En.Citatepedia^®.ro

For All of These, and More

for every daughter aborted
in China because sons
are preferred...
for every young girl or boy
sold into slavery here
in the states...
for every whale killed
by the Japanese ships...
for every expanse of ocean
filled with our oil...
for every tree cut
by the saws of greed...
for every woman and child
working in sweatshops...
for every political prisoner
that we ignore...
for every homeless person
in the 'land of the free'...
for every kid in jail
who never had a chance...
for every old person
left alone to die...
for every family in Africa
left to starvation....
for every plate of food
thrown out, wasted mindlessly.
for every mountain raped
by the miner's hands...
for every kid that is different,
that is abused and beaten...
for everyone killed in our
money driven wars...

for all of these, and more...
i ask forgiveness, as
a member of the human family.
for all of these, and more,
i take responsibility.
for all of these, and more,
i choose to live today...

with an involved hope
for tomorrow!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am Responsible.... (Poet's Heart)

i am responsible....
for the child dying of starvation,
whatever color, whatever country.
for the young Muslim child alone,
his family killed by the bombs.
for the addict shaking on the street corner,
for the young girl selling her body
on that same corner.
for the family kicked out of their house,
who have nowhere to go.
for the young angry men in prison,
for the victims of the crimes.
for the stink of poverty,
and the abuse of wealth.
for the planes, the bombs,
the guns and the flags...
for the political prisoners who spoke out.
for the elderly going without food and lights,
trying to pay for their medicine.
for the victims of racism and prejudice,
and those that wave that banner.
for the preacher, the thief,
the murderer, and the lost....
for the woman treated as less.
for the young man who commits suicide,
and for those that caused his desperation.
for the immigrant killed crossing the border,
hoping against hope for his family.
for the 'moral' who cant feel,
for those who feel, those who suffer.
for the bones of those we've killed
on our journey to civilization.
for the Jew, the Christian,
the Hindu, the Muslim, and the Buddhist...
of equal worth and value.
for the atheist, the doubter, the searcher,
and those who question all.
for the man, the woman, and the child.
for the sins of the past,
and the path to the future.
i am responsible...
because i am human!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Come!

come...
let us wash our bloody hands
in the river that does not choose.
let us take our veangeful hearts
and lay them at the door.
let us dropp our arrogant poses,
and reveal who we are.
let us forgive, and be forgiven...

for every child that dies of starvation,
for every bomb that's dropped.
for every homeless family,
for every broken home.
for every prisoner, every victim,
every hater, and their hate...
for every man and women beaten down,
living day to day in poverty.
for every winner and every loser,
for every unwanted baby...

for every war,
for every tree cut down,
for the smoke that fills our skies,
the oil that defiles our waters...
for every deal made at the expense of humanity...
for every lie sold as the truth!

for every bullet,
for every nuclear accident,
for every act of discrimination...
for every prayer not prayed.

for every apathetic action,
and inaction...
for every voice of freedom
we allow to be imprisoned or killed.
for every chance we let pass by,
for every time we just walk away...

WE ARE RESPONSIBLE!

come!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am.... (The Branch, Part Two)

i am...
the orphaned child and the abandoned dog,
the woman raped, the young man killed.
i am the body hanging alone and cold,
the old woman shaking in an empty room.
i am the young girl taken and enslaved,
the needle, the spoon, and the revolver.
i am black skinned, brown skinned anger,
and the bones of bodies hidden...
the speaker of truth detained and tortured,
the invisible trail left behind.

i am...
the rage of jobless, homeless, hopeless...
the unemployment line and the sweat shop.
i am the family living in a stolen car,
and the child who runs away.
i am the store clerk killed by the robber,
her minimum wage death unnoticed.
i am the shadow crossing the border,
the inmate that breaks and runs.
i am the guns silenced,
and the lies revealed...
i am human rebellion.
i am the branch covered by leaves,
waiting for certain autumn!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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You Wanted To Know....

