I Am... (Bottomless Pool)
i am...
the bottomless pool
at the foot of the cliff,
the moment just before dawn.
the broken window
of the abandoned house,
the tire swing casting shadows.
i am the eyes of god
in the crickets' song,
the shovel caked with dirt.
i am the thrust of the pelvis,
and the death of the soul,
the unseen sweeper of hearts.
i am the tongue that evolves,
the fish that walk on land.
i am the drumbeat of lives remembered.
i am the child we cannot return to,
and the grave waiting in stillness.
i am the crash of ideas,
the eater of thoughts.
i am seaweed in the mouth of the thinker.
i am ears that pray,
and fists that repent,
i am the mark of Cain.
i am the lover your heart desires,
the face of smoke and incense.
i am the cross, and borrowed wings,
i am the webbed feet of ancient longing.
i am the sinner, and the sin,
i am the whole man picking up pieces.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Hiding From The Broom!
i walk the paths of stillness
into the setting sun...
in the company of dead poets,
and a few mongrel dogs.
we come to a clearing,
and gather wood for a fire,
waiting on the night spirits to join us.
my hands are broken,
they cling to nothing and no one.
i see with my ears,
and listen with my eyes.
my soul rhymed by darkness
dissolves into dust,
while crickets chant eternity.
i return to an empty house,
curtains pulled, door flung open.
lighting a candle, i sit on the floor,
waiting for death, or morning.
only then i notice the spider,
candlelight tracing the web in the corner.
and in this moment i knew,
of such am i!
a moment, a corner,
my heart just a web...
waiting on love,
while hiding from the broom!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Borrowed
borrowed shirts, borrowed shoes,
borrowed books, borrowed thoughts,
borrowed bed, borrowed lover,
borrowed dreams, borrowed salt.
borrowed children, borrowed mothers,
borrowed study, borrowed lives.
borrowed God, borrowed heaven,
borrowed killers with borrowed knives.
borrowed flags, borrowed lies,
borrowed virtue, borrowed freedom.
borrowed bombs, borrowed bullets,
borrowed puppets, borrowed kingdoms.
borrowed soup bowls, borrowed numbers,
borrowed tents, borrowed bridge.
borrowed hope, borrowed survival,
borrowed till it's sacrilige!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Seaweed Shovelling Song
This is my seaweed shovelling song
Ive been shovelling all day long
Ive got got my seaweed shovel in hand
Because Im a seaweed shovelling man
Green weed, red weed, still alive and dead weed
Lying in a pile on the shore
Brown weed, pink weed, smelly kind of stink weed
Who on earth could ask for more!
This is my seaweed shovelling song
Ive been shovelling all day long
Ive got got my seaweed shovel in hand
Because Im a seaweed shovelling man
Dry weed, wet weed, aint-been-troubled-yet weed
Glinting in the morning sun
Thin weed, thick weed, slimy kind of slick weed
Every bucket weighs a ton!
This is my seaweed shovelling song
Ive been shovelling all day long
Ive got got my seaweed shovel in hand
Because Im a seaweed shovelling
Seaweed shovelling
Seaweed shovelling
Seaweed shovelling man!
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Optical illusion
eyes see everything what the heart feels, for
only the eyes tell the meaning of the heart, nay
the soul reveals what the heart defines that
the window of the soul, is the illusion of the eyes
all, that is described of the eyes, would mean, so
real and true, yet! illusion, sway the truth that all
is just a beginning of everything, a deception that
leads us to nothing
as life believe on something, which touches human
experiences, and the struggle to win, every feeling to
see the meaning of what is real, the emotion fills
the heart, that defines the significance of life
eyes satisfy the inner value of the heart, but the
soul purified the incense of the immortality of eternity,
all that we have seen, create something that may
brings us to blindness of the gift of life
an illusion of optical lens that break us into a pieces of
broken heart, an array of souls into a limbo of nowhere
to live, a place of every nuts cross between fingers, a
darkest moment in our soul
leave no doubt in our hearts, open your soul, don't let
your chance to allure, what the eyes see, rather take the
best in you, feel it in your heart and let the soul surf the
excellent of what is meaningful in your life
move on..... never give up.... your heart can find it......
