Great Mother
Great Mother...
ecstasy dance;
inside the fur of the wolf,
the wings of the hawk
small ants on infinite journeys,
turtles moving to earth time.
water wrapping around rocks,
old tree leaning with time.
blood, sweat, passion's fluids,
the pulse of a cold mountain.
thunder and lightning, clouds hang,
the taste of flesh lingers...
naked by the fire, shadows
on the walls of the cave....
chanting, humming, praying....
with hands bruised and grateful.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Lingers
shotgun shells,
and kentucky bourbon;
long howling nights,
bound by the moon/
teeth bared to the icy cold,
the taste of blood.
lingers.
the fiddle weeps,
while the mandolin prays.
old hat pulled down,
feet dance to the sound/
teeth bared to the icy cold,
the taste of blood...
lingers...
broke down and busted,
carried by the darkness.
fists pound the walls,
but there's no one home/
teeth bared to the icy cold,
the taste of blood.
lingers.
woman, smell and touch,
sucks the light from empty.
she rolls me over,
cries out like a cat/
teeth bared to the icy cold,
the taste of blood.
lingers.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Revolution
Revelation reveals the truth - revelation.
(revolution, revolution, revolution - oooo-doo-doo-doo-doo)
(revolution - oooo-doo-doo-doo-doo)
It takes a revolution (revolution) to make a solution;
(doo-doo-doo-doo)
Too much confusion (aaa-aaah), so much frustration, eh!
I dont wanna live in the park (live in the park);
Cant trust no shadows after dark (shadows after dark), yeah-eh!
So, my friend, I wish that you could see,
Like a bird in the tree, the prisoners must be free, yeah! (free)
Never make a politician (aaa-aaah) grant you a favour;
(doo-doo-doo-doo)
They will always want (aaa-aaah) to control you forever, eh!
(forever, forever)
So if a fire make it burn (make it burn, make it burn)
And if a blood make ya run (make ya run, run, run),
Rasta de pon top (aaa-aaah), cant you see? (doo-doo-doo-doo)
So you cant predict the flop. eh-eh! (doo-doo-doo-doo)
We got lightning (lightning), thunder (thunder),
Brimstone (brimstone) and fire - fire (fire, fire);
Lightning (lightning), thunder (thunder),
Brr-brimstone (brimstone) and fire - fiyah - fire - fiyah!
(fire, fire)
Kill, cramp and paralyze all weak at conception;
(aaa-aaah, doo-doo-doo-doo)
Wipe them out of creation (creation), yeah-eah! (creation)
Wa-jah, jah, jah! wa-jah, jah, jah! (creation)
Wa-jah, jah, jah! (creation)
Oh! let ies is ies (ies), in ies is black (ies),
In ies is red (ies), in ies is dread.
Let righteousness cover the earth
Like the water (aaa-aaah) cover the sea, yeah! yeah!
Lightning (lightning), doo-doo-doo (thunder),
Doo-doo-doo (brimstone), doo-doo-doo (fire, fire);
A lightning (lightning), thunder (thunder),
Brimstone (brimstone) and fire.
song performed by by Bob Marley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Picture On The Mantle....
i am not the picture
on the mantle,
not the old song,
not a fleeting memory.
i am not the name
that parks behind yours,
i am not the rent, the lights,
or the groceries.
i am not the excuse,
the curse, or the lie....
not the name of your fear,
not your morals, or your chains.
i am not the old man
sitting in the chair,
staring blankly out the window.
i am not the grey in your hair,
not the heart grown cold.
i am not the bull in the pasture,
not the magazine by the toilet.
i am not your second choice,
your last resort,
or even your final resting place...
but i am the mountain unmoved,
the tree changing with seasons,
but still rooted to the ground.
i am the fury of storm,
and the beauty of sunset....
the taste of still darkness,
the fire never quenched.
i am the fall, the struggle
that gets back up,
i am the fight against all odds.
i am the heart of angels,
the hands of demons,
i am hunger shouted and chanted.
i am a man,
made of flesh and blood.
i demand the respect
that is truth and passion.
i'll get down in the ditch,
but you have to come too!
