Just Before Storm (Walking With Rilke)
staring across the chasm of forever,
if my body be the bridge,
then yours,
the cup, the fire, and the lantern!
the wind wrote of love,
before there were humans!
scriptures written in trees,
mountains, and hollowed out caves.
your lips,
breath, and understanding...
your heart,
pure awe!
do we 'speak with the tongues
of men and angels'?
or stuttering fragile words,
repeat the wind?
mountains bow to breast and thigh,
sunset undressing those eyes...
the small place between
wing and body... pure heat!
the wrap of the rain on grasses chanting!
spirits with pens undulating,
the scent of god's perfume,
the moment just before storm!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Mouth Devours!
the earth is the body.
humanity, the mouth.
the infinite breathes in the wind.
redemption falls in the rain.
the mountains speak of standing,
standing strong and resolved.
the sky teaches freedom,
the oceans, the womb.
trees wrap their branches in unity,
the grasses sing of equality.
the seasons are the clock,
in the dirt we find the mind.
so why is it then
that the mouth devours,
body, soul, and spirit...
gnawing its own flesh?
words spoken without thought,
hunger that swallows the sky.
lips stained by the grasses,
smeared with the dirt.
the mouth has no eyes,
and little understanding.
yet seeks to control,
and lives to devour!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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To Find The Home!
i drink the cup
that is your flesh...
i revere your scars,
your bruises,
the stink of your heart.
the scent of your eyes,
the silence of your ears...
my tongue writes your body
on infinity's glass!
i listen for your voice
beneath the trees.
i feel your nearness
in the hoot of the owl.
i share your anguish
by the silent small fire....
the horse i ride,
bears your name.
i am the ghost of city streets,
the body left for the wolves
on the mountainside.
i am the air frozen with fear,
as the great bear stands
in magnificent fury.
you are the bridge,
the lantern, and the hound.
the purple struck sky
of sunset eternal.
the body that feels,
smells, and tastes like love...
the moan that stills the wind!
this distance but a paper veil,
a wisp of smoke,
the moment before and after.
the call of death,
the threshold of storm...
set the fire...
and walk away!
(sometimes you have to burn
the building down...
to find the home!)
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I smell your perfume on the wind
I smell your perfume on the wind
And cry a pool of tears
And sit beside it
And fish for our lost love
But i'm living an illusion
The waters are too salty for anything to exist
You're love was written on rose petals
Perfumed in paradise
Delicate and fine as a butterflies' wing
Too fine for the roughness
Of unyielding minds and opinions
Of people who have never tasted of pure love
Who never stroked with there lips
A marble smooth cheek such as yours
Who never clasp a hand so tight
That they were afraid to let go
That letting go was letting go forever
Who never looked in an eye
That shone back the love it received
Who never lay beside a silken-skinned body
And smiled
And counted himself a king with a queen
Who never had a bed
That was a raft of pure love
On a sea, stained with prejudice and jealously
Who never knew of a love so pure
That being without it
Was not being
That you turn to a shadow
A piece of mist
At the mercy of the winds
A formless wandering creature
For being without you I am that creature now
For my love for you
Is written in granite
By the fire of pure love
A white flamed fire of pure love
That no being can erase
That no seed of hate
Can grow on
That no prejudice or jealously
Will cover or wear away
I never chose you
You never chose me
Love chose us
It made the match
And bound us with a chain
A chain of magical links
Each an angels ' wing
Each wing given freely for us
Each a token of love
That blossomed
And flowered into pure love
A love of loves
In a paradise of paradises
A place where we ran away to
A place where we weren't
Afraid to be ourselves
To unite and gel and become one
poem by Paul Larmour
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Let Me Be.....
if your earth is brown and dying,
then let me be the rain.
if your fire is small,
and your body is cold,
let me be logs and flame.
if your soul walks alone,
and your sky is dark...
let me be the wind rapping at your window,
and the candle flickering in your room.
if your heart stands before a chasm,
let me be the bridge, and the lantern.
if your spirit is heavy with oppression,
let my back take the whip.
if the words you speak haunt you in emptiness,
let me be ears, and the cup that's filled.
if death confronts you with the cost of living,
let my living pay the cost....
and if you just need a companion....
i'm already there...
in the dog barking in the night,
the birds singing at dawn....
and the smell of the flower
still waiting to bloom!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Would You?
if i made love to you with words,
would your breath quicken?
would your heart race?
would the moan of the wind
excite you, make you tremble?
would you see me in the shadows?
if i made love to you with rain,
would you stand in it till
you were drenched?
would you take off your clothes,
let the water run down your body?
would you kiss the clouds that bring?
embrace the lightning?
