I Am... (Window Bare)
i am...
words spoken with dark skinned hunger,
battles fought in the realm of the heart.
right and wrong that convicts the motive.
the smell and the feel of all that is common.
the question asked in the silent church.
the blood spillt on the courthouse steps.
the language of factories, mills, and shifts.
the cast iron skillet well seasoned.
the field plowed, the seeds planted.
the man standing against the angry mob.
the body hanging from the gnarled old oak.
the prison cell, the stink of fear.
the lovers lost inside each other,
the old woman staring at dishes just washed.
the haunting whisper of buildings vacant.
the old man's body found three days later.
the fury of the neon streets,
the deal made, the blade withdrawn.
the soldier come home to homelessness.
the farm foreclosed by the unseen bank.
death and life, and faded jeans,
the lone rose wilting in the window bare!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Scent Of The Lover....
i am still water, moonlit and waiting.
i am the crucifix made of fingers,
the letter written in blood.
the fool tripping over windmills,
the beacon from a distant shore.
dust in the corner, dew on the grass,
the eyes of the racoon,
the bat hanging upside down.
the whisper of moss,
the depths of the cave.
the pine tree fallen across the path.
i am the kiss long silent,
the iron skillet, the tin cup.
i am the body of the wind,
without beginning or end.
i am the child alone,
and the woman abused.
the angry man, and the broken glass.
i am the farmhouse deserted,
the voices of ghosts.
i am the spirits of slaves,
who call in the night.
i am the cock and the dawn,
the howl of the dog.
the pilgrim beaten and robbed,
and left for dead.
i am the cry of childbirth,
and the shout of death....
i am the scent of the lover,
that stains your soul!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Weeping... (Betrayed)
weeping...
i know the sound,
the feel, the taste.
the deep intensity
of storm laden skies.
the grey dust
on the building vacant.
the stink of human flesh,
when hunger ripens into need.
the death of oil tainted water,
and smoke choking out the air.
the sudden take of violence,
seems reason never justifies.
the cold clank of chains,
the sobbing dirt of endless fields.
the baby gasping for life
in a room designed by hate.
the old woman dying on a makeshift bed,
rats running across the floor.
the old man left alone,
to read books that resemble life.
the church empty, the alleys full,
the eyes staring at the ground
in the unemployment line.
the hand too poor to be touched,
the body too old to be loved.
the jack-o-lantern face of god,
in a world too stoned to know.
the rope hanging from the ceiling,
the silence when words run out...
weeping...
time betrayed by the hands of death!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Dont Even Know Their Names!
his spirit left his body,
and walked through the hells.
a firm voice spoke:
'keep your eyes open,
look, and see! '
he saw dark skinned children,
their bodies frail and thin,
their features carved with hunger.
he saw women and children,
running from the bombs,
young men gunned down,
in the streets.
he saw the homeless family,
sleeping in a beaten old car,
hoping no one would come
to make them move.
he saw the young addict shaking,
the young woman helpless,
her baby crying in the bare apartment.
he saw the young man sent to prison,
trying to hide his fear,
a fear so strong they
could smell it on him!
he saw the woman who'd been beaten,
the man jobless and angry.
he saw millions of Native Americans,
slaughtered, and left for the crows.
he saw the old couple hungry,
in their apartment with no lights,
and no heat in the dead of winter...
'i cant take it any more,
what has this got to do with me?
i dont even know their names! '
'their names are anybody, and everybody...
they are why you must return.
they are your children, your
brothers and sisters, your father
and your mother...
they are your responsibility!
you must return to finish the work! '
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Human Blood, Angry And Red!
i put on my black skin
to walk through your lily white churches.
i spoke not a word...
my silent body exuded,
years of poverty and oppression,
discrimination and hunger.
i laid down my shackles
on the steps of your courthouse,
i spit blood on your law books,
human blood, angry and red!
and the woman i slept with,
walked beside me step by step.
she bore my children,
i washed her feet with awe.
we spoke and listened,
forever equals...
take down your sign,
ribs are made to barbeque!
my son fell in love
with a young painter from France...
a delicate young man,
features sharp and clear.
i spent dinners in their company,
conversation that cut darkness.
stunned, admiring... their devotion,
their love wrapped in thought.
