I'll Be Around
i'll be around...
in the wind that rustles your curtains,
in the whisper of darkness that taunts the moonlight.
in the silence that roars, and is then still...
in the prayers that children do not understand,
in the dying old man's aloneness.
in the blood that testifies against the hands,
in the hands that cannot escape the heart.
in the feet walking by their own will,
in the soul scarred by mistakes.
in the hungry mouth and the desperate eyes
that have seen and known too much.
in the fear that comes in the middle of the night,
and the dawn that never seems to come.
in the need to worship and the faith to act,
in the doubt that destroys false idols.
in the pound of the guns, the cries for help,
and the fire that has no favorites.
in the defiant stand, feet set firm,
the mark of the chains on backs and wrists.
in the freedom that does not buy and sell,
that sees beneath the skin.
in the constant dialogue of 'i and thou',
in the me that disperses and dissolves.
in the hammer, the saw, and the shovel,
in the grasses beneath bare feet.
in the song of the whipporwill,
and the final hoot of the owl.
in the howling of wolves,
and the sleepy stillness of the cattle.
in the hidden depths of your heart,
and the quiet darkness that forms your thoughts.
in the grain of the tree just cut,
and the rhythm of the fire going dead.
in every voice that cries for justice,
in every hand that reaches for help!
in the working hum of common thread,
in the simple dignity of the family.
in the ghosts of soldiers lost in battle,
in the weeping of mothers over their graves.
and in the constant courage of the peacemakers,
the voice of reason and compassion.
in the truth that all men are equal...
in the bridge from here to there!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Related quotes
An Old Man's Prayer
i pray for the sounds
of leaves falling in timeless glory;
for the bark of the dog,
and the paw of the cat.
for the laughter of children playing,
who have a home and food to eat.
for the tired smiles of working parents,
for the ears and stories of grandparents.
for the kiss and the touch of lovers,
for the dreams of the young that know not bounds.
for the gurgle of creeks and the sighs of mountains,
for the crow, the turtle, and the squirrel.
for the plow, the shovel, and the axe, ...
and hands that know each.
for eyes that see beneath color and nationality,
for the spiritual who dare not name god.
for the silence of guns at last laid down,
for bridges built by caring hands.
for shoulders that take on responsibility,
for feet bound by determination.
for the face of justice drawn by the hands of compassion,
for the way equality feels!
for sundown, darkness, and dawn...
for stars that do not need names.
for the wisdom of trees, and the taste of dew,
for the howl of moonlight that shakes the night.
for the nearness of companions when life seems far,
for the stillness that makes the heart dance.
for passion, simplicity, and understanding,
for the gift of every moment....
i pray....
giving thanks with a pilgrim's feet!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sounds Of The Earth
i feel the sounds of the earth,
cant say how or why!
the hurtling swagger of rivers,
the deep bass stillness of mountains.
the whispered longing of the trees,
dancing naked in moonlight.
the hymn of the grasses,
calling forth life.
the groan of the earth,
just turned by the plow!
i hear the reggae beat of the cities,
the hum of movement and work.
the chords of factories and mills,
the horns blown by the shops.
even the hollow beat
of business, of buy and sell.
and the low gutteral moan,
of the homeless, jobless, and lost.
feet without names,
marching without direction.
the cries of young children
afraid and hungry in the night.
the bang of the idol chasers,
the wranglers, and the pimps...
some working the market,
some working the parish.
i hear the sounds of the demons,
that cry war in the night.
that bang the bloody drums
of patriotism and fear.
i hear the sounds of the guns,
the thunder of the bombs.
the last prayers of young men,
dying alone in their fear.
i hear the shuffle of the money,
the boots beneath the table.
i hear the sound of the shovels,
digging grave after grave.
i hear the pen on the page,
as history is written,
in a book that not even
hell could contain!
i hear the churning of stomachs,
the grating of bones.
the tremble beneath
paper thin flesh.
i hear bare feet on the road,
the poor seeking refuge.
i hear the women weeping
as child after child dies.
and i hear the clank of glasses,
food shoveled on plates.
the shallow laughter,
the hypnotic hum of excess.
the condemning guilt,
food thrown in the trash.
the restless panting of the dogs,
just outside the door.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Disciples Of Silence
the disciples of silence,
speak not with their mouths...
for their hands speak the language
of the heart,
and their feet that of the soul.
whose prayers are written by ears,
whose breath is always shared.
whose eyes are open windows,
whose god smells of human need.
whose actions be but forgiveness,
whose thoughts are not restrained.
the disciples of silence keep walking...
living in constant dialogue,
they have no need for words!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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By God's Good Grace
Wraithlike shadows encased my thoughts
Darkness consumed my soul, in Death's net I was caught.
