!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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For Liberation
(into) the birth of carnage will you
but watch when innocent life is born
and destined to an unjustified wretched existence?
i refuse to deny their path or ignore their suffering
i fight for liberation.
ashes on ashes we build their fate with bloodshed upon our hands.
cries - oh we whisper of their death in blood,
of their misery to flesh a vicious price
driven to nightmare while we could sleep
i refuse to deny their pain or ignore their suffering
i fight for liberation
ashes on ashes we build their fate with bloodshed upon our hands.
ashes on ashes tread our path to degradation
their blood upon your hands prized with gifts of dominaton.
their blood upon your hands our fall towards defilement
song performed by by Undying
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Liturgy....
liturgy....
black coffee,
old hands opening boxes.
sweeping the floor
of the soul.
words shaped like photographs
made of wind and tears.
simple things...
simple doings!
the same shovel
digs the grave,
digs in the garden.
barefoot,
and half naked,
no need for words,
no fears to console.
live without regrets,
leave it all on the table.
do the work, and move on.
dont be the hollow religious image,
a body that has no love,
a love that has no body.
dont be so quick to wash your hands,
the dirt neath your nails
is your heritage!
liturgy...
black coffee,
and touching,
the shovel, and the axe!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Scar Tissue, And Rust!
scar tissue, and rust...
dust long standing
in the corner by the bed.
fingerprints on the pane
of the window unopened.
soot on the hands
that tended the last fire.
the lone bullet in the chamber,
the tongue swollen, and parched.
scriptures written on
the bandages of the wounded
and dying....
will the preacher say a few words
as the people bow their heads?
the skies promise rain,
and the last wind is still!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Blood Becomes!
black and white,
brown and yellow,
hands disappearing
into hands...
we leaves the sites
of graves untended,
walking towards life,
with both grief and joy!
the smoke still lingers,
and the smell of wet ashes.
but we are more,
we choose to be more!
faces long lost
gather purpose, and names,
as blood becomes,
our peace and our striving!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Faces On Hands, Hands On Heart # 3
unclaimed liberty, demanded by dignity,
human flesh not for sale!
well disguised invasions, profitable occasions,
come home dead or go to jail.
pipeline destruction, money based selection,
madly racing to the end....
keep them stoned, throw them a bone,
but change is coming in the wind!
faces on hands, hands on heart.
a small fire strong against the dark.
all God's children doing their part...
faces on hands, hands on heart!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Fiery Lover
I watch a candle burns
Its fire was quietly molded
And the wind was the artist.
The fire forms into a rose
I touch the candle’s fire
I felt the fire pushes me away
Contrary from what it shows
Its looks deceives me, totally
The wind blew the candle
The fire struggle to stay
The wind pushes it away
Its beauty vanishes instantly
If only it was not hot
It would be in my hands
I would have mold
A beauty impossible to hold
It had trusted the wind
Only wind was able to touch
I was forbidden to hold
All I can do is to watch
If only it had trusted me
It would be a different story
I had offered my hands
Though I know it’ll be burned
My hand’s not soft as a wind
It’s not as tender at it seems
But at least my hands
Are connected to a heart
poem by John Anthony Maligro
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A Shared Fire!
evolving...
through inter-action,
interbeing, involvement.
dead people dont walk,
dont fill the bowls,
dont wipe away tears.
an island at the mercy
of a raging ocean...
but wind and mountain co-exist!
only the rhythm
of the soul walking beside,
validates the journey.
ashes, ashes, new plowed earth,
two sets of hands on the plow!
we fill each other's bodies
with a shared and dependent fire!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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In The Wind....
darkness and light,
thunder and growl.
souls on the altar,
wings on the ground.
death and desire,
naked and hungry.
prayers spoken by eyes,
tears shed by hands.
