I Am... (Tongue)
i am...
the tongue that sleeps inside the mouth.
the erection that falls on darkened alone.
the crack of thunder over distant hills.
the simple prayer of a child in need.
the whore, the thief, and the addict.
the liar who leads running from himself.
the young girl sold in the cattle stalls.
the shot fired before guilt could breathe.
the hammer, the nails, and hands that know.
the woman giving birth, her screams, her desire.
the fallen priest, and the migrant worker.
the truck loaded with a lifetime's ghosts.
the father, the mother, and the empty house.
the well run dry, the roof that leaks.
the willow tree, and the mockingbird.
the citizens killed by the armed squad.
the activist buried without a word.
the woman strong, the man bent and broken.
the tears of an unknown god
falling on the earth scorched and smoking!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
I Was Not Born To Follow # 2
i am the nail half-bent,
....tossed to the side,
......rusted by the rain.
the body of the young man shot
...left in the streets,
.....the bullet, and the silence.
the trembling hand that lights the pipe,
....and the anger deep inside.
......the young woman giving birth,
the light that screams for darkness.
...the door latch broken
.....on the vacant house,
and the roar of the empty.
...the waves that break the barricade,
.....leaving dead fish on the sand.
the telegram sent,
...the casket, the flag,
.....the mother's tears unspoken.
the ache, the crucifix, the reaching hand,
......the family left 'neath the bridge;
........the orphaned child, the jobless bum,
i was not born to follow!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fallen, Empty, And Broken
fallen soldier
fallen sky
fallen angel
from on high
fallen heartache
fallen soul
fallen man
losing control
empty bed
empty arms
empty dreams
empty heart
empty wallet
empty hands
cant take nothin'
from an empty man
broken promises
broken vows
broken spirit
wont allow
broken fences
broken lives
broken tomorrows
broken nights
fallen, empty, and broken
every road is the same
bent, bruised, and shaken
still numb from the pain
now you dont answer
when i call out your name
fallen, empty, and broken
walking in the rain...
fallen, empty, and broken...
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Scriptures
i read the scriptures written in human faces,
in calloused hands, in bruises and scars.
in the spider's web, in the trail of the snail.
in the pot stained with use,
in the axe and the plow.
in the old woman's silence,
in the broken window.
in worn out boots, and the broken lock.
in the gravel drive,
in the eyes of the hungry....
in the fear of those oppressed by war.
in the dead squirrel's body,
in the nest left empty.
in the prisoner staring
through a window barred.
in the old man's chair,
a dog's turd and a hill of ants.
in the fallen leaf,
in the empty room.
in solitude and stillness,
in the prayer of lonliness.
in trash strewn in the alley,
in the grave unmarked.
in the truth of doubt,
in a puddle of rainwater.
in fresh cut grass,
in the cow fresh milked.
in the lover's touch,
in the dialogue of silence.
in the shovel, the hammer, and the flute.
in the grain of the old tree,
and the woman giving birth...
let us speak of nothing less!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Madonna Whore
What are you thinking when you're looking at me
What can you tell me of reality?
I'm only woman... not just a Fantasy
and the flesh and blood is warmer than some color transparency
Every woman's a Madonna; every woman's a whore
You can try to reduce me but I'm so much more
I don't want to be your mother; won't be shoved in a drawer
cause every woman's a Madonna, every woman's a whore, that's right
What are you thinking when you push me away
Was it some promise in your youth you made?
Holding out for something or hoping to be saved
Does it make you feel power or are you just afraid of me?
Every woman's a Madonna; every woman's a whore
You can try to reduce me but I'm so much more
I don't want to be your mother; won't be shoved in a drawer
cause every woman's a Madonna, every woman's a whore, that's right
I don't know
if you say so
got so many do's and don'ts my head is spinning
Hey Romeo, j-j-j-just let get go
maybe everything could use a little sinning
Every woman's a Madonna; every woman's a whore
You can try and reduce me but I'm so much more
I don't want to be your mother; won't be shoved in a drawer
cause every woman's a Madonna, every woman's a whore
Every woman's a Madonna; every woman's a whore
You can try and reduce me but I'm so much more
I don't want to be your mother; won't be shoved in a drawer
cause every woman's a Madonna, every woman's a whore, that's right
You can try to reduce me but I'm so much more
I don't want to be your mother; won't be shoved in a drawer
cause every woman's a Madonna, every woman's a whore, that's right
song performed by by Cyndi Lauper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Equally Holy....
