Follow (Bhakti Flute)
i follow...
the sound of the flute,
the footpath of the sparrow,
walking on air
to infinity's arms.
the rustle of the skirt,
bare feet on the floor.
the hum of the pot,
simmering on the stove.
the cry of the spider's web,
falling ever so slowly...
from its home in the corner,
safe from the broom.
the lick of the dog's tongue,
both raw and gentle.
the snail trail of the bead
of sweat on your neck.
the pole shift of your hair,
from brown to grey.
the quake of your lips,
pulling me in.
the wetness of darkness,
sucked down the drain...
into emptiness that swallows,
breaking down the last note!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Whatever The Cost!
into the wetness, ,
lips burnt and bare..
hard hands gone soft,
thoughts falling like drizzle.
gentle, almost tugging,
pulled close to the fire.
till singed, still smoking,
left in the darkness to die.
a thousand deaths though it be,
with each a universe conceived.
the walls of Rome crumble,
to the shouts and the horns.
a crucifix, and a blade,
sharp on both edges.
the taste of blood and beginning,
raw, simple, and strong...
into the wetness,
whatever the cost!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lick My Lips
lick my lips im fading
lick my lips im fading
lick my lips im fading slowly fading into you
and keep on stop your waiting
keep on stop your waiting
dont you keep on waiting cause im walking away from you
well, we could all change
but i know that you will never change
you shut up the night and when the light hits
you talk to me
i was never so amazed
it was such a mutual craze
between you and me and me and you
lick my lips im fading
lick my lips im fading
lick my lips im fading slowly fading into you
and keep on stop your waiting keep on stop your waiting
dont you keep on waiting cause im walking away from you
you could never walk away from me
dance around but never be
you know you are the one who knows that
laugh out loud so here it goes
i was never so amazed
it was such a mutual craze between you and me and me and you
lick my lips im fading
lick my lips im fading
lick my lips im fading slowly fading into you
and keep on stop your waiting
keep on stop your waiting dont you keep on waiting cause im walking away from you
song performed by by Howie Day
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gasping For Light
1
i built a fire in the yard.
slowly walked back into the house.
gathering everything of value.
my books, my clothes, my boots,
old photographs, letters, pictures,
everything i've ever written.
every memory.
took them outside,
and fed them to the fire!
and walked off barefoot
into the night.
2
lover, dance with me!
we call unto each other
from distances, through barriers,
breaking down walls of seperation;
through tears and angry silence,
echoing through the night.
i kiss your eyes, your lips,
the arch of your neck.
your fingertips, your feet,
the inside of your thighs.
your wetness.
you open your eyes,
and the shadow disappears!
3
spirits dance in the moonlight!
a soft wind rustles
through the trees.
the howl of a dog,
car lights on a forgotten road;
a screen door closes softly.
old house wrapped in stillness.
only a faint sound.
the footsteps of God
walking in your heart!
4
i can smell your perfume,
or maybe the scent of rain coming.
i can taste you in the
cool damp earth,
in the blood of a small animal
killed by a passing car,
in the cry of the baby
waking up hungry,
in the web of the spider.
in the hollow of my soul.
5
two moths lost in the darkness,
gasping for light.
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Awareness
hearing the sound
of the feet
of the ant
pulling a crumb
of bread
on the floor
just right
below
my feet
and then
noticing
the feather
of the bird
you picked
yesterday
under the tree
while you
were walking
it has fallen
from your
table and
then it dropped
on the floor
beside the
red ant
you heard
the sound of
softness
and it was
very loud
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Sound... (Of Wings Departing)
if i pick the petals of your lips,
and bathe inside your hair.
if my tongue travels the map
of your lost desire,
and my soul whispers to your shadow.
if i cling to you till two become one,
and then open my hands, will you fly?
if i drink your wetness both deep and long,
and clothe your stillness with passion....
if i kiss your anger with burning pulse,
and name each empty chamber.
will you remember that the sparrow came?
or at least the sound of wings departing?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Nothing But Death
There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.
And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.
Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels,
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark purple,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.
Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no
finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no
throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.
I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.
But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
death is inside the broom,
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.
Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.
