Nobody Has A Name!
down in the poverty south,
dead body by the tracks.
another football hero,
bathtub meth and anger.
dark shadowed mother weeping,
waiting on the preacher.
while the unemployed old man,
scratches up pennies for smokes.
baptism remembered,
before erections and gunpowder.
neath the picture of his cousin,
who died in Iraq...
the old factory building collapses,
empty on empty...
Jesus died for your sins,
even He cant get a job!
sister hot and pregnant,
turns the fan on high.
the last beans have been canned,
and the rent's past due...
everything tastes like ashes,
the sky filled with angry clouds.
the old dog barks at nothing,
and lays back down to sleep.
rain mixed with hail,
pelts the tin roof with fury.
and nobody has a name,
a past, or a future!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Cloudburst (terzanelle)
The clouds are dark as the night
until the sky opens it sluices
with here and there light
pouring down gathered juices
with wild bolts of blue-white thunder
until the sky opens it sluices
with lightning falling with feelers, ready to plunder
splitting trees, setting the veldt alight
with wild bolts of blue-white thunder
bashing down, and people flee in fright
and hail, thunder and rain pelts down
splitting trees, setting the veldt alight
splattering in fury, causing people to drown
and man and beast is desolate
and hail, thunder and rain pelts down
with people struggling past fear, past hope, past hate.
The clouds are dark as the night
and man and beast is desolate
with here and there light.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Have Mercy!
Have Mercy!
with final thoughts
i walk these streets,
past vacant buildings hallowed.
in silent mourning,
my heartbeat joining,
the concrete scarred by living.
passing strangers hurrying,
as if they had a life to return to.
while the shouts and cursing of working men,
rings inside the empty walls!
past tenemant buildings,
and unemployed stoops,
and eyes staring from windows.
dogs too hungry to bark,
squad cars passing slow,
tis the funeral of poverty.
while meth lab food stamp children,
sharpen knives against the curb.
and everything's grey, even the sounds,
the air is drunk with anger.
i caught a ride
with a trucker wired,
who mumbled slamming gears.
out into the country
once green and rich...
now brown and deserted.
fields not worked,
farm's foreclosed,
houses left to ghosts and memories.
tractors rusting in the sun,
the air is drunk with anger.
back into town,
past libraries closed,
and churches that ache with empty.
i can hear the sound
of the distant bells...
be it freedom or infinity.
past hospitals full,
and graveyards that move
with shadows in the night.
back to the small room
where i cant sleep...
where god weeps in the stillness.
America, America...
the air is drunk with anger!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Burning Flags
they're burning flags again....
sit down stand up protesting,
cracking heads like eggs,
yolk running down on hallowed ground....
they're burning flags again...
soldier boys coming home
to no work, living in cars,
no help, without a country...
they're burning flags again...
your sister died giving birth.
your brother-in-law cant get work,
making meth in the tub...
crying at night 'neath a picture
of Jesus hanging on the cross....
they're burning flags again...
small town football heroes
in prison cells learning
to live outside the law....
they're burning flags again....
and the words of Jefferson
fall in the empty rooms
where justice and equality lived....
they're burning flags again!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Time My Past My Future! ! !
Time My Past My Future
The time is racing my past behind me
NO!
My past in front,
My future behind,
I wasn't thinking of my future,
I was back in my past.
But now this is my story! ! ! !
A mother who did not love me,
A sister a brother trying to comfort me,
I felt all alone
Now inhale
and
Exhale.
My future
A mother, A brother, once upon a time a father,
But no more
I stride for my future,
Not for my past
I tell you children
NEVER Look Back! ! !
But i do wondering......
I f my past was different would my future be better?
Would it?
Never mind that,
The time is racing to my future
I live for today and NOT tomarrow.
