One Hundred Lit Candles
sitting alone in an empty room,
surrounded by one hundred lit candles...
slowly, one by one,
naming them,
blowing them out!
hunger, apathy, pride,
poverty, prejudice,
sorrow, despair, greed...
self image, self fullfilment,
ownership, anger, judgement,
righteous indignation...
the stranger on the street corner,
the soldiers standing across the line.
the protestors carrying signs,
the pale faces behind
the covered window...
the preacher and the addict,
the whore, and the convict.
the young unwed mother,
the child crying in the night.
the young gay boy who hung himself,
those who stood and jeered...
the out of work factory worker,
face down in a corner bar.
my neighbor, my enemy, my brother,
and the ghosts that haunt my night.
empty graves and unmarked stones...
and more...
blowing them out!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Related quotes
Martyrs!
martyrs...
silently trudging head down
to the promised land.
familiar?
a neighbor, a forgotten uncle,
the stranger you saw on the corner;
the faces...
bombing victims in the Middle East,
hungry children on foreign soils,
the kid picked up for looking suspicious.
the bullied kid that hung himself,
the family living in the backseat
of a car in Florida.
the tired eyed man standing
in the unemployment line.
the protesters, and the cops
with pepper spray and clubs...
the face of the young boy taken
from his drug addict parents...
bodies and faces,
souls wrapped in dirty flesh.
silently trudging,
martyrs!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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O My Soul...
where have you gone,
o my soul...
where have you gone?
are you lost in the tears
of a thousand faces
blackened by hunger?
in the cries of the dying?
of the homeless?
in the defiant feet
of those standing in line?
the unemployment line?
the soup line?
the line just outside
the prison walls?
in the lover left desperate,
who takes his own life?
in the students beaten,
who stood up for freedom?
in the young man hated,
for the color of his skin?
in the young woman sold
on the lonesome street corner?
in the windowless offices
where lives and deaths are decided?
in the hole behind the gun,
eyes hard as steel?
in the bare apartment,
where the children are cold and hungry?
on the corner, 'neath the bridge,
in the back of the car?
where have you gone,
o my soul...
where have you gone?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Pebble Is A Mountain.....
i was there the day you were born...
you were there the day that i died....
i entered your mother with fevered passion,
you were the grandmother knitting outside.
i killed your son in battle,
you buried my wife in an unmarked grave.
you baptized me in the river,
i lit the fire when you were martyred.
you went to sea in search of a new land,
i sat in my tepee waiting for death.
you slew me with righteous indignation,
i prayed to the Great Spirit for your soul.
i worked forty years to feed you,
you stole the cross from around my neck.
i led the immigrants by night,
you waited with a gun and a badge....
you died inside my prison,
i felt the blow of justice.
i starved outside your window,
while you drank and danced till dawn....
i was an addict and a murderer,
you fed my addiction with greed.
you saved the world one winter night,
while i wandered lost again....
or perhaps, the other way around,
i cannot tell the difference.
there be no walls in an empty room,
and a pebble is a mountain!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am Responsible.... (Poet's Heart)
i am responsible....
for the child dying of starvation,
whatever color, whatever country.
for the young Muslim child alone,
his family killed by the bombs.
for the addict shaking on the street corner,
for the young girl selling her body
on that same corner.
for the family kicked out of their house,
who have nowhere to go.
for the young angry men in prison,
for the victims of the crimes.
for the stink of poverty,
and the abuse of wealth.
for the planes, the bombs,
the guns and the flags...
for the political prisoners who spoke out.
for the elderly going without food and lights,
trying to pay for their medicine.
for the victims of racism and prejudice,
and those that wave that banner.
for the preacher, the thief,
the murderer, and the lost....
for the woman treated as less.
for the young man who commits suicide,
and for those that caused his desperation.
for the immigrant killed crossing the border,
hoping against hope for his family.
for the 'moral' who cant feel,
for those who feel, those who suffer.
