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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
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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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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Angry Young Woman
Angry young woman on sunrise strip,
Walking away to the new world.
She left her man, she left her children,
cause she knows she has only one life to live.
Angry young woman with her background on her forehead,
Three children and two abortions.
Played a little piano ten years ago.
And some typing from the college where she met her husband.
Angry young woman in the dark of the night,
Hears her children crying for dinner,
Hears her man shouting for his shirt
And thinks of the first sundays they spent in the park.
Angry young woman, angry young woman,
Theres no way back, so just keep walking.
Leave your past in your raincoat pocket
And when you turn the corner youll see the new world.
Angry young woman, angry young woman,
Theres no way back, so just keep walking.
Leave your past in your raincoat pocket
And when you turn the corner youll see the new world.
(angry young woman, angry young woman,
Theres no way back, so just keep walking.
Leave your past in your raincoat pocket)
(angry young woman, angry young woman)
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Angry Young Woman
Angry young woman on sunrise strip,
Walking away to the new world.
She left her man, she left her children,
cause she knows she has only one life to live.
Angry young woman with her background on her forehead,
Three children and two abortions.
Played a little piano ten years ago.
And some typing from the college where she met her husband.
Angry young woman in the dark of the night,
Hears her children crying for dinner,
Hears her man shouting for his shirt
And thinks of the first sundays they spent in the park.
Angry young woman, angry young woman,
Theres no way back, so just keep walking.
Leave your past in your raincoat pocket
And when you turn the corner youll see the new world.
Angry young woman, angry young woman,
Theres no way back, so just keep walking.
Leave your past in your raincoat pocket
And when you turn the corner youll see the new world.
(angry young woman, angry young woman,
Theres no way back, so just keep walking.
Leave your past in your raincoat pocket)
(angry young woman, angry young woman)
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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These Are (My Children)
standing in line at the mission,
they're ladeling bowls of steaming soup.
the winter wind whips down
between the buildings like a knife...
pulling tattered coats tight hunching.
and i can hear Shantideva whisper,
his hand on the ladel...
his body the meat of the soup,
his blood the broth...
'these are my children! '....
they walk in long staggered lines,
refugees from the bombing...
hungry scared children clinging,
afarid to lose sight of...
what's left of their families.
nothing behind, and nowhere to go,
not on any side...
and i can hear Jesus whisper,
His life the torch that lights the way,
His body the shelter against the night,
His blood the water, His hands stir the rice...
'these are My children! '....
the addict shivers, strung out and desperate...
the homeless family huddles in the car.
the young prisoner sleepless with the fear,
the old man going hungry feeds his bedridden wife...
the jobless young father begs to pick up trash...
and i know beyond all doubt,
my body, my soul, my spirit...
the wind that hears their cry.
'for these are my children! '...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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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
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I Am.... (Hand Of Silence)
i am the fire raging out of control,
the blade of the shadow on poverty's neck.
the broken sound when no one can hear,
the cold feel of the gallows,
the wings of the dead bird.
i am the raccoon trapped,
and the fury of loss.
i am the waiting that kills,
moment by moment.
i am the hand too tired to touch,
the baby just born that no one wants.
i am the ribs showing on the starving child,
the refugee fleeing with nowhere to go.
the smell of despair at the county dump,
the apartment without curtains or furniture.
i am the soldier killed who hesitated with conscience.
i am the prisoner afraid of both detention and freedom.
the young gay teenager who hangs himself,
the pregnant girl who takes too many pills.
i am the protester beaten and left on the sidewalk,
the old man alone without food or heat.
i am the touch of Jesus in the addict's eyes,
the street bum sleeping in the alley.
i am the farmer whose farm was taken,
the family left without a home.
the 40 year worker in the unemployment line,
the young girl taken and sold as a whore.
i am the Buddhist monk who sets himself on fire,
the rebel imprisoned for speaking the truth.
i am the millions of young who cant afford school,
the millions of workers who cant afford insurance.
i am the immigrant deported,
whose family has no chance.
the young mother caught stealing food.
i am the morals hidden by despair and anger,
the conscience of the poor holding the gun.
i am the color of skin covered with blood,
the face of god in strays of all kinds.
i am the Buddha weeping,
the body of suffering....
the hand of silence covering the grave.