i am the hand reaching for yours.
so love me, hate me, or close the door.
i am this moment,
trickling through the hands of time.
for if i am but wave,
you must be ocean....
if you are thunder,
i am the lightning!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Peace Beyond Time
wolves run
in packs drinking moonlight,
flesh and blood,
hunger and desire!
i am the wolf,
i am the moonlight,
flesh and blood,
hunger and desire.
the hawk glides,
on the wind with eyes,
peeling layer upon layer
for pulsing treasure...
i am the hawk,
i am the wind,
peeling layer upon layer,
for pulsing treasure.
the river winds
through rocks and trees,
making it's own path,
on the way home.
i am the river,
rocks and trees,
making my own path
on the way home....
darkness falls,
wraps around the light,
brings healing stillness,
and peace beyond time.
i am the darkness,
wrapping around light,
i bring healing stillness,
and peace beyond time!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Three Quarter Time
the smell of woodsmoke
lingers in the air;
darkness falls,
like silent thunder.
the earth tremors and turns,
you walk from room to room....
or perhaps only,
a curtain blown by passion,
a broken cup, cobwebs
on pulsing walls.
a cry of passion,
water bursts the pipes...
one of my shirts
that you wore to bed.
a single shot
on a November morn....
the deer falls in
three quarter time.
sheets that still
carry your scent...
the ground naked,
and hungry for rain!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Returned.... (Primitive)
my soul hath returned
to the beginnings of faith,
before written history,
before there were words.
when god walked naked in the darkness,
her long hair birthing leaves
on branches that wept.
the stones whispered praise,
the trees bowed in prayer!
the gutteral moan of the wind
haunts the walls of the cave.
i dream of fire,
both shaking and sweating with cold.
while god talks with the wolves,
the turtles, and the owls.
and sounds mimic night
making love with herself!
dawn calls from a faraway shore;
the waterfall hesitates,
as if in waiting!
unseen hands rub stick against stick,
till the spark of dreams ignites!
moan, groan, and the flap of wings...
and the only name be heartbeat!
i am stone, i am tree,
i am river, i am wind...
i am the sound of nothing,
and the face of the formless!
primitive, and naked,
i walk with god...
and nurse at the breasts of infinity!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Stillness Wrapped, Unwrapped!
stillness wrapped...
layers and layers of sound,
sound defined by color, sweat,
stink, breath, and desire...
i walk the great plains of night,
the hunter, and the hunted.
i kneel in the shadow of a star,
giving praise to the Great Mother!
i am wings of bat,
the eyes of the great owl.
i am wolf urine on the grasses.
i am bark and bay and howl.
i am the flute of the whipporwill,
the shallow breathing of the mountain aroused.
the small black boy in Mississippi past,
staring hard at the walls of angry cant.
i am the political prisoner,
the religious heretic.
i am the murderer repentent,
the one who kills him.
i am the quiet drunk
alone at the corner table.
the book hidden in in coat
that cant stop the bullet.
i am the old woman hungry
for a lovers touch...
i am the touch, the memory,
the coming and breaking.
i am the prodigal, the refugee,
the starving girl who gives
her last piece of bread
to her younger brother.
i am the stray dog, the abandoned house,
the fire, and the homeless man who died.
i am the grave, the gravedigger,
the preacher, and the epitaph....
i am nothing now....
but stillness unwarpped by time...
sound, color, sweat, stink,
breath, and desire....
ashes, and unplowed earth!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Voices Of Infinity
i dance with animals in the night,
run naked with trees,
and drink strong moonlight.
i sing with the rocks,
and crow with the dawn....
i beat the drum primeval!
i rush with the waves
to strip the shores,
of all vestiges of passing.
i howl with the wind,
i dance with shadows and sounds,
and lay naked on the cool earth.
i am the ache inside the shell,
the hand that sprinkles dust...
come walk with me,
let us taste the very darkness,
let us call for the light
with the voices of infinity!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Black Thunder
black thunder/ broken pieces, tired eyes.
church bells silent ringing, crow feet scarred pillows.
small children walking, without tongues praying,
wagon wheels bogged down in sand.
black thunder/ second hand lives, worn out lies.
dead soldiers mournful singing, borrowed tomorrows.
blind mouths moving, talking without saying,
unlit rooms forged by fugitive hands.
black thunder/ pregnant women without faces.
waves lapping orphan feet, ships lost in the storm.
refugee stars lost in unmarked skies,
an old tree dying rotting on the ground.
black thunder/ families disappearing without traces.
trash blown deserted streets, old men waiting to be born.
molded crucifixes, covered with flies,
clouds chant scriptures without a sound.