there is no difference,
in the man painting the walls
of the chapel,
and the homeless man pissing
in the alley...
in the Madonna,
and the young woman
giving birth on the floor
of a welfare apartment.
in the Buddha,
and the child starving
to death in a third world country...
in the doctor saving lives,
and the addict on the street.
in the peacemaker,
and the soldier afraid on the battlefield...
in the leader, the priest, and the whore.
in black or white, and the illegal immigrant.
all are equally holy!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Buddha Thoughts (Hands On The Clock)
the old woman
shot and killed
the boy that broke in
and tried to rob her...
she sat staring into space
while the policemen
did their job...
suddenly she began to weep...
they tried to comfort her,
but she just wept harder.
they told her it was over,
that she was all right.
she finally spoke in a broken voice:
'i was thinking about my son...'
'where is he? we'll get him
for you, bring him to you...'
'he's in prison... he got messed up
on pills... ran out, and robbed a store...
he killed the woman behind the counter.'
frozen in deathlike silence,
one by one, they looked down.
they loaded the body into the wagon,
her old cat ran from the porch...
an empty swing hung from a gnarled old tree...
a small trail of blood,
and there was no wind!
her old Bible unopened...
the hands on the clock kept crawling.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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An Epic Of A Mother
when night felt deep in the main street of that bordering town, when streets were dipping in profound silence, we were in search of news moving aimlessly from here to there we met that mother, rather, we met that family unit some years ago.
a scratched man of broken images guides the woman with a girlbaby on her lap, clients appeared from the dark to bargain woman's flesh, the scratched man fixed the rate holding the girl of three years from her lap to him and allowed the woman to go with them.
the woman went to a deserted dark marketarea just beside the mainroad, during this break we appeared immediately in front of that man that broken man and learned he was the father of that little girl, husband of that mother-woman whom he sold for temporary shot-contact to be vamped her warm and salt, to be cooked her flesh and flexibility.
just we met that night with that woman that mother and also learned her dream was her girl-child would grow-up as a dignified woman which needs a lot of money, so she used to run on that underground track, she also knew her husband, the girl child's father physically not fit to meet her demand of purchasing the so-called dignity one need to acquire from human society.
when that woman the mother talked with us, the street lamp showed us her eyes were glittering with her dream of a glorious future of her three years old girlchild whom she loved more than herself.
where she now I don't know, but this epic I send for the readers of my site to pray for her specially for this day.
Pranab k c
13/05/2012
poem by Pranab K. Chakraborty
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Whore! ! !
Whore! ! !
Man meets woman she was working the night
Man falls in love boy she had him in her sight
Man says the Thunderbolt struck, she uses it to take all his might
Whore! ! !
Man makes so many mistakes including divorcing his wife
Man gives woman EVERYTHING his body, his soul, his life
Man leaves all that he knows behind in just two weeks with the woman, only now he feels the knife
Whore! ! !
Man provides and protects the woman taking all her cares away
Man completely changes his life thinking that God blessed him that day
Man shuts out all his friends to make more time only for her, all he wants is for her to stay
Whore! ! !
Man is stunned and shocked when the woman won't defend
Man knows this is the issue and he will no longer pretend
Man sees the woman for who she really was and knows he cannot mend
Whore! ! !
Man is torn, twisted like a knife in his throat and he can't breathe
Man knows woman has done this before but yet he still doesn't want her to leave
Man begs, pleads, bears his soul, loves her with every fiber of his being and still will believe
Whore! ! !
Man learns even more about the woman and cannot believe what he hears
Man is told woman just did it with another poor sap, now he realizes his fears
Man knows now there's no honesty or loyalty with the woman, says no more years
Whore! ! !