poem by Antonio Liao
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Life Is Just A Tire Swing
By: jimmy buffett
1974
I remember the smell of the creosote plant
When wed have to eat on easter with my crazy old uncle and aunt
They lived in a big house, antebellum style (antebellum)
And the winds would blow across the old bayou
And I was a tranquil little child
Chorus:
Life was just a tire swing
jambalaya was the only song I could sing
Blackberry pickin, eatin fried chicken
And I never knew a thing about pain
Life was just a tire swing
In a few summers my folks packed me off to camp
Yeah me and my cousin baxter in our pup tent with a lamp
And in a few days baxter went home and he left me by myself
But I knew that Id stay, it was better that way
And I could get along without any help
Chorus:
Life was just a tire swing
jambalaya was the only song I could sing
Chasin after sparrows with rubber-tipped arrows
Knowin I could never hurt a thing
Life was just a tire swing (tire swing)
And I never been west of new orleans or east of pensacola
My only contact with the outside world was an rca victrola
And elvis would sing and then Id dream about expensive cars
And who wouldve figured twenty years later
Id be rubbin shoulders with the stars
Life was just a tire swing
Then the other mornin on some illinois road
I fell asleep at the wheel
But was quickly wakened up by a ma bell telephone pole
And a bunch of grant wood faces screamin is he still alive?
Through the window I could see it hangin from a tree
And I knew that I had survived
And life is still a tire swing
jambalaya is the best song I can sing
Blackberry pickin, eatin fried chicken
But I finally learned a lot about pain
Life is just a tire swing (tire swing)
Life was just a tire swing (tire swing)
Life was just a tire swing (tire swing)
Life was just a tire swing (tire swing)
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Port of Tuban
At the mouth of the river overlooking the Java Sea
You tie up your boat
Near the gate
You jump to the horse without a saddle
Trains in the car park inn
The coachman, while the horses were fed
The coachman chatting in the coffee shop, while smoking
Accompanied-svelte svelte, swing-swing and talk Nudity
Delicate fingers thrusting cupcake
China steam wine, glasses handed the svelte
Mingle with tobacco smoke
Swirl by kitchen smoke
affair with the roof of the hall wuwungan
interim pastor
The pupil burned incense and incense
while reciting prayers to Goddess Durga
Shiva's wife
As a prayer for Ancient Desires
Does not know age
Not familiar with the space and time
Because of that desire
Maya sheer
World of shadows
Maya world
poem by Prasetya Utama
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Unread
Unread the faces in the street
That cross and cross the path
Where they meet, and do not meet
The eyes unseen
There, there are windows without souls
But two feet mark the spot
And on they go
casting their lot beneath them
Like an afterthought
Can you see the lines in her skin?
See the colour fading from his hair?
The old lady in the street who talks to her imaginary friend?
The lover and the stranger
Share the same seat in the park
Exchanging looks and numbers
The old man with a parting centrefold
'I grow old I grow old'
Do you see these unseen things?
The automatic gestures?
The tarnished rings?
The bell that tolls?
Ringing in the godless?
Ringing in the godly?
They all share the same seat
Break bread
But do not speak
Or see
The wonder of their skin
The same blood shared
The same hunger
Just beneath the all seeing
Unseen eye
The window without a soul
The souless window
All pressing in
crossing paths
line upon line
Written on skin
faces without maps
Feet without direction
catching the last bus home
After 'callling time'
So much crowding in
So much being alone
yvette smith june 09
poem by Yvette Smith
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In this house of pain
In this house of pain
We’re nothing but slaves
Giving into such desires
Will it bring us any pleasure?
Weeping for a lover lost
She’ll cast her own spell
Deprived by all
Depleting the life of everyone that has betrayed her
Hidden in the shadows is where she will feel alive
In this house
Is nothing but sinners?
In this house
Is nothing but broken promises?
In this house
Is where you left me for dead?
Walking through the fogged trees
Blind to all
The songs of old
Are here for the comfort of all.
Beneath the garden of secrets
Hides a lonely heart
Calling to her lover
From which she had to part.
I am alone again.
Alone with my thoughts
That I am left to ponder upon
I am alone again.
This sadness is overwhelming
And all I can do is give in
Does my heart still beat the same?
Or does it die along with you
These thoughts seem to keep me sane
Yet I’m still waiting for more
These memories seem to play a game
And in the end
I’m here to give in
In this house
Is nothing but heartache?
In this house
Is nothing but tears?
In this house
Is where you left me broken?