(guns silent weeping,
angels prayerful sweeping.
dreams born dying, dreams unfolding,
looking without seeing, touching without holding.)
black thunder/ hungry barefoot ghosts whisper.
priests covered in blood, empty windows open.
tiny infinities wrapped in colored matchsticks,
nowhere standing lost by the road.
black thunder/ brothers burying virgin sisters.
dialogue without talking, homeless heroes smoking.
ants' prophecies well hidden, time worn bricks,
strangers huddled against the cold.
black thunder/ salvation starved borrowed clothes.
smoke charred walls, forever dripping to the floor.
flesh tokens paid, lifetimes yet unforgiven,
candles dressed in cemetery suits.
black thunder/ nobody cares, nobody knows.
horses stomping stalls, doors open to doors.
while the dead barter for the living,
with bayonets and religious boots....
black thunder!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Morning Refuge Prayer
i take refuge in the Buddha
who shows us the path.
i take refuge in the Dharma
that teaches us to walk in compassion.
i take refuge in the Sangha
the family of living beings working together for peace.
i take refuge in Jesus
in the way that He lived and died.
in the Kingdom of Heaven within us
that heals the sick and feeds the hungry.
i take refuge in the Tao
in the uncarved block.
in water flowing over rocks
finding its own way.
i take refuge in the Great Spirit
in the embrace of Mother Earth.
i take refuge in the wind and rain
in the thunder and lightning,
in the stillness of night.
i take refuge in the howl of the wolf,
in the eyes of small children.
in the truth that breaks down the wall
between living and existing, between sorrow and joy.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Cannot Be Confined (for Romeo Della Valle)
the truth...
cannot be confined
to concepts,
or even words.
sometimes what is felt
is too deep to express.
or perhaps the spirit moans,
and only a few can hear...
usually the ones
who've been beaten the most.
that fire in the gut,
that burns the last thing
grasped for...
and leaves the heart as naked
as the whore on the corner.
but even she knows
more than priests or philosophers...
she lies sleepless in the dawn,
with the taste of blood in her mouth!
and the small boy cold
in the empty room...
praying for his mother,
hunger gnawing at his face.
the people who hide,
in huts and in caves...
from the sounds of the bombing,
from a war they dont understand.
and the old man hard,
who doesnt say much anymore.
who just stares out the window,
clenching and opening his hands.
the fire burns slowly,
and the night is long!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Thought Forgotten
rain swept branches strewn,
small testaments of living.
frail egos broken
in morning sunlit pieces.
of such is life...
hands made of flesh
building hearts.
storms come unannounced,
and forever shattered.
the rain soaks the embers,
a thin wisp of smoke.
stirred by the stick of time,
praying for flame.
are we then fire,
or just smoke?
smalls branches clinging
to the tree...
lightning in the distance,
or hearts made of thunder?
buds on the broken branch,
or the fleeting instant
of the storm's fury?
all of these, or something else,
or a thought forgotten
by a lonesome God?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Living Happily Ever After
We used to strike sparks
off each other.
Our eyes would meet
or our hands,
& the blue lightning of love
would sear the air.
Now we are soft.
We loll
in the same sleepy bed,
skin of my skin,
hair of my head,
sweat of my sweat-
you are kin,
brother & mother
all in one,
husband, lover, muse & comforter;
I love you even better
without sparks.
We are pebbles in the tide
rolling against each other.
The surf crashes above us;
the irregular pulse
of the ocean drives our blood,
but we are growing smooth
against each other.
Are we living happily ever after?