i laid down my shackles
neath the altar in your church,
i spit blood on your holy books,
human blood, angry and red!
i turned away from your armies,
took the needle from my soul.
shook off the shudders of ignorance,
and laid down my gun.
sold all my possessions,
walked away from debt induced bondage.
stuck out my thumb,
and headed high in the hills.
i slept neath the trees,
could hear the song of the river.
whispered to the owl,
lying close to my dog.
intimately knew every star by name,
every blade of grass,
and the coolness of stone.
speak, o wind, speak and deliver!
i laid down my shackles,
in the chambers of your progress,
i spit blood on your agenda,
human blood, angry and red!
i crossed the border at midnight,
silently moving, shadows in shadows.
with nothing to lose but my life,
nothing to gain but my life.
hands eager to work,
heart eager to dream,
believing in the impossible dream,
of freedom!
i laid down my shackles,
at the foot of your Statue Of Liberty,
i spit blood on your Constitution,
human blood, angry and red!
kill me freedom!
rip the heart from my chest.
i wear your scars
on my back and my face.
bury me in equality,
let my name be every name.
rip the skin from my bones,
let my bones be the steps...
on the path to compassion,
on the road to human kindness...
let my memory be fairness,
my image be joined hands!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Hands.... (That Dared To Speak!)
the hands....
that cleaned the old man
lying on urine stained sheets,
that planted the bulbs
in the old woman's flower bed.
that washed the dishes
for forty years....
the hands...
that built the old barn,
that plowed the fields,
that harvested the crops....
the hands...
that stroked desire's body,
that found each secret treasure,
that closed the window.
that held the baby,
that taught the child to write,
that buttoned his suit
on the day he was married.
the hands....
that buried the body,
that brushed leaves from the grave,
that packed away pictures.
the hands....
that picked up the pen,
that turned bloodstained pages,
that dared to speak!
the hands...
now old and withered,
painfully bruised,
often clasped in prayer,
that open to take the small child's hand;
that unlock the door,
and beckon to those in need...
the hands...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Hands Of Time!
the hands of a small child,
shaping sand on the beach.
the flutter of wings,
a sparrow's first flight.
seeds planted by hand
in the fresh plowed ground.
the light teasing shadows,
late afternoon to night.
the war hero's silence,
his eyes grown hard.
the family burying the child,
the mother cannot weep.
the hungry stare
of poverty's stink.
the addict's hard edge,
bare rooms, bare walls.
the hanging tree,
and the lovers oak.
the bullet in the chamber,
and the open mission.
the church locked empty,
boxes to beds in the alley.
the old man who cant forgive
what the young boy did.
the hands of a small child...
the hands of time!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am There... I Am Here!
the further i get from myself,
the closer i get to my self...
in variant forms expounding,
in a thousand blades of grass.
in the block long laid in the factory building,
vacant but for ghosts of unnamed families fed.
in the boat too long stuck in sand,
in the dirge darkness of the mine.
in the rabbit turd, the chattering squirrel,
in cattle feeding awaiting death.
in the sterile stink of the hospital,
in the bedpan, and the monitor silent.
in the crud of the old man's beard,
the sagging breasts of the old woman rocking...
in the cry of passion from the back seat of a car,
in the old man bumming a smoke.
in angry minds gathered at the table,
whispering of revolution.
in the picket line, and the heads caved in,
in the death row cell.
in the empty church, on the courthouse steps,
in gunshots heard in the night.
in the crack pipe, and the college textbook,
in black skin, white skin, and all others.
in the thoughts men are afraid to think...
in feelings too long repressed.
in the sacredness of mundane and simple...
in the beauty of the moment...
yes, yes! i am there, i am here!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Theft is not Death
God is the one who tells us all is well,
That the genius has command over the cell
That is inhabited by a prisoner of zeal
From the political upbringing that can steal.
Theft is not a spy to be put inside,
Always to suffer a burden beside,
Which is the chain fixed to a wall
The one made of stone and very tall.
The towers of this prison-place are very strong
And do not have escapees or intruders who are wrong.
The towers are also with cells, too many bells,
Worse than the chiming ones of a church that impels.
