I Wait For You....
i wait for you...
inside the hollowed ache
of the empty space,
where the stump of the willow,
buried by grief, testifies!
where the old galvanized tub,
wanders from yard sale to neglect;
where the old Ford with mismatched tires,
sleeps in the indignity of crushed.
where the outhouse walls,
scorched by time's fires,
lies strewn, charred by random fate.
where the cry of wetness,
trapped by the urn,
awaits ash and stardust.
where the manger bleeds,
in the cobwebbed shed;
one set of footprints leads away!
where the cock curled
into the bark loses,
all trace of form or identity.
where gnarled fingers tremble
with every step,
and feet no longer answer.
where the tongue betrays
the secret heart,
where kings go to become fools.
where Hemingway's shotgun,
in stillness by the door,
waits for the final curtain.
where god returns all prayers,
rubbed raw by image;
and the face on every stone,
every broken branch, yes,
and every fallen leaf... is yours!
where want drives the clock
through the sleep purged night,
and the scent of dawn is you!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Related quotes
Do It All Again!
empty water buckets
on a porch long deserted,
the old house falling down
like a tree sheds its leaves.
the chimney stands cold,
almost roaring with silence...
and there's still a marker
in the back yard where we buried the dog.
love yellowed sheets,
and maggots in the flour.
spiders march on the outhouse walls.
empty mason jars that remember green beans,
a hoe, and a shovel with a broken handle.
ghosts walk cobwebbed halls,
the old floor sags.
and the sounds of two young lovers
haunt the ticking of an unseen clock.
damn! to go back...
and do it all again!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Walk The Path In Stillness
walking barefoot...
down alleys dark,
while children play
with garbage and broken glass.
past unlocked doors,
through buildings spent,
left for ghosts and tribal memories.
past walls charred by sweat and time,
left to smolder with empty ache....
to the time before the time before,
when living had a name.
under war torn skies,
over bodies strewn,
and left for birds of prey.
down dusty roads,
holding a child's dark hands,
in shadows anguished pain.
the skies aflame,
as if stars died, and every veil is rent.
to the sound of freedom's hungered drums,
and shadowed wings beating fury.
to the barren room,
the mattress on the floor,
frost upon the pane.
where lovers turned upon the spit,
with bodies made of water.
eyes wide open, living thrust,
tongues tracing maps to destiny.
the hardened cock,
buried in soul's wet lips,
while angels silently prayed.
and the candle burned
till the break of dawn,
and moonlight's final kiss...
the barren room of the empty house,
where eternity revealed!
the field once plowed
has now turned brown...
sparrows pick at the dust.
and scriptures written
in hickory rust,
whispers lost to sound!
battles fought, and flags laid down,
cover caskets that wait for dirt.
the little girl's shoe, the old washtub,
the broken pot beneath the window.
while dogs bark, and ants converse,
and hearts are covered with snow.
the faces of god fade into wood,
stacked and thrown into the fire.
be it dream, be it madness,
or the simple turning of the wheel...
the wind turns with a final kiss,
bare feet walk the path in stillness!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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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
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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
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Golden End
All I wanted was to arrive from the absence
of me, through the sluice of scars; life was
never the same again. Some inner birth took place;
awakening of sorrow for the attempts to take on adversary.
Pure disquiet, I shed myself, fly in grains.
Truth scares, stalks on the hot dusty road;
blinds the pinnacle, gives a call, needles in
eyes, a cult blooms in the rubble of fallen roofs.
The self betrays, does not reach the door,
within grief the sky blames the senses of space,
the flying bird sprays blue sparks of silence,
a cadaver collects the fire of neglect.
A spoken body loses the arithmatic of
stubborn cleft in the faith, pebbles on the beach,
each one for a fallen man, kissing a snake.