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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You Wanted To Know....
the starving child you saw on your tv screen,
the one that made you turn the channel.
the old homeless man who tried to bum a dollar
when you were pumping gas...
whose hands were shaking,
who smelled like trash,
who you made fun of when you left...
the one you gave 50 cents to,
just to get away from...
the young painted up girl you called a whore,
the guy strung out on pills
buying groceries with food stamps...
the veteran who came home
to find his family gone....
no job, no home, he blew his brains out!
the gay boy who slit his wrists,
tired of being bullied.
the old couple evicted broke and sick....
the bodies of women and children killed by the drones,
the young man in prison who just got gang raped.
the disabled woman you cursed when she made your change,
the old man buying dog food who doesnt have a dog...
well, you wanted to know what god looks like!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Bowl and The Spoon
i hear the sound of humanity's voices,
the sound of suffering and need.
i smell the fear, and i feel the anger,
of those left alone, the victims of greed.
i feel the hate of the guns and the bombing,
the terror of women and children.
i cry the tears and shed blood with them,
i hear the prayers of the dead for the living.
i feel the hunger of children left starving,
i am the anger of the unemployed in line.
i breathe the despair of those left homeless,
i am the hope of those looking for a sign.
i am the body that somehow god needed,
i am the ears the lonely pray for.
i am the eyes that see through the heart,
the prisoner walking through the last door.
i hear the sound of the baby crying,
i feel the mother walking across the room.
i am the father praying for work,
i am the bowl and i am the spoon.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Young Girl
Young girl Abused and broken
Young girl Alone and Frightened
Young girl Worthless and Ugly
Young girl feels so alone
She has no one to hold her
Young girl's father to drunk to even care
The young girl gets beaten everyday
The young girl wanting to runaway
Young girl will not leave her father alone
Like he has done to her
This young girl's teacher has a note
She reads the note aloud to the class
This young girl was beaten to death
No one had the guts to save her
This young girl bruised and dead
This young girl buried in the cold ground
This young girl has no one to visit her grave
No one asked her how she got her bruises
No one even took a second chance
Goodbye young girl fly away into the arms of God
For He loved you and always will
This young girl happy again
poem by Jasmine Kayleen
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I Am.... (The Branch, Part Two)
i am...
the orphaned child and the abandoned dog,
the woman raped, the young man killed.
i am the body hanging alone and cold,
the old woman shaking in an empty room.
i am the young girl taken and enslaved,
the needle, the spoon, and the revolver.
i am black skinned, brown skinned anger,
and the bones of bodies hidden...
the speaker of truth detained and tortured,
the invisible trail left behind.
i am...
the rage of jobless, homeless, hopeless...
the unemployment line and the sweat shop.
i am the family living in a stolen car,
and the child who runs away.
i am the store clerk killed by the robber,
her minimum wage death unnoticed.
i am the shadow crossing the border,
the inmate that breaks and runs.
i am the guns silenced,
and the lies revealed...
i am human rebellion.
i am the branch covered by leaves,
waiting for certain autumn!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Young mother!
When the mother is left with young children,
The hands are full and the mind is not dull,
Her eyes are down on the children, who rattle,
Not on the spouse, who suddenly stops to tattle,
Young mother is as busy as a bee, flying around,
The messy house to have the neat hive and honey,
She is not a queen bee to order the servants,
She is a human and needs help and love,
Helpless responsible young mothers are great,
For they have sacrificed their comfort for their brood,
So many professionals gave up their career,
For the love that they have upon their future,
Young mothers of the world, just relax and not to cry,
So much work day in and day out, but you are the Gods,
To provide what your young children need,
To cover them with comfort of loving blanket,
To protect them from all invisible germs and harms,
To plant the seeds of care in their mind to bloom,
Disciplined children are the outcome of your salty sweat,
Continue to sacrifice as our ancestors did.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Body Of Christ!
body of Christ...
small unwanted baby
lying dead in a dumpster...
old homeless man
curled up in an alley...
young addict,
shaking on the steps
down in the project...
young mother's body
lying across her childs...
killed by the bombing!
body of Christ...
you and i!
