I Am.... (The Woodcutter)
i am...
the woodcutter,
cutting and stacking wood,
for the fire i'll never know.
i am the taste
of rain drenched leaves,
and the silence just after.
i am the soot
on the miners face,
his only mark of identity.
i am the black man,
who knowing his journey well,
having pride in his roots,
steps beyond bitterness.
i am the woman,
forced to sleep in the closet,
hands worn by the broom...
who finally steps free.
i am the poor man,
with tired calloused hands,
his jaw firmly set,
he's had all he's going to take.
i am the child,
who never knew his father,
whose mother worked two shifts,
so he could go to school.
i am the outcast,
condemned by the church,
shunned by his neighbors,
because he is different.
i am the echo,
of your guilt and your need,
the shout of your actions.
the cry of hunger in your sleep!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Fire Of Redemption
i am a dissident,
a fugitive, a renegade,
condemned by apathy as subversive.
i am an individual,
a burning bush,
a fire in the night.
i am a homeless star
in a sky gone black,
the mouth and face of hunger.
i am passion's anger,
and compassion's hands,
i am a man and not a body.
i am a spiritual heretic,
a relic from a time
when the spirit was the cause.
i am a bridge, a pair of shoes,
a jug that holds water.
i am the seeds, the sower,
the rain and the sun.
i am the common dance,
the holy sweat,
i am hard work and erection.
i am the prayer prayed
by the side of the road,
the father's firmness,
and the mother's breasts.
i am sickness and death,
the price of years,
i am simple resurrection.
i am the lover unchained,
the wind that breaks the door,
the rain that falls in the naked night.
i am the voice behind silence,
the shout of the snow.
i am birth and beginning,
i am the fire of redemption!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Poor Skeleton Steps Out
Poor skeleton steps out,
Dressed up in bad blood,
Bad brains, bad thoughts, and others deeds.
Poor skeleton no doubt,
One of these days,
You can cast aside your human, be free.
When the cities run with blood,
And you drink our health in mud,
All flesh be gone.
Save your dry and joyous shout,
For the day poor skeleton steps out.
Poor skeleton steps out,
Sprung from his life sentence,
Deep inside some muscle mask.
Poor skeleton devout,
Propping up truck drivers,
Filmstars, thieves or queens, your brave task.
When technology is rust,
And you write your book in dust,
All flesh be gone.
Cant buy tickets from a tout,
For the day poor skeleton steps out.
Poor skeleton steps out,
Liberated from sex organs,
And brown, black, white skin.
Poor skeleton you lout,
Dont you think that we might,
Like to have been asked to join in?
For good skeletons are we,
And were dying to be free,
All flesh be gone.
I will scream or sulk and pout,
Until my poor skeleton steps out.
Better watch out, here comes bony boy.
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Is Man A Winner Or A Loser?
Woman has a poof that the child is hers;
Man has no such proof to claim on the child.
She is cool with the child as identity.
He is desperate for his identity.
Identity crisis has disturbed him.
He invented marriage and chained woman.
He imposed chastity to mark his kids
And introduced patriarchal system.
Identity crisis has troubled him.
He assumed control over women.
He retained the progeny in his name
And made concubines to silence woman.
Identity crisis has worried him.
He bottled woman's skill and built up his.
He grew to be a Scholar. Sculptor and Poet
And assigned to woman the entertaining.
Identity crisis has bothered him.
He treated woman as her property.
He acquired family unfailingly
And labourd for its upkeep and status.
Identity crisis has bored him.
Water as she is, man could not cut her.
Tired of heat outside, man needed a shade
And sheltered himself in woman's coolness.
Woman treated man with due sympathy
With no fight with him for identity.
Her child is enough for her identity.
She helped him to anchor himself in her.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Sleep All Day
His after moan though cries oh no
Hes building up a shine but he take it slow
And he knows it time to make a change here and time to get away
And he knows its time for all the wrong reasons and time to end the pain
But he sleep all, sleep all day, sleep all, we sleep all day over again
Why dont we?
