Buried...
a half a fifth of brandy
sits quietly on the shelf...
a tired old hat hanging
on a forgotten peg.
the flower garden bare,
the windowpane sighs.
the old rusted spicket,
covered by the spider's web.
empty boxes in the closet,
filled with nothing that remains.
wood stacked against the porch,
even the old dog knows.
letters falling from the mailbox,
the ink wet with rain.
my hand buried by the wellhouse,
my heart buried neath the gravel!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Related quotes
Diamonds In The Mine
The woman in blue, shes asking for revenge,
Man in white -- thats you -- says he has no friends.
The river is swollen up with rusty cans
And the trees are burning in your promised land.
And there are no letters in the mailbox,
And there are no grapes upon the vine,
And there are no chocolates in the boxes anymore,
And there are no diamonds in the mine.
Well, you tell me that your lover has a broken limb,
You say youre kind of restless now and its on account of him.
Well, I saw the man in question, it was just the other night,
He was eating up a lady where the lions and christians fight.
And there are no letters in the mailbox
And there are no grapes upon the vine,
And there are no chocolates in the boxes anymore,
And there are no diamonds in the mine.
(you tell them now)
Ah, there is no comfort in the covens of the witch,
Some very clever doctor went and sterilized the bitch,
And the only man of energy, yes the revolutions pride,
He trained a hundred women just to kill an unborn child.
And there are no letters in the mailbox,
Oh no, there are no, no grapes upon your vine,
And there are, there are no chocolates in your boxes anymore,
And there are no diamonds in your mine,
And there are no letters in the mailbox,
And there are no grapes upon the vine,
And there are no chocolates in your boxes anymore,
And there are no diamonds in your mine.
song performed by by Leonard Cohen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Left After The Storm
love is the scar
left after the storm....
the light in the window
the falling branch broke,
the ashes drowned by rain
after the fire....
my hand on your breast,
the moment without words,
that hangs on the clock
like the hour never struck.
the sweet whiskey of your lips,
pressed tight, then yielding....
the leaves on the porch,
blown like a stranger to the door....
the box of pictures,
buried in the closet, .....
'neath old coats and goodwill
clothes, folded and wrinkled....
your legs wrapped around
a sudden strike of lightning....
the way you smell....
dressed in sleep!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Lost In Eternity!
long shadows cast,
the corner now empty.
the bare branch scrapes
against the window
of the house left vacant.
the desk left cluttered,
as if in waiting.
the candle half burned,
naked without fire.
the woodstove cold as ice.
the gravel drive now virgin,
the mailbox rusted shut.
the yard oozes like an open wound,
in the womb of stillness.
nothing moves, nothing at all!
another world?
maybe it never was!
the rope tied in a noose,
the noose around empty.
the hoot of an owl...
lost in eternity!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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This Old Spicket
this old spicket
always drips...
having stood the test
of time and weather,
heat and cold....
surrounded by weeds,
occasionally covered
by a lone spider's web...
rusted and tarnished.....
just waiting....
for someone to
turn the knob!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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He Already Took The Cat
we live our lives in sudden ashtrays...
always running over, needing to be emptied.
the old man on the corner
who drove that ancient Chevy,
died somewhere between sleep,
and the back door.
it rained for days,
and his cat hid neath the house...
then it too was gone.
they write pretty things in newpapers,
that end up resembling no one.
life goes on, the neighbor
across the street was evicted.
he left boxes of god knows what,
stacked on the porch.
the woman down the street
got her lights cut off...
she sits in the darkness with her dog.
while the man on the tv says it's getting better...
wonder how much they paid him for that lie?
and i sit quietly in my chair,
peeling potatoes and reading,
waiting on a bolt of lightning,
or a knock on the door.
wondering if god's coming back
for that old Chevy...
seems he already took the cat!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am.... (The Story Of God)
i am the barn set ablaze,
the garden covered in dust.
i am the coal mine,
and the miners lost...
the spider's web that
caught their families.
i am the refugee,
no home, no destination.
the convict released,
with nowhere to go.
i am the erection, the file,
and the hammer...
set aside, covered with rust.
i am the mirror, the candle,
and the book of matches...
i am the way stone changes!
i am the prism,
put away in a dark closet.
i am the lover,
whose name you've forgotten.