So I Never Look Back.
poem by Chauntae Ridley
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Heroin
Well I wish, I was born
A thousand years ago
And I wish that I sailed
The darkened sea
On a great big clipper ship
Goin from this land into that
In a sailors suit and cap
Away from the big city -
Away from the big city
Where a man cannot be free
Of all the evils in this town
And of himself and those around
And Im closin in on death
And I guess that I just dont know
And I guess that I just dont know
Ah - jesus died for somebodys sins
But not mine
Jesus died for somebodys sins
But not mine
I dont know just where Im goin - ahh
But Im gonna try for the kingdom
If I can - yeah
cause it makes me feel like Im a man
When I put a spike into my vein
And I tell you things arent quite
The same
Its a mainline to my pain
Jesus died for somebodys sins
But not mine - heroin
Jesus died for somebodys sins
(I can feel it)
But not mine - heroin
I said, jesus died for somebodys sins
But not mine - heroin
I have made a very big decision
I gonna try to nullify my life -
You know
I get so low and then the smack flows
I dont care Im gonna make it my wife
Because when the blood begins to flow
And shoots up the droppers neck
And Im closin in on death
You can all go take a walk
And I guess that I just dont know
And I guess that I just dont know
Jesus died for somebodys sins
But not mine - heroin
Jesus died for somebodys sins
(I can feel it)
But not mine - heroin
I said, jesus died for somebodys sins
But not mine - heroin
I said, jesus died for somebodys sins
But not mine - heroin not mine,
Heroin, smack attack
Jesus died for somebodys sins
But not mine - heroin
Jesus died for somebodys sins
But not mine - heroin
Jesus died for somebodys sins
But not mine - heroin
Jesus died for somebodys sins
But not mine - heroin
Smack attack
Dont touch that needle
V.r. h e r o I n
V.r. h e r o I n
V.r. hell h e r o I n (forever)
And Im closin in on death
H e r o I n
song performed by by Billy Idol
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gunpowder
I asked my mother why do you cry
She said your brother had... he just died
Well I told him not to go outside
He said he had to fight for his countrys right
But dont you know that mo-mother
Dont you know that we cant stop the violence, no
Because the war is not over
Until you can feel love, peace, and hear silence
But I smell gunpowder (pow)
My brothers been dead ever since
I didnt beleive it, but when I saw him I was convinced
Two shots to the head he was already dead lord,
I headed for revenge in the city of port au prince
Screaming bro-brother
Dont you know that we cant stop the violence, no
Because the war is not over
Until you can feel love, peace, and hear silence
But I smell gunpowder (pow)
Zions gunpowder (pow)
L.a.s gunpowder (pow)
I wanna know why
Christians pray for a new day
We dont need no, we dont need no, we dont need no
But its still the same way
I wanna know why
Ghetto people pray for a new day
Hey, hey, heeey
And its still the same way
But the preacher man told me
Good things come to those who wait
Do good things come to those who wait?
I wanna know tell me
Good things come to those who wait
Do good things come to those who wait?
We wanna know, we wanna know, we wanna know [pause]
Pe-people
Dont you know that we cant stop the violence, no
Because the war is not over
Until you can feel love, peace, and hear the silence
But I smell gunpowder (gunpowder)
Brooklyns gunpowder (gunpowder)
Shaolins gunpowder (gunpowder)
Uptowns gunpowder (gunpowder)
Jerseys gunpowder (gunpowder)
Even new zealands gunpowder (gunpowder)
Australias gunpowder (gunpowder)
Brixtons gunpowder (gunpowder)
Even new havens gunpowder
song performed by by Wyclef Jean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Tomb Is Empty
Face it friend, the tomb is empty; death couldn’t hold Christ, you see,
Although He died for you and me, He’s now on the Throne of Eternity.
The stone, covering where Christ lay, by God’s hand, was rolled away.
In that tomb where Christ was laid, only Christ’s grave clothes stayed,
There He stood, in a body Glorified, Jesus Christ, who bled and died.
Mary was the first one to that tomb, bearing a heart filled with gloom,
She assumed the body was taken, but she would be gladly mistaken,
For, with her heavy heart that day, she would soon hear an angel say,
You will not find Christ Jesus dead, for He rose just like He had said.
She left to tell others not to grieve, for The Lord, they too would see.
Now Mary filled with a joyful heart, from an empty tomb would depart,
Filled with wonder she ran to those, other disciples, to say Christ rose.
Peter began running fast ahead; as they had thought Christ was dead,
Now he ran with much anticipation, enthused by a brand new situation,
Looking inside he just saw clothes, for from the grave Christ had rose.
But all hearts stayed, like the tomb, until Christ entered into that room,
Showing them His hands and side, proving He was The One who died.
Christ would stay for forty days, filling their hearts with joy and praise,
Filing them with His Hope and victory, that will last through all eternity,
Where they shall remain forevermore, with their Savior, Christ our Lord.
