Epilogue (Part Three)
shivering nails,
black and white coffins whisper.
bodies without heads,
strewn in the sand.
the taste of gunpowder
on my lips.
i bow, but cannot pray!
the sound of the oil rigs,
the coarse rhythm of greed.
take and destroy, take and fulfill!
the cry of sea life,
the gurgling choke,
soon to be the children
of flaccid men.
buildings like bodies,
stripped empty and bare.
the memories smell
of life that once was.
empty, and pulsing,
with the want of need,
no one hears the ghosts within.
hunger and homelessness,
heroin and Jesus.
the shelves are bare,
the mother's eyes are bleeding.
the nameless and unwanted,
cast aside in the storm,
while ghouls walk amid
the rubble of the lie.
sing for me, pray for me,
take my hand, take my hand...
even when i close my eyes,
i still hear, still feel,
the faces of the wind!
and god, if there be,
in each and every tear!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Fogging Up The Windows
the sound of a small child crying
hungry in the night
of a young woman sleepless
waiting for daylight
the sound of church bells ringing
not too far away
the sound of an old man dying
remembering how to pray
the sound of two hearts breaking
a thousand miles apart
of the last tear a fallin'
unseen in the dark
the sound of lifetimes wasted
of a love that didnt last
the sound of memories forgotten
of a time already past
can you hear?
can you hear?
a lone tree a fallin'
a hoot owl callin'
life and death, a lover's breath
fogging up the windows
of an empty room...
fogging up the windows
of an empty room...
the sound of the nails driven
into His screaming hands
the sound of salvation
entrusted to a man
the sound of bodies falling
of buildings swept by flame
the sound of different voices
whose souls are the same
can you hear?
can you hear?
a lone tree a fallin'
a hoot owl callin'
life and death, a lover's breath
fogging up the windows
of an empty room...
fogging up the windows
of an empty room....
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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A Land Gone Black
the sound of gunfire
rapes the virgin night...
another innocent goes down....
the soldiers of petroleum
buy a whore, a dime, a quarter.
dine on the flesh of children;
pray to the neon god.
waving the flags of mouths
that only speak with teeth.
nothing holy that cant be bought....
step on bodies without faces,
piss on the graves of babies....
winner take all, all is nothing!
and the wind of the beast
knocks at the blackened windows....
in the empty houses of the poor,
the worthless, the forgotten.
the sound of gunfire rips the stillness....
the gods of anger and self
fornicate in the stench,
keeping time to the rhythm
of oil rigs in a land gone black!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Other Way Around?
you smell like war,
like gunpowder,
flesh searing screams.
i smell like grieving,
like ashes, and
dirt on the shovel.
you sound like hunger,
and homelessness,
and vomit stained lips.
i sound like the soup
that simmers, like the
blanket wrapped...
you taste like bitterness,
the lonliness of alone.
i taste like the hand that fits,
the shadow of the body near...
or am i wrong?
could it be the other way around?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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House for Sale
I stood in the midst of the empty house,
It was silent, empty, and bare,
gone was the laughter the tears and the life,
and the family that once lived there.
I stood there observing, to try to revive
the memories this house had to share,
the secrets, excitement, unhappiness too,
these feelings so willing to bear.
I heard children playing and lapping up life,
I heard adults talking and scolding,
This house bore it all with its solid repose,
and accepted with wisdom beholding.
I stood in the midst of the empty house,
with a feeling of sadness around,
abandoned and empty, a lonely shell,
for the place never uttered a sound,
it was silent and bare, where the rooms had been stripped
and the furniture taken away,
the paint had been scratched and the floor left unwashed
when the house was abandoned that day.
The ghosts from its past walk through each lonely room,
and I sigh as I button my coat,
I slam the front door with an echoing bang
and a lump seems to lodge in my throat-
for there on the green lawn for all eyes to see
with dark letters outstanding on pale
is a board standing taut in the cold winter sun
with the large, lonely wording- "For Sale"
poem by Margaret Hanning
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Empty
How could it be that you know me
My deepest fears my fantasies
Confide in you what no one knows
But it feels so real
[CHORUS:]
(when I close my eyes)
I can see your face
(when I lick my lips)
I can taste your smile
(when I see your name)
My heart starts to race
(if I can't read your thoughts)
Then I feel empty
(when I close my eyes)
I feel empty
(when I close my eyes)
I feel empty
(when I close my eyes)
Whoa I feel empty
(when I close my eyes)
Is this a new way to love
Never face to face is it enough?
Does it really count or am I a fool?
