Liberty... (Dont Betray Me Now!)
Liberty...
dont betray me now.
i have paid your price,
in bodies burning,
and mouths that tremble.
in toil and struggle,
in sweat and faith.
take not thy hand from my heart,
for you have spoken to me with eyes.
eyes that see the beauty
of the common, and simple.
eyes that drink equality,
seeing hands joined in darkened rooms.
eyes that pray common prayers.
who am i to have a face?
who are these faces,
giving dignity to names?
history written in warm blood,
on the farmhouse walls,
on the factory floors,
in the carpenter's apron!
i am the voice of what should have been...
what could have been!
i am family handed down to family,
i am equity and justice.
i am the black hand taking down
the all white sign...
i am the horses of Crazy Horse,
Sitting Bull, and Cochise.
i am the mill worker's only son,
going to college.
i am the daughter of the minister,
marching for women's rights.
i am the young man in prison,
teaching himself to read!
i am the sound
of machines shut down,
of fields left unplowed,
of courtrooms empty.
i am the bodies of the young men,
killed in your napalm wars...
i am the mother and father,
burying their only son.
i am the rage of the poor,
with calloused hands torn.
i am the housing projects,
the trailer parks,
and the prisons full.
i am the cities gone mad,
with despair and grief.
i am the spirit of rebellion,
and the body of revolution!
i am the scientist, the doctor,
the preacher, and the drunkard.
i am the free thinker,
daring to question.
i am the man alone,
who dares to stand and defy.
i am the voices of the grandfathers,
and grandmothers,
crying out from their graves.
i am the migrant worker,
the bedpan emptier,
the garbage man,
and the small town sheriff...
the stink of injustice,
and the vote not counted.
Liberty, o Liberty,
turn not your face...
for i am the breath and the blood,
that moves your body!
i am the prayer too long unprayed...
one hand in a fist,
and the other left open!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Related quotes
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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Epilogue (Conclusion)
i am a child of weeping,
i cannot lie or pretend.
the voice of those that hunger,
the face of those in need.
the cry for justice amid injustice,
the stand for equality and fairness.
the torch of liberty and human rights,
that burns without identity.
the sweat of god fallen
on the dust covered road.
the whimper of the holy child,
held in his mother's arms.
the needle laid down,
the slave set free.
the prayer of urine and blood,
the common body of love seeking love.
the hands and the feet,
nothing more and nothing less.
and destiny, but this,
to paint with raw color!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Naked Infidel
i am the naked infidel,
strolling naked through your churches.
singing in your libraries,
chanting 'justice' in your courtrooms.
scrawling liberty on the walls
and floors of your Senate,
unlocking prison doors,
bringing seed to your fields.
hauling bodies from your mines,
bringing doubt to your classrooms.
taking your girls from the corners,
sending them back to their homes.
disarming your soldiers,
and feeding your hungry!
i extend the holy hand,
that is common and covered with dirt!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Poet
who is the poet then?
the master of words,
phrases, rhymes, and symbols...
or the one who wipes the ass
of the old man in the nursing home,
whose family does not come anymore.
or the young gay teacher
in the projects, walking the thin line
between the hatred of gangs, and hope.
or the small time farmer
who planted one last crop,
knowing that the bank was coming
to take it all away.
or the soldier in Iraq,
who stops to help a child up,
and sees his own children miles away;
cant speak, and cant breathe.
or the young man in prison
for something that he did;
just trying to survive, day to day,
and to find a new way.
or the young woman who was raped,
being humiliated on the witness stand,
and they call it justice!
or the man left standing
on the brink of losing it all...
the eyes of his family haunting him;
with nowhere to turn,
and no one to ask for help,
and a gun in his hand!
if poetry then is written
by the hand of God....