ride the great peels of thunder?
if i made love to you with stillness,
would you lay forever,
listening, panting, dissolving?
would you give that up
which you have never given?
would you wrap yourself
in the arms of darkness,
and wait with the mountains
for the coming light?
would you?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am..... (Feathered Wing)
i am the kiss of the feathered wing...
having no body i walk across oceans.
driven by ancestral blood i go deep in the mines,
listening for the voices of freedom.
i define hunger with faces and eyes,
i unload the gun, and tear down the idols.
i am the maker of mountains,
bare branches bringing forth leaves.
i am the winds of change,
the still small voice within.
i am the womb of the unborn child,
i am the casket, the forever dirt.
i am the groan of the lover left alone,
the shout of the old man's empty room.
i am the stink of poverty,
and the bitter taste of wealth.
i am money burning
on the altars of mankind.
i am the voice of the god
you no longer remember.
i am the touch that breaks down walls.
i am conversation without words,
i am black and white,
both male and female!
i am death unlike what you feared,
i am the bridge you're afraid to cross.
i am the pierced tongue,
and the language of birds.
i am the promised land
deep within you!
i am the wail of justice
during the height of the storm.
i am the storm, and the quiet that follows.
i am the end of human striving,
and the beginning of breath.
i am the price and the cost of condemnation.
i am the scriptures written in the grain of trees...
i am the hand that stills troubled waters.
i am nothing, came from nothing,
to nothing i return!
i am the sight that heals blindness,
the cure for the disease.
i am you...
evolving!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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What Will Remain
perhaps...
you are light, and i am darkness.
you are dawn, and i am sunset.
you are the candle, i the match.
you are the sun, the moon, and the stars...
i am rain, trees whispering, and mountains praying.
you are the heart that grieves,
i am the still grief.
you are the hope of peace,
i am the end of wars.
you are the sinner, i the sin.
you are redemption, i am flight.
you are healing, i am the scar.
you are the bridge, i the lantern.
you are the hungry, i am hunger.
you are the homeless, i am shelter.
you are footprints, i am the sand.
you are faith and belief,
i am doubt and questioning.
you are beauty, i am mere dust.
you are the rainbow, i am the storm.
you are the cross on the hill,
i am the buddha neath the tree...
you are the empty house, i am the wind.
you are tomorrow and yesterday,
i am right here right now...
and what we do together,
is what will remain!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Read My Lips
verbal silence. read my lips.
if you see them.
read the words. read it here.
these words. read them like
flowers in the garden.
these words speak a little.
tips of the iceberg. They are less
compared to the color of my eyes
the warmth of my fingers
the suppressed beatings of my heart.
these words that you read.
if only you can see my lips.
if only you can see my face.
and body, naked on the flowing sheet of
pure paper. IF only you know
what silence means, how emptiness
eats it, if only you know how inferior
verbs and adjectives are
compared to the caresses of the hands
and the tenderness of the fingers,
touch.
read the lines silently.
these words do not shape my lips.
they come to your eyes.
in the silence of your understanding.
never shall they speak
about me. they only talk about
the hands that write sometimes
without any meaning at all.
infinitives are not infinite.
neither do verbs know what is it to be still.
and adjectives talk only about the surface.
deep under, the noise begins.
and silence of the verbs move to another side.
now, the mountains of ideas collapse
and bury the casualties of silence.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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From Where I Come From
slopes of the
mountains
and a small patch
of a plain
on the side
of the river
where the grasses
thicken
like armpits
there is
a hut there
and some
trees around
years
and years
we stayed there
like there is no other
home for us
but then
time comes and
leaving becomes
a must for
each of us
we left and
we followed the
direction of the
wind towards
the sea of our
freedom
and here i
am
writing about
what my
ancestors
thought
leave and take
a journey
and find the
real path
the meaning
that we attach
to ourselves
to the direction
of the wind
towards the sea
and then
do not ever
think of the patch
of plain again
or the grasses
it is the wind
that leads us
the wind
the wind and nothing but
the sound of
the wind
freedom.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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O'wind
The body is the scar of your mind,
The scar turns into a wind of pain.
It passes mountains after mountains,
It passes the cities and my country.
O'wind, o'wind,
Oh, oh, oh, wind, oh, oh...
Oh, o'wind.
But when it passed the world nine times,
The wind turns into a breeze.
O'wind, oh, oh, oh...
O'wind.