What will happen
to my love of cataclysms?
My love of sparks & fire,
my love of ice?
Fellow pebble,
let us roll
against each other.
Perhaps the sparks are clearer
under water.
poem by Erica Jong
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I Came From...
i came from moonlight,
my grandfathers were great trees.
my grandmothers sudden gusts of wind,
that came from nowhere and returned.
my mother was a wolf,
my father the hard trodden path.
my sisters brought the rain,
my brothers the bow and the arrow.
my lovers made of shadows,
my enemies demons that haunt.
i am the fire tended
by hands unseen,
the saw and the axe.
i will return on a coming night,
the pine needles will hear my feet.
for i am the sound within thunder,
and the hand that catches lightning!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Dancing With The Mountain
(graham russell, michael sherwood, david young)
Hot sun as warm as the kissing of the wind
Footsteps in perfect time
Heartbeat as loud as the whisper in the wood
Hold me this dance is mine
The dance is mine
We are alone, your love excites me
You are the earth moving inside me
I feel like dancing with the mountain
Feel the rhythm walking on air
Feel like dancing with the mountain
Feel the rhythm dancing with the mountain
We climb up into the shelter of the sky
Footsteps on higher ground
Your voice as soft as a river running dry
Hold me this dance is mine
We are alone, your loves exciting me
You are the earth moving inside me
I feel like dancing with the mountain
Feel the rhythm walking on air
I feel like dancing with the mountain
Feel the rhythm dancing with the mountain
I feel like dancing with the mountain
Feel the rhythm walking on air
I feel like dancing with the mountain
Feel the rhythm dancing with the mountain
song performed by by Air Supply
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Live Or To Rot!
we have crawled back
into our shells,
made primitive by technology,
still drunk with past successes,
we would deny the pain of loss.
conditioned to become nonpeople,
we build divisions and walls...
that in the end become our prison,
and finally our graves.
what are we so afraid of?
does it take being slapped
in the face by devastation?
does it take being hungry
to bring back taste?
the god we've wrapped in moth balls,
deserts us, and well should!
we are flesh and blood,
sweat and excrement...
and dammit, family,
who've become dysfunctional!
we swallowed the lie,
and it consumed us!
we either choose
to live or to rot!
time has betrayed us,
the hammer is raised.
are we only shadows and mists?
or are we hands,
hands made of hearts?
hearts made of flesh,
that smells like god!
a god as real as the human condition!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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And The Poems Sit There
And the poems sit there on the tracks,
on the shadows of serpentine ladders,
without engines, though moving, without diesels
to drive them, chain-letters to the world,
to a moment with nothing else to do,
to lonely abuses huddled by the flowering lamp
like fairies in boxes of shy plaster,
to broken windows who rage at the stars
for not accepting their jagged black holes,
to lovers who spend too long in the shower
pruning their gardens,
every ray of light in place
as they go out to pale their shining in the sun,
and the poppy girls with spider tongues
offering little green crowns to the bees, sit there
without moving, though moving,
pulling their hearts on long lifelines out of the void
that fuels their furnaces with crows,
that rescues drowned sailors from the rose of the sea,
that fangs the old lions with light
to pluck the one-stringed jugulars of radiant gazelles.
Two cobras dancing, the hold of our hands,
and the swans revealing their lizard roots,
and the rain a small violet in the rusty passions of the coffee-can
I don’t want to trade blood with the sour wine of the snails,
I’ve always had my own skull to drink from, and the water
of the dirty windows weeping in the morning,
and there are faces I can lap like mirrors for a taste of stars,
and bodies that unfold like single futons
patched with small maps of nocturnal sugar
that glow like prophetic ores from somewhere deeper in the mine.
Every morning I take my eyes out like contacts
and rinse them in the grave, wash off the residue
of yesterday’s visions, the smog and the dew and the soot,
the stagnant waters that cling to them like skies and skin
and the little rivers of blood that show you
an aerial perspective of the lightning, fireflies, stars, dreams
and the cinders of oil drum fires under all-night bridges
and the black commas of what’s left
of the butterflies in midnight webs. And there are cocoons of birth,
of transformations with wet wings emerging among the water hyacinths
and then there are the cocoons that hang like pendants
from the trophy lines of fat arachnids,
webs dripping under the weight of their hourglass stones
like torn suspension bridges and swaying spinal cords.