the hands are human!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Liberty
Theres a gentleness within
Theres a kindness that shell bring
Through her eyes of sadness lies
All her love for him
Imprisoned every day
A handsome price to pay
Even when shes done her time
Shell insist that lifes just fine
Someday soon shell make her move
Seize her chance to shine
Its all that she can do
To free herself from you
Its her liberty ( that she wants you to see )
Its her liberty ( that she wants you to see )
Where has all her life blood gone
Will you ever see
Even if she understood
Is it written that she should
Come and see him when shes gone
Hes surprised but knows hes wrong
A simple case of do or die
And now shes cut and run
Your vision let you down
You almost let her drown
Its her liberty ( that she wants you to see )
Its her liberty ( that she wants you to see )
Where has all her life blood gone
Will you ever see
Even if she understood
Is it written that she should
Where has all her life blood gone
Wil you ever see
Even if she understood
Is it written that she should
Its her liberty ( that she wants you to see )
Its her liberty ( that she wants you to see )
Where has all her life blood gone
Will you ever see
Even if she understood
Is it written that she should
Its her liberty ( that she wants you to see )
Its her liberty ( that she wants you to see )
Where has all her life blood gone
Will you ever see
Even if she understood
Is it written that she should
song performed by by Olive
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hymn Of The Dead
the talking faces with painted lips,
stand in nobody lines making nobody sounds.
while gunpowder hangs from cobwebbed books,
in which the pages of freedom are unnumbered.
while justice faint as a wisp of smoke,
curls just above the poor man's reach.
houses left empty except for ghosts,
that have neither name nor memory.
righteous indignation with pale white hands,
that tremble as they pour the cup....
ah, but the cup is cracked,
and blood drips to the floor...
in the hallways of indifference.
a newborn son, put a gun in his hand,
castrate his eyes, teach him hatred.
a newborn daughter, put a broom in her hands,
and prepare her for the planting.
you call this America, the shores of liberty,
dark skinned bones ground beneath your feet.
while poverty takes now two from three,
and bodies are buried in the schoolyards.
crack cocaine, pills, and handguns stolen,
while gasoline steals survival.
and churches burn both plates and pews,
as the five o'clock news fills the needle.
whose mountains and valleys,
whose roads, whose fields, whose barns?
black crows on the tractors.
whose brown hands severed by the border guards?
whose factories and mills abandoned?
whose flags draped on coffins of pine?
whose voices haunt the play yards?
whose trucks abandoned on desert highways?
whose America, damn you! whose family?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Who Am I? I Am! (Part Three)
who am i?
i dare speak again...
i am the migrant worker,
going from field to field,
none of which i own.
i am the addict gone straight,
the saint addicted to sin.
i am the child adopted
by women life partners,
loved and fulfilled,
and taught to respect.
i am protest, i am questioning,
i am doubt, i am reasoning.
i am the teacher, the mill worker,
the doctor, the dairy hand.
i am love and sweat,
the passion that trembles.
i am failure and forgiveness,
i am the crack in your mirror.
i am the end of wars,
the end of oil, and the shift.
i am hatred held close
till it breaks and shatters.
i am the preacher gone silent,
going from door to door.
i am the book well read,
and the end of ignorance.
i am equality,
in action not words.
i am a cold drink of water,
and a warm bowl of soup.
i am the shadows
you dare not name.
i am the name,
you dare not speak.
i am the body
of your desire...
i am the grave,
tended by crows....
poem by Eric Cockrell
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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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America.... Revolution, Or The Fall!
America, America,
your pale skinned death testifies!
the cross of your democracy laid down,
the blood on your hands names your guilt.
your bodies laid in soldiers' graves,
strewn across your planted fields.
while wild fires rage,
and your tenements boil,
as your children march to death.
the poverty of indifference,
strikes the bell that cannot ring.
while the wealthy drink the blood
of your disembodied men.
and your hallowed god turns his face,
disgusted by what he's seen.
blood sacrifices on your borders,
blood sacrifices in your mills.
your families driven from their homes,
while your prisons turn the wheel.
and the hungry walk your streets
wearing familiar shoes.
the haunting cry of liberty,
rattles against your walls.
while justice is bought and sold
in your sacred halls!
and the colors of eguality,
bleed into your angry streets.
your schools struck numb
by propaganda's thumb,
your daughters sold like meat.
