I Write....
i write...
what is given me to write,
with all consuming fire,
burning every branch of self.
i doubt all...
and therefore believe,
touching the untouchables,
with reverence and awe.
i chant...
with dirty hands plowing,
urine drenched eyes searching,
living beneath all thought.
i mourn...
hearing the lament of dead bodies,
doubled over with hunger,
no place to lay my head.
i burn...
with uncontrolled passion,
for the leaf, for the river,
and the prayers of small children.
i run...
just a dog among dogs,
barking and baying,
with the scent of raw life.
i love...
with hot breath panting,
with both candle and phallus,
the whisper of tender touch.
i fly...
beyond body and bondage,
beyond concrete and ashes,
dark wings seeking light.
i howl...
with pen and paper,
with human words scratching,
at the walls of the tomb!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Life Erupting...
i walk the hymn of life erupting,
the urine prayers, the sweat, the pus.
the gutteral cry of need evolving,
the phlegm of god, the bodies rotting.
the snow wiped faces
and the naked earth.
in constant rhythm with hunger's howl,
the candle flame, the silenced tongue.
the whisper shake, of shadows wanting,
nails, blocks, and colored glass.
the crippled dance,
and the distant drums.
who am i? i am you!
the second son of an unknown father.
born in an alley neath a starless sky,
my feet stink of human,
my eyes lit with desire...
talk to me when words are done!
the wet birthed babe,
the hot blood of giving.
the life caved in,
the searh for nipple.
the whiskey breath,
the cigarette memory,
the love torn chest,
the beak plucked heart.
the identity of the unknown soldier
who died in the ashes, unheard, unseen.
the hands that built with determined faith,
with common trust and common hope...
the weeping beneath the silence,
the silence beyond the grave....
talk to me when words are done!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Inbetween, We Live!
the human heart feeds...
we are born hungry, born searching,
born needing, born wanting....
left alone on an island...
we lift our beaks to the sky,
gulping for flesh, gulping for air,
gulping for fire....
still smelling of ocean,
and something dark we cant name,
we run into the open,
running, not knowing where.
i cannot live
without the taste of darkness,
the smell of flesh,
and the touch of that
which is hidden...
i shout into the ocean,
and hear only the roar...
i leap from the ledge,
forgetting my wings!
i need a small fire,
and the secrets that curtains tell windows.
my lips need the grain
of soul on soul.
my body burns,
i listen for the prayer of ashes,
ashes that tremble
on the hearth alone.
i need body and eyes,
most of all eyes...
the curve of the breast,
coming and going with the tides.
i need legs and dampness,
conversation without words...
i need to remember
that i am alive.
the quiet walks in the rain,
with god as our partner.
barking with the dogs,
stopping to touch a blade of grass.
the feel of nearness,
the breath of companion....
we are born and die alone,
inbetween, we live!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Tis Breath, Then.... (Part Two)
tis breath, then...
(and still spirits dormant in the night,
leaf, stone, branch, river...
forgotten ants, snails, and crickets,
spiders with infinite webs.
the wolf's howl in waiting,
the owl perfectly still.
worms working silence,
the wings of small birds...
waiting, waiting, waiting...)
tis breath, then...
carrying the plague of war,
deep into the ignorance.
walls built of fear,
and the hunger that devours.
draining color, caged, and panting...
breath crying out for breath,
sorrow unto sorrow...
but tis breath, then...
that forming tongues of soul and spirit,
that falling like passion scented rain,
binds darkness unto darkness,
holding sound in echo's palm.
that rises to the fall,
and falls to the rising.
swallows distance with intimate longing...
calling forth stars and moonlight!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Embrace!
body bruised,
burning in the fire
that consumes and names!
living by hunger,
fed my memory...
and the scent of something
from that faraway shore!
stories written in ashes,
the crackle and the smoke...
winter, and stillness.
but the light still burns,
the room stark and empty!
hand extended,
naked, unashamed!
calling forth the lover
dressed in flesh and touch!
breathe on me!
softly blow the ashes....
still fire beneath...
waiting for embrace!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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You were gone (poet's echo)
I tried to remember you
from the way that you look,
from the small frown between that your eyes
against the sharp light,
the way that every now and then
you touch your locks of hair,
but you were gone.
I tried to remember you
when at another place
at times I dreamt about you
and my body was burning for you,
when I could feel your kisses,
your hands on my body,
your breath touching my cheek
but you were gone.