Abraxas, broken windows,
both sun and the night.
murder and compassion,
theft and sacrifice.
clocks stopped by fire,
graves opened left bare.
snowfall in august,
bare trees mourn in wait.
and the voices, still the voices,
faces wearing names.
hands desperate grasping,
footprints left in the wind!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Gods Of War!
you have made your gods
in your own image.
and so you follow war
to the brink of your own
extinction!
yet the mouths of the souls
that you starve and slaughter,
speak the names of the god
that you've forgotten!
she answers with faces,
faces you choose not to see!
you dig the graves of your children,
to feed the beast within!
you arm yourselves with moral justice,
dress the lie in prideful prejudice.
but the howl in the night
is not the wind!
it is the cry of the blood
on your hands!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Ashes, Dirt, and Wicker
dead bird lying
in a wicker cage.
hands on the old clock...
...... stopped!
train tracks that tremor,
and nothing comes.
you cant build a fire
in ashes....
look back. the fields
behind you are brown,
and barren...
the memory of rows
gone back to dirt...
just dirt!
the stranger at the door
never speaks, never asks,
never waits for you
to gather yourself...
words lose their form
and fall like raindrops
that disappear into thirst...
thirst, that creates anew,
and never remembers falling!
ashes to ashes... remember,
you cant build a fire
in ashes...
dead bird lying
in a wicker cage...
hands on the old clock...
....... stopped!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I'll Be Around
i'll be around...
in the wind that rustles your curtains,
in the whisper of darkness that taunts the moonlight.
in the silence that roars, and is then still...
in the prayers that children do not understand,
in the dying old man's aloneness.
in the blood that testifies against the hands,
in the hands that cannot escape the heart.
in the feet walking by their own will,
in the soul scarred by mistakes.
in the hungry mouth and the desperate eyes
that have seen and known too much.
in the fear that comes in the middle of the night,
and the dawn that never seems to come.
in the need to worship and the faith to act,
in the doubt that destroys false idols.
in the pound of the guns, the cries for help,
and the fire that has no favorites.
in the defiant stand, feet set firm,
the mark of the chains on backs and wrists.
in the freedom that does not buy and sell,
that sees beneath the skin.
in the constant dialogue of 'i and thou',
in the me that disperses and dissolves.
in the hammer, the saw, and the shovel,
in the grasses beneath bare feet.
in the song of the whipporwill,
and the final hoot of the owl.
in the howling of wolves,
and the sleepy stillness of the cattle.
in the hidden depths of your heart,
and the quiet darkness that forms your thoughts.
in the grain of the tree just cut,
and the rhythm of the fire going dead.
in every voice that cries for justice,
in every hand that reaches for help!
in the working hum of common thread,
in the simple dignity of the family.
in the ghosts of soldiers lost in battle,
in the weeping of mothers over their graves.
and in the constant courage of the peacemakers,
the voice of reason and compassion.
in the truth that all men are equal...
in the bridge from here to there!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Stain
they bury the bodies
in shallow graves....
never forgetting the faces
of hunger and need.
great planes flying overhead,
covered trucks on dusty roads.
soldiers with guns, blank stares,
cold as the oil in their veins....
the reporter speaks, eyes half lowered...
you turn off the tv,
and go to wash your hands...
but you cant wash away the stain!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Reincarnation
Somewhere
I think of you
Somewhere
I remember you
You are with me like the wind
From a faraway land and I know it is you
The way you kiss me still makes me quiver
Wind-lips touching my cheeks my neck
Wind hands caressing my arms my hands my chest
Wind-body hushing pressing against my body today
There is a sense of longing about two
Past bodies,
Two past warm bodies pressing to
Past warmth and past time somewhere
Only that it is too hard to remember the details
Of that past love, past the season, only that it is hard
To remember why that love died untimely
Now we are here, I am in this present body of a writer
For some reason you read me in your present body of a reader
You are telling me that something in my poem catches
The eye of your soul and you begin to remember
This is him, this is him, he was there with me before
Your way of telling me without seeing me is a feeling too
We were there before we were together we just can’t remember the details.