i am the end
that never ends,
i am the fire
on the tip of your tongue.
i am the smell of your heart,
the whisperings of your feet.
i am the lines beneath your eyes,
that tell the story of god!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Mailbox!
frost on the hawk's wings,
small face against the glass;
or perhaps just a memory,
black coffee and cigarette smoke.
bare limbed trees walk beside me,
down the path to the road....
mailbox hanging open,
only cobwebs in the damp.
the porch light still on,
like a ghostly lighthouse,
calling back things you've forgotten,
that i go through every day!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Silly Song
'O HEART, my heart!' she said, and heard
His mate the blackbird calling,
While through the sheen of the garden green
May rain was softly falling,--
Aye softly, softly falling.
The buttercups across the field
Made sunshine rifts of splendor:
The round snow-bud of the thorn in the wood
Peeped through its leefage tender,
As the rain came softly falling.
'O heart, my heart!' she said and smiled,
'There's not a tree of the valley,
Or a leaf I wis which the rain's soft kiss
Freshens in yonder alley,
Where the drops keep ever falling,--
'There's not a foolish flower i' the grass,
Or bird through the woodland calling,
So glad again of the coming of rain
As I of these tears now falling,--
These happy tears down falling.'
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Empty Paper Cups
i do not wish to be great,
to turn and bow on the final stage.
i have no desire to be the train,
just a common plank on the track.
i do not brandish light for the blind,
i walk among shadows without a noise.
my name could be key, wellhouse, or pump...
my voice the sound of a sparrow hatched.
i taste like old trees,
and rain falling from a rusted gutter.
i've had long conversations with dogs,
walked window ledges with cats.
i know the stories of old tires,
i've hung my hat on rusted nails.
i pray in the moonlight with spiders,
and sing praises to the ants.
i am the lick of the tongue,
the bent finger stroking your eyes.
i come rushing like the wind,
leaving stray leaves and empty paper cups!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Washed Ashore In Ages Past
two weeks later a leg
washed ashore
to be buried at
Charleston cemetery
New Zealand
to be buried as
presumably
the partial remains
of an ancestor
who drowned
needlessly
while attempting
to tow a schooner
through narrow
tidal rocky entrance
heroic rescue
of drowning man
none attempted
doomed to failure
a life lost legend
a drowned memory
leg of lost meaning
half history forgotten
until this brief epitaph
to family I do restore
poem by Terence George Craddock
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My Love For You
you buried something
deep,
in fact deeper than burying
someone
who died nine days ago,
since you want to forget
and forget
this forever, something that
you lost and would want it lost
and not want
to recover
from a distance i look at you
and shed tears for
what you buried
without much pomp of a ceremony
i pity
what cruelty you have to yourself
i bring a flower
for that which was buried and lost
it is something that i always
cherish and
remember with all the gladness of my heart
with all the gentleness of my soul
my love for you
deep in the layers of time
buried
still blooms
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Anger Of Old Men...
who am i then?
is there nothing left?
the splintered leg
of the coffee table,
the doorknob broken,
the place on the edge of the yard
where the dog likes to piss?
do old men's bodies
crumble into the shadows
of all the things they've died for?
how many plates filled?
how many cups poured?
how many fires tended
against the night?
how many hands held?
how many dreams buried
beneath the tree that stands?
how many conversations
with pictures on the walls?
lonliness breathes,
with a stink familiar...
the tv drones like gnats
flung against the bulb...
the world's gone mad,
and everything i thought i knew,
is buried on the hill!
even the name on my shirt has faded,
coffee cups stacked in the sink.
the hands fumbling with buttons,
are both cold, and alone...
and the body on the bed,
is no body at all.
the vine grown into the gutters,
rain water falling on pavement cracked!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sleeping Alone
sleeping alone...
tastes like burnt wood chips,
three days after the fire.
yesterday's cold cup of coffee,
spider webs, and bones.
metal shavings,
and empty boxes.
bullets on the shelf.
the broken edge of the cup,
blood on the tip of the tongue.
dust, and brown leaves,
the first winter freeze.
sleeping alone...
tastes like death!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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That Jesus' Baby
'you know...
they buried that
Jesus' baby,
you know...
the one they found
in the dumpster,
down in the church cemetary
neath an unmarked stone...
