Long Grown Cold
thunderstorm, and ashes...
wild horses running free.
wolves panting in the darkness,
owls shudder in the night.
bats hang upside down, and then die,
like falling stars disappear.
i lick the walls of your soul,
until my tongue bleeds.
water dripping from a rusted spicket,
the old tree split by lightning.
i kiss your eyes, and death stammers,
even word hesitates.
longing tastes like sap and old books,
sadness precious hangs and falls.
you dig your nails into my heart,
the waterfall frozen in time.
stone throbs, pines pray needle prayers.
there's no direction in the darkness,
only pulse, and animal souls.
then i awaken with a start,
gasping for breath in an empty room.
wind blown branches scratch the window,
embers whisper long grown cold!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Related quotes
Returned.... (Primitive)
my soul hath returned
to the beginnings of faith,
before written history,
before there were words.
when god walked naked in the darkness,
her long hair birthing leaves
on branches that wept.
the stones whispered praise,
the trees bowed in prayer!
the gutteral moan of the wind
haunts the walls of the cave.
i dream of fire,
both shaking and sweating with cold.
while god talks with the wolves,
the turtles, and the owls.
and sounds mimic night
making love with herself!
dawn calls from a faraway shore;
the waterfall hesitates,
as if in waiting!
unseen hands rub stick against stick,
till the spark of dreams ignites!
moan, groan, and the flap of wings...
and the only name be heartbeat!
i am stone, i am tree,
i am river, i am wind...
i am the sound of nothing,
and the face of the formless!
primitive, and naked,
i walk with god...
and nurse at the breasts of infinity!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Improvisations: Light And Snow: 10
It is night time, and cold, and snow is falling,
And no wind grieves the walls.
In the small world of light around the arc-lamp
A swarm of snowflakes falls and falls.
The street grows silent. The last stranger passes.
The sound of his feet, in the snow, is indistinct.
What forgotten sadness is it, on a night like this,
Takes possession of my heart?
Why do I think of a camellia tree in a southern garden,
With pink blossoms among dark leaves,
Standing, surprised, in the snow?
Why do I think of spring?
The snowflakes, helplessly veering,,
Fall silently past my window;
They come from darkness and enter darkness.
What is it in my heart is surprised and bewildered
Like that camellia tree,
Beautiful still in its glittering anguish?
And spring so far away!
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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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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Fading
[VERSE 1]
Every single night
As I walk alone
Down the empty streets
That I call my own
The rain is falling lightly
Resting on my head
The streets are cold and empty
The city lights are dead
A thunder clap is heard
In the brooding sky
The lightning flashes past
Lighting up my eyes
I see the broken skyline
Calling me to play
A savage voice is singing
I cant turn away
Through the empty building
To the hollow sound
Echoes in the darkness
Screaming all around
Lingering temptation
Followed close by death
I know your coming nearer
I can feel your breath
[END VERSE 1]
Save Me!
[CHORUS]
Running through the darkness
In an empty room
Running through the shadows
Of my living tomb
The lights are fading faster
Falling into ash
The PHANTOMS are returning
Screaming from my past
The thunder clap is passing
Crumbling away
With the sudden silence
I see the light of day
[END CHORUS]
[VERSE 2]
The light of dawn is coming
Rising in the morn
Giving me a shelter
From this voice of scorn
As the doors they open
I run into the day
The voice of shadow follows
It will not go away
The night of storm is chasing
Running at my heels
I try to awaken
This can not be real
Screaming at the shadows
Make this nightmare stop
I run out of the building
As the rain begins to drop
Finally it is over
Finally I am free
I am in the sunlight
The voice cant follow me
I still hear the whisper
Calling me to play
I will not be taken
So I turn away
[END VERSE 2]
[LAST STANZA OF CHORUS] 2x
song performed by by ZeroHour
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Empty Paper Cups
i do not wish to be great,
to turn and bow on the final stage.
i have no desire to be the train,
just a common plank on the track.
i do not brandish light for the blind,
i walk among shadows without a noise.
my name could be key, wellhouse, or pump...
my voice the sound of a sparrow hatched.
i taste like old trees,
and rain falling from a rusted gutter.
i've had long conversations with dogs,
walked window ledges with cats.
i know the stories of old tires,
i've hung my hat on rusted nails.
i pray in the moonlight with spiders,
and sing praises to the ants.