The feelings seem to fade
The laughter was lost long ago
But I would give everything up
Just to have it all back
In this house
Was when I first fell in love with you?
In this house is were I gave my heart to you
In this house was where i was lost to you.
This will be our doing
This will be our destruction
Swept up in such blissful dreams
Scarcely unaware
This is the house
Were we will rot forever?
poem by Teigan Klippel
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Perhaps Then... (Not A Man)
perhaps then, i am not a man....
i am the creek hidden
deep in the woods,
singing the hymn of rocks,
and stillness.
i am the gun laid down,
for the last time,
by the conscience of discontent.
i am the cry of the child,
born into a hungry world,
the eyes of the mother,
defying hope!
i am the snail that dances,
the deep growl of the dog,
i am firewood, cut and stacked,
in waiting.
i am the kiss of the chapter,
you read again and again...
i am the crossroads,
devoid of signs.
i am the headstone faded
by a hundred years,
the old chair rocking by itself.
i am the lamp left on,
the door that creaks,
the breeze that knows your hidden name.
i am the tongue unlocking
passions not yet defined,
that you didnt even know you had.
i am boots in the corner,
that dance to the beat,
awaiting feet, as if a lover.
i am a new set of strings,
on the old guitar,
the sound hidden inside of music.
i am the language of birds,
the sign on the forehead.
i am sin undressed and intimate.
i am smoke from the chimney,
of the abandoned house,
the tin roof electric with rain.
i am nothing a hundred times made over,
the crease in the blanket,
the indention on the pillow....
i am the grunt of god revealed,
and the shovel of eternity!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Pray For Darkness...
i pray for darkness...
wrapping splintered lights
in perfected stillness...
stillness that heals
without questioning
why or who!
stillness that sings,
with every pulse of blood
through bodies worn...
stillness that redeems,
bringing the searcher
to his final destination...
stillness that removes,
the cross, , the crown of thorns,
lays down the shield of honor...
stillness that fills,
the empty cup, the box forgotten,
bringing the lover
to the lips of longing...
spilling his passion
on the fertile earth!
i pray for darkness,
removing all graven images,
the power of the formless
to form again and again...
i pray for darkness,
the moonlit touch forbidden,
the lover's cry, the wolfen howl,
the mystic taste of that which
cannot be seen... but felt!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Mark R. Slaughter
Just like the dahlia
Death comes in all its beauty
And so I stroke her petals
Push my feet root-deep
Into the composted soil
As weary clouds unite
Coalesce
Darken through the greys
In preparation
Incontinence prevails
Lachrymose in empathy
They cry for me
Sharing tears
Mortality brings
As twilight closes
I rot
(They fade)
To be the plant
(They'll water)
I, denomination Mark R. Slaughter
Struggle thro' my fantasy
To seal the state of mind
That I of soul
Remain eternal
Back on the windowsill
A daffodil stretches
From a bulbous foot
Flirts like a ballerina
STOPS
Wonders of the world
My cat hears the brassy thoughts
From yellow trumpet
Pricks up his ears
Iridescent eyes
Focussed on the future
I'll wait
For his appraisal
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2012
A Trail of Death
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death death death death death death death death death death death
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Abbot Of Innisfallen
The Abbot of Innisfallen
awoke ere dawn of day;
Under the dewy green leaves
went he forth to pray.
The lake around his island
lay smooth and dark and deep,
And wrapt in a misty stillness
the mountains were all asleep.
Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac
when the dawn was dim and gray;
The prayers of his holy office
he faithfully 'gan say.
Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac
while the dawn was waxing red;
And for his sins' forgiveness
a solemn prayer he said:
Low kneel'd that holy Abbot
while the dawn was waxing clear;
And he pray'd with loving-kindness
for his convent-brethren dear.
Low kneel'd that blessed Abbot
while the dawn was waxing bright;
He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland,
he pray'd with all his might.
Low kneel'd that good old Father
while the sun began to dart;
He pray'd a prayer for all men,
he pray'd it from his heart.
His blissful soul was in Heaven,
tho' a breathing man was he;
He was out of time's dominion,
so far as the living may be.
The Abbot of Innisfallen
arose upon his feet;
He heard a small bird singing,
and O but it sung sweet!
It sung upon a holly-bush,
this little snow-white bird;
A song so full of gladness
he never before had heard.
It sung upon a hazel,
it sung upon a thorn;
He had never heard such music
since the hour that he was born.
