I Am (Justice)
i am, become...
i am the African slave
working in the deep Mississippi sun;
his eyes, his muscles, his back, his heart,
all shouting 'freedom'...
i am the college student,
hanging from a tree
in the sixties south,
who died for his conviction...
i am the minister
who joined the protest for peace,
dignity, and equality,
his face bashed in by the officer's club,
handcuffed in the back of the van...
i am the turning of the seasons
through prison bars,
the watered down coffee,
the tiny cell.
i am the one ridiculed and rundown
by the conservative righteous right,
for standing up for individual rights.
i am the young family left stranded
on food stamps and unemployment checks,
their future teetering...
i am the illegal immigrant beaten
in the Arizona desert,
left to die by the side of the road....
i am the working poor,
the honest and true,
driven to desperation...
i am hard and coiled,
i am America crying out for justice, , ,
i am, become...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Related quotes
Lost In The Sixties...
forever lost in the sixties...
in the passions, the ideals,
the cries for peace and equality,
for human dignity,
and no more wars.
the music, the poetry,
the communal lifestyle...
but the deaths were many.
assassinations, Hoover style.
and those lost to heroin,
who fell off the edge.
thousands killed in Vietnam,
you'd think we would have learned...
but life went on,
the wheel kept turning.
50 years later,
two more wars,
not to mention invasions.
things worse than ever before.
we who survived became
the very thing that we hated!
we closed our eyes,
fell victim to the greed.
again crying out,
for peace and equality,
for human dignity,
and for human rights.
the earth dying,
because of our decisions.
we who became islands
seeking to fulfill the self,
now must cling to each other,
and become family again.
standing against the lies,
the propaganda, and the money machine...
singing songs of peace
with bloody hands.
lost in the sixties,
but very much here in the 21st century...
the last stand of freedom,
in a world gone mad!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Who Bears The Guilt.... (In The End)
i close my eyes and go back...
sixties angry churning deep south,
to the old oak tree in the clearing.
where two bodies hung side by side;
one young black man, local,
one young jewish man,
who came from the north to protest.
both stripped naked, badly beaten,
whose sins did they die for?
black and white Jesus's,
neath a guilt ridden limb...
whose crown of thorns?
and who will roll away the stone?
45 years later,
a couple lines in the news.
a young gay man hanging from a rafter.
the victim of bullying and discrimination.
will we never learn?
how many Jesus's?
how many crosses?
in the end... who bears the guilt?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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State Of The Union (In Closing)
we, the working people
of America, demand our dignity!
we demand equality, and fairness!
we are all immigrants here!
yet no human being is illegal.
we demand the right to work,
and to educate our children.
we demand shelter, and healthcare!
we are a hard working, hard fighting
people... we demand a
hard working, hard fighting President!
we know that you are limited
by the hand of the controlling elite,
at the mercy of the corporate machine.
dont be just a figurehead.
your choice!
freedom is a work in progress.
the real revolution is in
the human heart, in the mind.
we are ready for change,
and willing to act.
be ready, and willing!
there are no small people,
we are all people.
we will not be owned!
we cannot go back to the
bigoted, ignorant ways of the past.
you are our best option,
be the man!
most of all, we demand the action
that follows words well spoken.
be the action!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Liberty... (Dont Betray Me Now!)
Liberty...
dont betray me now.
i have paid your price,
in bodies burning,
and mouths that tremble.
in toil and struggle,
in sweat and faith.
take not thy hand from my heart,
for you have spoken to me with eyes.
eyes that see the beauty
of the common, and simple.
eyes that drink equality,
seeing hands joined in darkened rooms.
eyes that pray common prayers.
who am i to have a face?
who are these faces,
giving dignity to names?
history written in warm blood,
on the farmhouse walls,
on the factory floors,
in the carpenter's apron!
i am the voice of what should have been...
what could have been!
i am family handed down to family,
i am equity and justice.
i am the black hand taking down
the all white sign...
i am the horses of Crazy Horse,
Sitting Bull, and Cochise.
i am the mill worker's only son,
going to college.
i am the daughter of the minister,
marching for women's rights.
i am the young man in prison,
teaching himself to read!
i am the sound
of machines shut down,
of fields left unplowed,
of courtrooms empty.
i am the bodies of the young men,
killed in your napalm wars...
i am the mother and father,
burying their only son.
i am the rage of the poor,
with calloused hands torn.
i am the housing projects,
the trailer parks,
and the prisons full.
i am the cities gone mad,
with despair and grief.
i am the spirit of rebellion,
and the body of revolution!
i am the scientist, the doctor,
the preacher, and the drunkard.
i am the free thinker,
daring to question.
i am the man alone,
who dares to stand and defy.
i am the voices of the grandfathers,
and grandmothers,
crying out from their graves.
i am the migrant worker,
the bedpan emptier,
the garbage man,
and the small town sheriff...
the stink of injustice,
and the vote not counted.