Cell mates are fed with worms and torture,
With much hatred and darkness for the abuser
Of the system of prison, the distressed position
Of a man, not a woman, who was given a decision
By the Judge who shall harm him
And execute him by hanging the grim
Man, not woman, by the neck until death
Has managed to take away his breath.
poem by Naveed Akram
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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 Gift of Lovers' Red Rose!
Lovers exchange red roses for Valentine's Day;
Why only Red Rose and Red Heart greeting cards?
Red is colour of blood vital for human survival!
Impure, used, blue blood turns pure red blood
By vital heart of body of flesh and bone in all!
Blood circulating all over in the body brings air
Fresh, pure and life supporting oxygen for man
Pumped and purified by heart ever till all life!
Red heart and rose denote vital heart, red blood
To keep this human body of flesh, bone and blood
Ever healthy, happy and hopeful of joy in all life!
Heart with Red Rose greets lovers with joy long
On Valentine's Day to celebrate love in life ever
Starting from Lovers' Day on all round the year!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Coming Back To Life
Where were you when I was burned and broken
While the days slipped by from my window watching
Where were you when I was hurt and I was helpless
Because the things you say and the things you do surround me
While you were hanging yourself on someone elses words
Dying to believe in what you heard
I was staring straight into the shining sun
Lost in thought and lost in time
While the seeds of live and the seeds of change were planted
Outside the rain fell dark and slow
While I pondered on this dangerous but
I took a heavenly ride through one silence
I knew the moment had arrived
For killing the past and coming back to life
I took a heavenly ride trough our silence
I knew the waiting had begin
And headed straight... into the shining sun
song performed by by Pink Floyd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Coming Back To Life
Where were you when I was burned and broken
While the days slipped by from my window watching
Where were you when I was hurt and I was helpless
Because the things you say and the things you do surround me
While you were hanging yourself on someone elses words
Dying to believe in what you heard
I was staring straight into the shining sun
Lost in thought and lost in time
While the seeds of live and the seeds of change were planted
Outside the rain fell dark and slow
While I pondered on this dangerous but
I took a heavenly ride through one silence
I knew the moment had arrived
For killing the past and coming back to life
I took a heavenly ride trough our silence
I knew the waiting had begin
And headed straight... into the shining sun
song performed by by Pink Floyd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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America.... Revolution, Or The Fall!
America, America,
your pale skinned death testifies!
the cross of your democracy laid down,
the blood on your hands names your guilt.
your bodies laid in soldiers' graves,
strewn across your planted fields.
while wild fires rage,
and your tenements boil,
as your children march to death.
the poverty of indifference,
strikes the bell that cannot ring.
while the wealthy drink the blood
of your disembodied men.
and your hallowed god turns his face,
disgusted by what he's seen.
blood sacrifices on your borders,
blood sacrifices in your mills.
your families driven from their homes,
while your prisons turn the wheel.
and the hungry walk your streets
wearing familiar shoes.
the haunting cry of liberty,
rattles against your walls.
while justice is bought and sold
in your sacred halls!
and the colors of eguality,
bleed into your angry streets.
your schools struck numb
by propaganda's thumb,
your daughters sold like meat.
America, America,
revolution, or the fall!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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To Find The Home!
i drink the cup
that is your flesh...
i revere your scars,
your bruises,
the stink of your heart.
the scent of your eyes,
the silence of your ears...
my tongue writes your body
on infinity's glass!
i listen for your voice
beneath the trees.
i feel your nearness
in the hoot of the owl.
i share your anguish
by the silent small fire....
the horse i ride,
bears your name.
i am the ghost of city streets,
the body left for the wolves
on the mountainside.
i am the air frozen with fear,
as the great bear stands
in magnificent fury.
you are the bridge,
the lantern, and the hound.
the purple struck sky
of sunset eternal.
the body that feels,
smells, and tastes like love...
the moan that stills the wind!
this distance but a paper veil,
a wisp of smoke,
the moment before and after.
the call of death,
the threshold of storm...
set the fire...
and walk away!
(sometimes you have to burn
the building down...
to find the home!)
