Broken Glass
broken glass,
autumn chill,
the spoon tarnished...
with time.
an old lid turned up,
half filled, half empty,
wearing a spider's web,
and time earned rust.
a dog barks, a truck
goes by....
an old mattress
on the bed...
a baby's born
in a rundown trailer,
an old woman dies
alone in her chair.
life turns, the hands
of the clock sharp....
cut the fingers
at the touch....
the untamed heart,
on the unknown path,
fallen leaves left
by the door!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Related quotes
Deck Of Cards
a deck of cards
missing the Jack of Hearts....
a revolver on the table,
one chamber empty...
an old family Bible,
the inscription page torn out...
a broken pane in the window
that the sun never hits.
a bottle of whiskey,
half empty, or half full.
an old rug by the chair,
that the dog slept on.
a grandfather clock,
hand stuck at midnight...
an old truck, broken axle....
a deck of cards...
your deal!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Fallen, Empty, And Broken
fallen soldier
fallen sky
fallen angel
from on high
fallen heartache
fallen soul
fallen man
losing control
empty bed
empty arms
empty dreams
empty heart
empty wallet
empty hands
cant take nothin'
from an empty man
broken promises
broken vows
broken spirit
wont allow
broken fences
broken lives
broken tomorrows
broken nights
fallen, empty, and broken
every road is the same
bent, bruised, and shaken
still numb from the pain
now you dont answer
when i call out your name
fallen, empty, and broken
walking in the rain...
fallen, empty, and broken...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Pirouetting Autumn
The tree blushed - a rude blast of air
Betrayed a shapely bough.
My saddened heart aware
That Nature's clock was chiming,
I froze upon the twelfth
Clanging tone, caught alone,
Staring at a creaking door -
Left ajar for dancing, coloured Autumn,
Pirouetting in her leaves,
While agitated summer creatures
Backed away resignedly,
Sighing in protracted breves.
I turned; gave company;
We stood together, watching
Summer slowly blow away.
Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009
A utumn autumn autumn autumn
Autumn autumn autumn autumn
Autumn autumn autumn autumn
Autumn autumn autumn autumn
Autumn autumn autumn autumn
Autumn autumn autumn autumn
Autumn autumn autumn autumn
Autumn autumn autumn autumn
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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At Rest
my garden is silent...
and all the bees have sacrificed
their very beings to the unmarked graves
of flowers fallen.
the squirrels left the trees
like lovers spurned...
and small birds left feathers
in way of epitaph.
in some ways autumn tastes like
the bruise on my lips,
that you left the last time you kissed me,
the one no one can see!
the old car in the drive,
the one that wont crank,
moans in the rust of betrayel.
there are things i couldnt write,
or even speak for a long time.
it's funny how free you feel,
with a noose around your neck!
funny how sharp your eyes become,
on the very edge of darkness.
funny the sound tears make,
the ones we cry inside.
the creaking of the door,
that opens into unknown.
the way the hand feels,
when it throbs for touch.
by the way i saw Jesus today,
with a basket in the store...
standing in line to pay with food stamps,
talking to a bent over old woman.
and Aristotle and Plato,
picking up trash in the parking lot...
perhaps that was Rilke sweeping,
or just a stray dog.
and the young boy walking
down the road and singing....
perhaps that was my heart,
trying to remember your face!
or perhaps it's just me,
listening for the sound of your feet.
my garden is silent....
my soul is at rest!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Scriptures
i read the scriptures written in human faces,
in calloused hands, in bruises and scars.
in the spider's web, in the trail of the snail.
in the pot stained with use,
in the axe and the plow.
in the old woman's silence,
in the broken window.
in worn out boots, and the broken lock.
in the gravel drive,
in the eyes of the hungry....
in the fear of those oppressed by war.
in the dead squirrel's body,
in the nest left empty.
in the prisoner staring
through a window barred.
in the old man's chair,
a dog's turd and a hill of ants.
in the fallen leaf,
in the empty room.
in solitude and stillness,
in the prayer of lonliness.
in trash strewn in the alley,
in the grave unmarked.
in the truth of doubt,
in a puddle of rainwater.
in fresh cut grass,
in the cow fresh milked.
in the lover's touch,
in the dialogue of silence.
in the shovel, the hammer, and the flute.
in the grain of the old tree,
and the woman giving birth...
