In The Small Things...
it is in the small things that we die,
in the breath of cardboard boxes,
and the silent scream of forgotten things.
in the scent of pine needles fresh fallen,
and the sound of the creek crossing rocks.
in bat droppings, and abandoned nests of straw....
in smoke curled into the candle.
in squirrels' prayers to fading light,
and the sound of tires on an endless road.
in clouds hanging just above the treetops,
in the single chime of the church bell.
in the broom sweeping the floor of the soup kitchen,
in old men telling lies and shuffling to keep warm.
in the baby curled against the breast,
in the letter never finished.
in the faces of god on milk cartons,
in the wino pissing in the alley.
in the 'i love you' that you choked on,
and the silence that replays.
in the coffee pot singing hymns,
and gravestones whispering to each other.
in the empty barracks and unloaded guns,
in the bare limb tree that still believes.
in the thunder of the butterfly's wings,
in the wrinkles on the old man's face.
in the forgotten nails of the abandoned house,
in the footfall of forever's ghosts
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Related quotes
Conversations With Hune
who names the flower a flower,
and the weed a weed?
and are not names
cardboard boxes
meant for the fire?
from the womb of darkness,
the sun reborn again and again...
each time with different faces,
different fingers, different hands...
or perhaps we see with different eyes!
do we speak the truth?
or doth the truth speak us?
perhaps 'we' are an illusion,
and there be only truth.
or perhaps truth is an illusion...
and we are only what we are...
what we are...
nameless particles of namelessness...
forms of the formless,
formless by nature.
words spoken by word,
or not spoken at all...
leaves fallen from the tree,
nests of straw left empty...
the sound one wing makes without the other,
the way air cries beaten by wings...
the sound the tree makes
when cut through by the saw...
the scream as it falls!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Mailbox!
frost on the hawk's wings,
small face against the glass;
or perhaps just a memory,
black coffee and cigarette smoke.
bare limbed trees walk beside me,
down the path to the road....
mailbox hanging open,
only cobwebs in the damp.
the porch light still on,
like a ghostly lighthouse,
calling back things you've forgotten,
that i go through every day!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Shouting...
i cannot sleep for this constant shouting...
the shouting of trees, the shouting of alleyways,
the shouting of rats crawling through trash.
the shouting of needles and Family Bibles,
the shouting of flags folded and given.
the shouting of machines, abandoned and morose,
the shouting of fields gone barren.
the shouting of poverty ripping color from being,
the shouting of hunger in faces silent.
the shouting of guns loaded and unloaded,
the shouting of clinics, filled without names.
the shouting of prayers wriiten in pavement,
the shouting of rivers filled with sewage.
the shouting of birth, and the shouting of death...
the shouting of love, distant and forgotten.
the shouting of god, in doubt's innumerable forms.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Things I've Lost
in the things i've lost i found god....
not in the things themselves,
but in the empty spaces left behind!
in moments given and forgotten,
in laughter that never took a name.
in the sound of breathing that is peaceful sleep,
in the tiny light of a single flame.
in random snowflakes that need not redemption,
in callouses that become the hand.
in stories shared with small children,
in the sky seen through a prison window.
in the dog curled against my feet,
in a meal shared with strangers.
in the beautiful eyes of the dying child,
in the touch of the old woman's hand.
in the sound of wings saying farewell to autumn,
in the crunch of frost covered grass.
in the anger of my enemy,
when we both sat down to talk.
in the stories old boots could tell,
and the dreams that eyes reveal.
in the hand in mine and the feet beside,
in the 'thank you' whispered over the grave.
in the silent conversation of old friends,
in the rose that bloomed out of season.
in the sacredness that stinks,
of human endeavor and holy compassion!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Too Many Lies
too many lies,
desecrate the ground.
the footprints of fallen angels,
covered by the dust of hate.
spoon fed history turned bitter,
the sound of children's voices lost.
even the old juke joints,
deserted and vacant.
handmade guitars,
strings made of human flesh.
the howl of an angry wind,
pierces cardboard shelters.
cars abandoned on the side of the road,
fresh turned earth, no hands to plant.
passion's legs wrapped around,
the bodies now hollow.
young girls fall like rain,
forgotten by time.
to be madly in love,
and pant with desire...
all echoes and rust!
when bibles become weapons,
and the cost is too high.
dead poets whisper,
neath the old hanging tree.