Liberty, o Liberty,
turn not your face...
for i am the breath and the blood,
that moves your body!
i am the prayer too long unprayed...
one hand in a fist,
and the other left open!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Hanging Tree.... (What Do We Call It...)
down through the woods
to the clearing where
the hanging tree stood...
sometimes you can still see
the shadows of ghosts,
swinging in the hot summer sun...
now the tree has been cut,
and time has passed,
yet the air's still heavy with guilt.
do we know more?
are we more civilized?
or have we just changed trees,
and gotten better rope?
what do we call the young men
sent to die in the oil wars...
the young people stuck
in the gang ridden slums?
the bullied ones who lose hope?
the illegal immigrants who die for work?
the young couple stuck on unemployment
and food stamps?
the elderly couple evicted
cause they cant afford the rent?
the Muslim family afraid to go out at night?
the gay couple in love who cant get married?
the young children without a father?
the millions strung out on pills?
what do we call it,
if we dont call it hanging?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Love Working On You
(jim collins/craig wiseman)
You woke up this morning
Changes were taking place
You looked in the mirror
A smile was all over your face
cause out of nowhere
Someone was there
Who dared to climb
Those walls you made
Its exciting, a little frightening
But girl dont you be afraid
Thats just the love working
Love working on you
Thats just the love working
Working on pulling you through
Cant even remember
All the sorrow that you left behind
Its a brand new day
Theres a bright new way
And your tears have turned into wine
You never forget
When your eyes met
Or just how clearly you could see
Where the turns are deep in your heart
That lead you to believe
Thats just the love working
Love working on you
Thats just the love working
Working on pulling you through
All of the while you felt forsaken
And all of the while
Loves been waiting, waiting
Suddenly you see how it could be
If we all only felt this way
And for a while girl you can see this world
Looking through the eyes of fate
Thats just the love working
Love working on you
Thats just the love working
Working on pulling you through
Thats just the love working
Love working on you
Thats just the love working
Working on pulling you through
Thats just the love working on you
Thats just the love working
Working on pulling you through
song performed by by John Michael Montgomery
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Did I?
did i vote for the man
who sent the plane
that dropped the bombs
on the family kneeling together
in a tiny dwelling?
did i?
did i pump the gas
to drive around town
that sent the army
to invade a small country,
rich in oil....
well, did i?
did i waste the paper
that came from the tree,
the whole forest cut down....
that left the earth bare,
and choking for air....
did i?
did i throw out the food
left on my plate,
while near and far
whole families are starving.....
without a thought...
did i?
did i turn my head
as i hurried to work,
and missed the family stranded,
their car broke down
on the side of the road...
did i?
did i fail to hear
what the woman, hysterical,
and lost was saying....
as i said the 'right words',
and patted her on the back....
well, did i?
in the court of compassion,
when only the truth remains...
who bears the guilt....
will i?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Taming
when younger & full of life,
idealistic with fist in the air,
hell bent on changing the world
with a communicative heart
whose capacity to give &
care for those around her/him
seemed without need to ever
replenish,
the thought that an institution
whose front seemed to be legit,
whose will to instill knowledge in
the population of those willing
seemed pure & true,
never seemed to register.
so onto college went the aspiring
world-changer,
doing all they could to study hard
to be involved in the community
to picket when needed, to protest
when driven, and on and on went
the wonderful world of
hope,
until
graduation.
now the taming came when the
bills started to clock in,
for the job promised by the admin
staff in the human resources dept.
at the college,
just wasn't there, when the student
got out,
so the scramble to climb back up the
tree trunk,
in order to get back in that academic
nest,
began-
but this time, the stress of life on the outside
forced the individual to be scrapping for a
way to pay the rent while also
applying to a grad school &
the new dual distribution of energy
just didn't pan out like it used to,
because the student had been
off the wagon,
so to speak.
in attaining a job to pay the bills,
without health insurance or
permanent status promised,
the lies began to show their face &
the idealistic student now became the
angry individual
whose whole attempt to become a
'better citizen'
had been shown to be an ordeal
not really worth having unless one
wants to be a slave to the loan companies &
therefore, a slave to the established status quo
of indifferent self-struggle,
which became par for the course
when the taming began.
now, without time to get out in the streets,
as there had been,
political motivation to change the world
morphs into a combination of
dissatisfaction with the slow outcomes &
a sense of failure in many different spheres-
now out of the academic loop &
locked into the work force,
the tamed, frustrated,
slave to the system
bows down their head to offer up their mind to the
chopping block &
uncle sam raises up the axe,
until down it comes thrashing
with all the glory of a good, solid,
decapitation.
poem by Andrew Delapruch
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True Soldier
You're off in war
While the love of your life is here
Be sure to come back
Be sure to come back for her
Don't forget the sights of our U.S.A.
