By Unmarked Graves....
i read the labels of soup cans,
the poetry of mechanized food.
while children starve in the back seats,
of cars up on blocks.
and cell phones pray with neon glow,
to the souls of the fathers
buried in unemployment lines.
heartless bastards wave numbing flags,
guarding the border, masks and rifles cocked.
bars on the windows of pregnant schools,
where freedom unravels with sterile yawns.
the fields are quiet, bodies decompose...
crows pick fruit from trees long dead.
microwave Jesus's fill plastic bowls
with fingers severed from forgotten hands.
live or die, most choose death!
young lovers taunt roaches on motel walls.
the wheels of justice groan in the heat,
and darkness erect, prophesies.
the labels of soup cans,
and the brim of old hats!
leaving only tongues left naked
by unmarked graves!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Related quotes
Cell Phone Mania
Cell phones to the right,
Cell phones to the left,
Cell phones, cell phones,
everywhere I look.
Red alert, stop! Listen,
shut up and drive,
shut up and read,
Cell phones, why so many.
Everyone talking,
cell phones in cars,
cell phones in bars,
eating places, cell phones.
There you can't escape
from them, you say
to yourself, the restroom,
no one would dare
use cell phone in there,
oh no, I hear someone,
talking to me, I answer them,
oh, sorry sir, did not know you
were on cell phone.
Oh, so many,
shut up, and walk.
Do away with cell phones,
and it would be like,
the crash of '29'.
People need cell phones,
sometimes their nice,
to have, but so many,
cell phones, might
as well join them
if you can't lick 'em,
join them.
Cell phone, cell phone
now how do I use this
thing, oh cell phone, cell phone,
Hello, Hello, oh that's
you mert.
wrote 1-19-07
By the Fruit You Will Know Them
By the fruit you will know them
Not by the pious labels worn
For actions and words confirm
If a man has been truly reborn.
Labels do not mean anything
When inside content does not match
So never go on with presuming
What you see is true, just watch.
People can carry many labels
Wear masks of odd pretensions
The heart will always show and tell
What's their true spiritual condition.
When the LORD Jesus comes in the end
Each man will be weighed in true Justice
For God knows the ones to whom He will send
Into the punishment of that fiery abyss.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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When We Were Young
When we were young
we thought we were immortal.
We played at recess, and after
school, ran all the way home.
Barefooted, we moved over
rocks and sticks.
The only stop was at the bakery
and since we were children
we got fresh bread for less.
When we were young
there were no cell phones.
We lived in a rural district,
there were no phones at all,
except the ones we made,
out of empty milk cans
and a piece of cord.
When we were young
we made cars
out of sardine tins
and before we played house,
underneath the cellar,
we carried water in pans.
When we were young
nothing scared us,
besides the reflections
on the banana trees,
on the way to the out-house,
on a dim-lit night.
poem by Buxton Shippy
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Fake Dreams!
snowflakes coming,
Christmas, and what it's become.
a mad rush to Walmart,
a fight for the deal....
too many lights, too many adds,
credit cards and borrowed diamonds....
plastic Jesus's 'neath plastic trees!
and all the while the soup kitchen
struggles to keep up....
the shelters already full....
and the homeless walk the streets.
young men dying overseas,
young men and women dying on our streets...
a boy waits in his cell
for a card that wont come....
old people shiver without heat,
the food stamps run out.....
the bankers get their bonuses,
the kids in the project go without.....
and i'm sick of the whole damned thing,
fake America, fake freedom,
fake lights, fake dreams!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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American Slaves
blatent mediocrity, constant uniformity,
tongues pierced with an anvil.
eyes fogged from realization,
minds trained for situations,
paper hearts, electric candles.
cry of desperation, self becomes a nation,
stepping over bodies without heads.
the newscaster plots his story,
selling condoms in purgatory,
fanning the flames o'er the dead.
ghosts in hell, souls without conscience.
take another pill for deliverence.
children buried in unmarked graves.
oil rigs pumping, American slaves.
flag waving, constant craving,
neon lights blink on and off.
sex heals, addictive thrills,
money dressed in naked bills,
drool on the chin, barking cough.
color fears, political cures,
families lost to the raging sea.
morals traded, hard and jaded,
the sick are shunned, the poor are hated,
only the few can afford to be free.
ghosts in hell, souls without conscience.
take another pill for deliverence.
children buried in unmarked graves.
oil rigs pumping, American slaves.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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America Revisited
put down your crack bowls
and your republican flags...
and let's go walking thru
the streets and alleys of America....
let's walk past the empty houses
with foreclosure signs in the yard...
past the vacant factory buildings
where the homeless break in
at night and sleep...
past the lily white churches
and the dead zone schools...
past the county jails and the courthouses
and the rooms where lawyers
buy and sell justice...
past the housing projects
where babies buy groceries...
down to the tent cities where
dreams hang in the air like opium.
down the dark streets where young
girls and boys sell their bodies
for their vampire pimps...
and everyday citizens buy them!
down to the unemployment offices
where angry people stand in
numbered lines...
past renegade gas pumps
guarded by dollar store slaves...
past the words of Jefferson, Franklin,
and Thomas Paine....
to the hypnotic ads of puffy-faced
liars with titles and plans...
down to the cemetary where
the last shreds of freedom
lie in unmarked graves....
and we call this....