i am the lick of the tongue,
the bent finger stroking your eyes.
i come rushing like the wind,
leaving stray leaves and empty paper cups!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Want To Be Free
(words & music by jerry leiber - mike stoller)
Theres no joy in my heart,
Only sorrow
And Im sad
As a man can be
I sit alone in the darkness
Of my lonely room
And this room
Is a prison to me
I look at window
And what to I see
I see a bird
Way up in the tree
I want to be free free
Free - ee - ee - ee
I want to be free
Like the bird in the tree
What good are my eyes,
They cant see you
And my arms,
They cant hold so tight
I have two lips
That are yearning,
But theyre no good to me
Cause I know I cant kiss you tonight
I look at window
And what to I see
I see a bird
Way up in the tree
I want to be free free
Free - ee - ee - ee
I want to be free
Like the bird in the tree
I want to be free
Like the bird in the tree
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Are The Empty...
i am the cross,
and i am the kiss...
i am the embrace,
and the parting stillness.
i am death falling from the trees,
i am eternity in the promise of snow.
i am the word spoken and heard,
slowly undressed with awe and hunger.
i am the tongue drawing history's face,
in every secret place, in every hidden treasure.
i am the fluid of love spillt with passion,
i am the touch, trembling and sure.
i am the shadow that lit the candle,
the shoe that fell to the floor.
i am the covered bridge,
and the sound of horses' hooves.
the screech of the owl,
the taunt of the moonlight.
i am the glass broken,
the panting of the darkness.
i am the chimney too long cold.
i am the name spoken in grunts,
the moan of the waves that cant find shore.
i am the wings that define the night,
you are the empty waiting to be filled!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Want To Be Free (Take 11)
There's no joy in my heart,
only sorrow
And I'm sad
as a man can be
I sit alone in the darkness
of my lonely room
And this room
is a prison to me
I look at window
and what to I see
I see a bird
way up in the tree
I want to be free free
Free - ee - ee - ee
I want to be free
like the bird in the tree
What good are my eyes,
they can't see you
And my arms,
they can't hold so tight
I have two lips
that are yearning,
but they're no good to me
Cause I know I can't kiss you tonight
I look at window
and what to I see
I see a bird
way up in the tree
I want to be free free
Free - ee - ee - ee
I want to be free
like the bird in the tree
I want to be free
like the bird in the tree
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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November
November;
One of those months
caught in the middle
between two seasons
Split down
into two's
Like daylight
and darkness
'Always feels like home
in twilight,
and just before the dawn
before the birds song'
A time that never lasted
too long
November is warm
thunderstorms at night...
frozen water at dawn.
Sullen lead gray mornings
swallowed by the cold
empty afternoon's sunshine.
November then slumbers with
it's blanket of darkness
in frozen silence
no solace...just solitude
poem by Midnights Voice
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Only You Can Decide...
perhaps then we were lovers
in ancient Greece...
perhaps you were the one who danced
in the cave when i discovered fire!
were we born just outside the garden,
in a land long forgotten?
were we primitive wolves,
mating in the moonlight?
perhaps you were the dry land
that split from my ocean.
perhaps your cry of passion,
exploded stars into dust!
perhaps i was gravity lost,
and you were the moon....
perhaps you were the spoken word,
and i took the form.
perhaps you were war,
and i came running in madness.
perhaps i am death,
and you are the grave...
we come panting across lifetimes,
tongues hung down dripping blood.
we tear down the sky,
we become the wind.
the body of the howling,
and the aching voice of need...
searching for each other,
again, and again....
do you love me? if not slay me!
my destiny demands fulfillment.
i am the tongue and the nail,
you the wetness and the fire.
be our language forgotten,
then wear my stillness.
be it crown or cross,
only you can decide!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am Silence (For Dave)
i am the wolf,
hot breath panting,
teeth gleaming in the darkness...
feet running the path of the night.
i am the hawk,
sucking freedom from the skies,
great wings lifting my soul...
infinity in my eyes.
i am the wind,
born from nowhere,
blowing past destination and thought...
both creation and destruction.
i am the rain,
falling from an unseen source,
to dance in the mouths of the earth...
tears of sorrow and redemption.
i am the moon,
sifting through timeless clouds,
winding through the fingers of trees...
i am hope unnamed!
i am the night,
the intimate touch of darkness,
forgiveness, death, and rebirth...
i am the stillness of god!