Man thinks this whole love thing is just a bunch of bunk
Man now knows this woman was and is a Whore! , but he's strong and refuses to be in a funk
Man is done with the Whore! , and all the girls are back on me, yeah they love doing the dunk
I Am Human, I Am Love!
i am the stranger,
the drifter, the hobo...
the rebel, and the lost one....
my voice is a small whisper,
my body a twig.
i am the gift left
on the doorstep of the unwanted.
i am the prayer
that even god does not hear!
i am the child no one wants,
the woman no one loves.
i am blood on the hands,
i am guilt, and forgiveness.
i am the old man's touch,
that no one wants.
i am the child and the dog,
that love the old man.
i am the stray cat,
curled against the step.
i am Judas weeping,
and Magdelene made a whore.
i am the young gay boy
condemned for loving.
i am the soldier who cant
bring himself to kill.
i am the pregnant young girl
who cant tell her parents.
the old man with cancer,
who sits with a revolver.
i am the parent who failed,
and the child who walked away.
i am the broken, and wounded,
i am human, i am love!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Washington McNeely
Rich, honored by my fellow citizens,
The father of many children, born of a noble mother,
All raised there
In the great mansion-house, at the edge of town.
Note the cedar tree on the lawn!
I sent all the boys to Ann Arbor, all the girls to Rockford,
The while my life went on, getting more riches and honors—
Resting under my cedar tree at evening.
The years went on.
I sent the girls to Europe;
I dowered them when married.
I gave the boys money to start in business.
They were strong children, promising as apples
Before the bitten places show.
But John fled the country in disgrace.
Jenny died in child-birth—
I sat under my cedar tree.
Harry killed himself after a debauch,
Susan was divorced—
I sat under my cedar tree.
Paul was invalided from over study,
Mary became a recluse at home for love of a man—
I sat under my cedar tree.
All were gone, or broken-winged or devoured by life—
I sat under my cedar tree.
My mate, the mother of them, was taken—
I sat under my cedar tree,
Till ninety years were tolled.
O maternal Earth, which rocks the fallen leaf to sleep!
poem by Edgar Lee Masters from Spoon River Anthology
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fractured Violence
The small girl was sold like a slave
The middle man cuddling her with a candy
The fat house wife suffered blues
From the riches in her neighbors
And those obese relations and friends
She felt terribly jealous of the free spirit
Of the small girl
She needed some one to look down upon
Whenever she would see her ugly face
And her bear belly
Her husband was a notable
Who would take his son
And to make him grow like himself
The small girl would share food
And chewed bones of the woman
With cats and dogs
Her smaller ego would get a boost
Her husband proud of her command
And one day in fog
In terrible cold
The fat woman ordered the small girl
To wash the floor
All bare
The small girl fell ill
Her nails were broken
Tortured
She screamed mother hundreds of times
In minus cold
She screamed blanket hundreds of times
Water
She just got an echo of her voice
From the cold walls
God like every one else was sleeping
At the time
And the nature watched
The moon and stars
She was murdered in the dark of the night
The husband and the fat woman
Had so many curses for her
The people
Did nothing
And the God was still sleeping
Written in the memory of Shazia Maseeh,12, a child worker in a house who was brutally murdered
26/1/2010
Islamabad
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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Family
There's a child inside
A man inside
A woman inside
A sage inside
A mother inside with breasts of love
A father inside with hands of care
A child inside beautifully caressed
A mother inside with the wing of dove
A father inside the flight to share
A child inside with parents blessed
A sage inside with a peaceful face
The peace to bestow in all its grace
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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The Illogical Dream
it rains ash on the roof
all the residents hide in fear
and then it stops
a child climbs the roof
opens his mouth and lets his tongue
taste the ash
there is something inside it
the child calls his mother
saying it tastes like shrimps
and so all the people climb the house
stays on the roof and
had their feasts
that whole day when the sun
never shines.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Woman Drowned By Culture
When this woman, no this girl,
Is drowned by her culture
her eyes hide her tears
When there is more than just a broken heart,
A family, a child, a nation, a world
In chaos, quietly creeping upon every heart
She dreams of a foreign land
Where corruption is only half as strong
She puts a brave front on
For the young child on her hip
With an unknown future
And famished eyes
For the young girls
Sold on the street like filthy possessions
She says with her eyes
What culture does not allow her to speak in words
So when man looks upon her
They don't see the covered face
But the passion and fierce hope in her sight
poem by Hana Behrs
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I Celebrate Woman
i celebrate woman...