America!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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These Are (My Children)
standing in line at the mission,
they're ladeling bowls of steaming soup.
the winter wind whips down
between the buildings like a knife...
pulling tattered coats tight hunching.
and i can hear Shantideva whisper,
his hand on the ladel...
his body the meat of the soup,
his blood the broth...
'these are my children! '....
they walk in long staggered lines,
refugees from the bombing...
hungry scared children clinging,
afarid to lose sight of...
what's left of their families.
nothing behind, and nowhere to go,
not on any side...
and i can hear Jesus whisper,
His life the torch that lights the way,
His body the shelter against the night,
His blood the water, His hands stir the rice...
'these are My children! '....
the addict shivers, strung out and desperate...
the homeless family huddles in the car.
the young prisoner sleepless with the fear,
the old man going hungry feeds his bedridden wife...
the jobless young father begs to pick up trash...
and i know beyond all doubt,
my body, my soul, my spirit...
the wind that hears their cry.
'for these are my children! '...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Beyond The Veil.....
nothing lives here anymore.
they closed that tiny bookstore,
and the bar on the corner is gone.
the sidewalks swept and empty,
windows covered with dust.
would be lovers ride by radios blaring,
cell phones grafted to their ears.
no one makes love anymore,
masturbation detoxification.
crows hanging on the brick walls,
apartment doors bolted and locked.
caught a meth lab in the church basement,
and they've cut down all the trees.
no one jumps from windows,
babies born in sterile rooms.
tongues lie dormant in desire's mouth,
perfume suffocates the senses.
the threat of rain, everybody scatters,
for fear of getting wet!
cept the old blind man walking his dog,
who sees beyond the veil!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Trailer Park Child
trailer park child;
his brothers and sisters,
stray dogs and cats...
his momma a crack pipe,
his daddy an old truck
up on blocks...
eating old cereal
from the box with the rats...
but he can read....
eviction notices, Bible verses,
and the warning labels
on cigarette packs...
the dirty prodigal son,
no name, just 'boy! '
empty gasoline cans...
a dead skunk in the road!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Cross Of Jesus....
I carried the cross of Jesus,
stood inside the Nazi camps.
i fled with many at Hiroshima,
died again and again in the jungles
of napalm Vietnam...
i buried the scattered bones
of Native Americans,
slain by the Bible's swords.
i rotted in a Chinese prison,
where they tortured me with cattle prods.
i marched the famines of Africa,
weeping over the bodies of children.
marching the sands of Iraq,
the mountains of Afghanistan...
but there is more!
the broken down projects,
the trailer park cementaries.
the unemployed lines,
the soup lines,
the picket lines.
i was shot crossing the border,
no one ever knew my name.
i died in your underpaid fields,
buried nameless in your mines...
i lost my soul a thousand times,
on your heroin flesh bartered corners....
i carried the cross of Jesus...
and laid it down on your Senate floor!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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To Search The Night
the lie hidden inside the stone,
buried in the field;
slept waiting for nuclear rain,
and the lamp that portayed the sun...
then with a burst of reptile genius,
grew and blossomed into a city,
heavy with the musk of empty bodies...
and they prayed beneath neon lights,
dancing to synthetic music.
as she devoured her young,
on the day after progress!
while gods wore masks and demons shuddered,
to the sound of wheels biting pavement.
the gravemakers wore plastic gloves,
their eyes red with smoke.
and judges stood in bank lines,
while convicts gave blood.
Jesus stopped, and vomited,
on the highway to Gethsemene!
and crosses wept for meaning,
leaving the dogs to search the night...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Labels are for cans, not people.
quote by Anthony Rapp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Solidarity In Lines
unemployment lines
lines of books
Lines of cocaine
Food stamp lines
Theater lines
Grocery store
car wash
school children
Soup kitchen
club
abortion clinic
Delicatessen
traffic lines
crosswalks
Traffic Jam
Lines on a map
Jules gets home and un-loads his rucksack
Gods laziness
Because of the machines and computers we will all end up lonely human beings
poem by Jerome Moore
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Destiny's Breath!
the face of my god is dark,
her eyes coal more precious than diamonds.
she whispers to fallen petals,
and mountains and rivers speak forth.
her lips call crows and name them eagles,
her hands are filled with bowls.
she names the darkness morning,
and from the light she weaves the night.
she bathes the human spirit,
in the sweat of tribulation.
she nurses the unwanted child,
and places flowers on unmarked graves.
she gives lost lovers candles,
builds bridges for weary pilgrims.
she forges doubt into the journey,
and plants dignity in fields gone fallow.
she walks with poets in intimate silence,
from grieving she harvests prayer.
from prayer she forms bodies,
filled with destiny's breath!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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All The Same!