the starving child you saw on your tv screen,
the one that made you turn the channel.
the old homeless man who tried to bum a dollar
when you were pumping gas...
whose hands were shaking,
who smelled like trash,
who you made fun of when you left...
the one you gave 50 cents to,
just to get away from...
the young painted up girl you called a whore,
the guy strung out on pills
buying groceries with food stamps...
the veteran who came home
to find his family gone....
no job, no home, he blew his brains out!
the gay boy who slit his wrists,
tired of being bullied.
the old couple evicted broke and sick....
the bodies of women and children killed by the drones,
the young man in prison who just got gang raped.
the disabled woman you cursed when she made your change,
the old man buying dog food who doesnt have a dog...

well, you wanted to know what god looks like!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Children In Africa (c.i.a) .

Every single day in Africa
There's a child out there
Who's hungry and sick without meds.
And also without shelter and clothing
Needing for your love and succor

Every single day in Africa
A child goes hungry to bed
Looking badly malnourished and ill-fed
Not sure where and when the next meal comes
Lives in slums in unhygienic conditions
In a bid to break barriers and above par

Every single day in Africa
A child drops out of school
Due to Abject poverty and starvation
And an inability to pay school fees
Which results to disillusionment

Every single day in Africa
A child is psychologically abused
Sent out on the cold streets
To eke out out a living for his family
Inspite of very imminent dangers on his way

Every single day in Africa
A child wakes up to harsh realities
Sold into prostitution, slavery and crime
Against their own very wishes
To a world of hate and bestiality

Every single day in Africa
A child is faced with humiliation
Despair and suppression of own voices
He cant be heard and he's preyed upon
In a world where he seeks protection and love

So many have lost hope.
Some have had their trust damaged
Some are living for the day
Waiting for what tomorrow brings
In a cruel world that care less
About the future of the Africa Child...

poem by Olumide Familusi
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The Bells Of Freedom

do the bells of freedom ring
every time someone dies of starvation?
every time a child is abused,
every time a woman's left alone
to raise the kids...

every time a young boy hangs himself,
every time an addict steals his fix...
every time a boy is shot dead in the street,
every time a mother weeps....

every time a boy goes off to war,
comes home in a bodybag....
and no one knows why.....
every time a family is evicted,
with nowhere to go....

every time a factory gets shut down,
and the workers walk away with empty
lunchboxes and shattered dreams.....
every time a minister gets up to pray,
and the silent, grieving, walk out...

every time a young girl gets beaten
by a pimp in a back room....
every time a family farm is taken,
every time a tanker leaks oil...

every time a prisoner is executed
for something he didnt do....
every time a protestor gets arrested
for standing up to be counted...

do they ring? and are they
the chimes of freedom....
or the bells of passing....

saying their final farewell!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Day, And The Coming Day!

we are the day,
and the coming day.
the cities painted with despair,
the houses built left abandoned.
the seeds we altered,
the trees we cut down.
the mountains we mined,
and the seas we defiled.
the peoples we left homeless,
left to die in poverty and hunger.
the ships we sent to the moon,
the smoke from the great factories.
the daughters we sold into slavery,
the sons we executed on profit's battlefields.
the lie, the drug, and the drug of the lie!
the temples we built
to gods that taught us to kill.
the prophets we killed with righteous indignation.
the bodies we left in our prisons of justice,
the flags we wore to defile our hearts.
we are the day,
and the coming day.
now skies have turned grey,
the air filled with our empty!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Prayer for Forgiveness

i knelt down and prayed
this morning for forgiveness
for everything this country is doing
around the world...

for the oil wars,
for the partnerships
with countries that abuse
human rights...
for the dictators we
both prop up and remove...

for the gluttony and the greed
here at home.... for the apathy,
for the self centered path
of destruction we march on...

for those left hungry, homeless,
without medical care, without hope...

and i know i am a part of this...
i take responsibility for my actions,
my inaction, my complacency...
and vow to stand for truth,
and to walk in involved
human compassion!