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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I Saw God
i saw god...
in the small child shunned,
playing alone.
in the pregnant girl scared,
still a baby herself.
in the young man going off to war,
chest stuck out, and knees gone weak.
in the angry young man,
who learns to read in prison.
in the old woman in the empty house,
every wrinkle a chapter of love.
in the stray cat curled
against my leg.
in two young men in love,
kissing on the steps of a church.
in the family living on food stamps,
day work, and faith.
in the addict with the guts
to go into rehab.
in the body in the funeral home
that no one came to see.
in the couple married for twenty five years,
survivors of struggle, passion, and despair.
in the jobless shuffle of the heads down line.
in the old man fishing with his grandson,
in the mother teaching her daughter to pray.
in the poet, the carpenter, the farmer,
the doctor, the garbage man, and the cashier.
in the bride and the groom,
even the murderer and the victim!
in the anger of the protesters,
in the sin, and forgiveness.
in the black, the white, and every color between.
in moonlight pouring through poverty's window....
yes, i saw god...
never entered a church, a temple, or a mosque...
i merely entered the heart
of the living... and touched!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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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
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Future of the Country
Tears in the eyes,
Fear on the face,
I often see children working,
Roads being there workplace.
Unwillingly doing work,
By the fear of being scolded
Or beaten by their employers
I see children working for bread.
Messy hair, torn clothes,
Children walking bare feet
And working really hard
Not caring about the rain or heat.
Children doing all sorts of jobs
Including selling and begging.
I have also seen children
Cleaning cars for an earning.
I feel sorry for them.
I feel it is very unfair,
That people make children work
When they should take their care.
Children are delicate,
We must care for them.
For every child in the world
Is as precious as a gem.
At least thinking about the country,
We must stop child labour.
We must stop burdening the children
As they are the country's future.
poem by Sneha Khedkar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My heart beat
01/09/2010
My heart beat
My heart beat
My heart beats with worry and sorrow
Seeing mankind climbing the ladder of hate
Seeing mankind fading away the love for humanity
My heart bleeds
My eyes cry sadness as blood brothers and sisters
hate on each other
The love I have for my sisters is deep
The care I feel for my brother is deep
None can separate my siblings and I
For we forever one
My heart beats play songs of sorrow and pain
My heart bleeds with sorrow and pain when I see
Homeless yuts begging on the streets
Where are you mother of earth set to nature and feed this young one
GOD why plant a seed on hateful woman
All eyes are on you woman of prostitution
All eyes are you woman of abortion
Defiling the survival of humanity by allowing vanity to control you
Who is to look after the nation and keep it clean when you are
Soulfully unclean
Move away from the darkness mankind
Can't you see the women are dying
Can't you the children are still crying
Hunger pains the stomach
Hunger supresses the brain to lowest level of thinking
I feel the pain in the core of my chest
I feel my heart beat, the drums in my brain
Makes my ears buzz when I hear the cry of the children on the streets
My feet get cold and my toes cramp as they feel the cold on the side walks of Jozi
My heart beats with sorrow and worry
Seeing mankind turning a blind eye on Poverty
My heart beats sing a sad song, a sad song
That tells me to fight poverty
Lets fight poverty people
Lets give to the needy
Take care of our elders
Feed our children
Love the nation
because my heart beats sing a sad song, a sad song.
My heart beat
By: Empress Ela Spirit
EES! ! ! ! !
poem by Zanele Mavuso
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The Poet
who is the poet then?
the master of words,
phrases, rhymes, and symbols...
or the one who wipes the ass
of the old man in the nursing home,
whose family does not come anymore.
or the young gay teacher
in the projects, walking the thin line
between the hatred of gangs, and hope.
or the small time farmer
who planted one last crop,
knowing that the bank was coming
to take it all away.
or the soldier in Iraq,
who stops to help a child up,
and sees his own children miles away;
cant speak, and cant breathe.
or the young man in prison
for something that he did;
just trying to survive, day to day,
and to find a new way.
or the young woman who was raped,
being humiliated on the witness stand,
and they call it justice!
or the man left standing
on the brink of losing it all...
the eyes of his family haunting him;
with nowhere to turn,
and no one to ask for help,
and a gun in his hand!
if poetry then is written
by the hand of God....
the hands are human!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Posting Pictures
i'm going to quit writing poetry,
and start taking pictures...
pictures of the homeless,
the jobless, the hungry,
the war victims, drug victims,
crime victims, victims of oppressive
regimes, beaten, imprisoned, threatened...
starting right here!
the elderly left to die in want,
those left to live on the street,
families sleeping in cars,
parents burying their children...
smoke stacks smoking,
nuclear disasters, oil spills,
mountains being mined,
timber being cut...
lonely people walking alone!
small children crying...
lovers left in the cold...
empty churches full of people.
i'm going to post these pictures in color
for all the world to see,
post them in dead silence...
maybe then someone will hear,
hear, and offer a hand!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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