His Story
i asked him where he learned to write....
'tailing a saw in a sawmill,
milking cows, hoeing acres of garden,
building houses and interstate bridges,
dolphing cloth in the mills,
loading trucks and boxcars,
cutting wood, cooking on open fires,
drinking too much, giving too much,
fighting when i had to,
raising children, loving the same woman
for years, walking with my dog....'
he pulled out a smoke, and i joined him...
we watched the evening sun go down....
listening to his story....
poem by Eric Cockrell
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In Memory of an Old Man
he was an old man then...
6 foot 4, still strong
as an ox...
a carpenter...
and i was his helper;
building interstate bridges
in the south,
walking i-beams,
60 foot off the ground...
2.50 an hour!
we used to go
to his house
after work...
he'd scramble a dozen
eggs, or so...
and break out the sugarhead.
we'd spend hours
listening to him talk
about women, fighting,
loving, and just life!
carrying a sheet of plywood
on a windy day...
i wavered, one foot off the beam.
i felt his gnarled hand
grab my shoulder:
'you dont wanna go down there, boy! '
time has passed, and now i'm old...
and i see my daughters
wavering on the beam...
and i catch myself saying:
'you dont wanna go down there, girl! '
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Rings Of The Tree
the wrinkled skin of the old woman,
carries 70 years of loving and passion,
giving, touching, listening, and caring,
flowers planted and children birthed,
all night love making and all day working,
thankless simple acts of living...
bow down, and worship!
the blind old man's bruised hands,
built houses, furniture, fires...
fought for the right, prayed for forgiveness,
stroked the body of passion....
grew food, poured drinks,
taught the boy to whittle,
turned the pages of countless books...
kneel in respect!
and dammit... take care of them!
love them!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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City Of Worcester
Worcester, the city of noise,
Walking along these city streets,
Seeing people busy,
pacing,
Cracked city walks,
Aged city houses,
Beautiful city air, '
Never seems to be a minute to spare,
As cars stream along,
Cops and fire trucks pass down my street.
Loud children playing in the streets.
As I walk down the street of mine,
I hear parents yelling at their children.
Dogs barking as you walk by,
Houses that are old and crusty,
Men and women fighting.
This right here is the city I was born in.
The City Of Worcester!
poem by Cassandra Prew
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America, America...
i remember...
$1.55 an hour, furniture row,
55 hours a week.
getting up hay, milking cows,
and them cotton mills
we worked in...
family member to family member,
generations of workers.
no running water,
carrying buckets up the hill,
spiders on the outhouse wall.
the hoe, the shovel, and the plow.
reading by candle light,
and writing socialist manifestos
on a 1913 underwood typewriter!
making love in the front seat
of a 1966 Rambler Classic.
raising babies, raising hell,
renegade thoughts...
climbing mountains, picking music,
living, living, just living
and working!
America, America...
where did you go?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Small Town America
just an old southern
mill village.... cotton mills
on one side of the road,
furniture factories on the other.
momma worked there,
my sister worked there,
my brother worked there,
and i worked there....
$1.90 an hour, loading trucks
by hand, stacking rolls of cloth
eight feet high without a lift...
putting brackets on beds, or
running bandsaws....
hard hand work, paid every week.
all those buildings empty now....
windows boarded over, signs
falling.... rats run across haunted floors.
even the old gas station
down at the end of the road....
is closed.... no more gas,
no cigarettes, no cold beer.....
and the Sons Of Jesus,
and the Elk's Club quit sharing
the old dance building on the corner....
no one lives here anymore.....
no one lives, no one dies....
and the bum on the corner
that looks like your brother
has no name.... in
small town America!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The New Life
Ive burned my bridges
And Im free at last
All my chains are
In the past
The new life starts here
(I was trying to get happy
I thought it was hard
Until I found that
In my own back yard
The new life starts here)
The day is wide open
The sky is blue
The world is a miracle
And so are you
The new life starts here
My papers arrived
Stamped and complete
All previous dispatches
Are obsolete
The new life starts here
I can see my way so clear
Rejoice for...