Running without hope
Coarse hairs round wrists and ankles, tight as rope.
Traversing the open sands
My feet grew weary, tied down by a demons' hands.
Fighting for every breath
I let ghosts creep down inside my chest.
Icy fingers of fear drew the warmth
From my very skin, surrounding me in a swarm.
Hated words from my youth come back
Taking lessons from Houdini has not helped me see the path.
So, I turn, and turn and turn
Wishing for something other than my soul to burn.
Finding no way out I turn to faith
Failed again there is no escape.
Until a hand pulls me from the pit
Only there is no body, no mouth with some ready quip.
Only that hand and a voice as whispered from around
Only a hand you need, you have strength to stand your ground.
And then I understood why I had to fight so hard
I am meant for something grander, said his sweet ballad.
Even if only to touch one life, one time
I'll give Him one last stand, slowly I rise from knees to feet and smile.
Joy Vanderhelm March 2006
poem by Joy Vanderhelm
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On Reading, 'A Few Reflections On Imitatio-Dei
reply to Hune....
i lean probably more towards the buddhist interpretation... we are all buddha, waiting to evolve.... in the same sense we are all god, taking form, evolving.... we are the hands and feet of eternal creation, continually dying and being born.... god is no more distant than the self... and we choose that... the bridge does not lead outward, but inward....
the problem lies in the 'need' to imitate... how do we imitate what we already are?
do we live? or are we imitating life? the social consciousness, the compassion, and the actions we ascribe to the divine are there within us, hidden beneath layers of ego...
we long for a distant sea when the waves are already lapping at the feet of our heart!
our heart speaks to us of this, yet all we hear are distant echoes, garbled by concepts. the fire of dialogue is lit.... we sit across from ourselves!
as always, your writings inspire both deep thought and introspection... i read them in paragraphs, gulping for air....
and i'm quite sure tonight when i'm trying to sleep, these thoughts will return.
thank you for lighting the fire!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Gods We Become?
we kill...
'holy' hands forming gods
out of our paper bag hungers,
in the image of our fears.
we sacrifice blood,
in the name of redemption.
and the ghosts of the innocents
burn our thoughts and our eyes.
what kind of father
teaches his children
to kill each other?
are we bastards, or liars,
afraid of our sins?
even the earth we defile,
cries against us in anguish.
the morality we buy and sell,
is bitter to the taste.
the voice of the eternal,
lost in the din and the madness.
leaving only the tug of the wind,
the cries of small children
the whimper of stray dogs.
words written in charcoal,
on forever grey skies...
'i have come to you,
again and again,
in countless forms,
speaking your own languages,
wearing your own skin...
why have you forgotten me?
and who do you follow? '
the voice behind gods,
or the gods we become?
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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In The Wind....
darkness and light,
thunder and growl.
souls on the altar,
wings on the ground.
death and desire,
naked and hungry.
prayers spoken by eyes,
tears shed by hands.
Abraxas, broken windows,
both sun and the night.
murder and compassion,
theft and sacrifice.
clocks stopped by fire,
graves opened left bare.
snowfall in august,
bare trees mourn in wait.
and the voices, still the voices,
faces wearing names.
hands desperate grasping,
footprints left in the wind!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Soldier's Reality
The drums of war beat in the distance,
A constant beat of gun shots.
The men and boys fighting.
Waiting for the war to end, to go back home.
They sit in the cover of the long grass,
Guns loaded, hearts pounding.
They wait for a signal, a sign,
To rise, run, and fire.
Till then they sit, watching, bullets passing by.
They watch people falling, their lives leaving.
Nothing matters to them except that they live,
That they get to see their family again.
Smoke hangs in the air,
A thick mist that reminds them that they're at war,
Keeping them in reality, keeping their eyes open.
The constant rhythm of guns against heart beats,
Both pounding, both screaming.
The black sky closing in on them,
Keeping them in the small battle that they can not escape,
They move back from the front line,
Move away from the fire, the death.
Some walk, some run, some cry, some pray,
But they all move on.
They all go back to camp, to wait for more death and pain.
For tomorrow.
The talking goes late into the night.
Men and women desperate for happiness,
They sit around guns in hand,
Ready for anything.
The shooting never stops, never leaves their minds,
Even in the depths of this black night,
Nothing ends except the next person's life,
Nothing is right, nothing is normal, nothing feels real,
But in truth and in the midst of everything so surreal,
This is the soldiers reality.
by: bethany M.
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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New Year's Eve
WE stand above the abyss; beneath our feet
Around and onward infinite darkness rolls.