America, America,
revolution, or the fall!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Saw God
i saw god...
in the small child shunned,
playing alone.
in the pregnant girl scared,
still a baby herself.
in the young man going off to war,
chest stuck out, and knees gone weak.
in the angry young man,
who learns to read in prison.
in the old woman in the empty house,
every wrinkle a chapter of love.
in the stray cat curled
against my leg.
in two young men in love,
kissing on the steps of a church.
in the family living on food stamps,
day work, and faith.
in the addict with the guts
to go into rehab.
in the body in the funeral home
that no one came to see.
in the couple married for twenty five years,
survivors of struggle, passion, and despair.
in the jobless shuffle of the heads down line.
in the old man fishing with his grandson,
in the mother teaching her daughter to pray.
in the poet, the carpenter, the farmer,
the doctor, the garbage man, and the cashier.
in the bride and the groom,
even the murderer and the victim!
in the anger of the protesters,
in the sin, and forgiveness.
in the black, the white, and every color between.
in moonlight pouring through poverty's window....
yes, i saw god...
never entered a church, a temple, or a mosque...
i merely entered the heart
of the living... and touched!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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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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I Am (Justice)
i am, become...
i am the African slave
working in the deep Mississippi sun;
his eyes, his muscles, his back, his heart,
all shouting 'freedom'...
i am the college student,
hanging from a tree
in the sixties south,
who died for his conviction...
i am the minister
who joined the protest for peace,
dignity, and equality,
his face bashed in by the officer's club,
handcuffed in the back of the van...
i am the turning of the seasons
through prison bars,
the watered down coffee,
the tiny cell.
i am the one ridiculed and rundown
by the conservative righteous right,
for standing up for individual rights.
i am the young family left stranded
on food stamps and unemployment checks,
their future teetering...
i am the illegal immigrant beaten
in the Arizona desert,
left to die by the side of the road....
i am the working poor,
the honest and true,
driven to desperation...
i am hard and coiled,
i am America crying out for justice, , ,
i am, become...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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United Front Song
And because a man is human
He'll want to eat, and thanks a lot
But talk can't take the place of meat
or fill an empty pot.
So left, two, three!
So left, two, three!
Comrade, there's a place for you.
Take your stand in the workers united front
For you are a worker too.
And because a man is human
he won't care for a kick in the face.
He doesn't want slaves under him
Or above him a ruling class.
So left, two, three!
So left, two, three!
Comrade, there's a place for you.
Take your stand in the workers united front
For you are a worker too.
And because a worker's a worker
No one else will bring him liberty.
It's nobody's work but the worker' own
To set the worker free.
So left, two, three!
So left, two, three!
Comrade, there's a place for you.
Take your stand in the workers united front
For you are a worker too.
poem by Bertolt Brecht
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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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I Am.... (Namaste)
i heard your soul whimper
from across the miles,
in the dead of night,
when you thought no one cared.
i saw the light in your eyes,
when you fed the hungry child,
and brushed the dirt from his face
with hands that trembled.
i felt the tears,
that you couldnt cry...
as you buried your only son,
killed in their wars.
i smelled the fear in your body,
but tasted the grit and determination,
as they beat you to the street
for protesting their greed.
i shook with the cold lonliness
of your tiny cell,
where they left you
with no identity or hope...
your freedom taken
for standing up for freedom,
your human rights taken
for defending human rights.
i am the song,
and the hymn of you.
i bathe in your light,
i drink your darkness.
i taste the colors of your skin,
and they all taste the same.
i feel your fears,
your desires, and your dreams.
i am the farmer, the mill worker,
i stand in your factory lines.
i am the activist, the doubter,
the good and the evil.
i feel the blows you've taken,
i can name your scars.
i've slept with your failures,
and buried your mistakes.
i am the love of your hidden names,
i walk by your sides,
know your steps and your sweat.
i am the good things you've done,
and yes, even the bad!
i am the triumph, and i am the loss.
i am the breath of god,
that fills your bodies....
you are the flesh and bones
and the feet of my dreams!
i am the sacred, the magnificent,
the simple, and the mundane...
all living within
every moment you live!
i am the song,
and the hymn of you.
i am the work
that only you can do.
i am the dance, the drive,
the passion, and the chance...
you are the words
that only god can express!
namaste!