The new life starts here
Theres a war in the gulf
But it aint in my head
I just declared a state of
Peace instead
The new life starts here
(tempters and tricksters
Banging at my door
Im not fighting with them
Anymore
The new life starts here
/
Users, abusers,
Banging at my door
Im not fighting with them
Anymore
The new life starts here
Tempsters and tricksters
Wondering how
To seize my attention
They cannot touch me now
The new life starts here)
Generals, presidents
How do you do?
I can make it with or
Without you
The new life starts here
I can see my way so clear
Rejoice for...
The new life starts here
Are you under the mercy?
Are you under attack?
Are you going forward?
Are you going back?
The new life starts here
(are you coming to grips?
Are you coming apart?
Are you listening to fear?
Or to your heart?
The new life starts here
/
Are you building heaven
Or are you building hell?
When that great day comes
Will you be able to tell?
The new life starts here)
Citizen, criminal, child
Woman or man
The keys to the kingdom
Are in your own hands
The new life starts here
(God of our love
Who ignited the sun
Not my will
But thine be done
The new life starts here)
Mock the devil
Make him sweat!
He hasnt won
The battle yet
The new life starts here
(a whole new age in seven more years
A brave new age in ten more years)
Rejoice for...
The new life starts here
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You'd Be Better Off
I no more care about what you think,
Than I choose to do it myself.
That's why I don't understand,
Why you go out of your way...
To give your opinion.
When you'd be better off,
Milking cows on a farm...
And feeding a horse hay.
Or giving me fifty dollars to go away.
And if you should go that far to do that...
You know I would agitate until I got more.
Especially when you open up those French doors,
For business like that?
I'd become atrtached like a mole on your back.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Colors Of Human!
hands black as soot,
my feet are red....
my eyes are green,
my hair turned grey.
my soul is Asian,
my spirit Native American....
my hard working dedication,
........Hispanic.....
my people come from Ireland,
and some from Africa....
anywhere where the persecuted,
.... cut and fled!
working in the fields,
the factories, and even the mines....
cutting wood, milking cows,
working for the man.
i am human!
and i'm damn tired
of being used!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Lost & Found Pt.2 - Found Child
A baby born into addiction,
Fighting for his life before it began.
Held by his mother just once in his life,
Then he is taken from her hands.
Taken to be given a chance
To be healthy outside and in.
A chance to grow big and strong,
Free from his mother's sins.
The child has a family now
And a very loving home.
They took him in for what he was
And raised him as their own.
Years have passed since his birth
And he questions who he really is.
Looking at his loving parents
He knows thier features are not his.
One night with the television on,
And his family sitting around,
The news man tells a story
Of a tragedy across town.
A woman found dead at home.
In her arm was a syringe.
The woman's picture flashed on screen
And made his mother cringe.
He could feel something too;
Some sort of strange connection.
Then he heard a soft whimper
Coming from his mom's direction.
He softly asked her what was wrong.
She couldn't look him in the eye.
She said I have someting to tell you son.
Then she began to cry.
All the questions you asked of us;
If you were ours, or another's.
You see, the woman who died tonight...
She was your true mother.
poem by Joseph A. Solis
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Mr. Nobody
there's a dead man
in a box down at the
funeral home... nobody
came to see...
but hell, nobody came
when he was alive....
nobody called, nobody wrote...
and Mr. Nobody went about
his days, doing what you do
to get by... cooking small meals,
and drinking black coffee....
watering his plants, walking
his dog, sitting in his chair....
staring at old photographs
of children grown and moved....
and of the woman he loved
for forty years... buried beneath
a tree down by the church...
now he lies in the box, still,
cold, and lifeless... no voices,
no tears.... his dog wandered off....