the only ones
who came to mourn,
were three crows,
and two mongrel dogs...
the last prayer,
the falling rain! '
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Nowhere Lane
we are...
the ink barely dried
on the page,
the cup chipped
on the windowsill.
wood stacked against
the porch,
the shadows on the
empty swing.
the kiss lost,
and the ring.
red dirt dried
on the shovel,
the old boots left
by the door.
the creaking of the
screen door opening,
the box tied and
packed away.
hunger sap dried
on novel sheets,
the half smoked cigarette
lying in the ashtray.
the sound of the empty room,
in that old house on nowhere lane!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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4. A Merry Christmas
Gone shopping for good brandy butter
My homemade plum puddings in need
I don’t want a tin of rum sauce mix
It just wouldn’t do no indeed
Last night’s Christmas Eve rush was crazy
The shop had none left on the shelf
So I bought half a pound of best butter
To mix up with brandy myself
My mixer took brandy and butter
It churned the lot up to a paste
I drank what was left of the brandy
As I don’t like things going to waste
Everyone had a good dinner
With plenty of wine, port and sherry
But no one got fresh brandy butter
We all fell about slightly merry
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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Buried In The Sand
(lebon, rhodes, cuccurullo)
Cant say that I was surprised
When you broke the ties
They were hanging by a thread
But now I have realized
It couldnt be the same
Cause everything has changed
And still I held out my hand
Tried to pull you back
But you were buried in the sand
Im glad that you came along
But here our journey ends
I say goodbye to you
My very dear friend
You were buried in the sand.
song performed by by Duran Duran
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Chimes
I.
HONEY-FLOWERS to the honey-comb,
And the honey-bee's from home.
A honey-comb and a honey-flower,
And the bee shall have his hour.
A honeyed heart for the honey-comb,
And the humming bee flies home.
A heavy heart in the honey-flower,
And the bee has had his hour.
II.
A honey-cell's in the honeysuckle,
And the honey-bee knows it well.
The honey-comb has a heart of honey,
And the humming bee's so bonny.
A honey-flower's the honeysuckle,
And the bee's in the honey-bell.
The honeysuckle is sucked of honey,
And the bee is heavy and bonny.
III.
Brown shell first for the butterfly,
And a bright wing by and by.
Butterfly, good-bye to your shell,
And, bright wings, speed you well.
Bright lamplight for the butterfly
And a burnt wing by and by.
Butterfly, alas for your shell,
And, bright wings, fare you well.
IV.
Lost love-labour and lullaby,
And lowly let love lie.
Lost love-morrow and love fellow
And love's life lying low.
Lovelorn labour and life laid by,
And lowly let love lie.
Late love-longing and life-sorrow
And love's life lying low.
V.
Beauty's body and benison
With a bosom-flower new-blown.
Bitter beauty and blessing bann'd
With a breast to burn and brand.
Beauty's bower in the dust o'erblown
With a bare white breast of bone.
Barren beauty and bower of sand
With a blast on either hand.
VI.
Buried bars in the breakwater
And bubble of the brimming weir.
Body's blood in the breakwater
And a buried body's bier.
Buried bones in the breakwater
And bubble of the brawling weir.
Bitter tears in the breakwater
And a breaking heart to bear.
VII.
Hollow heaven and the hurricane
And hurry of the heavy rain.
Hurried clouds in the hollow heaven
And a heavy rain hard-driven.
The heavy rain it hurries amain
And heaven and the hurricane.
Hurrying wind o'er the heaven's hollow
And the heavy rain to follow.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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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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Hard Dog Blues
baby, i've been to Babylon,
and downtown Chicago.
i've smelled the stink
of poverty's greed.
i've lain helpless
in your burnt out apartment.
and sold my soul,
to fill the need.
i've seen god,
and walked with the devil.
i've stood naked,
while the building burned.
i've been the storm,
destruction and hunger
in the executioner's line,
just waiting my turn!
so dont give me half empty,
half full, or half lit.
dont kiss me and leave me,
saying you'll never forget.
i buried your father
in an unmarked grave.
wrote you letters in crayon,
and sent them first class.
turned my back on my future,
and laid down my cross.
now it's time for redemption,
and i'm fading fast!
so dont give me half empty,
half full, or half lit.
dont kiss me and leave me,
saying you'll never forget!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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