The freedoms along with every privilege
Every privilege
Every privilege
(chorus)
You're fighting for freedom
You're fighting for rights
You're fighting to keep America in sight
Fighting for freedom
Fighting for rights
Fighting to keep my America in sight
Our affection is w/ you along w/ our pride
Keep us alive
Keep us alive
the tattoo on your arm reminds you of death
And friends who have died
The friend who has died
(chorus)
You're fighting for freedom
You're fighting for rights
You're fighting to keep America in sight
Fighting for freedom
Fighting for rights
Fighting to keep my America in sight
Down on her knees your mom prays for you
She's begging the Lord to bring you home safe
Come home safe
Please come home safe
Fly in the sky w/ all of your crew
Don't close your eyes the enemy stays true
You know what they can do
You know what they can do
(chorus)
You're fighting for freedom
You're fighting for rights
You're fighting to keep America in sight
Fighting for freedom
Fighting for rights
Fighting to keep my America in sight
*song for my amazing uncle overseas right now
The Future Is The Children's
The future is the children's and I am of the past
And I too had my young years but nothing ever last
On looking back the Seasons how quickly the years have gone
Old age is fast approaching and the clock ticks on and on.
The future is the children's the children of today
They have the gift of youth with them though youth with them won't stay
On looking back decades from now when time has left them slow
They will wonder as I do where did the years to go.
The years are catching up one me and time has left me gray
And the future is the children's that would be true to say
The people in their sixties are running out of time
And few of them will be living when today's children are in their prime.
The future is the children's and to them alone belong
And those who will tell you differently have somehow got it wrong
But the hands of time keep turning and time on none does wait
And all of us are branded with an invisible use by date.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Sound Of Wings.....
from the bars of the cell,
i learned freedom from the body.
from the underside of the bridge,
i learned home has not a house.
from forty years of working,
i learned the bitterness of the slave.
from the political lies,
i learned that truth cant be bought.
from the books i read,
i learned to reason and question.
from the heroin needle,
i learned the value of life.
from love lost,
i learned how to love.
from doubt i learned seeking,
in seeking i found god to be more.
from the scars on my heart,
i learned to be a man.
from battles fought and lost,
i learned the need for peace.
from discrimination i learned equality,
from anger i learned forgiveness.
from the mirror i learned responsibility...
from the bars of the cell,
i learned the sound of wings!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Living Wage!
a living wage....
seems like not so much
to ask... after 40 years
of
...working
.....daylight
.........to
...........dusk....
feeding someone elses dream...
America the great,
...America the fallen,
can
...you
.....not hear?
can
...you
.....not
.......feel?
the men and women
that built your highways,
your cities and towns...
worked your mills,
your factories, your farms,
are crying out!
we have to eat too!
we need shelter!
we need hope!
honest hard working people...
is this
...how you
......pay us back?
do you remember our names?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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O My Soul...
where have you gone,
o my soul...
where have you gone?
are you lost in the tears
of a thousand faces
blackened by hunger?
in the cries of the dying?
of the homeless?
in the defiant feet
of those standing in line?
the unemployment line?
the soup line?
the line just outside
the prison walls?
in the lover left desperate,
who takes his own life?
in the students beaten,
who stood up for freedom?
in the young man hated,
for the color of his skin?
in the young woman sold
on the lonesome street corner?
in the windowless offices
where lives and deaths are decided?
in the hole behind the gun,
eyes hard as steel?
in the bare apartment,
where the children are cold and hungry?
on the corner, 'neath the bridge,
in the back of the car?
where have you gone,
o my soul...
where have you gone?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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All The Same!
i am the illegal immigrant,
picking your fruit.
while my children are hungry,
and my wife scrubs your floors.
the young black man in your prison,
the anger of the poor.
i am the books,
you forbid us to read.
i am the Vietnamese family,
whose children speak english.
the young Sioux poet,
whose words sound like tears.
i am the white man's reservation,
and the white man's god....
the sound of the gas pump,
the feet of soldiers marching to death.
i am the grandson of the miner,
who never came out.
the body of the union organizer,
buried beneath rubble.
i am the picket line,
the cold floor of the cell.
i am the old woman who died,
alone in her nursing home bed.