She said what would your mother think and how would your father react oh lord
Would he take it all back what theyve done
No way he said take it, take it and dont break it with your own two hands
That was my old man and he said
If all is grounded you should go make a mountain out of it
Oh what a lovely day to have a slice of humble pie
Recalling of the while we used to drive and drive here and there
Going nowhere but for us, nowhere but for the two of us
And we knew it was time to take a chance here
And time to compromise our lives for awhile
And it was time for all the wrong reasons
But time is often on my side and I give it to you tonight
And we sleep all, sleep all day, sleep all, we sleep all day over again
As time goes by we get a little bit tired waking and baked another marlboro mile wide
Its sending the boys on the run in the time in hot summer sun
To swim beneath or over outside as theyre reading between the lines
Then they remember the part in the hallmark card where they read about the dreams
And reaching for the stars to hold on a little bit closer to
And they knew it was time, time to take a chance here
Time to compromise our little lives for just a little while
And they knew it was time for all the wrong reasons
As time is often on my side and I give it to you, oh boy
And we sleep all, sleep all day, sleep all, we sleep all day over again
She said what would your mother think and how would your father react oh lord
Would he take it all back what theyve done
No way he said take it, take it and dont break it with your own two hands
That was my old man and he said
If all is grounded you should go make a mountain out of it
song performed by by Jason Mraz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mother Of A Miners Child
She is my flower
And she blooms for the one who loves her best
The miners stop to watch as she walks
They know her love is not for sale
She will never fail me cause I know
I watch her grow
And the mother of a miners child
Waits for me beside the kitchen door
She is my light
In this place where the darkness never ends
Shell guide me where the tunnels twist and bend
Shes the only one who listens when I tell her
I got less than I can spend
She knows the pace
Oh mother of a miners child
Was away the coal dust from my face
When the night shifts done
Shell be waiting by the table when I come
Searchin for another dream to chase
Oh mother of a miners child
I know that you still think about the day
When well be movin on
Remember dear old daddy and
The promise that I made to carry on
Sometimes I smile
In the cage where the cables softly hum
Id curse that old straw boss to the bone
But the mother of a miners child
Is waiting for her paycheck to come home
Come saturday
And he is just a miners boy
I hope that he will find a better way
She is my flower
And she blooms for the one who loves her best
The miners stop to watch as she walks
They know her love is not for sale
She will never fail me cause I know
I watch her grow
And the mother of a miners child
Waits for me beside the kitchen door
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Work, Sleep, Work, Sleep, Work
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work:
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work.
Oh free me please with gentle ease
From work, sleep, work, sleep, work!
This odium, pounding tedium
Of my work, sleep, work, sleep, work.
Just whisk me off to lands afar
From work, sleep, work, sleep, work -
That grinding train of rhythmic pain
Called ‘Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.’
Poor neural circuits fizzle and pop
In work, sleep, work, sleep, work,
In trying to make some sense of all this
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.
But Hark! I see a golden gleam -
A saving spirit of hope:
‘You’re fired! ’ He screams. What news to bear,
This wondrous hangman’s rope!
So now I’m free, released from all this
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work -
Eternal peace and rest for me, no
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Being At Best Human!
i go to the church of human need,
pray to the God inside each face,
inside trembling calloused hands....
in tears on battle worn faces.
inside the broken hearted,
the beaten down, and the abused.
in the addicts need, the murderer's
repentance, inside evry child.
in the stray dog's lonesome....
in the cheater's remorse....
in those too tired to be
anything other than honest....
in naked sweaty grimy humanity
being at best human!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Dancing With Time
sooner you learn to dance
with time
its steps harder at first to follow
but it has always a way of
making you feel at home
with its familiar
music
its songs like the winds
from the mountains
its tapping steps very much
attuned to the sound
of the rain
and then when you completely
learn by heart
its way of changing the way
you look at life
and give up the past and
take in the excitement of
your future
and having believed in your
talent now
without your knowing it
time leaves you
and you experience finally
the extreme pleasure
of the stillness of silence.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Brooms Witches And Mothers
Witches have broom's
When i a child
Mother's had broom's
Mother's ran with broom's
Mother's ran fast with broom's
I was a very swift boy
I had to run from many broom's
Sometimes mother would strike with broom
Therefore throwing herself of balance
As i ran i would laugh
Like a kookaburra
She would become a angry mother with broom
She would call for me to stop running
So she could give me her broom
I would keep running
For i did not like broom's
Witches like broom's
Mother's like broom's
poem by Allan James Saywell
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The Simplest Of Things...