I tried to remember you
when the stars at dusk were shining above me,
with the sun kissing the hillocks,
the night breeze blowing against my body
and I was wondering if you sometimes
think about me when the night is long and lonely
when you lie sleepless until morning light.
For years I was searching to find you,
but you were gone - Until now.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Tis Breath, Then.... (Part Three)
tis breath, then...
that frees both image and form.
that taking hands touches.
that shaping lips kisses.
that barks, howls, groans, and chirps...
that is the lift beneath wings.
that is both scent and journey.
that is the language between us.
defining one inside the other...
tis breath, then....
(that being fire, becomes fire.
that being human, becomes human.
that leaving body, becomes spirit.
that being lonely, takes a body.
that naming god, does not know.
that does not know, but understands.
that being filled, opens and gives.
that giving, somehow remains.
that having left a mark,
leaves no footprints...)
tis breath, then...
breaking down walls imagined.
cracking egos' fragile shells.
breaking down tribe becoming family.
breaking down difference becoming sameness.
breaking the image of god, finding presence.
that walking the smoking ruins of civilization,
births flowers from ashes!
that screaming in childbirth,
puts eyes in the darkness.
tis breath, then...
yawning with creation's dawning,
as if it 'is'!
tis breath, then....
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Why Do I Write
I write from my sadness
I write from the madness
I write because I have something to say
I write to pass the day
I write only from the heart
I write for sometimes I am not that smart
Whatever is in head just comes out on paper (in this case a word document) , and I go with the flow
Write to let my mind go
I follow my hand to where ever it takes me
I write all the things that I can see
I write when I am happy, but not as much
I write from my heart that you can touch
I write because I’d go insane
I am driven to write quell my pain
At times I feel alone so I write what I am feeling
I write for it is self-healing
Confident not so I write it all away
I write and write to pass the day
I write to comfort my soul that cries out in the night
I write for love is always out of sight
I write so I don't have to cry any more
I write for I have no one to adore
I write so someone somewhere will hear my plea
I write for someone is out there for me
I am lost and I the clown
I write to turn my frown upside down
I write to embrace the sadness I hide inside
I write with my heart opened wide
I write to silence the ghost
I write for I’ve been let down by the one I loved the most
I write through the stormy weather
I write for I am light as a feather
I am not a writer nor am I a poet
I write for the grief I do know it
I will write until I draw my last breath
I write because I'll die a lonely death
I have to write for strangers delight
I write because I have to write
I write for my own happiness
I write to relieve my stress
I write because I have no other choice
I write as if I was writing a letter
I write because I can’t do any better
I write because I am afraid not to
I write for this is what I do
I write for I give a damn
I write just because I am
poem by Wilfred Mellers
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Love Resurrection
I want to be just you and me
The music to play
To hide in a lonely place
To taste a bottle of red wine
To kiss you full of passion
Like there is no tomorrow
You are the sea, i am the wind
Touch you softly, touch you wildly
Your body dynamite alight
Your breath stops the time
Your kiss, frozen me, burning me
Your glance like magnet
We roll like the river, from bed
to walls, from tables to rugs
Like a piano melody our fingers
Touching wet body
Let it never end
Passion, eternity
To this room the death will come
And if tomorrow comes
Don't be afraid
It's a love resurrection
poem by Yiannis Baki
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Holy Saturday Gains and Losses
Holy Saturday. Lulu softly rubs her
Black rosary held between fingers.
The church cold and dark. Waiting
For the light. The candle brought by
The priest and others of his ilk to bring
Light to the darkness. Rudandoff stands
Still silent in shadows watching her
Outline in candlelight's glow. Lulu feels
Smooth wood on fingers and thumb
Mutters her pure prayers watching
The candle light up the darkness.
Rudandoff smells her the scent
Touching him the shine of her hair
Caught by passing light her profile
Moves him her moving fingers stirs
His dark embers stiffen his manhood.
The holy candle brings light to the
Church. The priest and others chant
Out the long prayers. Lulu's soft lips
Kiss the crucified Christ on her crucifix
Warm lips on smooth wood. Rudandoff
Wishes those were his kisses his manhood
Between her moving fingers her tender
Body beneath his hot frame. Lulu closes
Eyes imagines her Christ blue bruised
And beaten hammered and battered
Gazing through eye slits bringing her true
Love never forsaken. Rudanoff's hot lust
Swells in the darkness his sausage fingers
Want to reach and touch to squeeze and
Fondle to greedily suck her female juices.