the sound of the church bells,
on midnight's empty streets.
i am the needle and the crack pipe,
the sound of the window breaking.
i am the whistle of the train,
so near and so far.
i am the child adopted,
by two women in love.
i am the mission, the soup line,
and the shelter....
the body in the alley,
and no one cares.
i am the song of America,
i am the wind of freedom.
i am the torch of justice,
the bridge that has no name.
i am the god of many colors,
and all the same!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Deep Level Concern
deep level concern;
our own national parks
used as collateral
on loans from China!
water rights to the Great Lakes,
and other bodies of water here...
sold to China!
our jobs, Joe blue collar working
families.... sold to China!
our oil profiteer wars,
financed by China!
sleeping with the country
with the worst human rights record,
dancing with the devil!
and now, our own police forces
committing acts of violence
and oppression against Americans!
against American people protesting,
standing up for freedom and equality!
standing against the profiteers!
reacting the same way,
and with the same types of oppression,
as China!
our rights,
...our freedom,
......our dignity.
even our rights to work and survive....
sold to....
.....and even worse,
...........sold by!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Snail Crossing..... (Part Thirteen)
i've never had any desire to be rich....
like millions of people...
all i've asked is the right to work,
to have food and shelter for my family,
to have just a little time
to do what matters to me...
to be honest and giving,
to celebrate tiny moments,
to love and be loved,
and to go deep inside, and search.
determined to help anyone i can,
in whatever small way...
always willing to listen,
always ready to learn.
working every moment to be open minded,
taking responsibility for my mistakes,
and my failures...
drunk on the act of living,
at peace,
both with life, and with death.
honored to be a friend,
to have companions...
and to fight every day,
to make this dream become real.
angered by hunger,
prejudice and indifference.
moment by moment becoming aware,
chanting equality and dignity....
and most of all, human!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Our Brother John
He left Ireland in nineteen fifty two
Our brother John the man I barely knew
He was the eldest of the family
And the Homeland he was never more to see.
In life our brother John he journeyed far
He lived through peace time and he lived through war
In Korea with the Air Force of the U.S.A.
Far distant from the fields of Claraghatlea.
One of my sisters Mary wrote to me
She said our brother died with dignity
In death as in his life he showed his bravery
And at least now of his sufferings he's free.
Our brother John left two sons and a wife
And he worked hard all of his working life
Only in his sixties he seemed young to die
He was my hero when I was a boy.
From Millstreet thousands of sea miles away
Our brother John in a distant graveyard lay
And though I'd not seen him for more than thirty years
The news of his passing reduced me to tears.
He was the quiet man never spoke too loud
And of our brother John we felt so proud
In his death from his sufferings he found his release
And may he rest forevermore in peace.
poem by Francis Duggan
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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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The Workaholic
He retired from his job on his sixty fifth birthday
But he did not enjoy the work free life
And he died just nine months into his retirement
To be mourned by his family and his wife.
It has been said he was a workaholic
And that he was one who worked as hard as two
And he felt bored without a job to go to
And he pined away as many like him do.
His problem was he did not have a hobby
And a working life the life he loved and knew
A good man for his wife and family and his Country
But good men just like bad men must die too.
For forty seven years he worked for the same employers
And to the end to his bosses was true
His parting gift from them a wrist watch and box of chocolates
And a well done and a shake hands and thank you.
He must have been one who truly liked his bosses
To have worked for them for forty seven years
His last day on the job it was his saddest
And as he left he fought to choke the tears.
His problem was that he did not have a hobby
And he only lived for each working day
And when he left the workforce in his sixties
He fell into ill health and pined away.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Mississippi Lady
Written by - Jim Croce
With just a sleeping bag and an old guitar
I left the band in New Orleans
I did some time with the bottle, some with the river queens
I never thought I would meet a girl
Who could turn my head around
Till I met that Mississippi Lady in sleepy Gulfport town, she was a
Chorus:
Mississippi Lady
My lovin' Gulfport gal
She taught me how to love
And she really loved me well
She took me up to heaven
Then she brought me down
That Mississippi Lady, Sweet Cordelia Brown
Hot July in Gulfport
And I was working in the bars
And she was working on the street
With the rest of the evening stars
She said, I never met a guy
Who could turn my head around
And that's really sayin' something
For Sweet Cordelia Brown
She was a
Chorus
Now I'm back in New York City
Playin' in a band
But my mind's on Mississippi
Is it hard to understand
I never thought I would meet a girl
Who could bring me that far down
Like the girl I met in Gulfport
Sweet Cordelia Brown
She was a
Chorus
That Mississippi Lady, Sweet Cordelia Brown
song performed by by Jim Croce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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