Lost In Echo.....
you cut off my thumbs,
strung them on a necklace.
split my tongue with a razor,
and burned my shoes.
now i go howling,
in half darkened rooms.
drawn by the scent and the symphony,
of red pulsing blood!
you arched your back,
and the curtains trembled.
the vase full of water,
fell on your pillow.
i awoke from a dream,
my lips dry and aching.
moaned without thinking,
the willow bent, and sure!
who are we? the forgotten,
the silence lost in echo!
the tire worn thin,
the key left in the lock.
the bottle near empty,
on the edge of god's table...
the drum in the closet,
the nest blown by the wind!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Window Left Open...
the vase fell to the floor,
and shattered into tiny pieces.
the broom in the corner wept.
the box in the closet drew breath sharply,
the book on the shelf turned away.
the bulb in the lamp burned out.
the spider packed up its web and left.
the empty nest fell from the tree.
rainwater gushed from the gutters.
the young boy locked in his room
crawled out the window.
the neighbor's dog barked...
god gathered her clothes,
and put on her shoes.
while warships sailed for another land.
drones killed three women on the way to market,
another baby died without having lived.
another factory shut down,
another church burned to the ground,
so many things said and unsaid.
another chapter, another book unread.
things are not what they seem.
another war on pillows fought by silence,
another day in a land untouched.
old trees pray for lightning,
old dogs wait without fear.
old photographs turn yellow and fade.
old men empty their pockets and die.
even Jesus couldnt wait this long....
they say the good die young.
the thief in the garden steals roses,
that he gives to a girl wearing glasses.
while passion weeps waiting for snow.
and leaves prepare to fall...
the vase fell to the floor,
and shattered into tiny pieces...
the moth flew through a window left open!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Magic At My House
In the closet there is a pair of shoes
The stay in the box kind of shoes.
The gray leather open toed high heeled shoes.
The fancy night on the town shoes.
The make you taller shoes.
The makeup wearing time shoes.
The too big but a perfect fit shoes.
The magic make you grown up shoes.
In the jewelry box there is a necklace.
The aquamarine and pearl and gold necklace.
The this is older than you or I necklace.
The shiny rainbow making necklace.
The color and feel of the ocean necklace.
The mother’s mother necklace.
The too nice for any day necklace.
The magic make you an elegant lady necklace.
In the bathroom there is a bag.
The painting for ladies bag.
The filled with vials and potions bag.
The put your face on bag.
The make your lips redder bag.
The give you doe eyes bag.
The not in public until your 16 bag.
The magic make you look beautiful bag.
In the bed there is a woman.
The wears the magic shoes woman.
The keeps the magic necklace woman.
The use the magic bag woman.
The lets me put on the shoes woman.
The tells me the story of the necklace woman.
The wipes off the magic of the bag woman.
The magic I want to be just like her woman.
poem by Gabrielle Shutt
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You Never Sleep On
that book on the shelf,
the one you've forgotten,
waiting in silence,
untouched and unread.
the crack in the window,
rainwater seeps through.
the lamp by the table,
you never turn on.
the axe in the corner,
covered by shadows and web.
the limbs ripped from the tree,
blown by the storm.
that old photograph album,
pictures yellowed by time.
the guitar in the closet,
waiting to be strung.
and the sound of the ocean,
in the shell you never pick up.
the skin left by the snake,
clouds that cover the moon.
the letter you never opened,
the ring in the drawer...
my heart on the pillow,
you never sleep on!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Her Own Shoes
She spoke in a tongue
left over from yesterday
her memories
slowly fading.
Shouting to be heard
if by chance
someone would hear her.
Her tears
left in silence
by a heart
abandoned by life.
Her shoes
barely covered her feet
so aged a brittle cloth.
She laughed at herself
her mind felt with bareness
fell out into the street
as rain fell against
her pain.
No-one near
to cradle her fears
she spoke to herself.
A bus ride
her excursion
to the world
brought more pain.
So she laughed to herself.
Her mind worn out
just like her shoes
in waiting solemn moments
she still felt human.
But the world
no longer reading
her uniqueness
she found an empty bench
The birds
did not judge
her physical obscenity
they came freely
If only to take bread
from her hand.