Wind -
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hirake
The body is the scar of your mind,
The scar turns into a wind of pain
It passes mountains after mountains,
It passes the cities and my country
O'wind, o'wind,
Oh, oh, oh, wind, oh, oh
oh, o'wind
But when it passed the world nine times,
The wind turns into a breeze
O'wind, oh, oh, oh
O'wind
Wind
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hirake
The body is the scar of your mind,
The scar turns into a wind of pain
It passes mountains after mountains,
It passes the cities and my country
O'wind, o'wind,
Oh, oh, oh, wind, oh, oh
oh, o'wind
But when it passed the world nine times,
The wind turns into a breeze
O'wind, oh, oh, oh
O'wind
Wind
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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O'wind
The body is the scar of your mind,
The scar turns into a wind of pain.
It passes mountains after mountains,
It passes the cities and my country.
O'wind, o'wind,
Oh, oh, oh, wind, oh, oh...
Oh, o'wind.
But when it passed the world nine times,
The wind turns into a breeze.
O'wind, oh, oh, oh...
O'wind.
Wind -
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You were laying with your head on my chest
You were laying with your head on my chest
and said very little during that night
as if words were unnecessary
and still you were against me.
Outside the plants moved eerily
while the storm wind were screaming outside
and the scent of love and rain was in the air
and your body still glowed hot against mine.
In the room it was icy cold,
but hot against your body and buttock
and I felt your heart vibrate in your nipple
and our feelings were intensely new and age old.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Poet's Epitaph
i see the lights of a far distant shore.
i hear the moan of thundered skies.
i smell the perfume of rain not fallen.
i taste the lips of earth, and of trees.
i see the fire in cold artic winters.
i hear the words the wind desires.
i smell the scent of passion held back.
i taste the blood of coming death.
i see the dawn of the blackened cave.
i hear the weeping of mountains still.
i smell the coffin, and shovelled dirt.
i taste the spirit set free in flight!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Then There Are The Mountains
On a mountain's peak is there peace?
Mountains that overlook the quiet prairie.
Mountains that borders life in rural counties.
Mountains chiseled by years of wind and rain.
Mountain winds creep keeping all secrets.
Mountains a kin to the lower hills of death.
Mountains at the height of glamour baked in sunshine.
Mountains that reach for more majestic planes.
Mountains giving to the ridges, valleys and cliffs.
Mountains in spring the fulfillment of adventure and dream.
Mountains which can shelter one from storm.
Mountains an enduring symbol in poetry.
Mountains which inhabit the calls of the wild.
Mountains of spectacle, below the bending roads between.
Mountains embracing, magnifying the sounds of river.
Mountains the stellar monuments of time.
poem by William Blackman
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I Shall Speak
I shall speak of rivers
and I shall speak of streams,
And I shall speak of how they flow
and seep into my dreams.
All the waters pure and clean
purify my thought.
I think how marvelous that I've seen
that which can't be bought.
I shall speak of hillsides
and mountains as they rise.
And I shall speak of how they look
and brighten up my eyes.
All the rises grand or small
expand just how I feel.
I think how wonderful that I've known
what no one can conceal.
I shall speak of beauty
and I shall speak of love.
And I shall speak of how they mix
and take me far above
the ordinary happenings
and events that fill my day.
I think how fortunate I have been
when my breath was taken away.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Italian Myrtles
By many a soft Ligurian bay
The myrtles glisten green and bright,
Gleam with their flowers of snow by day,
And glow with fire-flies through the night,
And yet, despite the cold and heat,
Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet.
There is an island in the West,
Where living myrtles bloom and blow,
Hearts where the fire-fly Love my rest
Within a paradise of snow-
Which yet, despite the cold and heat,
Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet.
Deep in that gentle breast of thine-
Like fire and snow within the pearl-
Let purity and love combine,
O warm, pure-hearted Irish girl!
And in the cold and in the heat
Be ever fresh, and pure, and sweet.
Thy bosom bears as pure a snow
As e'er Italia's bowers can boast,
And though no fire-fly lends its glow-
As on the soft Ligurian coast-
'Tis warmed by an internal heat
Which ever keeps it pure and sweet.
The fire-flies fade on misty eves-
The inner fires alone endure;
Like rain that wets the leaves,
Thy very sorrows keep thee pure-
They temper a too ardent heat-
And keep thee ever pure and sweet.
poem by Denis Florence MacCarthy
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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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What Fools We Are!
we who would talk to god...
yet cannot understand
the language of trees,
cannot read the scriptures
written in grasses,
dont even know what the
sky tastes like!
terrified by the silence of mountains,
we run barking and braying
to priests hidden behind walls!
never hearing the words whispered
in the eyes of the dog,
never feeling the passion
inside the turtle's shell...
what fools we are,
running from a few drops of rain,
building great fires to ward off darkness...
we know not who we are,
or from whence we came...
what fools we are!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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