Holy Saturday. She finds her love's light.
He loses lust's kiss and burns in darkness.
poem by Terry Collett
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Perhaps A Brandy
perhaps a brandy....
the shovel still caked with dirt,
the body restless, turns and groans.
the shade o'er the window
yellowed by mold,
the frail hands of the clock
do not move or whisper.
the scent of love,
lingers and stutters.
the fireplace empty,
the books weep on the shelf.
the old tree fallen
just outside your window,
the barking of dogs,
the prayers of rust.
children without faces
carry the box into the night...
the hoot of the owl,
another mockingbird dead!
moonlight, perhaps a lie,
even the stars remain distant.
nothing dressed in wrinkled clothes,
squats by the fire,
humming an ancient tune.
the spider's web reflected
on the oil tinged dew,
tastes like love remembered!
perhaps a brandy?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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We fit into each other
We fit into each other
and it is pure passion,
perfect like light on glass
with bodies, hands
and feelings touching deeper.
There’s JC Le Roux champagne in a glass
and the red sparkles like fire
burning deep in your eyes
while you shake your head
spreading your hair over your shoulders.
Later you lipstick
is on the edge of a glass,
while I pour some more champagne for you
and the smoke of your cigarette
spirals up into the air
and I see your perfect body
before you draw me nearer to you
and I feel your soft skin
with nipples pointing into my chest
with your breath soft against my cheek.
In your sleep your turn against me,
lying with an arm stretched over my body
and it’s as if your lips are muttering words
while your face looks pure and chaste
like that of a small girl.
The next day I find
a brown hair-clip in my bed,
on the pillow there’s a mark of red lipstick
and my sheets smell of you.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Darkness, Man, And God!
lonliness...
the soul cried out for
the presence of god,
even while held in the womb!
and so stars appeared,
for we feared darkness...
forgetting darkness our mother.
and we howled as wolves,
until there was fire.
yet the flesh we cooked
was our own...
darkness wept, and created dawn.
and the tribes of man rebelled
against the scent of the mother...
and civilization was born.
and men created distance,
between themselves,
between themselves and god.
so man created progress,
fueled by conceptual learning...
and so fed his fears,
and the distance widened!
so men created images of god,
faces cold and wrathful!
and men killed each other,
being drunk with blood.
and men raped the earth,
as savage beasts,
without the heart of animals.
prophets came and pointed the way,
men sold their words for profit!
unable to love, men learned to hate...
till the world aflame screamed, 'stop! '
and hunger became the way of the masses...
hunger for bread, and something more.
the great mother's tears fell like rain...
and the womb shuddered in silence.
till one by one, pilgrims extending hands,
formed a bridge, and lit a lantern.
and the children, born and yet unborn...
returned to the womb of darkness.
praying love and touching human faces,
aware of the presence that never left.
the sun set in glory on the cool dark night...
knowing dawn, as sure as the stars,
was coming! the howl of wolves,
the barking of dogs, the flap of wings...
suddenly silent with awe...
and connection!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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For You, With Me
The Touch of my Bosom
On your Chest,
I’ll wait for the day
When East meets West.
The Feel of my Fingers
On your Face,
Making Love
In a lilting pace…
My Lips on your Mouth
Suckling Slow,
As if they have
Nowhere to go..!
My Hands on your Arms
Sliding through
Panting to glide
All over you…
My Smell and your Sweat
Mingling in…
For us to feel
The passion within
Your Body, A Paper
My Passion, A Poetry
With Love I Write,
How You Fulfill Me…
You spurt out
And I give in
Tell Me, My Love
Is it pleasure or sin?