for the bones of those we've killed
on our journey to civilization.
for the Jew, the Christian,
the Hindu, the Muslim, and the Buddhist...
of equal worth and value.
for the atheist, the doubter, the searcher,
and those who question all.
for the man, the woman, and the child.
for the sins of the past,
and the path to the future.
i am responsible...
because i am human!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Virginia Wolf
some will strut and some will fret
see this an hour on the stage
others will not but they'll sweat
in their hopelessness and their rage
we're all the same the men of anger
and women of the page
they published your diary
and that's how i got to know you
the key to the room of your own and a mind without end
and here's a young girl
on a kind of a telephone line through time
and the voice at the other end comes like a long lost friend
so i know i'm all right
life will come and life will go
still i feel it's all right
cause i just got a letter to my soul
and when my whole life is on the tip of my tongue
empty pages for the no longer young
the apathy of time laughs in my face
you say "each life has its place"
the hatches were battened
the thunderclouds rolled and the critics stormed
the battle surrounded the white flag of your youth
if you need to know that you weathered the storm
of cruel mortality
a hundred years later i'm sitting here living proof
so you know you're all right
(all right)
life will come and life will go
(life will come and go)
still you'll feel it's all right
(all right)
someone'll get a letter to your soul
(someone gets your soul)
when your whole life is on the tip of your tongue
empty pages for the no longer young
the apathy of time laughed in your face
did you hear me say "each life has its place"
the place where you hold me
dark in a pocket of truth
the moon had swallowed the sun and the light of the earth
and so it was for you
when the river eclipsed your life
and sent your soul like a message in a bottle to me
and it was my rebirth
so we know we're all right
(all right)
though life will come and life will go
(though life will come and life will go)
still you'll feel it's all right
(all right)
someone'll will get a letter to your soul
(someone gets your soul)
then you know you're all right
(when my whole life is on the tip of my tongue)
then you feel you're all right
(empty pages for the no longer young)
and your hear dry you eyes
(you said)
and you know it's all right
(each life has it's place)
and your hear dry your eyes
(you said)
and you know it's all right
(each life has it's place)
and it's all right
(it'll be all right)
words and music emily saliers
copyright 1992 bmi virgin music inc and godhap music (bmi
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Virginia Woolf
Some will strut and some will fret
See this an hour on the stage
Others will not but theyll sweat
In their hopelessness and their rage
Were all the same the men of anger
And women of the page
They published your diary
And thats how I got to know you
The key to the room of your own and a mind without end
And heres a young girl
On a kind of a telephone line through time
And the voice at the other end comes like a long lost friend
So I know Im all right
Life will come and life will go
Still I feel its all right
Cause I just got a letter to my soul
And when my whole life is on the tip of my tongue
Empty pages for the no longer young
The apathy of time laughs in my face
You say each life has its place
The hatches were battened
The thunderclouds rolled and the critics stormed
The battle surrounded the white flag of your youth
If you need to know that you weathered the storm
Of cruel mortality
A hundred years later Im sitting here living proof
So you know youre all right
(all right)
Life will come and life will go
(life will come and go)
Still youll feel its all right
(all right)
Someonell get a letter to your soul
(someone gets your soul)
When your whole life is on the tip of your tongue
Empty pages for the no longer young
The apathy of time laughed in your face
Did you hear me say each life has its place
The place where you hold me
Dark in a pocket of truth
The moon had swallowed the sun and the light of the earth
And so it was for you
When the river eclipsed your life
And sent your soul like a message in a bottle to me
And it was my rebirth
So we know were all right
(all right)
Though life will come and life will go
(though life will come and life will go)
Still youll feel its all right
(all right)
Someonell will get a letter to your soul
(someone gets your soul)
Then you know youre all right
(when my whole life is on the tip of my tongue)
Then you feel youre all right
(empty pages for the no longer young)
And your hear dry you eyes
(you said)
And you know its all right
(each life has its place)
And your hear dry your eyes
(you said)
And you know its all right
(each life has its place)
And its all right
(itll be all right)
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Halsted Street Car
Come you, cartoonists,
Hang on a strap with me here
At seven o’clock in the morning
On a Halsted street car.