flags flown at half mast,
and the factories are closed.
and you just cant remember
your grandfather's face!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Hands Of Time!
the hands of a small child,
shaping sand on the beach.
the flutter of wings,
a sparrow's first flight.
seeds planted by hand
in the fresh plowed ground.
the light teasing shadows,
late afternoon to night.
the war hero's silence,
his eyes grown hard.
the family burying the child,
the mother cannot weep.
the hungry stare
of poverty's stink.
the addict's hard edge,
bare rooms, bare walls.
the hanging tree,
and the lovers oak.
the bullet in the chamber,
and the open mission.
the church locked empty,
boxes to beds in the alley.
the old man who cant forgive
what the young boy did.
the hands of a small child...
the hands of time!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Flight
Voices out of the shade that cried,
And long noon in the hot calm places,
And children's play by the wayside,
And country eyes, and quiet faces -
All these were round my steady paces.
Those that I could have loved went by me;
Cool gardened homes slept in the sun;
I heard the whisper of water nigh me,
Saw hands that beckoned, shone, were gone
In the green and gold. And I went on.
For if my echoing footfall slept,
Soon a far whispering there'd be
Of a little lonely wind that crept
From tree to tree, and distantly
Followed me, followed me. . . .
But the blue vaporous end of day
Brought peace, and pursuit baffled quite,
Where between pine-woods dipped the way.
I turned, slipped in and out of sight.
I trod as quiet as the night.
The pine-boles kept perpetual hush;
And in the boughs wind never swirled.
I found a flowering lowly bush,
And bowed, slid in, and sighed and curled,
Hidden at rest from all the world.
Safe! I was safe, and glad, I knew!
Yet - with cold heart and cold wet brows
I lay. And the dark fell. . . . There grew
Meward a sound of shaken boughs;
And ceased, above my intricate house;
And silence, silence, silence found me. . . .
I felt the unfaltering movement creep
Among the leaves. They shed around me
Calm clouds of scent, that I did weep;
And stroked my face. I fell asleep.
poem by Rupert Brooke (1910)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Flight
Voices out of the shade that cried,
And long noon in the hot calm places,
And children's play by the wayside,
And country eyes, and quiet faces -
All these were round my steady paces.
Those that I could have loved went by me;
Cool gardened homes slept in the sun;
I heard the whisper of water nigh me,
Saw hands that beckoned, shone, were gone
In the green and gold. And I went on.
For if my echoing footfall slept,
Soon a far whispering there'd be
Of a little lonely wind that crept
From tree to tree, and distantly
Followed me, followed me. . . .
But the blue vaporous end of day
Brought peace, and pursuit baffled quite,
Where between pine-woods dipped the way.
I turned, slipped in and out of sight.
I trod as quiet as the night.
The pine-boles kept perpetual hush;
And in the boughs wind never swirled.
I found a flowering lowly bush,
And bowed, slid in, and sighed and curled,
Hidden at rest from all the world.
Safe! I was safe, and glad, I knew!
Yet - with cold heart and cold wet brows
I lay. And the dark fell. . . . There grew
Meward a sound of shaken boughs;
And ceased, above my intricate house;
And silence, silence, silence found me. . . .
I felt the unfaltering movement creep
Among the leaves. They shed around me
Calm clouds of scent, that I did weep;
And stroked my face. I fell asleep.
poem by Rupert Brooke (1919)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Fogging Up The Windows
the sound of a small child crying
hungry in the night
of a young woman sleepless
waiting for daylight
the sound of church bells ringing
not too far away
the sound of an old man dying
remembering how to pray
the sound of two hearts breaking
a thousand miles apart
of the last tear a fallin'
unseen in the dark
the sound of lifetimes wasted
of a love that didnt last
the sound of memories forgotten
of a time already past
can you hear?
can you hear?
a lone tree a fallin'
a hoot owl callin'
life and death, a lover's breath
fogging up the windows
of an empty room...
fogging up the windows
of an empty room...
the sound of the nails driven
into His screaming hands
the sound of salvation
entrusted to a man
the sound of bodies falling
of buildings swept by flame
the sound of different voices
whose souls are the same
can you hear?
can you hear?
a lone tree a fallin'
a hoot owl callin'
life and death, a lover's breath
fogging up the windows
of an empty room...
fogging up the windows
of an empty room....