there is a rare beauty
in the simplest of things...
the door knob tarnished,
the book with the worn cover.
the hallelujah shout of the snail,
rain water standing in an old tire.
the lampshade covered with dust,
the iron sitting unattended.
the child's toy left on the floor,
the hand that always somehow fits.
the old woman's heavy breathing,
the coffee cup stained half empty.
the cry of young lovers from a distant window.
the dog's low growl at something unseen.
the tattered remnants of the robin's nest,
the broken eggshell clinging to grass.
the old hymn sung by the man working his garden...
the swing of the axe, the stacking of wood.
the spider clinging to the outhouse wall,
potatoes laid out in the cellar for winter.
the grave solitary three days after the funeral.
the cat cradled on the step while it rains.
the laughter of a love long in journey.
the cup of coffee shared with the transient stranger.
the prayer of the child, and the room gone dark....
words spoken from the heart with hands and feet.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Wondering...
there is this wonder about
what is really happening and
what is really said, as the words
keep pouring like rain in a summer's
day, like sunshine amidst the
darkness of the room with a
roof leaking, like smoke going to
the sky, like fire from the heart,
like chimney, soothed by soot,
like lights turned on at dawn
like steps sounding its nearness
to the door, like leaves that fall toward
the south, like birds resting upon a
tree after a long journey
things are scattered, and there is no
stopping, the winds move in different
directions, like thoughts, unstoppable
by our grammatical restraints,
litters, finally collect themselves like
crabs inside a pail of full of water.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Never to be trapped In negative thoughts
Nothing was going right
Success not to be seen
Failure all around
The world looked like hell
Everybody, a devil
I was sad and depressed
Unable to sleep
I took a pill
Don’t remember
When the eyes closed?
I was going deep
In an unexplored black hole
The journey seemed endless
Didn’t know when it shall end?
I began to fear
Remembered god
Get me out of the mess
Then, I saw ray of light
Felt as if
The journey was come to its end
I heard a voice
Which woke me from my sleep?
Drenched in perspiration
I opened my eyes
Mother standing on my side
Her hands in my hair
Her eyes wet
Don’t worry, she said
Have faith in god and belief in your self
Everything will be all right
My fear gone
Full of hope
I got up from the bed
With greater determination
To work harder for my goal
Never to be trapped
In negative thoughts
poem by Nirantar Dr.Rajendra Tela
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Night Poem
There is nothing to be afraid of,
it is only the wind
changing to the east, it is only
your father the thunder
your mother the rain
In this country of water
with its beige moon damp as a mushroom,
its drowned stumps and long birds
that swim, where the moss grows
on all sides of the trees
and your shadow is not your shadow
but your reflection,
your true parents disappear
when the curtain covers your door.
We are the others,
the ones from under the lake
who stand silently beside your bed
with our heads of darkness.
We have come to cover you
with red wool,
with our tears and distant whipers.
You rock in the rain's arms
the chilly ark of your sleep,
while we wait, your night
father and mother
with our cold hands and dead flashlight,
knowing we are only
the wavering shadows thrown
by one candle, in this echo
you will hear twenty years later.
poem by Margaret Atwood
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Images
I have an image in my head,
It's of my mother
in an old pinny,
her hard, broad hands
that were soft and plump on the palm,
with cigarette yellow
at the fingertips.
I have this image in my head
It's of her with a washing board,
sighing, tired
and me, small and tubby,
taking mini steps
towards the wringer,
'can I do it mummy, can I do it'
I have this image in my head
of her face, all lit up,
her excitement
at her first ‘twin tub'
and my heart aches for her.
I see her poor, over worked body,
her anguished face and I cry for her.
I have this image in my head
and it never fades.
I wish she'd had a better life,
taken more care of herself.