Take your pencils
And draw these faces.
Try with your pencils for these crooked faces,
That pig-sticker in one corner—his mouth—
That overall factory girl—her loose cheeks.
Find for your pencils
A way to mark your memory
Of tired empty faces.
After their night’s sleep,
In the moist dawn
And cool daybreak,
Faces
Tired of wishes,
Empty of dreams.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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April, March! Soldiers Search for HUNGER MARCH - A1 Story
World has advanced in many days...
Yet in 21st Century poverty retains in umpteen ways;
Hunger glinted in his eyes...
He does begging and petty thievery, at the same time!
Cheeks were sunken and clothes were in rags but still, a crime!
Believe I swear in the name of god, my words are not lies.
April, March! Soldiers search for Hunger march at poverty's home.
I saw a rag picker scrounging for a coin in the garbage,
Though he is with bare foot who knows as bub, he is cute!
Owing to the troubles he met, made him mute.
He can fill the rivers with poverty's tears...
His eyes were pale and mouth opened for food cabbage!
One among is he, pleading and begging the passersby yet nobody hears.
April, March! Soldiers search for Hunger march at poverty's home.
The street is lighted with half naked
Bodies go begging down, the street and half fed,
From head to toe they're covered with poverty, yet
With pain and misery as their make-up set;
Hunger is present in their stomach and a rat's race!
And it is vaguely seen on their face and a food race.
April, March! Soldiers search for Hunger march at poverty's home.
Labourers in construction breaking the stones...
And lifting the bricks while scorching sun is the witness!
They work bodily, resembles awkward dance of a heap of bones,
The skin saturates and swallows the heat, I bet!
Leaving it dark as the midnight sky, oh! What a mess!
Their hopes are dashed; life is smashed of body’s sweat!
The Mother weeps and father yells!
Sitting in the house of poverty and what-else!
Small sister sleeps and her little brother dies and I linger;
His father only stares as he is killed by hunger...
Why doctors only cure diseases and why not
Poverty - the biggest disease of all. Is it not?
April, March! Soldiers search for Hunger march at poverty's home.
Every now and then in newspapers, I hear
The death of a peasant or two, oh my dear!
Unable to feed family, life has become Herculean task,
Drowned himself in melancholy, under hunger mask!
Bogged down under wheels of Pressure, not to hide...
Due to debts of treasure, he committed suicide!
April, March! Soldiers search for Hunger march at poverty's home.
Lot of hunger and empty bowl without food is poverty,
Not having one more dress to take bath is poverty,
............................................. ..............................................
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>READ PART 2>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
*A big NOTICE BOARD: Oops! Sorry the poem is NOT completed. This is just break time! Now read to make your reading wholesome read PART - 2
April, March! Soldiers Search for HUNGER MARCH - A2 Story
poem by Harindhar Reddy
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Cannot Be Confined (for Romeo Della Valle)
the truth...
cannot be confined
to concepts,
or even words.
sometimes what is felt
is too deep to express.
or perhaps the spirit moans,
and only a few can hear...
usually the ones
who've been beaten the most.
that fire in the gut,
that burns the last thing
grasped for...
and leaves the heart as naked
as the whore on the corner.
but even she knows
more than priests or philosophers...
she lies sleepless in the dawn,
with the taste of blood in her mouth!
and the small boy cold
in the empty room...
praying for his mother,
hunger gnawing at his face.
the people who hide,
in huts and in caves...
from the sounds of the bombing,
from a war they dont understand.
and the old man hard,
who doesnt say much anymore.
who just stares out the window,
clenching and opening his hands.
the fire burns slowly,
and the night is long!