there's nobody to bury nobody
in the world where nobody lived
and died...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Railroads And Riverboats
The railroads, and the riverboats, that bred the mighty man
That we read about, and we dream about
The men who built this land
And the farmers and the lumbermen and the men who worked the mills
And the poor hard working miners
Who died inside the hills
While the rivers that flow
Are the blood of our land
And the trucks they keep rumbling
On the great concrete band
And the railroads keep pushing
To be all they once were
And nature is calling
No one's listening to her
And the immigrants, by the boat load, in a dozen different tones
Sang of freedom, in the new land
Climbed the ladder rung by rung
Some to Boston, some to Pittsburg, Philidelphia and St. Paul
And the old ways, led to new days
They were welcome one and all.
While the rivers that flow
Are the blood of our land
And the trucks they keep rumbling
On the great concrete band
And the railroads keep pushing
To be all they once were
And nature is calling
No one's listening to her
With the railroads, and the riverboats, and the bread lines far behind
And the days we sang together
Long gone but still in mind
And the men who, came before us, men who brought us to today
And the story, still unravels, from the dreams of yesterday
While the rivers that flow
Are the blood of our land
And the trucks they keep rumbling
On the great concrete band
And the railroads keep pushing
To be all they once were
And nature is calling
No one's listening to her
And nature is calling,
No one's listening to her
song performed by by Jim Croce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Flanders
Flanders, the name of a place, a country of people,
Spells itself with letters, is written in books.
"Where is Flanders?" was asked one time,
Flanders known only to those who lived there
And milked cows and made cheese and spoke the home language.
"Where is Flanders?" was asked.
And the slang adepts shot the reply: Search me.
A few thousand people milking cows, raising radishes,
On a land of salt grass and dunes, sand-swept with a sea-breath on it:
This was Flanders, the unknown, the quiet,
The place where cows hunted lush cuds of green on lowlands,
And the raw-boned plowmen took horses with long shanks
Out in the dawn to the sea-breath.
Flanders sat slow-spoken amid slow-swung windmills,
Slow-circling windmill arms turning north or west,
Turning to talk to the swaggering winds, the childish winds,
So Flanders sat with the heart of a kitchen girl
Washing wooden bowls in the winter sun by a window.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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A Cows Rear Leg (Fun Poem 57)
A cowbell sounds for milking time,
a milkmaid on her three-legged stool,
remembering all the time that golden rule.
Never get behind a cows rear leg
as it could give you a nasty bump.
A jet of milk fires into the bucket
as she caresses the utter teats
with her soft hands.
Always watchful and wary
of the cows rear leg.
29 January 2008
poem by David Harris
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What I Learned From Loving You
Sometimes I still think of you
Love thats gone by and the things that I do.
Time heals hearts, so they all say
Passing of years slowly pulls the pain away
Oh, theres still a little tenderness
Left in everything I do
Its what I learned from loving you.
Its what I learned from loving you.
Times have changed, I have changed too
Even my eyes turned a deeper shade of blue
I guess its all that crying we went through
Its what I learned from loving you.
Its what I learned from loving you.
Well, I had too much to learn
To hold on to someone like you
It took losing you to make me see
The man you needed me to be.
I dont cry though were apart
And some day soon someone else
Will need this heart
Oh, next time Im gonna know
When a love is true
Its what I learned from loving you.
Its what I learned from loving you...
song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I write
I write and imagine
and create my own story
and what I think I write down
without anybody being able to stop me
and there’s a knight clothed in steel
who’s finished fighting and unsaddles his horse.
I write and imagine
and make everybody’s story
of peace descending to earth,
children honouring their parents,
being exemplary and prepared to study,
but reality is cruel and naked
and I write and imagine.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Woman
i look into your eyes
and i still see.... the most
beautiful woman that ever lived.
i still see... fire and rain,
the soft touch of a hand,
the laughing pajama dance...
i still see... the mama who watched
with passionate dedication...
the woman who made love
in the dirt...
the smell, the touch, the feel....
listening to dylan and tom petty,
taking in stray cats.... walking the dogs...
the woman who gets mad, can be
tender and sentimental... who
cooked for her dad and me....
and put up with us while we watched
john wayne yet again....
the girl i walked off with
to find a tomorrow....
the woman i believe in...
the woman i still love....