(Copyright ©04/2007)
When My Sister Died
i stoped caring when my sister died
i stoped loving my sister died
my heart became a black hole spiraling into hell
n my soul, well i have none.
basically my body became a shell filled with hatered, pain n deperssion
all in whivh happed when my sister died.
ps.my sister didnt die but i did become all of these.
pss, i got the idea 4 the poem from a book
poem by Kerry Rivette
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A Letter from the Sand 'Be Proud
Today I received a letter from the sand. It read Dear Sir, we regret to inform you that your brother Sgt. Andre Smith was killed two days ago in Iraq, but be proud he died a hero. Now I must read that letters a hundred times but pride never came over me but anger did. Anger that got me asking questions like is proud of what, that my big brother is no longer here? Or should I be proud that they turned my caring brother into murder all under the false flag of freedom? Be proud, I am proud and I was always proud not because Andre died as hero but I am proud because he was my brother.
Note:
This poem is not a true story. Now although my brother Andre did past away he did not die that way, but I wanted to honor him so I used his name in a poem the relates to current affairs
Whiskey And Jesus
He said, it's whiskey and Jesus
it's grandkids at the door
it's the woman lying speechless
she cant take it anymore
it's the roar of desperation
that sickens and devours
it's the stillness of alone
that turns minutes into hours
it's whiskey and Jesus
He said, it's whiskey and Jesus
it's the hoe in the field
the hawk circling overhead
dust on the windowsill
it's empty shelves in the pantry
callouses on his hands
it's nowhere to turn
the pride of a man...
it's whiskey and Jesus
He said, it's whiskey and Jesus
it's the lines 'neath his eyes
it's the tight lipped anger
that never questions why
it's the memories and ashes
of a thousand highway miles
the hard face of dignity
painted by the trials...
it's whiskey and Jesus...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Om
The rain is on the roof
Hurry high butterfly
As clouds roll past my head
I know why the skys all cry
Om, om, heaven, om
The earth turns slowly round
Far away the distant sound
Is with us everyday
Can you hear what it say
Om, om, heaven, om
The rain is on the roof
Hurry high butterfly
As clouds roll past my head
I know why the skys all cry
Om, om, heaven, om
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Anger buried deep inside me
My anger is angry.
Its pain.
Its frustration.
Its irritation.
My anger is angry.
My anger is confusion.
My anger is past, present and future.
My anger's disappointment.
My anger builds
up and explodes
like thunder on
a stormy day.
Its fiery red.
Its envy.
Its greed.
Its temptation.
My anger's TOO angry.
Won't you please help me stop?
I'm a blazing volcano
that's ready to pop.
poem by Ricky Baker
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My Anger is Angry
My anger is angry.
Its pain.
Its frustration.
Its irritation.
My anger is angry.
My anger is confusion.
My anger is past, present and future.
My anger's disappointment.
My anger builds
up and explodes
like thunder on
a stormy day.
Its fiery red.
Its envy.
Its greed.
Its temptation.
My anger's TOO angry.
Won't you please help me stop?
I'm a blazing volcano
that's ready to pop.
age 13 going on 14
poem by LuRyza Penn
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The Thirteenth Street Bus
god died...
nothing else unusual about the day.
the Thirteenth Street bus was late again,
people passed each other walking heads down.
when the bus finally arrived,
no one was there.
old Mr. Peterson and his crippled wife,
were nowhere to be seen.
three hours earlier...
an angry young man sat alone,
hugging his knees and shaking,
in an empty room neath a bare light bulb.
unable to focus or think,
peeling back the layers of hell...
consumed by the rage of need.
old Mr. Peterson made the coffee,
and boiled water for oatmeal.
two creams and a sugar,
and he took a cup,
to his wife still lying in bed.
he felt the faint smile of the wrinkled face,
birds just outside the window were singing..
45 years, or maybe yesterday,
he didnt know or care anymore.
the enraged young man
caught Mr. Peterson in the kitchen,
and cracked his skull with a lead pipe.
he rifled his pockets for what he could get,
and started slamming through drawers.
