En.Citatepedia^®.ro

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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I Am.... (Your Lover)

i am the broken branch,
blown by the wind.
the key left in the door,
of the empty house.
i am the creek spilled over,
the frog on the bank.
the pot stained by time,
half filled with water.
the young woman giving birth,
and the nurse by her side.
the box of canned goods,
left on the porch.
i am the body naked,
sleeping on the silent bed.
the son killed in the war,
the picture on the wall.
i am the softness of the moth,
long left the body.
i am the kiss of lovers,
at the risk of loss.
i am the body of words,
sent without hope or destination.
i am the hand you thought wind,
blowing the hair from your face.
i am try inspite of,
i am hunger expressed.
the tongue round your heart,
the tear that comes unannounced!
i am the face of the lonely,
and the feet of the pilgrim.
i am your lover,
clothed in rain and mud!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Am.... (Disgust)

i am the soldier,
crying in his helmet.
i am the gas pump,
guarded by guns.
i am the foreclosed house,
weeping and vacant.
i am the oil rig,
convicted of murder.
i am the big truck,
parked in disgust.
i am the nursing home,
with grave like beds.
i am the field,
unplowed and untended.
i am the bowl,
filled with empty.
i am the boots,
left by the door.
i am the ache,
the want and the need.
i am the hand,
reaching for your breast.
i am the paper, the pen,
the letter never written.
i am the empty bed,
beneath the willow tree.
i am the darkness,
that comes and devours.
the chill of distance,
the tears of an angry god!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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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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Wake For Young Souls

Today I found my soul
I felt it die inside of me yeah
So I turn to you
Life is like we never know
I have your face in a photo in high school
And you were alive
But thats all I had
And I cant remember who I was myself then
And it doesnt help
Still I look to you as a friend
To tell me
Who we are now, who we are
Its who we are now, who we are
Where does time go now on a wake for young souls
You tell me
Its who we are now, who we are
Where does time go now on a wake for young souls
Another lullaby go sing oh ooh oh ooh oh ooh
Well the wind that blows
Its blowing colder
And the child that grows
Shes growing older
And the friends we know
Theyll turn a shoulder
But the friends we know
Theyre growing colder so
Its who we are now, who we are
Its who we are now, who we are
Where does time go now on a wake for young souls
You tell me, who we are now, who we are
Its who we are now, who we are
Whoa no now on a wake for young souls
Na na na na na na...
Cycle of the moon brings blood to the woman
And blood of the woman brings birth of a child
The child grow up
Keep forgetting something
Birth of a child comes someplace while youll
Living great days with the shade of the wind
Unbodied unsouled unheard unseen
On the day of the dead like a song in my head
Hear you speak to me in the shape of a dress say
Treat me natural like a wind that blows
Follow the direction no matter where it goes
So it shall be the earth and the sea
Let the truth blow like a hurricane through me
Oh ooh oh ooh oh ooh oooh...
If Ive been cold, if Ive spoken in anger
Two have been born
Forgive me
No I dont see your mother
Not like before
Though she hasnt forgotten
She doesnt like to be reminded anymore
Then he got married
It didnt come without tears
But the day you died I had laughter for these years
So its who we are now, who we are
Its who we are now, who we are
Where does time go now on a wake for young souls now
Its who we are now, who we are
Its who we are now, who we are
Whoa no now on a wake for young souls
All the things we know
Theyre gonna fall away from me yeah
Like a grain of sand, it slips through a good friends hand

song performed by by Third Eye Blind
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Trembles Your Thoughts

i am the brown skinned lover,
sweat wrapped in shadow.
the window left open,
the latch broken by desire.
i am the turpentine taste
of the dangerous and forbidden.
i am the graveclothes left
by the door to your room.
i am the rabid dog,
howling against the wind.
i am the moment before
the storm tears down the house.
i am hunger sharpened
by the loss and the fury.
i am legs uncrossed,
quivering and damp!
i am love dares the bullet,
and taunts the noose.
i am the shackles broken,
the sinews of deep want!
i am the heart, the tongue,
the fingers, and the plow...
waiting for the moon to light
the field too long untouched!
i am the beard of eros,
and the pipe of beauty.
i hum the song
that trembles your thoughts!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Home

Years I had been from home,
And now, before the door
I dared not open, lest a face
I never saw before

Stare vacant into mine
And ask my business there.
My business, - just a life I left,
Was such still dwelling there?