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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I Am Sick......
i am sick of your justice...
sick of dead bodies strewn,
sick of your bursts of gunfire,
and your bombs without conscience.
sick of the napalm fingers of your equality,
trading flesh for nickels and dime.
sick of your powder and your pills,
sick of the rape of the young girl
beneath your flag!
i am sick of your nuclear bibles,
sick of your buying and trading.
i am sick of the pound of your oil rigs,
sick of the stink of your morality.
i am sick of your hanging trees,
your courtrooms stacked.
i am sick of the money you sleep with,
sick of your colorless freedom.
i am sick of your smokestacks gone silent.
sick of your riot squads gassing.
i am sick of the amendments you've twisted,
sick of your hate and your prejudice...
i am sick of your slavery,
your prisons, your human rights violations.
i am sick of your political lies....
revolution, by common bond,
the choice of integrity, or death!
the dignity of the human soul demands,
that we live or we die!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Bowl and The Spoon
i hear the sound of humanity's voices,
the sound of suffering and need.
i smell the fear, and i feel the anger,
of those left alone, the victims of greed.
i feel the hate of the guns and the bombing,
the terror of women and children.
i cry the tears and shed blood with them,
i hear the prayers of the dead for the living.
i feel the hunger of children left starving,
i am the anger of the unemployed in line.
i breathe the despair of those left homeless,
i am the hope of those looking for a sign.
i am the body that somehow god needed,
i am the ears the lonely pray for.
i am the eyes that see through the heart,
the prisoner walking through the last door.
i hear the sound of the baby crying,
i feel the mother walking across the room.
i am the father praying for work,
i am the bowl and i am the spoon.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Who Am I? I Am!
who am i?
whose voice do you hear
when i growl?
whose face do you see
when i moan?
i am the train
that hasnt come
for twenty years,
the tracks left to whimper
like a deserted bride.
i am the lock rusted,
and the key that is lost.
i am the cross of silver
on the neck of the corpse.
i am the soldier come home
to no home at all.
i am the father burying
his only son.
i am the vote not cast,
the prayer unspoken.
i am the homeless shelter,
and the house in the suburbs.
i am the husband and wife,
splitting after 25 years.
i am the abused child,
the worker without a job.
i am two young men who are
in passionate love,
and the families that
turned their backs.
i am the young boy and girl
making love for the first time,
when nothing else matters.
i am the empty church,
and the library closed down.
i am laws that take away
the individual's rights.
i am a poet, a hammer, a wheelbarrow,
and a bag of used clothes,
left on the doorstep
of the family in need....
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Clerical Oppressors
JUST God! and these are they
Who minister at thine altar, God of Right!
Men who their hands with prayer and blessing lay
On Israel's Ark of light!
What! preach, and kidnap men?
Give thanks, and rob thy own afflicted poor?
Talk of thy glorious liberty, and then
Bolt hard the captive's door?
What! servants of thy own
Merciful Son, who came to seek and save
The homeless and the outcast, fettering down
The tasked and plundered slave!
Pilate and Herod, friends!
Chief priests and rulers, as of old, combine!
Just God and holy! is that church, which lends
Strength to the spoiler, thine?
Paid hypocrites, who turn
Judgment aside, and rob the Holy Book
Of those high words of truth which search and burn
In warning and rebuke;
Feed fat, ye locusts, feed!
And, in your tasselled pulpits, thank the Lord
That, from the toiling bondman's utter need,
Ye pile your own full board.
How long, O Lord! how long
Shall such a priesthood barter truth away,
And in Thy name, for robbery and wrong
At Thy own altars pray?
Is not Thy hand stretched forth
Visibly in the heavens, to awe and smite?
Shall not the living God of all the earth,
And heaven above, do right?
Woe, then, to all who grind
Their brethren of a common Father down!
To all who plunder from the immortal mind
Its bright and glorious crown!
Woe to the priesthood! woe
To those whose hire is with the price of blood;
Perverting, darkening, changing, as they go,
The searching truths of God!
Their glory and their might.
Shall perish; and their very names shall be
Vile before all the people, in the light
Of a world's liberty.
Oh, speed the moment on
When Wrong shall cease, and Liberty and Love
And Truth and Right throughout the earth be known
As in their home above.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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