It sung upon a sycamore,
it sung upon a briar;
To follow the song and hearken
this Abbot could never tire.
Till at last he well bethought him;
he might no longer stay;
So he bless'd the little white singing-bird,
and gladly went his way.
But, when he came to his Abbey,
he found a wondrous change;
He saw no friendly faces there,
for every face was strange.
The strange men spoke unto him;
and he heard from all and each
The foreign tongue of the Sassenach,
not wholesome Irish speech.
Then the oldest monk came forward,
in Irish tongue spake he:
'Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress,
and who hath given it to thee?'
'I wear the Augustine's dress,
and Cormac is my name,
The Abbot of this good Abbey
by grace of God I am.
I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day;
and when my prayers were said,
I hearken'd awhile to a little bird,
that sung above my head.'
The monks to him made answer,
'Two hundred years have gone o'er,
Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate,
and never was heard of more.
Matthias now is our Abbot,
and twenty have pass'd away.
The stranger is lord of Ireland;
we live in an evil day.'
'Days will come and go,' he said,
'and the world will pass away,
In Heaven a day is a thousand years,
a thousand years are a day.'
'Now give me absolution;
for my time is come,' said he.
And they gave him absolution,
as speedily as might be.
Then, close outside the window,
the sweetest song they heard
That ever yet since the world began
was utter'd by any bird.
The monks look'd out and saw the bird,
its feathers all white and clean;
And there in a moment, beside it,
another white bird was seen.
Those two they sang together,
waved their white wings, and fled;
Flew aloft, and vanish'd;
but the good old man was dead.
They buried his blessed body
where lake and green-sward meet;
A carven cross above his head,
a holly-bush at his feet;
Where spreads the beautiful water
to gay or cloudy skies,
And the purple peaks of Killarney
from ancient woods arise.
poem by William Allingham
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Murder My Broken Heart
Slash break.
Keep the love you claim to make.
Break my heart you have put to starve.
For you and only you do I want this dark mark.
Rip and slit,
The wounds that have been cut.
By you and only you do this blood still falls.
I just want you there,
In sight with a tear.
The cure to my pain is you.
Your kiss and touch would help me pull through.
But there I sit in pain and paralyzed.
You stare at me with tears forming in your eyes.
You don't know what to do so you walk away.
The sight of your back.
Stabs mine on the day to day.
Murder my broken heart.
Because it's been through enough
Now it's waiting for you.
But your pressure appliance is to much.
My once broken heart is crumbling to smaller pieces.
As it waits for your love.
But keeps suffocating to the poison leaches.
Drip, drip.
The tears wont stop falling.
Calling your name.
My heart can hear your foot steps coming.
This once dark room has turned to cherished light.
You pick me up but my hearts out of sight.
Your lips began to lay upon mine.
Then my eyes cracked open with a smile thats been blind.
Love me. love me
Murder my broken heart.
Take it out of its misery when your done with
The final pieces from the parts.
Murder these eyes, that feel in love the first day.
These obsessive thoughts that prized you from before the right away.
Saver me your most loving human.
That you made passion with and always believed in.
I'll keep looking up because your my hero.
Murder my broken heart.
Make it start over where you are.
What Have I To Fear?
if death be but a step,
a flower fallen with silent shouts...
a kiss blown by wind but never lost,
a friend who tends the grave.
a hymn, a prayer, kind words spoken,
a drink at a corner table.
a book placed back on the shelf,
a child's drawing done in crayon.
a door closed, left unlocked,
cattle left in the pasture all night.
an empty bowel, a candle burned down,
a sparrow sitting outside the window.
a shovel of dirt, a broken glass,
boots left in the corner.
the dog's leg cocked,
the fire burned down....
the still darkness waiting on dawn.
the river overflowed,
the cage door opened...
then what have i to fear?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Shadows In The Darkland
Into the shadows of the dark land
Where the roaring lion roams free
Never to return to the world of innocence
This cynical dimension has forever trapped me
For years I wandered in the twilight
Voices of the world echo unclear
This is a place of abandoned desolation
Forever ruled by shame and fear
How is it that these world's co-exist in time
A child in one, a slave to the other
Surviving daily in a colorless jungle
Yet sentenced forever to continually suffer
A childless child in a demanding world
Longing to return to a different time
To a place of warmth and sweet embrace
Oh to laugh again, how sublime
There were times when I thought I had found the way
I could almost feel the sun on my face
But just at that time, the lion did pounce
And I ran screaming back into that place
And so I walked on, chains pulling me down
Seemingly going nowhere
Yet I was being pulled towards an enormous pit
And I did not have the strength to care
And before I knew it I was falling
Having finally gone over the edge
I was grasping and scraping and calling out
Before I came to a stop on a ledge
I looked down and I could see the bottom
It was the bottom of the bottomless pit
I looked at myself, I was covered in filth
And I said to myself, this is it
I looked up and I could see no light
And I cried out, oh God help me!