i am silence!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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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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Kairos - For Spicer Who 'told me not
one will not win readers by cursing
the darkness
that's already in the canon
too many ears are hurt from such an age
lost its ability to hear beyond crash
nor sit still long enough to see
what sun may rise
even that belief, 'sunrise'
is failing
stars are falling
raging ones
gaze only at themselves
bereft of capacities to
gaze for
or even
toward
an other
one cannot reify thunder
selves ARE
redundantly so
so many pages torn out
a pear tree forgets only itself as
an audacity
limbs recall themselves
appear to reach
one cannot see them
reaching
they may be silent but
we cannot know that toward
later sweetness they yearn
then seed a still dirt around
content to lie down
the idea of 'pear tree' reduces
to all sparks
yet
no illusion of darkness
hastens the pear
But O it tastes
**
'Kairos is the passing moment in which something happens as the time unfolds...it is a small window of becoming and opportunity. One of the origins of the word comes from shepherds watching the stars. As the night progresses and the stars turn in the sky, they appear to rise and then fall against the horizon. The moment when a star has reached its apogee and appears to change direction from ascending to descending is its kairos.' -Corrigall, J, Payne, H, Wilkinson,
H (eds) , About A Body,2006: pg.201
poem by Warren Falcon
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The Death of Silence
Let's celebrate the day
The death of silence
When even the soundless creature
Leave an echo
When the quiet evening sky
Speaks more volume
Let's celebrate the day
The death of silence
When the darkness of night
Is calmed by the song of stars
When this cruel and frightening world
Is cheered by the joy of life
Let's celebrate the day
The death of silence
When the trees swaying their branches
Whispering the news from afar
When the stone awaken to tell the story
And no more secret remains hidden
Let's celebrate the day
The death of silence
When the wind fills the void
And noises the ears
When the sunshine touches the skin
And screams in eyes
Let's celebrate the day
The death of silence
When you could taste the heart
Inside the food you eat
When you could understand
The meaning the breath that taken
Let's celebrate the day
The death of silence
When smile is enough
To erase the rotten doubt
When love is abundant
To wash the bitter pain
Let's celebrate the day
The death of silence
When the soul finds its freedom
And not chained in the grief of body
When the call is passing
Through the memory and time
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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The End
It is time for me to go, mother; I am going.
When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch out
your arms for your baby in the bed, I shall say, "Baby is not
here!"-mother, I am going.
I shall become a delicate draught of air and caress you and
I shall be ripples in the water when you bathe, and kiss you and
kiss you again.
In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves you
will hear my whisper in your bed, and my laughter will flash with
the lightning through the open window into your room.
If you lie awake, thinking of your baby till late into the
night, I shall sing to you from the stars, "Sleep, mother, sleep."
One the straying moonbeams I shall steal over your bed, and
lie upon your bosom while you sleep.
I shall become a dream, and through the little opening of your
eyelids I shall slip into the depths of your sleep; and when you
wake up and look round startled, like a twinkling firefly I shall
flit out into the darkness.
When, on the great festival of puja, the neighbours' children
come and play about the house, I shall melt into the music of the
flute and throb in your heart all day.
Dear auntie will come with puja-presents and will ask,"Where
is our baby, sister?" Mother, you will tell her softly, "He is in
the pupils of my eyes, he is in my body and in my soul."
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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A Beautiful Surrender 5885
Far away is our the distant thunder
in the darkness the darkness of our minds or
the darkness of our souls our eyes lit up lightning crashes and
and thunder strikes the heavens over and over
the earth gets pounded harder and harder stars
in the skies lookin down shining down on the darkness of the world
the void in the soul of the heart the hearts beatin away
the music singing songs of rejoice gone away the storms
the violence suns rising stars forming peoples smiling lookin upward downward skyward starlight shines in your eyes your heart beats
but a little bit faster oyu think of a beautiful gurl a sweet heart sweet sweet the winds whisper her name shes is everything and more
she is great ill always remember her
i ll always surrender everything to her
poem by Dorian Suchelle
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Old Man's Poems
old man's poems
written from a distance,
time and experience demand...
aged like good whiskey,
taken in sips, not gulps!
hang like clouds at sunset,
can burst into violent storms!
make love to the soul long and slow,
simmering o'er the fire.
weep with sadness like slow rain
in the night where no one can see....