So tell me please
song performed by by Janet Jackson from The Velvet Rope
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gunpowder
I asked my mother why do you cry
She said your brother had... he just died
Well I told him not to go outside
He said he had to fight for his countrys right
But dont you know that mo-mother
Dont you know that we cant stop the violence, no
Because the war is not over
Until you can feel love, peace, and hear silence
But I smell gunpowder (pow)
My brothers been dead ever since
I didnt beleive it, but when I saw him I was convinced
Two shots to the head he was already dead lord,
I headed for revenge in the city of port au prince
Screaming bro-brother
Dont you know that we cant stop the violence, no
Because the war is not over
Until you can feel love, peace, and hear silence
But I smell gunpowder (pow)
Zions gunpowder (pow)
L.a.s gunpowder (pow)
I wanna know why
Christians pray for a new day
We dont need no, we dont need no, we dont need no
But its still the same way
I wanna know why
Ghetto people pray for a new day
Hey, hey, heeey
And its still the same way
But the preacher man told me
Good things come to those who wait
Do good things come to those who wait?
I wanna know tell me
Good things come to those who wait
Do good things come to those who wait?
We wanna know, we wanna know, we wanna know [pause]
Pe-people
Dont you know that we cant stop the violence, no
Because the war is not over
Until you can feel love, peace, and hear the silence
But I smell gunpowder (gunpowder)
Brooklyns gunpowder (gunpowder)
Shaolins gunpowder (gunpowder)
Uptowns gunpowder (gunpowder)
Jerseys gunpowder (gunpowder)
Even new zealands gunpowder (gunpowder)
Australias gunpowder (gunpowder)
Brixtons gunpowder (gunpowder)
Even new havens gunpowder
song performed by by Wyclef Jean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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The Day After Greed
walking the greying streets,
between the broken down
and vacant buildings....
through the alleyways..
concrete graveyards...
the hint of smoke hangs
in the air.... the stain of soot,
the taste of death... lingers....
i closed my eyes and saw
the bodies... strewn in the street
like trash blown against a fence...
eyes wild, faces contorted, ...
death, and it's brothers and sisters...
storefronts dark and ominous,
gas pumps stand alone like angry
sores, oozing into the emptiness.
great black birds fly, casting shadows
that search for tiny particles of light....
stray dogs roam in packs,
hungry for flesh!
only the sound of the great
oil rigs pumping in the distance....
an old tattered flag blown
by a cold infidel wind!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Cup Of Water!
watching falling stars....
or the look your eyes
dont lingering give...
the tone of your voice
haunts graveyards before children,
silences the final clock!
and we walk not alone amid ghosts
and disembodied bodies....
all reaching out with bleeding lips....
no murmur, no cries, silent soldiers
bearing the burnt cross of life....
searching for freedom, and
a cup of water!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Muddy Footprints
blue lights in the parking lot,
faceless cars speed by
on rain swept streets....
ghosts march in pedantic rhythm,
in the land of 'no touch, no feel'....
the gas pumps beeping,
always beeping.... shadows
feed shadows... a stray dog
dead on the side of the road....
'can you spare a coupla dollars? '....
heads turn, and walk away....
a young couple walking the tracks....
going nowhere, hand in hand.
you can smell the vacant buildings,
can hear the glass break
on the boarded up windows.....
has anyone a hand, an eye to eye,
muddy footprints where
life should have been!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Bowl and The Spoon
i hear the sound of humanity's voices,
the sound of suffering and need.
i smell the fear, and i feel the anger,
of those left alone, the victims of greed.
i feel the hate of the guns and the bombing,
the terror of women and children.
i cry the tears and shed blood with them,
i hear the prayers of the dead for the living.
i feel the hunger of children left starving,
i am the anger of the unemployed in line.
i breathe the despair of those left homeless,
i am the hope of those looking for a sign.
i am the body that somehow god needed,
i am the ears the lonely pray for.
i am the eyes that see through the heart,
the prisoner walking through the last door.
i hear the sound of the baby crying,
i feel the mother walking across the room.
i am the father praying for work,
i am the bowl and i am the spoon.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Waiting, Still Waiting
i have been to the place where dignity calls,
heard the sounds of families running for cover.
felt the pounding of guns, smelled the stench of bodies,
watched men who hated theirselves in another.
saw ghouls counting money stained by blood,
saw priests counting bodies buried in mud.
felt the sting of the lie, the cold inside empty.
heard the groan of towns and burning cities.
both broke outside and broken inside.
where good men pray for the courage to die....
still the shout and the fury of freedom shakes...
tis the hand that gives and the hand that takes.
we are no more than the doubt and the ache...
waiting, still waiting, for the storm to break!
now who will lead and who will follow,
the path of yesterday dont lead to tomorrow.
the end of the world, the beginning of time.
while the sheep are lost and the goats are blind.
now the voices of children unborn crying,
for the mother slain and the father dying.
the howl of abandonment tears the sky,
the stink of poverty perfumed by the lie.
now the gods of men turn in disgust,
while the souls of men crumble to dust....
still the shout and the fury of freedom shakes....
tis the hand that gives and the hand that takes.
we are no more than the doubt and the ache...
waiting, still waiting, for the storm to break!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Since You Took Her Away
Sitting in the church,
where we used to pray to God.
I look around at the empty pews
and wonder where you are.
Are you in the cradle of the Lord?
After leaving suddenly yesterday,
when he took you to his bosom,
didn’t he realise what he did to me?