join me!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Her Voice

i believe there is a God
i can hear her voice
in the tears of the homeless

of the hungry, of orphaned children
of the young woman lying on the
kitchen floor bleeding

in the hollow ache of the young
man who just killed a family
with his M-16

in the stink of helpless
on the young boy raped
in the prison cell

in the vomiting anger
of the man who caught his wife
cheating, and shot her

in the prayers of the mother
whose son joined a gang,
and walked away from her dreams

in the cry of the baby
left in the alley
behind the church

that refused to help
his mother
in the pen on the desk

of the man at the bank
who just foreclosed
on another family

i can hear her voice
and feel her hurt!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Candle

if we lit a candle tonite
for every child that's hungry,
for every family that's homeless,
for every drug addict without hope,
for every soldier fighting
in an unholy war

for every immigrant
fighting for a chance,
for every prisoner
that becomes a victim
of the system.
for every victim
of violent crimes.

for every husband and wife
who cant find their way,
and give up and walk away.

for every child with a disability
that doesnt get a fair chance.
for every child that grows up
without a father or mother.

for every person who feels
deserted by God.
for every person afraid
to be who they are

for every victim of prejudice,
whether it be racial, religious,
or sexual.

for every person alone,
without hope or direction.

we'd have a fire so bright
it'd light the universe.
the fire of compassion.
warming the feet of humanity!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Three yards up the road

When your great-great-Grandmother
sold across the brush of cotton
was singing songs of Africa
and working under lash and lock
and yoke the white man slaver set
the child in England shivered

Silently as Dada died or Mama died
she moved to separation from her own
became a Parish burden picking oakum
was sold to northern mills in groups of slaves
locked inside forbidding winter temples
stocking dross the Parish sent away

When your great-great-Grandmother
sold by stronger tribes in Africa
to make them rich and build their acres
to feed the rich man's people hunger
passing cramped across the ocean
watching daily deaths - or hourly

the child in England shivered
Wearing worn out summer clothing
shoeless in the depths of winter
working fourteen hours unstopping
Hunger semi-slaked by gruel slops
in mills where childhood took a beating

When your great-great-Grandmother
had her babies traded from her
on plantations where the working time was long
and overseers beat and sometimes killed
and raped and pillaged every woman
drunken eyes could squander

the beaten child devoid of mother
dragged a body dwarfed by starving
mis-shapen from the broken bones untreated
locked inside her working prison
sealed at night with others in a tomb
where straw - and other ill-used bodies - comforted

And you can say and lift your head
When my great-great-Grandmother
was taken out of Africa by white men
she ceased her African-African slavery
began her slavery to white men
Then you turn and call me racist

And I have nothing more to say
except my great-great-Grandmother
having parents dead or starving
was a burden on the Parish of her birth
which sold her into untold desolation
in a country which pretended to be kind
and left her slave and starving
as a cog inside an Empire
where the rich grew richer still
on the blood of starving children
out of Africa or three yards up the road

poem by Charlotte Peters Rock
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I Am.... (Hand Of Silence)

i am the fire raging out of control,
the blade of the shadow on poverty's neck.
the broken sound when no one can hear,
the cold feel of the gallows,
the wings of the dead bird.
i am the raccoon trapped,
and the fury of loss.
i am the waiting that kills,
moment by moment.
i am the hand too tired to touch,
the baby just born that no one wants.
i am the ribs showing on the starving child,
the refugee fleeing with nowhere to go.
the smell of despair at the county dump,
the apartment without curtains or furniture.
i am the soldier killed who hesitated with conscience.
i am the prisoner afraid of both detention and freedom.
the young gay teenager who hangs himself,
the pregnant girl who takes too many pills.
i am the protester beaten and left on the sidewalk,
the old man alone without food or heat.
i am the touch of Jesus in the addict's eyes,
the street bum sleeping in the alley.
i am the farmer whose farm was taken,
the family left without a home.
the 40 year worker in the unemployment line,
the young girl taken and sold as a whore.
i am the Buddhist monk who sets himself on fire,
the rebel imprisoned for speaking the truth.
i am the millions of young who cant afford school,
the millions of workers who cant afford insurance.
i am the immigrant deported,
whose family has no chance.
the young mother caught stealing food.
i am the morals hidden by despair and anger,
the conscience of the poor holding the gun.
i am the color of skin covered with blood,
the face of god in strays of all kinds.
i am the Buddha weeping,
the body of suffering....
the hand of silence covering the grave.

poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Courtroom Is Empty

the courtroom is empty,
the gavel untouched.
no hands on the book,
no jury of twelve.
(and the hands of the clock
have stopped!)

small children killed, tossed in the trash,
women abused, old people hungry, alone.
young girls sold into slavery
young boys sold into war
homeless ghosts walk the halls,
without hope in man or God.

and there's no sound, no feeling,
not even a breath of air
(and the hands of the clock
have stopped!)

an American tragedy,
or just human tragedy.
justice bought and sold,
afforded by just the few.
the wheels of Wall Street turn,
politicians barter with lives.
drinking the blood of the babies
that will never be born!

the takers keep taking,
and the honest man falls
to die nameless in the ditch,
covered by ashes and dust.

and there's no sound, no feeling,
not even a breath of air.
(the hands of the clock
have stopped!)

the courtroom is empty

poem by Eric Cockrell
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God, I Know Mine Do!

perhaps the lips of god tremble....
with the death of every child out of season.
with the padlock on the door of the foreclosed house,
with the bullied child hanging in the closet.
with every call to war and flag that's raised,
with the bare feet of the poverty dwellings.
with the unemployed man making bathtub met,
the girl trading sex for a high...
with every affluent sneer,
and every indifferent stare.
with every tree cut for no reason,
and every tanker spilling oil.
with every dog taken to the pound,
with every racial slur.
with every elderly person left to eat dogfood,
with every unmarked grave.
with every moment of religious pretense,
with every shirt made in a sweatshop.
with every illegal immigrant shot and killed,
with every tick of the clock in an empty room.
with every tear shed by the lonely,
with every act of discrimination.
with every state sponsored execution,
with every woman denied medical care.
with every child born and orphaned,
with every woman beaten and abused....
perhaps the lips of god tremble....
god, i know mine do!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Anna Nicole

In beauty and kindness, she was truly blessed
More often than not, put through life’s cruel test
Lost her son, her life she couldn’t recover
Couldn’t let her mourn alone, always they had to hover

People used and abused her, wouldn’t leave her alone
But when it came down to it, always on her own
One wealthy man, fell in love with the person she was
Tabloids and gossip were all the buzz

Maybe he was kind, and she loved him a lot
Don’t really think evil and greed were the plot
Everyone around, wanted all she could give
They made it so hard for her to live

Happiness doesn’t come to all that easy
They fed on her blood, so utterly sleazy
She had a new daughter, a light in her life
They fought over that, wanted to make her his wife

Did he love her, or need for much control
In her sons death, did he play a role
Did she die of an overdose, who played a part in that
Who would gain from her death is all the chat

A beautiful young troubled woman has lost her life
So many who knew her, in her back put a knife
Let’s pray for the family, and daughter she left behind
Let them live their life, can’t all be kind

They say she was on drugs, what does this matter now
Can’t they let her lie in piece, spare her loved ones some how
I shall mourn for her, a life so sadly lost
Money doesn’t matter now, she paid the ultimate cost!

poem by Donna Nimmo
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It's just a suggestion

Just incase tomorrow never come
tell that person you love that you love him/her it will ease your heart well its just a suggestion

leave drugs and alcohol it doesnt help you with anything. You gain nothing instead you loose everything.
I didnt force you to do it but its just a suggestion

just incase tomorrow never come
tell the police that you were raped that your pants or skirt was pulled down so that no one else fall on your trap
report to the police that child was stolen or that man was hijacked or that woman was mugged or that boy was killed

tell the police you know of someone who does human trafficking
tell them you were used and made a slave didnt eat at all.