Mrs. Peterson hobbled in on her walker,
he stabbed her with a kitchen knife...
and left her dying on the floor,
as he pillaged the house....
the birds were silent as he ran.
when the police burst through the door,
it was already too late.
his body hung in an empty closet,
while the radio blared in stark despair.
crumpled clothes in the corner,
a mattress unmade in the center of the room.
a food stamp card and a dirty needle,
an unopened letter from the unemployment office.
a lone picture on a stack of boxes,
taken three years earlier...
the young man in his military uniform,
the day he came home from Iraq.
three funerals on the same day,
no one attended either.
a borrowed preacher in a coffee stained suit,
a few words and a worn out prayer.
it began to rain, and it was over,
three lives that never were.
three short paragraphs in the newspaper,
the county picked up the tab.
god died...
or maybe we died,
passing behind blacked out windows.
standing behind indifferent curtains,
lips moving but never speaking.
the Thirteenth Street bus was on time that day,
but it didnt even bother to stop!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Looking For Sugar!
following the trail of the ants,
past empty factory buildings.
past fields not planted.
past vacant store fronts.
past cars up on blocks,
and signs yelling 'for rent'...
following the trail of the ants,
looking for sugar!
following the trail of the sun,
from day unto night.
from family to forsaken.
from home to the road.
from god to the faces
that ring like haunted church bells,
following the trail of the sun...
looking for sugar!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Jesus was the greatest hero
Jesus was the greatest hero who ever lived.
He had the power of resurrection and the power to forgive.
When Jesus was tortured to death, he died for our sins.
We wish he was still here so that he could resurrect our kin.
God gave his son the power to turn water into wine.
Jesus will always be a hero of yours and a hero of mine.
Jesus is awesome and that's a statement that I won't retract.
His compassion for people has no boundaries and that's a fact.
poem by Randy Johnson
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America Revisited
put down your crack bowls
and your republican flags...
and let's go walking thru
the streets and alleys of America....
let's walk past the empty houses
with foreclosure signs in the yard...
past the vacant factory buildings
where the homeless break in
at night and sleep...
past the lily white churches
and the dead zone schools...
past the county jails and the courthouses
and the rooms where lawyers
buy and sell justice...
past the housing projects
where babies buy groceries...
down to the tent cities where
dreams hang in the air like opium.
down the dark streets where young
girls and boys sell their bodies
for their vampire pimps...
and everyday citizens buy them!
down to the unemployment offices
where angry people stand in
numbered lines...
past renegade gas pumps
guarded by dollar store slaves...
past the words of Jefferson, Franklin,
and Thomas Paine....
to the hypnotic ads of puffy-faced
liars with titles and plans...
down to the cemetary where
the last shreds of freedom
lie in unmarked graves....
and we call this....
America!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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You Who Bury Your Poets
America....
you who bury your poets
like fallen leaves beneath weeping trees.
like the sound of the tire
that strikes the stray cat.
like the trembling dark skinned hands
you ban from your voting booths.
like the flag draped caskets
of your sacrificed young.
like the books you burn
with religious fervor....
like the shuffle of boots
in your unemployment lines.
like the faceless ones
in your clinics shutting down.
like the ones who speak out,
then suddenly disappear.
like the crack pipes and needles
of your 'worthless' poor....
like the babies born to babies
in your rat infested government housing.
like your Native Americans
in your 'poverty prisons'....
like the angry young men
you put behind bars.
like the hungry child sleeping
in the back of a broke down car.
like your factory ghosts
haunting empty shells.
like your foreclosed farms,
the fields left to crows.
America,
you who bury your poets,
and dance drunkenly in empty rooms,
neath the shadow of the noose
your indifference tied!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Easter 2007
Christ was born;
Christ had died;
Christ had risen;
Christ will come again!
Joy came down to earth
By baby Jesus’ birth;
Hope lost when He died
Was regained forever
When He arose alive
On the third day.
Jesus is our Savior;
Jesus is Redeemer;
Jesus is our Heavenly Lord;
Son of the living God.
Jesus is the love of God
Transformed into man
And dwelt amongst us;
Suffered and died
For all mankind’s sins
On the holy cross,
And resurrected;
So that, all who repent,
Can gain forgiveness of sins
And reach heaven!
(4-7-2007)
poem by John Celes
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Walking With The Lover...
walking with the Lover...
i see empty fields plowed,
come alive with crops abundant.
empty factory buildings filled
with the ghosts of hard working lives.
empty houses lit up,
and the sounds of families.
empty hands given cups and bowls,
empty hearts held close!
empty words given meaning,
empty promises fulfilled.
walking with the Lover...
touching the plenty of empty!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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