The sky above is black; the watch-bell tolls
The dying year. While slow in silent feet
Pale ghosts come towards us from the ice-locked street
5
Of thought's great city; faces young and old,
Eyes sunken, features set and deathly cold
And noiseless bear the dead year's winding-sheet.
But lo! where now we stand is worn with tread
Of millions; in the darkness feel, the ground
10
Is dust of powdered bones; sure, on this peak
The years have died, and millions of the dead
Have waited vainly through the gloom profound,
For dawn of day or trumpet-voice to speak.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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Lonesome Refugee's Song (Part Two)
tis not magic, nothing more tragic,
than the works of mankind.
with instant salvation by quick donations,
the blind follow the blind.
while the rich cast bread to the nearly dead,
and kick the dogs as they eat.
with boots of flesh that stink of success,
they grind the bones beneath their feet.
the time clock shouts, undresses doubt,
till the truth is revealed.
dignity cries with unbound eyes,
till the cup of cost is filled.
god removes her mask for those who ask,
who've nothing left to lose.
while pilgrims search the trash and the dirt
for the things that can be used.
the distant shore, beyond the door,
the key won by fire and trial.
the naked stand with battered hands
beneath the cross of man's denial.
to bear the blow because they know
that they have not a home.
and only by heart to light the dark...
hear the lonesome refugee's song!
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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Gasping For Light
1
i built a fire in the yard.
slowly walked back into the house.
gathering everything of value.
my books, my clothes, my boots,
old photographs, letters, pictures,
everything i've ever written.
every memory.
took them outside,
and fed them to the fire!
and walked off barefoot
into the night.
2
lover, dance with me!
we call unto each other
from distances, through barriers,
breaking down walls of seperation;
through tears and angry silence,
echoing through the night.
i kiss your eyes, your lips,
the arch of your neck.
your fingertips, your feet,
the inside of your thighs.
your wetness.
you open your eyes,
and the shadow disappears!
3
spirits dance in the moonlight!
a soft wind rustles
through the trees.
the howl of a dog,
car lights on a forgotten road;
a screen door closes softly.
old house wrapped in stillness.
only a faint sound.
the footsteps of God
walking in your heart!
4
i can smell your perfume,
or maybe the scent of rain coming.
i can taste you in the
cool damp earth,
in the blood of a small animal
killed by a passing car,
in the cry of the baby
waking up hungry,
in the web of the spider.
in the hollow of my soul.
5
two moths lost in the darkness,
gasping for light.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Death Papers.... (Part Two)
i, the body
of earth and wind,
cry for the mountains,
the valleys, and rivers.
i am man,
the warrior naked,
muscled dark and lean.
with eyes borrowed from the hawk,
and hands that turn the ground.
i bear the feet of time determined,
the marks of the whip scar my back.
with hardened phallus,
and panting breath,
i follow the trail of the wolves.
i am woman,
the warrior naked,
long hair swept by the wind.
with eyes borrowed from the owl,
and hands skilled in healing.
i bear the feet of time determined,
the scar of the chains on my wrists.
breasts born with fire,
garden wet with hungry birth,
i am the trail the wolves follow!
and now,
i, the body
lay down my cross,
seed in the furrow,
sunlight waiting
for darkness's goodbye kiss.
for i, the body,
am earth and wind....
mountains, valleys,
and rivers cry for me!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Cynicism, and Hope
as i grow older
my cynicism grows...
i've grown tired of paper kingdoms
& dreams that end
with the taste of blood in my mouth.
i do not believe that
God lives in synagogues & churches,
or in the exhortations of evangelists,
or in the rituals of priests...
or in hell-fire & damnation,
the sword of judgement, the end of time,
or in holy graves...
i see God in the eyes...
the eyes of small children,
of homeless men beneath the bridge...
in the eyes of young lovers
madly lost in each other...
in the eyes of the old woman dying
in the empty house where she raised her children...
in the eyes of the activist arrested
& confined to a cold cell for believing
in human rights...
in the eyes of the addict
whose life is lost in the hole of the memory
that the needle fills...
in the eyes of dead soldiers
forever staring into the rage of war...
in the eyes of those struggling to survive
drowning in the despair of cold reality...
in the eyes that stare at me in the night,
& wont let me sleep without feeling...
in the eyes of the dog lying faithfully at my feet,
with no need to be anywhere else...
who is this God? of form & formless,
of light and shadow, dissolving, redefining...
who's not always male, but often female!
not owned, and not owning....
like the waves that carve the shore,
& leave it nameless...
(hungry for the footprints
of human desire!)
not aloof, but immersed,
almost drunk with sadness & joy...
not bound by dwelling or canyon,
but as free as the wind
that cant be spoken!
do i believe? yes! madly! ecstatically!
in life, & stillness, & even death!
in the song that takes no prisoners,
leaving dew in the parched grass...