Tell someone you need help you were not involved in that incident
mostly just tell yourself you are a success

it was just a suggestion to suggest a suggestion but that was just a suggestion to suggest you are the best and
I
am THE LEGEND

poem by Ernest Makuakua
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The Battle.... (We Have Fought)

the battle we have fought for so long,
as a 'free' society...
in the name of justice, equality, diversity,
responsibility, and freedom...
has reached the point of decision.
we either move forward no matter
what the cost...
believing the dream is worth the price...
or we crawl back into the cave
of self-fulfillment at the cost of all others.
prejudice and discrimination have gone from color
to religion to sex and sexual orientation,
and now to those enslaved by poverty.
we cannot turn our backs on each other...
we cannot allow the few to destroy the world.
we are responsible, we are a part of each other.
when one is hungry, we are all hungry.
when one family is homeless, we are all homeless.
when one person is a victim
of prejudice, hatred, and injustice...
we all are!
when one eats, all should eat.
when one has a chance to work,
all should have that chance...
when one child gets an education,
all should have that right.
this is the time, and this is the place...
it is now that we must choose!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Poet

who is the poet then?
the master of words,
phrases, rhymes, and symbols...

or the one who wipes the ass
of the old man in the nursing home,
whose family does not come anymore.

or the young gay teacher
in the projects, walking the thin line
between the hatred of gangs, and hope.

or the small time farmer
who planted one last crop,
knowing that the bank was coming
to take it all away.

or the soldier in Iraq,
who stops to help a child up,
and sees his own children miles away;
cant speak, and cant breathe.

or the young man in prison
for something that he did;
just trying to survive, day to day,
and to find a new way.

or the young woman who was raped,
being humiliated on the witness stand,
and they call it justice!

or the man left standing
on the brink of losing it all...
the eyes of his family haunting him;
with nowhere to turn,
and no one to ask for help,
and a gun in his hand!

if poetry then is written
by the hand of God....
the hands are human!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Children Should Not Have To Be Homeless

There are thousands of homeless children in Beijing in China though that is not suprising to hear
For where there is a huge population there is poverty too 'twould appear
And China to anywhere else is no different the rich getting richer they say
And just beyond the leafy suburb is the suburb of neglect and decay.

There are thousands of homeless children in New York though with that some may not agree
In America the great Land of commerce no such a thing as poverty?
But the facts of course will tell you differently and in a World of inequality
There too are children homeless and hungry in the so called Land of the free.

There are homeless children in London in England as well as in Paris in France
The poor children of the poor suburb in life they do not have a chance
Their parents in Jail for drug abuse they become the kids of the street
They search the rubbish bins for food in dark alleys and what others do throw out they eat.

There are homeless children in Sydney and Melbourne and anywhere else one might name
Though that does not seem to affect us we never reflect on our shame
That many should have to grow poorer for one to become a millionaire
In a truly egalatarian society would never be looked on as fair.

Children should not have to be homeless though born into abject poverty
They should not be punished for the sins of their parents so much for our humanity
And money to some all that matters and money is married to success
Whilst the children of the poor live homeless on the street of the No Fixed Address.

poem by Francis Duggan
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How Could You Know?

if you've never known hunger,
how could you know?
if you've never been homeless,
how could you know?
if you've never been sick,
and couldnt get medical care,
how could you know?

if you've never hid in the night
while the bombs fell around you,
how could you know?
if you've never killed, or
wanted to but didnt,
how could you know?
if you've never been abused,
beaten, or taken advantage of,
how could you know?
if you've never been imprisoned
for something you didnt do,
or for something you did,
how could you know?

if you've never been left alone,
without hope, without a prayer,
how could you know?

but if your brother or sister,
from anywhere around the world,
has done and felt and experienced
these things...
how could you not know?

poem by Eric Cockrell
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