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 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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Fate Led Me Too It
sitting in the corner
surrounded by darkness
the light in her eyes
the heart full of hate
the single blade
the single vein
the single dropp of blood
that young boy
this young girl
that dreadful night
the screeching tyres
the shatter of glass
the night that boy left
the other car
the drunken man
the night he drove away
this young girl
this night
this night she joins him too.
poem by Charlotte Marie Peachey
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The Street Only Knew Your Name
Your street, rich street or poor
You should always be sure of your street
There's a place in your heart,
When you know from the start
And you can't be complete without a street
Keep movin' on, just like a train
Sometimes you gotta look back to the street again
Would you prefer all those castles in spain
Or a view of the street from your window pane
When you were young, so young
So very very young
When you were young, so young
So very very young
And the street only knew your name
And the street only knew your name
And the street only knew your name, oh your precious name, precious name
There was walter and joy, kate and roy
All hung around the corner lamplight
Get together sing some songs
Like boppin' the blues - you make me feel alright
That was long before fortune and fame
No such thing as a star when you've played that game
Everyone knew who everyone was
There was no preference in the street no, no
When you were young, so young
So very very young
When you were young, so young
So very very young
And the street only knew your name
And the street only knew your name
And the street only knew your name, oh your precious name
And you walked around in the heart of town
Listening for that sound
And you walk around in the heart of town
Listening for that sound
Blue suede shoes, it was the blue suede shoes
When you were young, so young
So very very young
When you were young, so young
So very very young
And the street only knew your name
And the street only knew your name
And the street only knew your name
And the street only knew your name
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wonders Of Lewis
Wonders of lewis
Blowing my mind
Stoning me blind
In the mid-summertime
Mist in the hollows
And clothes on the line
Blowing my...
Blowing my...
Wonders of lewis
Blowing my mind
Five after midnight
And the sun still shines
Standing stones
All in a line
Blowing my...
Blowing my...
Mind!
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Letter From God
dont call my name anymore.
you dont even know who i am!
no more churches, temples, and mosques,
the wind has no need for a home.
no more battles or wars in my name,
no more judgements bound by your fears.
no more talk of heaven and hell,
till you walk the path before you.
for as long as you kill
to feed your greed.
as long as you allow
children to go hungry.
as long as you discriminate
out of your ignorance...
as long as you take
more than you give.
you do not know me!
you kill my messengers,
or twist their teachings
to use for profit and gain.
you choose religion over love,
believing in instant redemption.
you speak of my wrath,
but the anger is yours.
you try to define my being
with impotent minds.
you're so blinded by selfish desire,
that you do not see me all around you.
the man you kill,
the woman you rape,
the child you abandon,
the begger you ignore....
the young man you send to prison,
or even worse to battle.
the poor you leave in poverty,
the uneducated you fail to educate...
the homeless family,
black, white, red, and brown...
male, female, old, and young.
straight, gay, religious, or not...
the abandoned dog, the stray cat,
the addict, the whore,
the farmer, the factory worker,
the father, the mother...
me!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Girl On Terrace
I see a girl,
Standing on terrace,
Face covered with long curls,
Staring in the empty space,
She’s watching the stars, or the clouds,
I don’t know,
But her pale face is glowing in moonlight,
Showing her mood is a bit low,
She’s trying to catch,
Someone in the empty air,
Realizes soon it was just a shadow,
And lies back on the empty chair,
Her face is again in her hands,
Seems like gaining some words or thoughts,
Just a second passed and I hear a sob,
It seemed she was in pain,
Something hurt her a lot,
She was continuously touching,
The chair beside her,
Slowly and affectionately,
Like she was touching a person,
Close to her,
Again she realized,
There was no one sitting there,
It was again a shadow,
And seemed like she was going to shatter….
Suddenly, I saw a smile,
Reflecting pain, on her face,
Maybe she remembered something good from her past,
Or just an incident case,
She flinched,
As she remembered something,
Her face was worse than I first saw,
Her silent sobs now louder,
Than any other creatures creeping,
It seemed she was living an empty life,
Full of darkness and shadows,
I don’t know what had happened to her,
Wonder if she was hurt by circumstances, friend or foe?