Everything was worn
her stained dress
her opened shoes
her need for sanity.
All put together
by a world
who had forgotten
she too was only human.
So she laughed
out loud
to all those
whom she remembered
did once care.
Because she knew
one day
they too
would become
a worn out pair of shoes
craving
to be new.
poem by Jodde Taylor
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Walk To The Water
She said it wasnt cold
She left her coat at home that day
She wore canvas shoes
White canvas shoes
Around her neck
She wore a silver necklace
It was given to me by my father, she said
It was given to me
She took the back way home
Passed the lights and the summerhill
Turned left onto the north strand
And on, and towards the sea
He said he was an artist
But he really painted billboards
In large capital letters
Large capital letters
He was telling jokes
Nobody else would listen to him
I saw you that day
Your lips were cherry red
Your legs were crossed
Your arms wide open
Your hair was coloured gold
Like a field of corn
You were blown by the wind
You were blown by the wind
Walk, walk, walk...to the water
Walk with me a while
Walk, walk, walk...to the roadside
Walk me in the light
A room in the royal hotel
Sea facing views
A man with a suitcase
Full of things he doesnt need
Im looking through your window
Im walking through your doorway
Im on the outside
Let me in
Let me love you
Let me love you
Let me...
Walk, walk, walk...to the water
Walk with me...yeah
Walk, walk, walk...to the roadside
Walk with me again
song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Death-Parting
LEAVES and rain and the days of the year,
(Water-willow and wellaway,)
All these fall, and my soul gives ear,
And she is hence who once was here.
(With a wind blown night and day.)
Ah! but now, for a secret sign,
(The willow's wan and the water white,)
In the held breath of the day's decline
Her very face seemed pressed to mine.
(With a wind blown day and night.)
O love, of my death my life is fain;
(The willows wave on the water-way,)
Your cheek and mine are cold in the rain,
But warm they'll be when we meet again.
(With a wind blown night and day.)
Mists are heaved and cover the sky;
(The willows wail in the waning light,)
O loose your lips, leave space for a sigh,—
They seal my soul, I cannot die.
(With a wind blown day and night.)
Leaves and rain and the days of the year,
(Water-willow and wellaway,)
All still fall, and I still give ear,
And she is hence, and I am here.
(With a wind blown night and day.)
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Through The Veil for Dave Walker
there's a light
in the window
of the house
forgotten by time;
a book on the table,
unopened.
footprints on the floor
covered with dust.
a cup in the sink
half-empty.
the wind blows
curtains grey with time....
whispering, whispering....
names that cannot
be heard.
voices, echoes,
creaking the floor.
a book of photographs
on the closet floor.
walking through the mist,
the fog and the shadows,
touching small particles
of being left like gifts....
lives unwrapped into mine!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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First Person Omniscient
I made her tell me of the affair,
every detail,
and I became him, the man who pulled
her into the closet,
opening the many rooms of her mouth,
knobs spinning,
and then I was her, pulling him
by the tongue
through the river of rooms in the mansion
of my mouth,
his eyes pressing into me, his eye
seeing all,
and then I was the closet, the space
they traveled through
on their way to the mansion, and then the real
I entered the closet,
the wind of doors slamming, bodies
rushing, gone-
my eye lost in the mouth of my pocket,
or is it my hand,
my dirty, awful hand.
poem by Jeffrey McDaniel
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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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Delicious Torture....
ah.... delicious torture!
my lips drip like rain
around your body in dust.
swallows starve, cracked windowsills,
as sunlight courts the trees
with lies too intimate to be...
cobwebs refracting daylight's passing,
snails burp in disgust...
always, only, the scent of your trail!
while somewhere old milkmen
die in horse drawn graves.
and dead soldiers dance
in a world drawn of shadow.
red wine, pipe tobacco,
curling in plumes...
the cat on the ledge waits,
a tongue etched in claw!
are we gunshots and sirens?
flood waters on the rise?
books throbbing with heat...
bodies waiting on the pyre?
turning points, and water,
boiling on the stove?
wind blown curtains startle...
i awake, alone!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I... Then!
i am... then,
the fallen sparrow,
the broken pane,
the house where no one lives!
the worn out shoes,
the guitar in the closet,
the child with cancer
staring from the window...