let us speak of nothing less!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Broken Dreams
I don’t see a long road ahead of me
And my coffee cup, instead of been half full
It’s always half empty
I got no home
I’m on the streets
An in the cold lonely morning
I’m awaken by somebodys cries an screams
All I’ve got left is my broken dreams
My past's erased from my memory
Anyone I knew before
Never cared enough to contact me
I’ve lost my friends
I’ve lost my family
My life’s falling apart
It’s coming loose at the seems
All I’ve got left is my broken dreams
The dreams I used to dream
When I was a kid
Never left my heart
But I never did them, I never lived
So now I cry into my glass
To try an make it full
I’m crying lost rivers an lost streams
All I’ve got left is my broken dreams
poem by Lucy Vernezze
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Born Of A Broken Man
My fears hunt me down
Capturing my memories
The frontier of loss
They try to escape across the street where
Jesus stripped bare
And raped the spirit he was supposed to nurture
In the name of my in the name of my
Born of a broken man
But not a broken man
Born of a broken man
But not a broken man
Like autumn leaves
His sense fell from him
An empty glass of himself
Shattered somewhere within
His thoughts like a hundred moths
Trapped in a lampshade
Somewhere within
Their wings banging and burning
On through endless nights
Forever awake he lies shaking and starving
Praying for someone to turn off the light
Born of a broken man
But not a broken man
Born of a broken man
But not a broken man
song performed by by Rage Against The Machine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Dead Dont Cry
the dead dont cry,
they weep...
for the undone deeds
of the living...
for the work not finished,
the cup left half-empty,
the song that no one heard.
for the deaf ears,
and the blinded eyes.
for the callous heart,
the spirit left in chains.
for the house half finished,
and the home abandoned.
for the love left holding
the purse, and the scar!
for the holy child
born out of wedlock...
for the table left empty,
the chairs that long and pine.
for the touch that failed,
the quivering lip unseen.
for the pot left empty,
and the fire untended.
for the bodies walking
who have no face...
for the latched door,
and the candle unlit...
the dead dont cry,
they weep...
and the sound of their weeping
shakes the earth!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Autumn
Autumn days are here
Autumn Days filled with fear
Woeful shadows of the war
Took away the peace out of the souls
Nothingness is all that we own
The souls are bared of patience
Yet the poverty ebbed the spirits are pale howeling surges
Cradling upon altars covered with white veil
Autumn time used to be always sad
But this time it came in blues
This time the awesome colors of leaves are lost
Ah Alas, , this time autumn came wearing sullen, sorrowful came wearing blacks
poem by Sossi Khachadourian
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Half The World
Words by neil peart, music by geddy lee and alex lifeson
Half the world hates
What half the world does every day
Half the world waits
While half gets on with it anyway
Half the world lives
Half the world makes
Half the world gives
While the other half takes
Half the world is
Half the world was
Half the world thinks
While the other half does
Half the world talks
With half a mind on what they say
Half the world walks
With half a mind to run away
Half the world lies
Half the world learns
Half the world flies
As half the world turns
Half the world cries
Half the world laughs
Half the world tries
To be the other half
Half of us divided like a torn-up photograph half of us are
Trying to reach the other half
Half the world cares
While half the world is wasting the day
Half the world shares
While half the world is stealing away
song performed by by Rush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Half The World
Half the world lives,
Half the world makes,
Half the world gives
While the other half takes.
Half the world hates,
Half the world runs away,
Half the world's late,
Half the world praises the day.
Half the world is,
Half the world was,
Half the world thinks,
Half the world does.
Half the world lies,
Half the world burns,
Half the world cries
While the other half turns.
Half the world cares,
Half the world weeps,
Half the world shares,
Half the world keeps.
Half the world sings,
Half the world laughs,
Half the world brings,
Half the world tries to be the other half.
End.
We Just Come Here And Go - Original By Rabindranath Tagore
We just come here and go
And go with the time's flow!
We only see things
And touch while going
And look back crying!
Only new bleak hopes
Take our life forward!
We can see false hopes
If we look backward!
Broken strength carries endless desires
Both bright and dark
So broken output is obtained from
Do or die work!
We sail our broken boat in the sea with goods!
Our broken language can't express all moods!
Half acquaintance in our hearts!
Our half sentence needs more words!