i am the illegal immigrant,
picking your fruit.
while my children are hungry,
and my wife scrubs your floors.
the young black man in your prison,
the anger of the poor.
i am the books,
you forbid us to read.
i am the Vietnamese family,
whose children speak english.
the young Sioux poet,
whose words sound like tears.
i am the white man's reservation,
and the white man's god....
the sound of the gas pump,
the feet of soldiers marching to death.
i am the grandson of the miner,
who never came out.
the body of the union organizer,
buried beneath rubble.
i am the picket line,
the cold floor of the cell.
i am the old woman who died,
alone in her nursing home bed.
the sound of the church bells,
on midnight's empty streets.
i am the needle and the crack pipe,
the sound of the window breaking.
i am the whistle of the train,
so near and so far.
i am the child adopted,
by two women in love.
i am the mission, the soup line,
and the shelter....
the body in the alley,
and no one cares.
i am the song of America,
i am the wind of freedom.
i am the torch of justice,
the bridge that has no name.
i am the god of many colors,
and all the same!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Praying For Emptiness!
walking barefoot down the streets
of the holy city...
listening to the sounds,
the whimper, the cry, and the roar...
praying for emptiness....
the clock beats in rhythm
with the sidewalks and the walls.
the smell of burnt flesh
hangs in the air....
'Jesus Saves' painted on a fence....
oil rigs and chemical sprays,
fields filled with unmarked graves.
windows broken, doors sway, rusted hinges,
cars abandoned, vacant buildings,
dead bodies, eyes lost stare!
the spirits of the children
sing haunting and low...
words pierce like nails,
the birds hear and weep....
a hand gun, a needle, half pack of smokes....
nobody saves the night from the dawn!
praying for emptiness...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Wonder.
In Flanders Fields red poppies grow.
But long dead warriors lie below.
Their rotted bodies nourishing
The scarlet poppies flourishing..
As if to draw attention to.
The graves of men who never knew.
That they would not see their homes more
But here they lie for evermore.
In Flanders Fields lost heroes lie.
In unmarked graves beneath the sky.
Far from the which gave them birth
They add their substance to the earth.
Which Belgian farmers cultivate.
Selected randomly by fate.
There can be few survivors left
But those of us who choose to go
To Flanders where the poppies grow.
All make the trip to show respect
Numbers dwindling as you'd expect.
There's very few now left to go.
To see the scarlet poppies glow
The numbers grow less day by day.
When they are called they must obey.
Rejoining those who went before.
The men who fell in the Great War.
I wonder will poppies still grow
When there's no one left to go.
Monday,25 June 2012
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Hymn Of The Dead
the talking faces with painted lips,
stand in nobody lines making nobody sounds.
while gunpowder hangs from cobwebbed books,
in which the pages of freedom are unnumbered.
while justice faint as a wisp of smoke,
curls just above the poor man's reach.
houses left empty except for ghosts,
that have neither name nor memory.
righteous indignation with pale white hands,
that tremble as they pour the cup....
ah, but the cup is cracked,
and blood drips to the floor...
in the hallways of indifference.
a newborn son, put a gun in his hand,
castrate his eyes, teach him hatred.
a newborn daughter, put a broom in her hands,
and prepare her for the planting.
you call this America, the shores of liberty,
dark skinned bones ground beneath your feet.
while poverty takes now two from three,
and bodies are buried in the schoolyards.
crack cocaine, pills, and handguns stolen,
while gasoline steals survival.
and churches burn both plates and pews,
as the five o'clock news fills the needle.
whose mountains and valleys,
whose roads, whose fields, whose barns?
black crows on the tractors.
whose brown hands severed by the border guards?
whose factories and mills abandoned?
whose flags draped on coffins of pine?
whose voices haunt the play yards?
whose trucks abandoned on desert highways?
whose America, damn you! whose family?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Impotent Men!
impotent men...
their hands on the reins,
choking on the flesh
of the poor and subjugated.
while birds of prey circle,
bodies strewn on the streets;
another martini, stocks rise and fall!
the pipeline pulses, liquid death,
the eyes of the children
gone to marbles in the dust.
the prophets of profit
tilt their hats and turn away,
leaving the stench of their greed
on unmarked shallow graves.
their god is dead, the world keeps turning,
while the weak and the fallen
kneel in unholy prayer!
impotent men, beating their chests!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Dead In The Wombs
those same children
who died in the waters
that swallowed Atlantis....
those same children,
starving 'neath Africa's sun....
dead from the bombings
in Iraq, Afghanistan, and soon Iran....
their bodies thrown into dumpsters
here in the United States....
dead on the borders,
dead in the oil filled waters,
dead on the cocaine streets,
dead in the prisons...
dead in the colleges,
dead in the unemployment lines....
dead on the picket lines,
dead, handcuffed, and beaten....
dying, and dead, world crazy spinning...
as the 'light of the world'
sputters, and goes out....
dead in the wombs of the
homeless, hopeless, and forgotten...
dead by our hands!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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