the book signed and forgotten
beneath the pillow,
the shotgun in the corner,
eyes painted that hide.
the telephone that doesnt ring,
love stains on the sheet.
the old man trying to bum a cup of coffee,
and the young girl behind the counter
who takes him a cup.
the political prisoner,
his blood on the floor.
the refugee... his blood
on his face!
the heretic who turned away
and found the face of god.
the lover left alone,
the darkness of night.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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What Have I To Fear?
if death be but a step,
a flower fallen with silent shouts...
a kiss blown by wind but never lost,
a friend who tends the grave.
a hymn, a prayer, kind words spoken,
a drink at a corner table.
a book placed back on the shelf,
a child's drawing done in crayon.
a door closed, left unlocked,
cattle left in the pasture all night.
an empty bowel, a candle burned down,
a sparrow sitting outside the window.
a shovel of dirt, a broken glass,
boots left in the corner.
the dog's leg cocked,
the fire burned down....
the still darkness waiting on dawn.
the river overflowed,
the cage door opened...
then what have i to fear?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Tundra
Short arctic desert day ---
And someone left their snow-shoes in the tundra.
Look around every which way
But I cant see just where the footprints go.
Is it a casual disappearance? ---
Plucked from the middle atmosphere
Like straw wind-blown.
No speck on the horizon ---
No simple message scrawled
Upon the snow.
Unearthly visitation ---
Someone left their snow-shoes in the tundra.
Hungry buzzard flier
Circling round and round
Rattling deaths tambourine.
Have to run it down the cold wire ---
Late insertion in tomorrows lost and found.
Should I spread out searching?
But Im a little thin upon the ground.
So I raise my lips to coax
The last drop of brandy from the bottle.
Rest my feet and contemplate
The mystery thats haunting
This siberian space.
Show-shoes they bind me down ---
Im just one more parasite of the surface layer.
I begin to get the feeling
Ive been on this stage before
And Im the only player.
One more arctic desert day ---
Another set of shoes out in the tundra snow.
I make my fade to white-out
And you cant see me where my footprints go.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bends Like A Willow
Shes catching the wind: the gentlest of breezes.
Its a sensitive passage shes sailing -
Through stormy straits, navigates my unfathomable failings.
She rises before me, reading me clearly.
Empty nest left pressed in the pillow.
She can shift, she can sway
And bend like a willow.
Im swept in the riptide, caught in a fish trap.
Gift-wrapped in my soft self centre.
Summer sun leaves me as one who can only taste winter.
Shes a good, a good god-send: she can bend like a willow.
With a fully armed angel to cover me quickly.
Im cool under enemy fire.
If I fall, she can crawl right under the wire.
When Im caustic and cold, she might dare to be bold -
Ease me round to her warm way of thinking:
Fill me up from the cup of love that shes drinking.
And I find, given time. I can bend like a willow.
She bends like a willow.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eternity Then..... (One Small Flicker)
eternity then,
one small flicker of the flame,
a comma in the book of life,
the point where roads meet,
and diverge...
a tiny shard of broken glass,
a dropp of sweat on the back of a worker,
ejaculation, and echo...
each vein of the leaf turning,
a stray dog's turd.
the creak of the wheel that needs geased,
the sound between the gunshot
and the thud of the body.
the moment just after the body is covered.
the whisper of an empty plate,
the marching order of the ants.
the silence when your lover walks out the door.
the color of the bent nail,
the wrinkle on the pillow.
the shout for peace no one hears,
the rattle of justice breaking chains.
the flap of wings when the bird lifts off.
the groan of the mountain stripped.
the funeral dirge of oil stricken fishes.
the turn of the key in the lock.
the sound of god's footsteps,
the mourning cry of the empty room.
the brush of hands when the spirit shudders,
the tremble of lips forgotten.
the collision of ending and beginning,
but a moment, memory, and dust!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Eastern River
Do not look for the stones
in water above the mud,
the boat is gone.
No longer with nets and baskets
the river is dotted.
The sun wick,
the marsh marigold flickered out in rain.
Only the willow still bears witness,
in its roots
the secrets of tramps lie hidden,
their paltry treasures,
a rusty fishhook,
a bottle full of sand,
a tine with no bottom,
in which to preserve
conversations long forgotten.