Suddenly, she stood up,
And was going back downstairs,
The rhythm of stick, made me realize she was blind,
Maybe that was the pain,
Beneath her beautiful pale layers,
But I soon realized,
Her pain was more than that,
Of course,
I wanted to ask about the person in her empty shadows,
The reason for her silent sobs,
But that young girl,
On the terrace,
Sometimes smiling, sometimes sobbing,
With her pain and empty shadows,
Was lost………….
poem by Apurva Jain
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The Bells Of Freedom
do the bells of freedom ring
every time someone dies of starvation?
every time a child is abused,
every time a woman's left alone
to raise the kids...
every time a young boy hangs himself,
every time an addict steals his fix...
every time a boy is shot dead in the street,
every time a mother weeps....
every time a boy goes off to war,
comes home in a bodybag....
and no one knows why.....
every time a family is evicted,
with nowhere to go....
every time a factory gets shut down,
and the workers walk away with empty
lunchboxes and shattered dreams.....
every time a minister gets up to pray,
and the silent, grieving, walk out...
every time a young girl gets beaten
by a pimp in a back room....
every time a family farm is taken,
every time a tanker leaks oil...
every time a prisoner is executed
for something he didnt do....
every time a protestor gets arrested
for standing up to be counted...
do they ring? and are they
the chimes of freedom....
or the bells of passing....
saying their final farewell!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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If You Go Away
If you go away on this summer day
Then you might as well take the sun away
All the birds that flew in a summer sky
When our love was new and our hearts were high
When the day was young and the night was lo-ong
And the moon stood still for the night birds song
If you go away, If you go away, If you go away
But if you stay I'll make you a day
Like no day has been or will be again
We'll sail on the sun, we'll ride on the rain
We'll talk to the trees and worship the wind
Then if you go-o I'll understand
Leave me just enough love to fill up my hand
If you go away, If you go away, If you go away
If you go away as I know you must
There'll be nothin' left in the world to trust
Just an empty room full of empty space
Like the empty look I see on your face
Can I tell you now as you turn to go
I'll be dying slowly till your next hello
If you go away, If you go away, If you go away
But if you stay, I'll make you a night
Like no night has been or will be again
I'll sail on your smile, I'll ride on your touch
I'll talk to your eyes that I-I love so much
But if you go, I won't cry
For the good's gone from goodbye
If you go away, If you go away, If you go away-ay-ay-ay
song performed by by Neil Diamond
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poets
an old woman poet,
stood behind the table,
doling out plate after plate,
to the line of faces...
taking the time...
to ask each their name.
a young student poet,
jerked from the picket line,
beaten, and arrested...
now sits in jail.
the young man poet,
just home after a 12 hour shift,
went next door and mowed
his elderly neighbor's grass.
a young girl poet,
took in the stray cat,
fed it, and held it...
and rocked it to sleep.
the poor poet,
makes a pallot on the floor
of his empty room,
for the homeless to sleep on.
the old man poet,
goes to work again,
minimum wage with a smile,
to feed his sick wife...
the common poet,
build houses, works on machines,
tills gardens, works on cars...
treats everyone the same...
and no one knows his name!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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No Longer Free
angry people standing up,
marching, joining hands....
the taste of the lie,
gone bitter.
unholy wars,
corporate greed....
slavery rears its ugly head,
taking different forms.
greed takes the future,
and barters for oil.
the hands of the masses,
empty and hungry!
those who stood silent
and took it all without a whimper,
now have had enough!
while the barkers yell,
it's un-American, it's wrong!
counting back change
into the beggars cups.
the threat of the new wave
of Mccarthyism fear
beats protestors with billy clubs,
and gases young girls!
and the anger grows,
the anger grows....
the calloused hands of
working men and women,
clenched tight, preparing
for the fight... the last stand
of liberty in this land....
no longer free!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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