written in stone like an epitaph,
an unmarked grave on a forgotten hill.
howl in the darkness like a lone wolf,
whisper like a child's simple prayer....
all too often smell like an old man,
rocking in his chair in an empty room!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Lstone In The Middle Of The River....
it feels like i am drained
of all my running water
the fishes in me are jumping
gasping for precious breath
i have this mouth but it
cannot speak
after all, she says, i must
be a river
always, she continues, without
more water
how can she love me forever?
she is the stone in the middle
of my pool, and when i run dry
on a hot day of summer
she will just be another stone
of this death-bed beside a mountain.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Counterpoint: Two Rooms
He, in the room above, grown old and tired;
She, in the room below, his floor her ceiling,
Pursue their separate dreams. He turns his light,
And throws himself on the bed, face down, in laughter.
She, by the window, smiles at a starlight night.
His watch—the same he has heard these cycles of ages—
Wearily chimes at seconds beneath his pillow.
The clock upon her mantelpiece strikes nine.
The night wears on. She hears dull steps above her.
The world whirs on. New stars come up to shine.
His youth—far off—he sees it brightly walking
In a golden cloud .... wings flashing about it....
Darkness
Walls it around with dripping enormous walls.
Old age, far off—or death—what do they matter?
Down the smooth purple night a streaked star falls.
She hears slow steps in the street; they chime like music,
They climb to her heart, they break and flower in beauty,
Along her veins they glisten and ring and burn.
He hears his own slow steps tread down to silence.
Far off they pass. He knows they will never return.
Far off, on a smooth dark road, he hears them faintly.
The road, like a sombre river, quietly flowing,
Moves among murmurous walls. A deeper breath
Swells them to sound: he hears his steps more clearly.
And death seems nearer to him; or he to death.
What's death?—she smiles. The cool stone hurts her elbow,
The last few raindrops gather and fall from elm-boughs,
She sees them glisten and break. The arc-lamp sings,
The new leaves dip in the warm wet air and fragrance,
A sparrbw whirs to the eaves and shakes its wings.
What's death—what's death ? The spring returns like music ;
The trees are like dark lovers who dream in starlight;
The soft grey clouds go over the stars like dreams.
The cool stone wounds her arms to pain, to pleasure.
Under the lamp a circle of wet street gleams.
And death seems far away—a thing of roses,
A golden portal where golden music closes,
Death seems far away;
And spring returns, the countless singing of lovers,
And spring returns to stay....
He, in the room above, grown old and tired,
Flings himself on the bed, face down, in laughter,
And clenches his hands, and remembers, and desires to die.
And she, by the window, smiles at a night of starlight....
The soft grey clouds go slowly across the sky.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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And It's Funny How
And it's funny how we carry each other
within ourselves like mingled waters
that taste of the moon,
that taste of bruised orchids
in the shadow of all those glass greenhouses,
Eden in a Mason jar,
that learned to throw stones,
and mysteriously engaging
that we go on creating each other as we have
forever inseparably each on his own
alone together with everyone
wondering why we exist
to know one day we won't.
Gates and roads and miles and whispers away
and a longing that can only be measured
in the lightyears of a star
and all the eras, all the trances of time
of passion and extinction,
of despair that turned on hope like a toxin
and hope that flared like the third man on a match
learning to brighten the stars
by deepening its darkness,
I have lived from eclipse to eclipse
like an unintelligible abyss who misses everyone
for the quality of breath and death and emptiness
that makes me me
when I want to be impossibly alone
and the memories have issues and agendas of their own
like a dead branch trying to witch for water at a window.
Where are you now?
Who were you?
Have I survived?
Whose ashes are these?
Now I am the tree. And you are the wind
and the pursuit of nothing flows on endlessly like life and water.
And all the lovely deserts that enhanced the moon
and coaxed me out of my old delirium
into a deeper one
by drinking the viper in the grail
they lifted to my lips like a gate
that everyone comes to like a stranger
prodigally returning to his own homelessness,
following the wind like a siren of sand
have slipped through my fingers like music,
though my voice still tastes of them
when I drink from their reflections,
not knowing whether I have become
a darkness in the light
or a light in the darkness
but grateful for the grander perspective
from the bottom of the well
where they showed me their stars at noon
and the sun at midnight
and how the fires that nourish love
cannot be put out like torches
in their own shadows
anymore than a bird can fall from its feathers.
poem by Patrick White
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