Translated by Robert Bly
poem by Pablo Neruda
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Going Back or Staying Here
I can’t fall back
I won’t go back
If there’s one thing I must do
It is to stay here
I’ve got to hold on
Hold out
I can’t fall back
Never go back
I might not escape next time
I can’t go back
Seeping through the cracks
Moving slowly, creeping to me
It wants me
“Come back”, it calls
“You were happy here, you could do anything here”
“We made you who you are”
“Come back”, it calls
Tempting
So unbelievably tempting
I could fall back
It’s just so easy to go back
I’ll let it envelope me
Let it course through my veins
To my brain and heart
Let it fill me up
And explode through me
“Bring me back”, I call
“Bring me back”
Moving faster, sliding on the floor
It screams, “YES! Yes, yes, yes! ”
A foot away it leaps
“Here I come”, I say
Swallow me back into my darkened world
“I’m coming home”
Just close my eyes
“I’m coming home”
Standing still
Nothing moves
Looking the darkness is gone
But something is here
Her arms are around my neck
“I’m home”, she says
I wrap my arms around her
“Yes, you’re home”, I say
Again she saves me
Saves me from going back
She is my light
A little that will never go out
She will never know the darkness in me
But she’ll always guide me home
Because home is only where she is
And the only place I can be safe
Safe next to her
My light, my love
Written: November 18,2010
poem by Ryan Collins
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Brunt Of The Storm
the old woman
sits on the floor,
talking to the vacuum cleaner,
and laughing with the broom.
and the pictures of children,
like leaves turning seasons,
stare silently from a distance,
both chosen and not!
the dog bows her eyes,
with worry and love.
and the drone of the tv,
bores holes in the wall.
long grey hair glistening,
as sun sifts dirty blinds.
and the smell of passion,
has turned to old feet.
and no one gives a cold damn,
or understands why...
she has no need of people,
no need for chatter.
she feeds the dog and stops,
staring at the urn on the mantle...
and curses softly,
then breaks down and cries.
only the dog, and the spider in the corner,
hear the whimper,
and feel the brunt of the storm!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Spontaneous Electricity (The Wetness)
walking through the wetness,
rain falling softly.
the rhythm of the wipers,
the trees bow to the wind.
you and i, the sweat and the tears,
one hollow, the other echoes,
one fire, the other darkness kneeling,
identities merged, then torn apart...
ghostlike faces at the window,
children turn, and walk away.
the long silence deepens,
death waits just beyond and before.
mountains carved in forever skies,
crumble, ground to dust by time.
and no less we, dust to dust,
the great sweeper sweeps away our memory.
love was the answer, and sometimes not.
the cross and the thorns, the stolen moment.
now there's nothing left to talk about,
and nothing more to do or feel...
walking through the wetness,
i called the rain by your name!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Follow (I Am The Flute)
i follow...
the hoot of the owl,
the smoke that leads
to the fire.
the hollow of the hand,
to the hard and the soft.
the salt of the sea
to the dark and murky unknown.
the erection and the breast,
to the womb that creates.
lightning to the thunder,
and thunder to lightning.
the hammer to the nail,
the bullet through the barrel.
the spirit through the book,
back to the tree in the forest.
the body to the grave,
the universe back to dust.
i follow...
the sound of the flute,
till i come to see...
that i follow nothing,
and no one at all!
for i am the path,
and the feet that walk.
i am the flute,
the sound and the lips.
i am the breath,
the desire, and the vision...
for i am no one,
and nothing at all!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Blind to Color
There is no crayon box,
To select which colors
I should use to connect dots
Of your desires.
What color would you paint my passion?
And my quest to sweat with you,
Naked and wet.
When our temptations find us undressed,
What color would you have our kisses?
After I lick...
Your neck, ears and lips!
And when the climax comes and is done...
What color would you choose...
To whisper wishes,
For more of it.
In darkness let us touch and caress.
Stripped and bare...
In a nakedness we share,
Blind to color!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Anybody's Idea Of Eternity!
i'd rather be a leaf torn
by a sparrow's beak...
a snail, a moth, the spider's web.
the old man passing out blankets
at the homeless shelter...
the mother nursing the child,
refugees of war.
the old dog curled against
the old man's leg...
the cigarette shared after making love.
a trash collector, a cashier in an all night store,
an immigrant picking fruit
with eyes in the back of his head....
the soldier who deserted,
and turned his back on the war.
the lover left with the scent of memory.
the young girl giving birth
on a bare apartment floor,
a rose petal wilted,
falling to the ground....
the last wolf wandering the endless night.
a spoke in the wheel of the wagon loaded.
the love letter written never delivered...
a pair of old boots standing in the corner,
a rain dropp lingering on a blade of grass...
then to be an angel playing a harp,
in anybody's idea of eternity!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The First Thrush
Though leaves have fallen long since,
The wagtails flirt and flit,
Glad in the morning sun;
While, on the knotted quince,
The dewdrops, pearled on it,
Bead to a little run. . . .
Soft as a breathing air
There came a lovely sound
Out of the branches bare;
So rich it was, and round,
Sense stood, in listening bound,
Stilled to its sweetness there!
It was the thrush's note,
That seemed as though his heart
On some loved thing did dote;
As though he yearned apart,
Knowing some hidden smart,
Pain in the long sweet rote.
There, as the spider hung
Grey-breasted 'gainst the brown
Skin of the quince, he sung
A song that o'er the town,
Rose up as though to crown
The tree-tops whence it sprung.