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Her Voice
i believe there is a God
i can hear her voice
in the tears of the homeless
of the hungry, of orphaned children
of the young woman lying on the
kitchen floor bleeding
in the hollow ache of the young
man who just killed a family
with his M-16
in the stink of helpless
on the young boy raped
in the prison cell
in the vomiting anger
of the man who caught his wife
cheating, and shot her
in the prayers of the mother
whose son joined a gang,
and walked away from her dreams
in the cry of the baby
left in the alley
behind the church
that refused to help
his mother
in the pen on the desk
of the man at the bank
who just foreclosed
on another family
i can hear her voice
and feel her hurt!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Harry Carey Goodhue
You never marveled, dullards of Spoon River,
When Chase Henry voted against the saloons
To revenge himself for being shut off.
But none of you was keen enough
To follow my steps, or trace me home
As Chase's spiritual brother.
Do you remember when I fought
The bank and the courthouse ring,
For pocketing the interest on public funds?
And when I fought our leading citizens
For making the poor the pack-horses of the taxes?
And when I fought the water-works
For stealing streets and raising rates?
And when I fought the business men
Who fought me in these fights?
Then do you remember:
That staggering up from the wreck of defeat,
And the wreck of a ruined career,
I slipped from my cloak my last ideal,
Hidden from all eyes until then,
Like the cherished jawbone of an ass,
And smote the bank and the water works,
And the business men with prohibition,
And made Spoon River pay the cost
Of the fights that I had lost?
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Epilogue (Part Three)
shivering nails,
black and white coffins whisper.
bodies without heads,
strewn in the sand.
the taste of gunpowder
on my lips.
i bow, but cannot pray!
the sound of the oil rigs,
the coarse rhythm of greed.
take and destroy, take and fulfill!
the cry of sea life,
the gurgling choke,
soon to be the children
of flaccid men.
buildings like bodies,
stripped empty and bare.
the memories smell
of life that once was.
empty, and pulsing,
with the want of need,
no one hears the ghosts within.
hunger and homelessness,
heroin and Jesus.
the shelves are bare,
the mother's eyes are bleeding.
the nameless and unwanted,
cast aside in the storm,
while ghouls walk amid
the rubble of the lie.
sing for me, pray for me,
take my hand, take my hand...
even when i close my eyes,
i still hear, still feel,
the faces of the wind!
and god, if there be,
in each and every tear!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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On The Road To Gethsemane
on the road to Gethsemane...
i pass burned out buildings,
farm lands scorched by the bombing.
i pass the skeleton bodies
of young children who starved.
i pass the unmarked graves,
of young boys sent to war.
i pass the flag of the liars,
and the tents of mourning.
i pass vacant factories,
and houses left empty.
i pass through cocaine streets,
where all flesh is for sale.
i pass the unemployed masses,
and their desperate eyes.
i pass the baby born unwanted,
and the prison's stink.
i pass empty churches,
and hollow ringing bells.
i pass families broken,
and peoples enslaved.
i pass the moral guns of prejudice,
rank with immorality!
i pass the crippled, the sick,
and those desperately alone...
these tears of blood
are human tears,
this cross we all bear!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Flesh n Blood
Flesh n blood
A human fascination
Acquired the taste
Right on my face
Naughty
Lost in lust
A hopeless situation
Let the game begin
Im shirts youre skins
Naughty
These hunger pains
Growing inside me every day
I feel it in my veins
Burning inside me every day
Chorus:
I wanna eat your body
Eat your body
Naughty, naughty
Naughty
Talkin bout your body
Flesh, blood
I think Im in love
Naughty, naughty
Naughty
Eating up your body
Driving down
A sticky occupation
I need another shot
Of some food for thought
Naughty
These hunger pains
Growing inside me every day
I feel it in my veins
Burning inside me every day
Chorus
Everybodys got a need
Everybodys got to feed
On everybody elses body
Everybodys got a need
Everybodys got to feed
On everybody
Vegetarians eat your heart out
song performed by by Extreme
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Wonderful Heart
The heart is wonderful
And my pies are producing blood
For my body has grown a prison
To refuse it is huge.
The heart and head combine
To meet me in the world after it spoke.
The days are few, and I am few but several
So that I desire and might need a life.
Life has a Lord, one of the mightiest
Who created my body and instincts,
Like the hearer and seer of thoughts
Found inside, above and below;
In actual philosophy I see like him.
poem by Naveed Akram
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