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Dixie Fire
Im not a stranger to passion,
Ive seen a lot of love in my time
Felt that physical attraction,
From the touch in the heat of the night
Been all over the country,
Started my share of new flames
But after all is said and done,
Theres only one that remains
Dixie fire burnin down in my soul
Dixie fire it never leaves me whole
It took a hometown girl to show me
How cruel these hot summer nights can be
Now theres a Dixie fire burning in the heart of me
Burning in the heart of me
Searching for some kind of direction,
Looking for a guiding light
Needed to see a lighthouse,
Like a ship on a stormy night
Somehow you heard my music,
You felt the sadness in me
You took the words that were so cold,
And added a warm melody
Dixie fire burnin down in my soul
Dixie fire it never leaves me whole
It took a hometown girl to show me
How cruel these hot summer nights can be
Now theres a Dixie fire burning in the heart of me
Burning in the heart of me
(Burn it down now)
Burn, burn, burnin
Burn, burn, burnin (Cant you see that Im)
Burn, burn, burnin (Theres a Dixie fire)
Burn, burn, burnin (Dont you know that Im)
Burn, burn, burnin
Burn, burn, burnin
song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Writing At That Time When You Were Sick...or Dying
when you write
when you are sick and having fever throughout the night
there is no one beside you
there is no electricity, and there is a storm raging on your roof
the house is shaking
you feel that in a short while this house will be blown away
and you just do not know what happens in mid-air
when you write these lines
you hear voices asking for help as though they are buried by the waves
twirled and taken to the bottom of that deep and dark ocean
some bodies
of children and women
some still holding each others' hands
lay dead beside the black corrals and the sea porcupines and urchins
finally, you are carried by this horror
your body shakes in terror like the house shaking its beams and walls in mid-air
you give up the pen
let go off the paper
you give up that consciousness
what you have and what you are now
is air,
strangled like a throat
all breaths finally
sucked
in a vacuum
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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An Assurance
Say that I should say I love ye,
Would you say 'tis but a saying?
But if love in prayers move ye,
Will ye not be moved with praying?
Think I think that love should know ye,
Will you think 'tis but a thinking?
But if love the thought do show ye,
Will ye lose your eyes with winking?
Write that I do write you blessed,
Will you write 'tis but a writing?
But if truth and love confess it,
Will ye doubt the true inditing?
No, I say, and think, and write it,
Write, and think, and say your pleasure;
Love, and truth, and I indite it,
You are blessed out of measure.
poem by Nicholas Breton
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Another Of The Same (A Report Song In A Dream)
Say that I should say I love ye,
Would you say 'tis but a saying?
But if Love in prayers move ye,
Will ye not be moved with praying?
Think I think that Love should know ye,
Will you think 'tis but a thinking?
But if Love the thought do show ye,
Will ye loose your eyes with winking?
Write that I do write you blessed,
Will you write 'tis but a writing?
But if Truth and Love confess it,
Will ye doubt the true inditing?
No, I say, and think, and write it,
Write, and think, and say your pleasure;
Love, and truth, and I indite it,
You are blessèd out of measure.
poem by Nicholas Breton
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Forever
Slowly fading blue
The eastern hollows catch
The dying sun
Night time follows
Silent and black
Mirror pool mirrors
The lonely place
Where I meet you
See your head
In the fading light
And through the dark
Your eyes shine bright
And burn like fire
Burn like fire in Cairo
Burn like fire
Burn like fire in Cairo
Shifting crimson veil
Silken hips slide
Under my hand
Swollen lips whisper my name
And I yearn
You take me in your arms
And start to burn
F.I.R.E.I.N.C.A.I.R.O
Then the heat disappears
And the mirage
Fades away...
F.I.R.E.I.N.C.A.I.R.O
Burn like a fire in Cairo
Burn like a fire
Blaze like a fire in Cairo
Blaze like a fire
Flare with a wonderful light
Like a fire in Cairo
Burn like fire
Burn like
Fire in Cairo
song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Stink
the stink...
human excrement,
starving mouths,
skeleton bodies...
breath short and aching.
blood on the hands,
violent scars that tremble,
in the darkest night,
burning out of control.
hatred fear,
that drives and shatters.
the grip on the cup,
broken, and shaking.
hot love molten,
howl, and moan...
the stars in the sky,
falling like hot knives!
silent prayers,
tongues ripped from mouths,
that move like fish,
praying to the water.
feet walking through mud,
hands covered in ashes.
human hearts beating,
souls rotting with desire!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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If You Are a Poet
If you are a poet it means so much
as others souls you often touch.
Your own soul you cruelly cut
petting the others with your blood.
To be a poet means to sing of beauty
and it’s the main poet’s duty.
Rhyming the words to tell the truth
and it has to be quite smooth.
To be a poet means to burn with passion,
to treat the others grief with a compassion,
to love the others as yourself,
to hear the voice of kind elf.
To be a poet means to dream,
to tell the world a touching theme,
to speak sincerely and frankly
but not just rhyming poems blankly.
Rhyming words is not the main,
there’s no need to strain your brain.
If your heart has nothing to tell
rhymed words will look like hell.
To be a poet means to write
as if your blood gushes from vein,
to write the rhythm of living breath,
the rhythm of life that seethe.
Larisa R (Odessa, Ukraine)
30/9 2010
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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