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Black Thunder
black thunder/ broken pieces, tired eyes.
church bells silent ringing, crow feet scarred pillows.
small children walking, without tongues praying,
wagon wheels bogged down in sand.
black thunder/ second hand lives, worn out lies.
dead soldiers mournful singing, borrowed tomorrows.
blind mouths moving, talking without saying,
unlit rooms forged by fugitive hands.
black thunder/ pregnant women without faces.
waves lapping orphan feet, ships lost in the storm.
refugee stars lost in unmarked skies,
an old tree dying rotting on the ground.
black thunder/ families disappearing without traces.
trash blown deserted streets, old men waiting to be born.
molded crucifixes, covered with flies,
clouds chant scriptures without a sound.
(guns silent weeping,
angels prayerful sweeping.
dreams born dying, dreams unfolding,
looking without seeing, touching without holding.)
black thunder/ hungry barefoot ghosts whisper.
priests covered in blood, empty windows open.
tiny infinities wrapped in colored matchsticks,
nowhere standing lost by the road.
black thunder/ brothers burying virgin sisters.
dialogue without talking, homeless heroes smoking.
ants' prophecies well hidden, time worn bricks,
strangers huddled against the cold.
black thunder/ salvation starved borrowed clothes.
smoke charred walls, forever dripping to the floor.
flesh tokens paid, lifetimes yet unforgiven,
candles dressed in cemetery suits.
black thunder/ nobody cares, nobody knows.
horses stomping stalls, doors open to doors.
while the dead barter for the living,
with bayonets and religious boots....
black thunder!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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House for Sale
I stood in the midst of the empty house,
It was silent, empty, and bare,
gone was the laughter the tears and the life,
and the family that once lived there.
I stood there observing, to try to revive
the memories this house had to share,
the secrets, excitement, unhappiness too,
these feelings so willing to bear.
I heard children playing and lapping up life,
I heard adults talking and scolding,
This house bore it all with its solid repose,
and accepted with wisdom beholding.
I stood in the midst of the empty house,
with a feeling of sadness around,
abandoned and empty, a lonely shell,
for the place never uttered a sound,
it was silent and bare, where the rooms had been stripped
and the furniture taken away,
the paint had been scratched and the floor left unwashed
when the house was abandoned that day.
The ghosts from its past walk through each lonely room,
and I sigh as I button my coat,
I slam the front door with an echoing bang
and a lump seems to lodge in my throat-
for there on the green lawn for all eyes to see
with dark letters outstanding on pale
is a board standing taut in the cold winter sun
with the large, lonely wording- "For Sale"
poem by Margaret Hanning
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Darkness
Im scared of swimming in the sea
Dark shapes moving under me
Every fear I swallow makes me small
Inconsequential things occur
Alarms are triggered
Memories stir
Its not the way it has to be
Im afraid of what I do not know
I hate being undermined
Im afraid I can be devil man
And Im scared to be divine
Dont mess with me my fuse is short
Beneath this skin these fragments caught
When I allow it to be
Theres no control over me
I have my fears
But they do not have me
Walking through the undergrowth, to the house in the woods
The deeper I go, the darker it gets
I peer through the window
Knock at the door
And the monster I was
So afraid of
Lies curled up on the floor
Is curled up on the floor just like a baby boy
I cry until I laugh
Im afraid of being mothered
With my balls shut in the pen
Im afraid of loving women
And Im scared of loving men
Flashbacks coming in every night
Dont tell me everythings alright
When I allow it to be
It has no control over me
I own my fear
So it doesnt own me
Walking through the undergrowth, to the house in the woods
The deeper I go, the darker it gets
I peer through the window
Knock at the door
And the monster I was
So afraid of
Lies curled up on the floor
Is curled up on the floor just like a baby boy
I cry until I laugh
song performed by by Peter Gabriel
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
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Vacancy, For Rent
walking the streets
of a small southern town...
empty buildings, empty houses,
'vacancy, for rent'
no one moving much,
even the church parking lots
are empty.... seems like
Jesus and His disciples
packed up, and moved on...
probably looking for work!
only a sense of quiet despair,
the sound of old cars rusting,
and the howling of a dog.
just read the news:
an elderly couple, married
67 years, murder suicide...
he'd been sick, she had
alzheimer's.... afraid there'd
be no one to take care of her...
another unmarked grave,
forgotten people, abandoned
by their own government.....
another empty house that
used to be a home...