I fumbled at my nerve,
I scanned the windows near;
The silence like an ocean rolled,
And broke against my ear.

I laughed a wooden laugh
That I could fear a door,
Who danger and the dead had faced,
But never quaked before.

I fitted to the latch
My hand, with trembling care,
Lest back the awful door should spring,
And leave me standing there.

I moved my fingers off
As cautiously as glass,
And held my ears, and like a thief
Fled gasping from the house.

poem by Emily Dickinson
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I years had been from home,

I years had been from home,
And now, before the door,
I dared not open, lest a face
I never saw before

Stare vacant into mine
And ask my business there.
My business,--just a life I left,
Was such still dwelling there?

I fumbled at my nerve,
I scanned the windows near;
The silence like an ocean rolled,
And broke against my ear.

I laughed a wooden laugh
That I could fear a door,
Who danger and the dead had faced,
But never quaked before.

I fitted to the latch
My hand, with trembling care,
Lest back the awful door should spring,
And leave me standing there.

I moved my fingers off
As cautiously as glass,
And held my ears, and like a thief
Fled gasping from the house.

poem by Emily Dickinson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Triple Homicide

I'm glad the fighting's stopped
the house is silent
empty
this is how I like it

no yelling
no fights
no broken glass
silence

when they're both gone I'm happy
but when they come home
I go straight to my room
I try to be quiet
as I listen to music in the closet

the fight begins
there screaming
this time I hear my name
I ignore it
not wanting to join the fight

my dad bursts in yelling for me
my window left open he screams
he thinks I'm gone
I thought quickly
as my mom ran in

silence
silence
silence

my dad yells again
at my crying mom
I cry silently
as she's pulled from the room
screaming

I hear a gunshot and I jump
grabbing a pocket knife
from my jacket

the cries stop
then another shot
a loud thump
as a body falls

I climb out of the closet
knife in hand
blood pouring out my
parents bedroom door

silence

I open the door and see two
bodies on the floor
a gun in my father's hand

silence
silence
silence

then sirens
and cops coming around the corner
so I take the gun from my dad
hold it to my head
a loud pop
then
silence
silence
silence
t he cops would
call this a triple homicide
or double homicide and suicide
but I call this
a family
who needed help

poem by No Reason To Care
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Muddy Footprints

blue lights in the parking lot,
faceless cars speed by
on rain swept streets....

ghosts march in pedantic rhythm,
in the land of 'no touch, no feel'....
the gas pumps beeping,

always beeping.... shadows
feed shadows... a stray dog
dead on the side of the road....

'can you spare a coupla dollars? '....
heads turn, and walk away....
a young couple walking the tracks....

going nowhere, hand in hand.
you can smell the vacant buildings,
can hear the glass break

on the boarded up windows.....
has anyone a hand, an eye to eye,
muddy footprints where

life should have been!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Such A Rainy Day

such a rainy day
she comes to my door
knocking for help
for some comfort in the coldness of a rainy day

some winds too strong
dry leaves blown to the other side
some trees giving to a crack to a fall

she comes on such a rainy day
she is wet and so pitiful to look at

her clothes pasting to her frail body of
a woman deserted

her hair uncombed and blown and scattered
she stands by my door

my brother left her just an hour ago

she is wet, her hair, her body some rain still drips

how can i forget her?

my brother did not love her and he left her

she is crying and her tears drip on her cheeks on her body

how can i be so cruel for not telling her

i love her so,

but she leaves, she is crying and the rain starts pouring again

she is only looking for my brother who left her

how can i help her?

she never utters my name

in her heart, i do not exist.

she loves him, he left her,

i love her, she leaves me

the rain keeps on pouring and fate plays so well like a crazy child

on us

on a rain that comes unplanned, unasked, and goes away unnoticed.

i stand on this door.

i have to close it,

fate does it always better.

i am that crazy child playing in the rain, in my brain

i am wet, my thoughts dripping like rain,

like droplets and my tears,

i am glad, my tears are invisible.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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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
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The Death Papers... (Part Four)

i name the bullet, the noose,
the needle, and the disease.
the failing heart,
the body bent and broken,
the moment that breath is taken...
for you have not killed me!

i name the war, the planes,
the bombs, and the guns.
the lying flags,
and oil tainted chants.
the strike, the stab,
the tearing of flesh...
for you have not killed me!

i name the empty plate,
the orphaned bed
by the endless road.
the goon squads of indifference.
the prison cell, the alleys burning...
for you have not killed me!

i name the love that ends,
the heart that's broken.
the tidal wave of loss,
and darkness without feeling.
the empty hand and the empty heart...
for you have not killed me!

i watch the body burnt
on despair's self engraved altar...
wondering...
'could that be me? '
and with laughing wings
reach for the sky...
that has no end, or name!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Congress Woman Gabrielle Gifford

1/15/11

Congress woman Gifford shot in the head
By all rights she should have been dead.
But apparently god has plans for her to do
So he laid his hand on her and pulled her through.