In shame and fear our faith is half
So we offer only half love!
poem by Asif Andalib
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Walk The Path In Stillness
walking barefoot...
down alleys dark,
while children play
with garbage and broken glass.
past unlocked doors,
through buildings spent,
left for ghosts and tribal memories.
past walls charred by sweat and time,
left to smolder with empty ache....
to the time before the time before,
when living had a name.
under war torn skies,
over bodies strewn,
and left for birds of prey.
down dusty roads,
holding a child's dark hands,
in shadows anguished pain.
the skies aflame,
as if stars died, and every veil is rent.
to the sound of freedom's hungered drums,
and shadowed wings beating fury.
to the barren room,
the mattress on the floor,
frost upon the pane.
where lovers turned upon the spit,
with bodies made of water.
eyes wide open, living thrust,
tongues tracing maps to destiny.
the hardened cock,
buried in soul's wet lips,
while angels silently prayed.
and the candle burned
till the break of dawn,
and moonlight's final kiss...
the barren room of the empty house,
where eternity revealed!
the field once plowed
has now turned brown...
sparrows pick at the dust.
and scriptures written
in hickory rust,
whispers lost to sound!
battles fought, and flags laid down,
cover caskets that wait for dirt.
the little girl's shoe, the old washtub,
the broken pot beneath the window.
while dogs bark, and ants converse,
and hearts are covered with snow.
the faces of god fade into wood,
stacked and thrown into the fire.
be it dream, be it madness,
or the simple turning of the wheel...
the wind turns with a final kiss,
bare feet walk the path in stillness!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Older...
they call it getting older,
i call it rust!
or maybe autumn leaves,
and the promise of snow.
an avalanche in slow motion,
a door that creaks when closed.
a latch on the bedroom window,
ashes that smolder with hope.
a tree fallen across the path,
the old car that turns over,
but wont start.
the plow crusted with dried earth,
the hammer on the shelf.
you and i...
nothing forgotten!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Ancestor
It was a time when they were afraid of him.
My father, a bare man, a gypsy, a horse
with broken knees no one would shoot.
Then again, he was like the orange tree,
and young women plucked from him sweet fruit.
To meet him, you must be in the right place,
even his sons and daughter, we wondered
where was papa now and what was he doing.
He held the mystique of travelers
that pass your backyard and disappear into the trees.
Then, when you follow, you find nothing,
not a stir, not a twig displaced from its bough.
And then he would appear one night.
Half covered in shadows and half in light,
his voice quiet, absorbing our unspoken thoughts.
When his hands lay on the table at breakfast,
they were hands that had not fixed our crumbling home,
hands that had not taken us into them
and the fingers did not gently rub along our lips.
They were hands of a gypsy that filled our home
with love and safety, for a moment;
with all the shambles of boards and empty stomachs,
they filled us because of the love in them.
Beyond the ordinary love, beyond the coordinated life,
beyond the sponging of broken hearts,
came the untimely word, the fallen smile, the quiet tear,
that made us grow up quick and romantic.
Papa gave us something: when we paused from work,
my sister fourteen years old working the cotton fields,
my brother and I running like deer,
we would pause, because we had a papa no one could catch,
who spoke when he spoke and bragged and drank,
he bragged about us: he did not day we were smart,
nor did he say we were strong and were going to be rich someday.
He said we were good. he held us up to the world for it to see,
three children that were good, who understood love in a quiet way,
who owned nothing but calloused hands and true freedom,
and that is how he made us: he offered us to the wind,
to the mountains, to the skies of autumn and spring.
He said, “Here are my children! Care for them!”
And he left again, going somewhere like a child
with a warrior´s heart, nothing could stop him.
My grandmother would look at him for a long time,
and then she would say nothing.
She chose to remain silent, praying each night,
guiding down like a root in the heart of earth,
clutching sunlight and rains to her ancient breast.
And I am the blossom of many nights.
A threefold blossom: my sister is as she is,
my brother is as he is, and I am as I am.