On the boughs,
empty nests of the penduline titmice,
shoes light as birds.
No one slips them
over children's feet.
Translated by Michael Hamburger
poem by Peter Huchel
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Cry Of The Lonely...
i have heard the cry of the lonely,
the tree bent with grief for the ocean.
the squirrel who dreams of wings,
the mountain melting with need to wander.
the child orphaned by war or poverty,
the monk on fire for a world that's blind...
the beaten body in the prison cell,
the door opened, no one there.
the naked body weeping on an empty bed,
the voice calling without echo.
the tongue that walks the rainy night...
the moon hidden by clouds cold and distant.
the lonesome sound of the faraway train,
the lover who walks the garden...
the empty streets, the hollowed houses,
where not even the scent of memory lingers.
the bruised hand stuck in the pocket,
the letter never addressed.
the flower that bloomed, and no one saw,
the bent nail on the back of the shed....
the candle snuffed.... the last words lost...
lips swollen, set, and driven...
am i the cry, or just the shell,
that brushes against your heart without name?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Old Liberators
Of all the people in the mornings at the mall,
It's the old liberators I like best,
Those veterans of the Bulge, Anzio, or Monte Cassino
I see lost in Automotive or back in Home Repair,
Bored among the paints and power tools.
Or the really old ones, the ones who are going fast,
Who keep dozing off in the little orchards
Of shade under the distant skylights.
All around, from one bright rack to another,
Their wives stride big as generals,
Their handbags bulging like ripe fruit.
They are almost all gone now,
And with them they are taking the flak
And fire storms, the names of the old bombing runs.
Each day a little more of their memory goes out,
Darkens the way a house darkens,
Its rooms quietly filling with evening,
Until nothing but the wind lifts the lace curtains,
The wind bearing through the empty rooms
The rich far off scent of gardens
Where just now, this morning,
Light is falling on the wild philodendrons.
poem by Robert Hedin
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The Bridge
i stared across the bridge,
lantern held high...
searching the trees and
the shadows for a sign.
the surging river below
made my heart stamp its feet;
the wind blew, almost moaned,
the bridge groaned as it swayed.
taking off my boots,
i crossed barefooted and sure.
looking down, i could not see rocks,
but i knew they were there...
on the other side the damp dirt
felt good to my feet...
i followed the path down,
ever down... a wolf howled!
i came to a clearing,
made out the form of your hut...
dark and still, almost a womb.
i made my way to the door,
my trembling hand on the knob...
unlocked, the door opened.
staring around the darkened room,
nothing moved, only a lone candle
on the table beside the bed.
i could feel the stare
of your hungry eyes...
heard you whisper, 'come here! '
a thousand battles,
and journeys untold,
forgotten in the warmth
of your flesh...
new stars formed
in a limitless sky,
fell and shattered
as we loved!
the groan of the earth,
the moan of the wind,
the fury of storms unleashed.
holding back, holding back,
till there was no return...
dissolving into the fire
of your pulsing depths...
and all of life, finished!
with the morning light,
i found myself alone...
got up and dressed
with the ache and the taste...
as i left the hut,
i turned to see the owl...
set my chin, braced my mind,
and walked to face the coming snow!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Rain
Waiting for the rain
At the rivers edge
Waiting for rain under a raging sun
Standing on cracked earth
The river pulls back from the mouth of the shore
Hungry for rain
Mouths drink their own tears
Feet dance to an unfashionable 'rain god'
Beating a drum limp wristed
In a distant land the casualties rise
Their carcasses loaded like dead cattle on the back of a cart
Two woman argue by a well with no water
An old man wanders across deserts calling out to his lost child
Rain rain, when will the rain fall?
An anthem of doomed lives cry out
Back home fat men with two cars cut back on sprinkling their lawn
'That's the first time in in three years'
Their mouths are full and greedy as they guzzle water from a bottle
But their hearts are full of drought
Families lounge in sprawling gardens admiring the view
Complaining about the lack of water
Until the rain god breaks suddenly breaks through
Not rain the idlers complain
While in the East far far away
The people make a joyful offerring to the skies
Dancing under the darkened night
Rejoicing in the god that spared their lives for one more day!
poem by Yvette Smith
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