'vacancy, for rent.'
just walking the streets
of a small southern town...
church bells are ringing...
and the smell of death
hangs in the air!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Life For The Living, Nothing More!
he lies awake,
the room cold and dark....
except for moonlight pouring
through the curtainless window....
she lies naked, wrapped into
every pore of him,
their breath hanging like small clouds.
the smell of love and woodsmoke,
the heartbeat of silence
resonates off bare walls....
no money, little food, tomorrow
to look for work......always tomorrow!
the sound of gunfire, and children's voices
haunt the back of memory forgotten.....
they called it history, the great change....
maybe just looking to fill the pot!
but for now just now,
the moment stolen and precious....
life for the living, nothing more.
he turned and wiped the hair from her face....
prayed the minutes would be slow,
watching her sleep!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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What We've Clinged To.... (Only Straw)
this body, made of straw,
now empty, blown by the wind.
leaving only the faint scent of eggs,
the echoed imprint of wings.
no more, and no less,
than the branch, than the tree,
than the memory of sunlight,
and the haunt of rain.
freedom sheds its bark,
god is buried beneath leaves...
perhaps only snow can transform.
only voices linger,
nay it be not names!
while squirrels devour the nuts
of a thousand passions!
nests be not wings, nor beak or talon...
what we've clinged to is only straw!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Silence In September
Sometimes when I laugh I feel so guilty
For a moment I've forgotten, then I remember the sounds of your laughter and my eyes mist
I haven't come to accept yet the absence of your laughter
Silence of a home has its own agony
I never knew there would be a September without you
September with its endless sadness, its loneliness
Everything reminds me of you -- the color of wild flowers,
the smell of autumn air, the sound of creek water flowing over rocks, the mournful sound of a dove--
Small things I never noticed before
Death brings such poignancy, such humility
One is left so defenseless
Before I was never aware that the mornings rays of a September sun are somehow different
They appear to have a more golden glow as they caress the leaves
Perhaps sensing a coming farewell
Time is meaningless now
Our hearts broken
Something infinitely precious was stolen away from us
Days are long
Some we don't know how we'll get through
We feel so wasted, so empty, an eternal emptiness without you
poem by Barbara M. Thomas
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Lonesome Farewell...
lonesome farewell...
wind blown dust,
cardboard boxes in the rain.
the doorknob broken,
the window nailed shut.
empty fields, briars and thorns.
a dead rabbit rotting
on the side of the road.
signs falling down,
tree limbs on the ground.
silence screams, waves of grief!
the smell of want, forgotten lips.
words cling like cobwebs
to the empty walls...
where are you now?
where are you now?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Ah!
i am not your poet,
not even your rising poem.
i am but the simple sound, 'ah',
that comes between
your irregular heartbeats!
i am the sperm
that fell to the floor,
the dust wiped from the cover
of an unread book.
i am the rust on the plow,
the burp of the earth.
i am the nest made of straw.
i am the old clothes,
washed in the creek.
i am the pot simmering.
i am the child
forgotten by god,
i am the body
left for the crows.
i am the silence that overwhelms,
i am the healing without name.
i am the lover, the cross,
and the road not walked.
i am the embrace of death,
and the quiet companion.
i am the still beauty
of scars and bruises,
the kiss that lights the night.
i am the hope
that looks like you...
the simple sound,
'ah'!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Squalor & Chips
My angel of the night
came down the stairs of morning
his hair, brown locks of greasiness,
his mouth, those sweet lips, yawning.
He stopped three steps from earth that day
and gazed at trainers in his way
and then as I began to pray,
stepped over and ignored them.
He took four steps across the room
he missed the cloth, the pan, the broom
and squashed cold chips, bare footed
upon the kitchen flooring!
Alas my fallen angel there,
sat his bottom on a chair
and sweeping hand through tousled hair,
ate his breakfast without care.
Without thought for chips all squashed,
flattened on that kitchen floor.
A floor so needy for a wash
as I exclaimed, "Oh my dear God! "
I found the mop, the bucket too
I cleaned the floor, mopped up the goo
and then I had a notion to,
but my angel wouldn't let me through.
Squashed chips on the kitchen floor
last nights washing up,
sticky table, dustbins full
and an empty coffee cup.
poem by Ruth Walters
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