Through sacred ceremony of living, daily living,
arose three distinct hopes, three loves,
out of the long felt nights and days of yesterday.
poem by Jimmy Santiago Baca
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The Simplest Of Things...
there is a rare beauty
in the simplest of things...
the door knob tarnished,
the book with the worn cover.
the hallelujah shout of the snail,
rain water standing in an old tire.
the lampshade covered with dust,
the iron sitting unattended.
the child's toy left on the floor,
the hand that always somehow fits.
the old woman's heavy breathing,
the coffee cup stained half empty.
the cry of young lovers from a distant window.
the dog's low growl at something unseen.
the tattered remnants of the robin's nest,
the broken eggshell clinging to grass.
the old hymn sung by the man working his garden...
the swing of the axe, the stacking of wood.
the spider clinging to the outhouse wall,
potatoes laid out in the cellar for winter.
the grave solitary three days after the funeral.
the cat cradled on the step while it rains.
the laughter of a love long in journey.
the cup of coffee shared with the transient stranger.
the prayer of the child, and the room gone dark....
words spoken from the heart with hands and feet.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Beginning Just Begun!
we walk barefoot the stony path,
in the company of crows.
our eyes wet with the dew,
dreams clinging to our tongues.
and the song of the ancient ones,
from some dark valley within.
we carry the cross of self denial,
on the path to find ourselves!
to the beat down house
that time forgot...
up the steps to an open door.
while spiders race across broken glass,
and rats race across the floor.
we sit across the table,
and light a single candle.
then one by one confess our thoughts,
and undress the pain of being.
then drained, and strangely empty,
warmed with release,
we touch fingers beneath the flame,
and whisper silent prayers.
and rising walk out together,
companions first, then lovers...
we find the world, both new and just born,
as if beginning just begun!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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You Just Havent Earned It Yet, Baby
If youre wondering why
All the love that you long for eludes you
And people are rude and cruel to you
Ill tell you why
Ill tell you why
Ill tell you why
Ill tell you why
You just havent earned it yet, baby
You just havent earned it, son
You just havent earned it yet, baby
You must suffer and cry for a longer time
You just havent earned it yet, baby
And Im telling you now ...
If youre wondering why
When all I wanted from life was to be famous
I have tried for so long, its all gone wrong
Ill tell you why
Ill tell you why
Ill tell you why
Ill tell you why
But you wouldnt believe me
You just havent earned it yet, baby
You just havent earned it, son
You just havent earned it yet, baby
You must suffer and cry for a longer time
You just havent earned it yet, baby
And Im telling you now ...
Ill tell you why
Ill tell you why
Today I am remembering the time
When they pulled me back
And held me down
And looked me in the eyes and said
You just havent earned it yet, baby
You just havent earned it, my son
You just havent earned it yet, baby
You must stay on your own for slightly longer
You just havent earned it yet baby
And Im telling you now ...
You just havent earned it yet, baby
Oh ...
You just havent earned it yet, baby
Oh ...
Oh
song performed by by Smiths
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Love Rocky Road
I hear those ice cream bells and I start to drool
Keep a couple quarts in my locker at school
Yah, but chocolates gettin old
Vanilla just leaves me cold
Theres just one flavor good enough for me, yah me
Dont gimme no crummy taste spoon
I know what I need
Baby, I love rocky road
So werent you gonna buy half a gallon, baby
I love rocky road
So have another triple scoop with me, ow
They tell me ice cream junkies are all the same
All the soda jerkers know my name
When their supple is gone
Then Ill be movin on
But Ill be back on monday afternoon, youll see
Another truck loads comin in for me, all for me
Im singin
I love rocky road
So werent you gonna buy half a gallon, baby
I love rocky road
So have another triple scoop with me, ow
(oh, make it talk)
When Im all alone, I just grab myself a cone
And if I get fat and loose my teeth thats fine with me
Just lock me in the freezer and throw away the key
Sing it
I love rocky road
So werent you gonna buy half a gallon, baby
I love rocky road
So have another triple scoop with me
I love rocky road
So werent you gonna buy half a gallon, baby
I love rocky road
So have another triple scoop with
*i love rocky road
*so werent you gonna buy half a gallon, baby
*i love rocky road
*so have another triple scoop with
*i love rocky road
*so werent you gonna buy half a gallon, baby
*i love rocky road
*so have another triple scoop with me
song performed by by Weird Al Yankovic
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Passion, The Fire!
where lies the passion,
and where lies the fire?
i walk the path of your body
from a distant shore!
the trembling scent
of an old book long unopened,
my hands covered with ashe
as i stir the embers.
a gust of wind?
a broken glass...
the key turns in the lock
with protesting moan.
wax figures half melted,
a locket in the ashtray.
morning whimpers and comes,
as if it never left!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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