& in the Lover who opens & closes the door
of eternity in the human heart...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Freedom Rant, Part Two... (For Greg And Terence)
socialism, existentialism,
the pages are revealed.
patriot lies, god dies,
unmarked graves in a field.
the addict weeps, cold hard streets,
poverty has a heavy hand.
discrimination, salvation,
leaving footprints where we stand.
single mothers, live for another,
food stamps and minimum wage.
desperate young men, without a friend,
commit acts of senseless rage.
the prisons turn, the money earned,
fills the bellies of greed.
children taught to kill, against their will,
to survive, to feed the need.
those who slept with goats, and came in boats,
to steal the land of the free.
buried the bones, beneath time and stone,
became written history.
now the sins of the past, come due at last,
the slaves rise against the lie.
feet cross the line, eyes read the signs,
for it's liberty or die!
the farms foreclosed, bankers pick their noses,
the factories shut down...
streets filled with ghosts, businesses closed,
nothing left but the sound.
of family trees, brought to their knees,
and babies born in empty rooms.
where roaches crawl, blood spattered walls,
black eyes, needles and spoons.
while Bibles scream, in human dreams,
of the gospel of flesh and bone.
suicides, mass genocides,
stones stacked upon stones.
hungry faces, leave human traces,
on words spoken without a voice.
beneath the gun, dare we stand or run,
we stand before our choice.
Fox News, for those who refuse,
to feel anything at all.
whose bloodless hands, sign time's demands,
on the dawning of the fall.
the guns of war, as ignorance roars,
but who falls victim to this day?
backs turned too long, hearts turned to stone,
is it too late to pray?
nay, i say! another way!
one chance to make a difference...
for it is this act, taking dignity back,
that is the cost of our forgiveness!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Bride
I am a bride of Christ, said Sister Bede;
He kisses me with a thousand stars.
My bridesmaids are the angels
At elbows and head; the wind
Of the four corners my choristers;
The wounds of my groom, my wedding ring;
The hammer on the nails in His hands and feet
Are reminders of His love for me, I swoon
At His touch, for His love is overmuch.
I am but a grain of sand beneath His feet,
An echo in the desert of His wanderings,
A lost sheep of his multifold flock; He holds me
In His arms when I am found, angels in His kingdom
Rejoice at this, but I am as dew
Upon the morning grass,
A speck of dust in the world’s whirl,
A mere grain in His creation of worlds.
I sit and wonder at my gain,
My bridegroom’s touch, His saving arms,
His blessed hands, His finger pointing
At His sacred heart. Nothing in the universe
Can match His power, nothing can separate me
From His boundless love: I feel myself as saved
From darkness and gloom, my sins mar my skin,
My faithlessness taints my breath,
My lack of love hangs in my hair;
But He is my groom; His love washes away
All that taints; His coming is as the sun
On a morning’s break; He has brought me home
To my heart’s desire; He has set my soul alight
With His love’s deep fire.
poem by Terry Collett
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I Walk Alone...
i am the last rebellion,
the fire you cannot control.
i am the faces of lost bodies,
names written in blood.
i am the call to battle,
armed by the heart.
i am the silence that knows,
the darkness that takes.
i am poverty's shadow,
and the language of need.
i am the anger of the beaten,
i am the field forsaken.
i am the tint of skin,
and the color of the eyes....
the song of the shovel and whip.
i am the bones of the old ones,
shaking with rage.
the tears of the grandmothers,
the dirty hands of small children.
i am the soldier imprisoned,
on the streets of despair.
i am the conscience of the murderer,
that haunts the night.
i am the bodies of lovers,
glistening with passion.
i am the child born,
neath a sky with no star.
i am the crucifix and prayer beads,
the hymn known only by trees.
i am the dog abandoned,
rain falling without remorse.
i am the monk self-immoliated,
the cry for freedom unheard.
i am human dignity,
and i walk alone!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Dance Naked #3
hold Thor's hammer in your hand,
learn from the annunaki...
sit at the feet of Plato,
wander the worlds with the Hopi...
draw swords with the samurai,
search for the codes of da vinci...
watch the times and the seasons,
and be hungry for change!
hold the beating heart in your hands
till all names are forgotten...
till all colors are one color,
and the language is blood.
sit beneath the tree with Buddha,
and understand time, past and future.
walk the water with Jesus,
do the Ghost Dance again!
take the hand of a hungry child,
take in the unwanted dog.
stand on the shores with the Irish,
and chant the waves in!
feed the hungry, heal the sick,
free the oppressed.
stand in the face of life...
bare your teeth, and howl!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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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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