The memorial has golden letters on black kill.
poem by Satish Verma
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A Banaba Leaf
this banaba leaf falls from its branch
a child gathers it
and hands it to me
and i keep it
on top of my study
each day i look at it
like it is something so different
from the rest of the leaves
time shrinks it
time browns it
until its cells begin
to show its veins
until it turns to thread
crumpled pieces
until it turns to dust
until it becomes like the sands
of the shore
nothing lasts
in such a short time
the leaf returns to ash
on its last day
i gather what remains are there
on my palm
outside i sprinkle the leaf that
returns to dust
to air back to the empty space
back to the nothingness
our place of final destination
the world is hungry for this
dusts and sands
death to everything living
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Acceptance
each day she bleeds
there is pain
her mind is empty
there is no thought in there
she waits by the door
looking beyond the front road
she knows no name
she waits actually for no one
no one is coming
and she does not know where is anywhere
everyday this happens
every hour is a spirit
when the day fades
she does what routine requires her
she goes inside
closes the door behind her
she eats too little
recites her prayer and then sleeps
this happens everyday for all
the rest of her life
who is doing this to her?
No one.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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By A Thousand Doors
perhaps now this ark is finished,
i can smell the distant dawn.
the light against the window be no stranger,
nor the sound of bare feet in the night.
the crows gather neath the pine tree,
as the wind prepares to die.
voices fallen from the trees,
mine a cloud, a branch, a stone.
it seems tonight the stars finally answer,
all this time i thought i was alone.
a child is born, a life is taken,
streetlights blink in perfect time.
while redemption sleeps in alleys,
and poets silently sweep.
the heart revealed no longer journeys,
for the destination be now the feet.
the tears of god gleam in the darkness,
a stranger's kiss, a soldier's prayer.
infidels gather jewels cast aside,
feed the hungry with human souls.
the song wrapped in plain brown paper,
left by a thousand doors!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Ghost Of Love
I miss the naked warmth
Of your candlelit face.
And your smile
Through distant memory, I trace.
Your voice echoes
Around the catacomb
Of where love's promise lies.
I feel your fingers through my hair.
And touching my cheek, your eyes.
Now in despair
I hold a tear stained letter.
Your lips kiss my pain better.
And then my heart
Beats a big bass drum.
Your words of promise still keep me awake.
As dawn wears its perfume.
That moonlight ache
Eases, teases
As my soul waits to break.
Yet from the canyons of our lost hope
You throw my bleeding fingers a rope
To cling on.
What once shone
Lies in the scrapyard of broken hearts.
Something beautiful departs,
When time gives that shove.
Let's hold hands and contact
That ghost of love.
poem by Kevin East
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Stardust
In fiery furnace I was cast,
spewn forth in a Nova’s blast.
I traveled interstellar space
before I had a name or face.
Dust coalesced around a star,
and gathered in a rocky disk.
I spent a billion years a stone
Before I called the sea my own
Then I was an Ancient bird
Who soared above the chalky Cliffs
That was timeless time ago
just before the comet hit.
In course of time I was begotten
An heir to all time has forgotten
A higher consciousness I claim
At least I have a face and name.
As stardust we should raise our eyes
In wonder at the starry skies
Where stellar furnaces brightly burn
and other stardust wait their turn.
And when I should depart from here
Do not mourn or shed a tear
For I am stardust- never fear
I am the music of this sphere.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Stranger Enter From The East
I went out a-wandering
Beneath an unknown sky
The heavens all shook violently
You caught my eye
A strange fruit fell
And struck me to the core
My heart became a single flame
It wanted nothing more
Stranger, enter from the east
Stranger, step inside this place
And hold me..........hold me
The clock became a bullet hole
Cruel and unkind
It hurt me with its second hand
Alone another night
Stranger, enter from the east
Stranger, step inside this place
Blue.....is that you?
Well, dont bother knocking on my door this time
Blue.....