Today you are the thought that touches me like the wind-mind
So gently, a thought comes to my brain, a feminine thought claiming
A right that was there before, and which today vehemently denies.
The present seals it with birth.
Locked.
Another death is needed to open it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Major Congenital Anomalies (’Tis better to be dead but...)
A babe that’s born with brain anomalies;
With some inborn metabolic errors;
With chromosomal abnormalities;
’Tis better to be dead but...
Some babies with thoracopagus;
Some with spinal cord abnormalities;
Those with true hermaphroditism;
’Tis better to be dead but...
Some babies born of mothers infected;
Babies with teratogenicity;
Babies with just seal-like limbs:
’Tis better to be dead but...
Abortion is the treatment of choice then;
Yet, when babies are born accidentally,
Life on earth can be miserable to all;
’Tis better to be dead but...
And still such babies continue to be born
To faulty diagnoses antenatal;
Litigation may award money;
’Tis better to be dead but...
Yet, parents kill their healthy babes in womb;
Can abortion be ev’r justified then?
Such unborn have been killed without reason!
’Tis better to be live but...
Copyright by Dr John Celes 17-09-11
poem by John Celes
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I Dreamed.... (Hands)
i dreamed last night...
and all i could see were hands.
sometimes hard and calloused,
sometimes soft and feminine.
skilled hands, laborer's hands,
loving hands, nurturing hands....
fingers digging in the dirt,
fingers holding a pen.
fingers playing a piano,
fingers unbuttoning blouses.
hands extended, hands gripping the rope,
hands holding the shovel,
hands covered with resin.
hands folded in prayer,
hands balled into fists.
hands stuffed in empty pockets.
hands that define both history,
and destiny!
hands scarred and bruised,
hands covered with age spots.
hands that speak many languages.
hands that know mistakes, and failures.
hands that built fires,
hands that put fires out!
hands that wiped away tears,
that picked up trash,
and revealed souls....
whose hands?
my hands, your hands?
god's hands?
does it really matter?
hands engaged and involved,
in the very act of living!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Wind of Social Networking
They can't hide the skeletons kept in their cupboard any longer.
They cannot cut short their tongue of growing hunger.
The raging storm is pushing hard their closed doors.
You and I are growing stronger than ever before.
Swelling darkness behind the curtain was covered for long.
In this wind our voice catches wild fire to say it wrong.
Feared faces are looking for ways to stop the wind
Their hands are reaching your throats, be aware friend!
poem by Kingshuk Chakraborty
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Faces On Hands, Hands On Heart
news blackout, streets packed out,
politicians inside trade deals....
feed the poor, Communist whores,
dont know how despair feels!
Jefferson raise a cup, Crazy Horse rises up,
freedom's a blood filled rainbow...
homeless jobless, insulated snobness,
fighting for today and tomorrow.
faces on hands, hands on heart,
a small fire strong against the dark.
all God's children doing their part....
faces on hands, hands on heart!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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No Wind No Fire
I like you. But you don’t like me.
I love you. You don’t you puke
The way I smell and touch you
You shiver you have goose skin
All around you I fear it somehow
That I may lose you forever
But I know what to do
When you are the wind I become like the wind too
When you become fire I become fire too
When you turn left I do the same
I mirror you I do what your hands do
I become invisible so unlike myself
The one that loves you
One day, I hope, you will love me.
You can’t, one day I am gone.
I am happy. You are happier.
I am gone. You’re sad. There is
No mirror now.
No wind. No fire.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Graves
I dreamed one man stood against a thousand,
One man damned as a wrongheaded fool.
One year and another he walked the streets,
And a thousand shrugs and hoots
Met him in the shoulders and mouths he passed.
He died alone.
And only the undertaker came to his funeral.
Flowers grow over his grave anod in the wind,
And over the graves of the thousand, too,
The flowers grow anod in the wind.
Flowers and the wind,
Flowers anod over the graves of the dead,
Petals of red, leaves of yellow, streaks of white,
Masses of purple sagging…
I love you and your great way of forgetting.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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