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Lantern
he lit his lantern and
walked out on the porch,
with his old dog
by his side....
he could see the wind
walking through the trees,
wrapped in the stillness
and comfort of darkness...
how long had it been?
25 cents a gallon gasoline,
Marlboros,25 cents a pack!
working all week for 55 dollars....
sawmills, factories, milking cows,
a hoe and a gallon jar of water.
hanging the gears on his old truck...
cold beer, making love all night....
civil unrest and high ideals,
bulletproof, with a taste for danger.
then the children came... working
more for less... till he became invisible....
and the world careened into madness,
enough was never enough....
and all his dreams fell to dust.....
the wings of the eagle rusted.
standing alone, with his dog,
peering into the night....
listening to whispering ghosts....
listening... for the voice of love....
for the sound of his
own heart beating!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Irving's Botany
He was a teacher,
but, I wonder if he taught me,
or I learned, against my will,
what he intended?
Make no mistake - - -
I learned some things from him,
even some of what he meant,
but, not enough to make him,
ever feel fulfilled, I think.
He was a teacher,
but, more of a professor,
professing attitudes at school kids,
that most of us weren't ready for quite yet.
All that being said,
I learned some real things,
weather I intended to, or not...
I still got taught!
... NOW... That's a teacher!
Maybe it was pounded into,
my somewhat solid head,
- - - but, the fact that some got in there,
is a testament to him.
The education system does presume,
that everyone progresses as predicted,
... according to a schedule,
that everyone pretends to...
... but, no one understands.
That is a great idea for cutting cookies,
Henry Ford adapted that so brilliantly,
when it came to building cars,
- - - But, when it comes to building people,
- - - it is a terrible idea!
A mother's soon forgotten pain,
along with loving efforts,
winds up with vague disdain,
in a teenage child's garden,
where unremembered lessons,
turn into major league rebellion,
for reasons that nobody understands,
... or ever wants to now remember,
of themselves when they recall,
when they were youngsters lost in hormones!
Still somehow, lack of wisdom,
makes them wag the index finger,
at their progeny...
with predictable results.
The only hope is that some teacher,
somewhere along the way,
casts the proper fertilizer,
and causes your wayward seed,
to be a bloom in the bright sunshine,
in the garden of humanity.
poem by Barry Van Allen
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Children Speak To Children Do You
women raging against
men; of
men loving
off men; of
wo/men; loving off
women listening to
wo/men, because
children don't have mind
between/two because
wo/men move
on, because
wo/men haven't learned
how to
listen, to hear
listen, now to your ear
children speak as
children; do!
poem by Is It Poetry
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Always Walking, Never Alone!
always walking, never alone...
be it the wind,
whose voice has comforted me
for longer than i can remember.
be it darkness,
my lover, passion unfolding.
be it the lights in unknown houses,
signaling life to the traveller.
be it the whisper of stone,
and wood aging and holding.
be it the cry of emptiness,
vacant buildings, desolate streets.
be it the smells of food cooking,
of woodsmoke, of flesh on flesh.
be it the taste of rain,
the cold touch of falling snow.
be it the stillness of graves,
row upon row, life upon life.
my god walks with me,
naked in the night.
we listen for the whimper of babies,
the meow of stray cats.
for the sound of the shot,
and the body falling.
for the key turning the lock,
and the creaking of the swing.
for the perfume of the pines,
for the man picking up the trash.
for the heart moaning
low and gutteral in need.
for the sound of the man weeping,
having given up,
and the woman that holds him.
for the prayers of small children,
and the echoes of longing...
always walking, never alone!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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