Go be true for someone else
Theres no room inside this heart of mine
My heart has four empty rooms
Three wait for lightning and one waits for you
I must have you all to myself
Feel the full weight of your skin
Ill hollow out my insides
To place you in
Stranger, enter from the east
Stranger, step inside this place
And hold me.......hold me
Hold me
song performed by by Jewel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Door Between Two Worlds
this the door between our two worlds
it divides the inside and the outside
the light and the darkness
the choice is yours
there is no lock
there is only the hinge that holds the door to its place
when you open it
there is no sound
and when you close it
there is only this silence of the air sealed inside our minds
my heart does not sing inside
it is muted by the darkness that moment your gentle hands
close the door
it is patient, the mind
the incompatibilities of the things outside us
are too inviting
they tempt us to step outside and promise us
the magical wonders of freedom
we feel so light like our joys like cottons and clouds
they are no different from our wishes
i am in the middle of this door between us
& you look at me like i am the last man of this earth
your heart opens with eyes too careful not to know
what i do next is the suspense of this uncertainty
your eyes close, my heart bleeds
my hands wilt, your mind wanders like a lost wind
the door closes finally
walling us in
it locks upon itself and
the world sleeps soundly curling its feet on the beds of the
heavens
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Time Passes
Time is passing while I am waiting
For true life to have some meaning-
Time is passing and I blindly
Count to ten upon my fingers-
Not knowing and not even able to distinguish
What is real from what is not?
One, two, three and the voices inside me won't stop commanding-
Four, five and six-
All I see are snakes within the bleakness and confinement of this room-
Seven, eight, and nine, and even through this dim light I believe I am being watched-
I count aloud to ten upon my fingers and
Time is passing and all that is all that I hear for the moment-
All that I see, I reach out to touch or to open my eyes to see-
Time has passed and everything is silent, without a trace of
Ever being near and once more I count,
Starting at seven, eight and then nine- watching the second hand on the wall clock and
Ten? Ten more hours to be locked inside of this empty, room where
The walls are barren and I am alone with my thoughts-
Time is passing and I would be running away, but there is nowhere to run to, except to
Places inside of my mind and one, two three and all that I see is
The walls of this empty room and a locked door-
I could count from one to a thousand and
Inside of this room I would remain- I could count to one million and
I would die before I even got there- so I count from one to three over and over because
Everything is seemingly easier when I am lost inside the world of my fantasies and
I realize now what is not truly real and threatening shall never harm me and
Time is passing and as I count, I am blissfully losing myself inside the world
I have made here inside of my mind for myself, alone…
This way time may pass even before the sun rises tomorrow, and then-and then?
My life perhaps shall have some meaning-
poem by Claudia Krizay
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All Night To Know You
(stuart emerson)
Producer for bonnie: stuart emerson
I think time and motion just stood still
I feel like the hours are there to kill
Now for the first time in my life
I am right where I wanna be
Im closing the door on what I used to be
Now for the first time in my life
I have to hold on
The feelings too strong
I shake like a leaf
I tremble inside
Its gonna take, all night to know
All night to know, all night to know you well
Its gonna take, all night to know you
All night to know you, all night to know you
Inside the room its cold and dark
The nightime wont sleep till we give our hearts
Now for the first time in my life
I have to hold on
The feelings too strong
I shake like a leaf
I tremble inside
Its gonna take, all night to know
All night to know ,all night to know you well
Its gonna take, all night to know you
All night to know you, all night to know you
All night to know you
Its gonna take, all night to know
All night to know, all night to know you well
Its gonna take, all night to know you
All night to know you, all night to know you
song performed by by Bonnie Tyler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nobody Lives Here Anymore
scarecrow in the yard,
eviction notice on the door.
the walls stripped bare
smell of ham and beans,
the sounds of laughter
and crying trapped
in the cobwebbed corners.
across the street a homosexual
man peeks through the curtains,
his breath of amaretto and nuts...
watching the old man and woman
pack the remnants of a life
into a car, nowhere to go.
setting down his cup he walks
out the door, across the street....
starts carrying boxes without a word.
till all is loaded that can be loaded,
and the rest left in a pile down
at the street, to be carried off....
then hugs, a tear, a few kind words....
almost family, just neighbors, friends...
the old couple drives away without
looking back... the neighbor staring
at the empty boxes on the porch...
nobody lives here anymore!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Cats And Dogs!
whose hand on your heart,
whose back beneath the load?
whose time in the memories,
that color your world?
whose identity the touch?
whose image in the stone?
whose kiss on your lips?
whose stillness in your night?
i am the turn,
and the lantern without price.
i am the touch,
you thought was the wind.
i am the bed,
where your prayers go to sleep.
i am the intimate stranger,
throwing logs on your fire!
you wrap up pieces
of your heart in cardboard boxes.
close the curtains,
turn off the light,
waiting for death to arrive.
and i spend my time
just sweeping your floors,
with an eye to the window...
praying for cats and dogs!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Terrible Night
In the sweetest moment
of the night,
when sleep and dreams would
relieve and encompass
conscious thoughts.