She had this matter of fact attitude,
resololute, never to give in
and at the end, when all was done
there was nothing left but pain.
poem by Ruth Walters
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I Want To Fall In Love
9-4-07
I want to fall in love
I want to feel that rush
I want to feel that touch that drives strait into my soul
And echo’s throughout on my body
I want to feel the flutter of a million wings in my heart
I want to feel shivers of excitement roll down my spine
I want to fly within your arms
I want to be free
I’m tired of all these guys that don’t lead any ware
Tired of all these dead ends that get me no where
Tired of taking two steps forward and ten steps back
Tired of all the false hopes that this time
It might be love
Tired of wanting
With never having anyway to relieve it
I’m done with my body throbbing with the need of another
Tired of needing but never getting
I want to fall in love
I want to feel that rush that turns my knee’s to jelly
I want to feel that kiss that lights my soul on fire
I want to feel that touch that makes me want to melt into one
With you inside of me
I never want to feel like no one loves me
Like I need be loved
Again
I want to fall in love
I want to feel what it’s like to be your girl
Your woman
Maybe even your lover
I want to feel what it’s like to be in love
I want to feel what it’s like to be with you
poem by Mrs. Cynosure
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How Can You Sleep?
How can you sleep, knowing that the one who Really do Loves you Feels Bad He Let You Go?
How can you sleep, knowing that the one who Really Loves you cant sleep at night?
How can you sleep, knowing that the one who Really do Loves you cant Eat Because you are no longer there?
How Can you sleep, knowing that all he wants to do is hear your voice every night before he goes to sleep?
How can you sleep, knowing that everyday all he do is long for your touch and the warmth of your Lips?
How can you sleep, knowing that your on his mind everyday, Minute, Hour, Second?
How can you sleep, knowing your his one and only, even when your not together?
How can you sleep, telling him truth about him but not being true to yourself?
How can you sleep, not telling him what you know you want him to know?
How can you sleep, knowing he put his trust in you and you let him down?
How can you know so much yet so little?
How Would You Sleep Knowing That One Day Soon Will Be The Last Day You Ever See Him Again Knowing He Did You So Good And Yet One Day You Let Him Down?
poem by Nathaniel Hayes
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The Skylark's Message
SWEET little upturned faces,
Poor little hands and feet,
Little eyes that are careworn and anxious
From hunger and want in the street,
Hear ye that skylark singing
5
Like an angel far away?
'Tis bringing to you a message
From the Golden Gates of day.
Ah, little know ye of the meadows,
Poor little blistered feet,
10
Down in the smoke of the city,
Down in the noise of the street!
But it sings of a better country,
Where tired little hearts can rest;
Of a sun that shines for ever,
15
And the love of a Father's breast.
O poor little weary spirits,
I would that ye knew its song,
For the world is very heartless,
And your journey may be long;
20
And ye need such heavenly music
To cheer you in the night,
Little hearts that are now so noble,
Little souls that are now so white.
I would that ye heard it always,
25
That sweet bird's voice within,
When the heart is sad and lonely
In the long, long struggle with sin;
Till a rest comes out of the sunset
For the labouring hands and feet,
30
And a silence has fallen for ever
On the noise and the dust of the street.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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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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The most beatiful hands
There are no more beautiful hands
than the hands that caressed you
and rocked you when you were little.
There are no more beautiful hands
than the hands that guided you
when you took your first steps in life.
There are no more beautiful hands
than the hands that bathed you,
clothed you and fed you,
during childhood.
There are no more beautiful hands
than the hands that hugged you
and wiped away all your tears
throughout your life.
There are no more beautiful hands
than your mother's hands...
poem by Viorel Vintila
Submitted by Viorel Vintila
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Goodbye to the Poetry of Calcium
Dark cypresses--
The world is uneasily happy;
It will all be forgotten.
--Theodore Storm
Mother of roots, you have not seeded
The tall ashes of loneliness
For me. Therefore,
Now I go.
If I knew the name,
Your name, all trellises of vineyards and old fire
Would quicken to shake terribly my
Earth, mother of spiraling searches, terrible
Fable of calcium, girl. I crept this afternoon
In weeds once more,
Casual, daydreaming you might not strike
Me down. Mother of window sills and journeys,
Hallower of searching hands,
The sight of my blind man makes me want to weep.
Tiller of waves or whatever, woman or man,
Mother of roots or father of diamonds,
Look: I am nothing.
I do not even have ashes to rub into my eyes.
poem by James Arlington Wright
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