The heartache that I’ve felt
since you went away.
Our home is so empty without you there.
Every room seems vacant and bare.
Oh, Lord please help me,
bare up to her loss.
I need your steadying hand
to guide me on my way.
I don’t know what I’m going to do.
Since you took her away yesterday.
poem by David Harris
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Cry In The Night...
one last drink,
and a cobblestone prayer,
a hat creased by dreams,
boots made of flesh.
nickels and dimes,
revolution and light.
while shadows dance,
amid cobwebbed desires..
and the sparrow's lament,
mourns over buildings lost.
over lives soon forgotten,
over hunger and loss.
while the faces of children,
burned into the grain.
to the words of a god,
forgotten by name!
now liberty's nails,
rust beneath the load.
bodies piled on bodies,
under circling crows.
and justice lies beaten,
stripped in the alley.
while confusion reigns,
and indifference shouts!
who am I? ... you ask,
with threatening pose.
while the stink of your fear
burns books in the night...
i am the voice of your heart,
the dignity of your soul.
i am the cry in the darkness,
that bears your name!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Can Feel..... (The Change Coming)
i can feel the change coming,
the dark swell of the clouds.
the rumble that shakes the streets,
i can smell buildings on fire.
can hear the planes,
the sound the bombs make falling,
the pulsing hate of the oil rigs,
the shuffle of money behind closed doors.
the wail of prayers in desperate churches,
the street dealer selling a loaf of bread.
the metallic sound of shovels digging graves,
the ignorant drone of great leaders.
the sound of boots on pavement,
breath shuddering through broken windows.
the silent stare of the angry and hungry,
the thunderous clenching of fists.
the haunted sound of chains and cell doors,
and riot squad bullhorns.
the tongues of truth cut from bodies,
the last cigarette lit.
the pounding hearts of the common,
black and white joined.
coming in waves, determined as one.
and the cries of the children...
always the cries...
held in the hearts as a beacon,
the reason to live and die!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Listening
listening... for the sound
your hand makes when it touches mine...
for the words your eyes whisper
when you laugh...
for the song your heart sings,
and the prayer your sleeping body
becomes, pressed against mine.
for the sound of the cicadas
chanting in drunken rhythm...
for the boiling of beans
in my grandmother's kitchen.
for the crush of the bat
driving the ball deep into the gap.
for the gurgle of creekwater
running o'er a melon wedged tight.
for the sharp crack of the gun
and the bullets whistling overhead.
for the cry of the hungry baby
and the slap against his mother's face.
for the clank of the leg irons
across a cold concrete floor.
and the wail of the widow.
for the song of the workers
bent neath the sun in the field.
for the speech of the visionary
who already smells like death.
for the pounding of the oil rigs
raping the earth without feeling.
for the lies of the politician
stealing the souls of the people.
for the sound of hate's fists
pounding the gay boy to death.
for the scream of raging empty
when they bring a mother's boy home.
for the sound of the door,
closing for the last time.
for the memory of an old hymn,
calling from beyond the river.
listening... for the moan of lovers,
bodies slapping in the night.
for the wild beating of a heart
dissolving nameless into mine...
for the echo of something more
than a drink and a feeling...
that needs to breathe, to run, to fly,
and to dance
listening
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Empty Old Houses
Empty Old Houses
Empty old houses can talk…
But one must know how to listen…
to hear them
Empty old houses have stories…
But one must be eager to listen…
to hear them
Empty old houses can suffer..
But one must have empathy …
To feel it
Empty old houses can feel pain
But one must be able to bear it …
To feel it
Empty old houses have memories
But one must believe … that they have…
To share them
Empty old houses contain people’s lives
But one must believe…that they do…
To share them
Empty old houses can seem dead and deserted
But one must know that they’re not..
To know them
Empty old houses can teem with life’s pleasures
But one must walk through
to sense the aura of life
Empty old houses abound in life’s treasures
But one cannot help but…
To admire them
poem by David Whalen
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Life Goes On!
behind the well lit window,
the coffee pot churns.
doors open and close,
and hair is combed.
in silent hurry,
the day laid out,
life goes on, life goes on.
things left unsaid,
perhaps a note.
the brush in passing
through the tangled hallway.
the tv news, grey anvil tongue.
eyes squinted, life goes on.
while on a vacant corner,
in an empty house
neath a burned out bulb,
nothing gathers in shadows...
prayers fall on deaf ears.
an empty bed, and the shelves are bare,
nothing rhymes nothing,
life goes on!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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We... (Stoned By The Struggle)
we, who are stoned by the struggle,
whose faces bear the marks of living.
whose hands tremble a little
as we unbutton the shirt...
whose eyes dim still see.
whose bodies smell like bodies,
whose feet need to be washed.
whose hearts whisper in the empty night,
whose souls restless roam the earth.
whose dreams have become the small things,
whose breath smells of brandy and smoke.
whose doors are unlocked,
whose beds are offered...
we, who are drunk with living!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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