I heard a sound.
I was awaken by the sound.
The sound came from the
door and it was lighter than
the tick of the clock.
I rested on the wall.
Hugged myself with a
preambulating heart
that has refuse comfort
because of the quiet sound.
The sound came again.
This time it was rapid.
Sinking me deep in fear,
enveloping me with goose pimple.
Suddenly, the sound stopped.
I stared at the door,
awaiting my fate.
For the night is still young and
deep within i long for dawn.
I waited.
There was nothing. Every
thing was quiet, too quiet.
Except sound from my beating
heart and tickling clock.
My eyes were wide open.
I focused on the door while
my thoughts move to and fro
my past and present deeds.
Oh Lord i cry, forgive me.
Time passed by.
The cock crow, immediately
i had a staggering courage.
I walked slowly to the door,
with immerse fear, i opened it.
With great sigh, i was relieved
though i had lost my sleep.
All this while, i have been
denied a good night by my
neighbour's dog, who was
found sleeping close to my door.
poem by Enebeli Ifyprada
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In the empty studio
The diffused northern sunlight
of this studio at dawn
matches the silence and the stillness
like the speaking silence
of the retrochoir behind the altar
of a simple white Greek island church –
that has no ornament; simply walls
painted in a pale blue wash,
the space, the air itself, as radiant with heaven;
behind the iconostasis – gold and candle and eternal gaze -
where praise is prepared; thought surrendered;
humility the robe; the sacred word awaits
the moment when it’s spoken;
so this studio; and at its centre, calling,
stands an easel with a white canvas on it;
what waits in this empty studio
that’s so full of emptiness that calls?
what challenges? This canvas
waits, as being ever does; full, content,
needing nothing but itself…
the silence will accept our spoken word,
then return to stillness;
the canvas will not be so forgiving;
‘make a mark on me that will not diminish
my completeness…; so let our being
meet, before a mark is made…’
this holy place: only godself may mark
this canvas and yet not detract; from space,
draw space; or may with colour stain transparent
this white white radiance of eternity:
and in the place whence all arises,
Nothing and Everything smile together
in their secret play.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Waiting For The Storm
snow birds screeching in the trees,
bare limbs bent with time and promise..
desolate, hungry clouds from the south,
and the quiet before the storm.
and those i love are sleeping, or far away.
there's nothing that can be done just now.
all the fires and smoke are as distant
as hours and days will allow.
stillness, and waiting... for something
that hasnt taken form or spirit yet.
walking through the museum of my heart,
searching for answers, and finality.
i cant find God in the garden,
or in the pounding of the big guns.
or in the broken bodies strewn by greed,
or in the voices wailing with hurt and hunger.
every direction leads to lostness.
prayers fall like ash in the wind.
and i'm left with the sound of the
snow birds calling, waiting for the storm.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Empty Spaces
Once there were times love
When we could touch the air between
And out acroos this room
Wed just touch hands life would shine
With electric dreams.
No matter how many miles
Nothing hurt long-distance-hearts
And there was always something there
That space could never keep apart
But now I know inside that something is died
When were apart
All we have are
Empty spaces.
Its not like were building walls
Too hard to climb to make us blind
Its just so much numbing space
To hollow out the heart and mind
And I can hear echoes of ghosts of love
We left behind.
Ill always love april
We fell in love and we planted seeds
But now we walk through fallen trees
And leaves are crushed beneath
And I will always live in autumn
Now were agreed
All we have are
Empty spaces.
Ithought this was meant to be
Our love had an energy
But only as time evolved
And all of our strength dissolved
And well never feel the flame that burned so naked
Again.
I walk through kentish town
And all the rain rain pouring down
So many people here
But space like this Ive never found
And as I get back home and step inside
I realise all I have
All I have are
Empty spaces.
song performed by by Spandau Ballet
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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