And it makes me so sad to see a door burn, a helical stairwell
straighten itself out to belong to a fire-truck,
and there are other things, sadder things,
ants with pruned antennae, dreams who think like used stamps,
the rainbow fingers of painted children
washed off under a cold tap,
and the breast of a pigeon undone like a pillow by a hawk,
the sad, abandoned look of heroic fire-hydrants
ready for action, that sigh like empty watering cans
as they pour their newly-enameled transplanted hearts out all over the street
like a wedding rehearsal that stood in for the bride
who’s burning in the walls of the groom like a flower of fire
in the lapel of a black tuxedo; so sad, so indefensibly stricken by grief
to know the paint rags are a better likeness of their sitters
than a face is, that there are tiny screams in the grass for mercy
that are only answered by a praying mantis,
and agonies of crushed centipedes that die like eyebrows
and the hides of mangy crosswalks thrown down on the street
like zebras; so unbearably sad in an avalanche of tortoise shells
excavated for their meat like raped bells with their tongues cut out,
my mouth turns into a wound,
and every word’s a galaxy of salt.
poem by Patrick White
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Marx Ernst, The Ghost In The Abstractions Of Kandinsky
an old man leaning on a black pole,
a nude plump woman of the renaissance
inside a stomach,
a man with a big fan as face
his hands mere sketches of helplessness
pointing to the culprit on both sides
a black bird flies away
like a comma of a poem
they form a stress of a family portrait.
a hand is cut. the old man has no foot.
i shifted from the eyes of marx ernst
his eyes are shadows his hair clouds
his face a misty mountain
moving on to kandinsky he finished
life with the strokes of bright colors
and he titles it Fugue, a Black Mountain
to an Unknown Voice.
my first time to see them both.
i am stricken with the beautiful colors of happiness.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Inside The Cave
we are witness to the shadows in the cave.
Not to be mislead we touch each others' hands.
When we open our eyes we become more confused.
There are more shadows born when we begin to speak.
We are always patient. We imagine soon, always, the
soon in the shadows. Light created more shadows.
We fear it sometimes. We begin to mistrust it.
We are still inside this cave with all the shadows
of ourselves. We do not like to move, we are mocked
We are imitated by our shadows inside the cave.
Tomorrow is the exit. We become friends of the Light.
Then we become free.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Propped Against The Wall
beneath the thunderous clap
of coming storm,
shadows scurry from limb to limb.
sunlight weeps through pregnant clouds,
and the spider builds his web.
with the feathered taste of sparrow's wings,
in the rhythm of marching ants.
logs cut and split, stacked against the house,
the spicket drips, and no one cares.
poverty tugs at the walls,
while voices tense with hunger's beat,
are lost in empty rooms.
children run between the cars,
with dirty faces, without shoes.
dogs bark from rib cages exposed,
as water boils on the stove.
the smell of time and elderly feet,
fans turn in paint peeled windows.
the old man tunes his guitar,
perched on the stoop like an owl.
with fingers gnarled he plays the blues,
his lips groan with pages burnt.
as love and whiskey intertwine,
and small children stare in awe.
the revolver waits beside the Bible,
and the picture yellowed with time.
while angels ride their demonic steeds,
with swords drawn and fiery eyes.
the court brought to order,
with the gavel's brassy thud.
as life stands before itself,
both executioner and savior.
small moments stolen by random kindnesses,
burn like candles in the darkened gloom.
and forever then is nothing more,
than fingers, chords, and pick.
when eternity tastes like whiskey's lips,
and curls in cigarette smoke.
who am i to suggest
this wisdom known by ants and snails.
that the voice of god is but the bark,
that the owl hears and understands.
and the clap of distant thunder,
perhaps not as far as it seems.
the anarchy of naked poverty,
in the tears that fall like rain.
and still the spicket drips in silent prayer,
the axe propped against the wall!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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