cosmos, storm, flower
opening and closing...
giver of life, bringer of death!
falling star, rhythm of seasons,
the flesh bound words of the poem...
daughters of the Goddess,
mother of earth, earth and all within.
i celebrate woman...
strong, tender, lightning,
embers smoking in the soul.
beauty, spirituality, sensuality,
wisdom of the ages.
fresh plowed dirt waiting
on seed, rain, and sun.
hope in the night,
a beacon to the lover's soul.
i celebrate woman,
mystery and substance,
hard working, strong believing,
touch, gift, and prayer...
i celebrate woman,
forever standing in her shadow,
with awe and admiration,
with passion, and gratitude...
i celebrate woman!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Ultimate Sacrifice
A woman giving birth
Replenishes Mother Earth
Mother Nature’s humanity and myriad mirth
Destruction of Life by bombs and war
The universe will always abhor
Annihilation, war’s consummate whore
The stars cry innocent blood galore
Bodies of blood from shore to shore
The death of Life by bombs and war
A woman birthing Life
The Ultimate Sacrifice
Nothin man-made can suffice
The female impetus-the incomprehensible birth-rite
The Ultimate Sacrifice
A Woman giving Life
poem by Josephine DixonBanks
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Woman Is Fire
There was a time when Woman went out of house, house of wax was left by Woman, Woman with waxen complexion I was, I was fiery Woman, Woman's body was a wax, Woman's eyes a flammable paraffin, what Woman's mouth was: withered red apples when Woman was fired out of house. House was invisible when Woman took a fire lamp and went to cheer in the smell of fallen apples, scattered around house, our moldy house. In the cold night Woman molded her body in a candle mould to revive old fire and saw Man that gathered apple stalks from moldy apple trees. It was a lonely man, Man that made a fire with waxed paper and moldering apple stalks. Man that sat outdoors on a moldy wooden bench by that fire and drunk applejack.
Woman saw Man, Man that felt Woman's looks through apple shaped embers bursting out of fire when wet apple leaves dried. Fire was a necessity for Man, for Man made his living being a fire-eater. The fire-eater wanted fire that gives birth, of fireworks, exploding fire. Man moved a long green apple stalk through fire to burn fire more. Man took a dropp and swallowed it. Man took another dropp and spat it into the fire. Suddenly Man realized what he needed and waxed on a piece of paper: fire must drink applejack for fire is becoming moldy, and he spat what he drunk mingled with apple-tasting spit. House is moldy too, Woman remembered and woman's heart became a rotten apple.. Fire was quenching as Woman closed her eyelids, apple peels, longing for house. House may be moldy, but house is not empty. Woman molded house the like, house full of candle lights and fireflies. Woman left Man's fire quenched and remained an apple scented candle. House melts easily and hardens quickly, Woman too. Woman abandoned Man not to be melt. That is old fire in Woman, as she stalks on apple waxed earth toward house.
poem by Afrodita Nikolova
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Child Woman, Woman Child
Orbison/dees
Coo coo, thats you, wonder why I love you, you do voodoo, thunder clouds above you
Crazy, kooky, lazy spooky, oh what a clown, always around
And I have found youre a woman. child woman. woman child
Long legged woman when I see you walking you look good
Hey little woman when I hear you talking you sound good
Child woman, woman child youre driving me wild child woman woman child
Youre into my mind then youre out of my mind child woman
You wind and unwind my mind, time after time child woman ooh child woman, yeah child woman
Flying uptight, dont know where youre going, trying your kite when the wind is blowing
Funny lady, sunny, shady off to the fair, sun in your hair
Oh, youre aware youre a woman child woman, woman child
Strong minded woman when you start groovin you look fine
My kind of woman when you start movin you look fine
Child woman, woman child youre driving me wild child woman woman child
I dont see you there, I see you everywhere child woman
I dont even care -yes, I really do care child woman, ooh child woman,
Hey child woman child woman, woman child
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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