And in an instant, His Hand came down
And before I knew it I was free
I was out of the pit and standing on the Rock
I could feel the sun on my face
Never again to walk in the shadows of the Dark land
But to live forever in a continual embrace.
poem by Frank McEleny
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A Wind That Has No Name
there is a wind that has no name,
that comes from within afar;
a song that wears a human face,
dust from a distant star.
a river that flows from heart to heart,
a fire that feeds itself.
a ship unmanned on stormy seas,
the hand that rings the bell.
a child is born, a friend has died,
and so the circle goes on.
the memories of the outstretched hand,
lives in the stillness before dawn.
i cannot hold or form with words
that which begins and ends.
so i'll fly to you with a robin's wings,
your lover, and your friend.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Trembles Your Thoughts
i am the brown skinned lover,
sweat wrapped in shadow.
the window left open,
the latch broken by desire.
i am the turpentine taste
of the dangerous and forbidden.
i am the graveclothes left
by the door to your room.
i am the rabid dog,
howling against the wind.
i am the moment before
the storm tears down the house.
i am hunger sharpened
by the loss and the fury.
i am legs uncrossed,
quivering and damp!
i am love dares the bullet,
and taunts the noose.
i am the shackles broken,
the sinews of deep want!
i am the heart, the tongue,
the fingers, and the plow...
waiting for the moon to light
the field too long untouched!
i am the beard of eros,
and the pipe of beauty.
i hum the song
that trembles your thoughts!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Epitaph
love is a forest fire,
the burning bush, smoke
rising from the embers
of a moment lost to eternity...
love is a healing touch,
the nourishing hand,
the echo of the self
whispering from its deepest
recesses... and answering!
love is murder... destroying
everything in its path.
love is a knife, cutting the soul
from its prison of identity...
love is a trash truck...
picking up the pieces of
lifetimes thrown to the curb...
love is a broken window
in a house where nobody lives...
love is the bitter taste
i keep spitting, walking down
this old road again...
yet love is the epitaph,
written in blood and sweat,
that my living leaves behind.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Perhaps A Brandy
perhaps a brandy....
the shovel still caked with dirt,
the body restless, turns and groans.
the shade o'er the window
yellowed by mold,
the frail hands of the clock
do not move or whisper.
the scent of love,
lingers and stutters.
the fireplace empty,
the books weep on the shelf.
the old tree fallen
just outside your window,
the barking of dogs,
the prayers of rust.
children without faces
carry the box into the night...
the hoot of the owl,
another mockingbird dead!
moonlight, perhaps a lie,
even the stars remain distant.
nothing dressed in wrinkled clothes,
squats by the fire,
humming an ancient tune.
the spider's web reflected
on the oil tinged dew,
tastes like love remembered!
perhaps a brandy?
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Well, It's Nuclear...
well, it's nuclear rain,
voices without names,
faces etched in pain,
lives given in vain,
it's nuclear rain.
well, it's nuclear night.
cant tell wrong from right,
hope is out of sight,
men stand alone and fight.
it's nuclear night.
well, it's nuclear stillness.
past the point of forgiveness..
the dying cry out to witness.
the ego driven illness.
it's nuclear stillness.
well, it's nuclear devastation.
the home divided by the nation.
the individual sold to exploitation.
to bondage and incarceration.
it's nuclear devastation.
well, it's nuclear hell.
the spirit put on sale.
the body just a shell.
the truth it cannot tell.
it's nuclear hell.
well, it's nuclear death,
fear steals the very breath.
everything taken nothing left.
child of Cain, child of Seth,
it's nuclear death.
well, it's the nuclear dawn,
all that ever was is gone.
the weak devoured by the strong,
god left to walk alone...
it's nuclear dawn!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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