And now, it seems to me,
That long full breath he drew,
Like perfume shed on air,
Still dwells within the tree,
Though long ago he flew,
And left it naked there.
poem by Dame Mary Gilmore
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A Happy Ending
i cannot always be a new
broom that must sweep well
your old floors
please take note of this
i cannot always be your new
broom that must sweep well
your garbage floors
please take note of this
time will make me an old broom
and you my dirty and old floor
overladen with scratch papers and
pens with dried inks and litters
and crumpled newspapers and torn
fashion pages scattered on your rough
floors,
time makes me a old, dirty broom
and now, ruined and stained, we shall
stay together, we now belong to each
other
please take note of this happy ending.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I threw my arms about those shoulders
M.B.
I threw my arms about those shoulders, glancing
at what emerged behind that back,
and saw a chair pushed slightly forward,
merging now with the lighted wall.
The lamp glared too bright to show
the shabby furniture to some advantage,
and that is why sofa of brown leather
shone a sort of yellow in a corner.
The table looked bare, the parquet glossy,
the stove quite dark, and in a dusty frame
a landscape did not stir. Only the sideboard
seemed to me to have some animation.
But a moth flitted round the room,
causing my arrested glance to shift;
and if at any time a ghost had lived here,
he now was gone, abandoning this house.
poem by Joseph Brodsky
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Angel of Darkness
Angel of Darkness
My loving life
You pulled me up
Instead of pulling me down
My Angel of Darkness
Angel of Darkness
With brown shaggy hair
And dark blue Blazing eyes
My heart it soars
With my Angel of Darkness
Angel of Darkness
Jet black wings
That spread across the sky
In flight that never ends
With my Angel of Darkness
Angel of Darkness
Give me a kiss
And make it a dark sensation
And I will follow your command
And never fight with you
My Angel of Darkness
Angel of Darkness
Take my body because it’s yours
It sub comes to yours
In my breathless wake
My Angel of Darkness
Angel of Darkness
I will fight and stand
Not against you
Just against my last breath
We are creature of the night
And I will be with you and stay with you
My Angel of Darkness
A Secretary or a Waitress
The leaves rustle
A windswept autumn melody,
I walk alone the urban streets
Of beautiful sadness;
The grey sky is dangling
The threat of a slow, lonely rain.
I follow a blowing newspaper
To a cold corner bus stop
And gaze at a secretary or a waitress
Making her way home.
If I’m still walking at midnight,
There will be rats and raccoons to greet
In some alley of despair,
And there is always a stray thought
Trying to remember the last person I loved.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Like a lightning bolt
Like a lightning bolt
life thunders over me
I am bashed down
just when I think
that I am again on my feet again.
Time flies past much too fast
and the grey
sneaks into my dark brown hair
and between yesterday and now
I am slowly loosing courage
and like taking a track
I try to find the meaning
of my existence
and of life
but somewhere
I have lost the way
and over and over
I am lost in the backwoods
and sometimes when I see the stars
I am looking for a beacon
in the night above me,
but nowhere
I can find anything
as between now and remembering
the darkness
like a black blanket
wants to fold over me the whole time
but I keep on hoping
as if success and happiness
is just over the next hill,
but the journey is long
and my feet are sore
and it’s as if
I am walking alone through life.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Squalor & Chips
My angel of the night
came down the stairs of morning
his hair, brown locks of greasiness,
his mouth, those sweet lips, yawning.
He stopped three steps from earth that day
and gazed at trainers in his way
and then as I began to pray,
stepped over and ignored them.
He took four steps across the room
he missed the cloth, the pan, the broom
and squashed cold chips, bare footed
upon the kitchen flooring!
Alas my fallen angel there,
sat his bottom on a chair
and sweeping hand through tousled hair,
ate his breakfast without care.
Without thought for chips all squashed,
flattened on that kitchen floor.
A floor so needy for a wash
as I exclaimed, "Oh my dear God! "
I found the mop, the bucket too
I cleaned the floor, mopped up the goo
and then I had a notion to,
but my angel wouldn't let me through.
Squashed chips on the kitchen floor
last nights washing up,
sticky table, dustbins full
and an empty coffee cup.
poem by Ruth Walters
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The Window Forever, Nailed Shut!
wetness,
fallen leaves,
decaying....
the blood of
women and children
dripping to the
naked earth....
the tears of
the forgotten,
falling
like burning knives
on hollowed faces...
the distorted dreams
of the dreamless,
damp, and heady,
steaming the hungry
shameless void...
the electric singing juices
of my sweet madness,
filling your mouth,
your devouring wetness....
dripping,
falling,
steaming,
like slow peels of thunder
to the bare floor....
the window forever,
nailed shut!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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