With her husband by her side, and in her
sub conscience she heard him cry.
She heard the prayers of a nation when
They heard of this devastation.

She moved a finger, then a hand
Gave a peace sign, and a thumbs up too
It seems she knew exactly what to do.

Now wouldn’t you say this is the work of god
Who is giving her a brand new start?

A lone gunmen with a gun
Shot her And most everyone.
Then a retired military man
Jumped up and grabbed his hand.
Another man grabbed him too.
At that moment he was subdued.

A little girl who was born on that
Fretful day(9/11) took a bullet and passed away.
Christina Taylor green was her name
She died so young, which is a crying shame.

So many lives have been affected that day
And through out the world, people still pray.
They pray for all the survivors and for
The ones who passed away
And there’s not much more that anyone can say.

They say that guns don’t kill
That it is man.

Then it’s time that we take a stand.

Guns can be bought in every city or town
Any where you go, it can be found.
Stop the gun dealers on the streets
And put more cops on the beat.

Teen age gangs are on the rise
We’ve got to do something
We’ve got to try.

poem by Louis Rams
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To Be Remembered As...

i want to be remembered as...
the cup of coffee
in the street bum's hands,
the vacant building
where he slept...
the plow, the harness,
and the old mule.
the needle laid down
for the final time.
the church left open
both day and night.
the unknown person
who paid the rent.
the old man who stopped
in the pouring rain,
and changed your tire
without a word.
the old woman who ran the mission,
the stray dog that never left.
the family farm, the old homeplace.
the tree neath which your mother lies.
the family's tears, the preacher's words,
the blanket and the broom...
the constant rhythm of the hammer,
the constant stillness of the rain!

as...
the old man facing death
who took his few belongings,
set them ablaze,
and danced naked
in the falling darkness!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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San Francisco Mabel Joy

This song appears on two albums, and was first released on the some days are diamonds album, and has also been released on the changes album.
His daddy was a simple man, just a red dirt georgia farmer
And his momma spent her young life havin kids and balin hay
He had fifteen years and an ache inside to wander
So he hopped a freight in waycross and wound up in l.a.
Lord, the cold nights had no pity on a waycross, georgia farm boy
Most days he went hungry, then the summer came
He met a girl known on the strip as san franciscos mabel joy
Destitutions child born of an l.a. street called shame
Growin up came quietly in the arms of mabel joy
Laughter found their mornings brought meaning to his life
Yes, the night before she left sleep came and left that waycross, georgia boy
With dreams of georgia cotton and a california wife
Sunday morning found him standin neath the red light at her door
When a right cross sent him reelin, put him face down on the floor
In place of mabel joy he found a merchant mad marine
Who growled, your georgia neck is red but sonny, youre still green
He turned twenty-one in a gray rock fedral prison
The old judge had no mercy for a waycross, georgia boy
Starin at those four gray walls in silence he would listen
To that midnight freight he knew would take him back to mabel joy
Sunday mornin found him standin neath the red light at her door
With a bullet in his side, he cried, have you seen mabel joy?
Stunned and shaken someone said, why, shes not here no more
She left this house four years today, they say shes lookin for some gergia farm boy
Words and music by mickey newbury

song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Dead Dont Cry

the dead dont cry,
they weep...
for the undone deeds
of the living...
for the work not finished,
the cup left half-empty,
the song that no one heard.

for the deaf ears,
and the blinded eyes.
for the callous heart,
the spirit left in chains.

for the house half finished,
and the home abandoned.
for the love left holding
the purse, and the scar!

for the holy child
born out of wedlock...
for the table left empty,
the chairs that long and pine.

for the touch that failed,
the quivering lip unseen.
for the pot left empty,
and the fire untended.

for the bodies walking
who have no face...
for the latched door,
and the candle unlit...

the dead dont cry,
they weep...
and the sound of their weeping
shakes the earth!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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