Perhaps A Brandy
perhaps a brandy....
the shovel still caked with dirt,
the body restless, turns and groans.
the shade o'er the window
yellowed by mold,
the frail hands of the clock
do not move or whisper.
the scent of love,
lingers and stutters.
the fireplace empty,
the books weep on the shelf.
the old tree fallen
just outside your window,
the barking of dogs,
the prayers of rust.
children without faces
carry the box into the night...
the hoot of the owl,
another mockingbird dead!
moonlight, perhaps a lie,
even the stars remain distant.
nothing dressed in wrinkled clothes,
squats by the fire,
humming an ancient tune.
the spider's web reflected
on the oil tinged dew,
tastes like love remembered!
perhaps a brandy?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Man And Bottle
Just an empty brandy bottle by the door
An empty bottle standing on the floor
Last week 'twas worth a carpenter's day's pay
But now it isn't worth taking away.
Last week 'twas full of brandy to the top
But in it now there's not a single drop
Just like a candy box without the candy
What value a brandy bottle without brandy?
The man who drank the brandy he is dead
Like all dead men a pine box is his bed
He rests in peace where all dead people lay
Six foot under graveyard earth and clay.
He drank the brandy and then drove his car
But alas the poor man did not travel far
His car left the road and crashed against a tree
And with his life he paid for gluttony.
Next time you're in a bar and have to drive a car, do think
Hard liquor is a thing you ought not drink
Spare a thought for the poor man who drank the brandy
And ask the publican for a beer shandy.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Looking For Tornadoes... (Part Two)
and redemption tastes,
like an old book or our scrotum.
with nothing left behind,
to barter or trade.
standing naked before god,
without a thought of excuse...
bastard trees defiant,
curse the saw and the fire!
and small children whisper
to the trees and the stone.
men with colorless faces,
shovel the dirt.
young girls drunk on cheap wine,
shed a tear and fix their faces.
young soldiers lay down their guns,
and grin with silent understanding...
a moment, a brandy....
and one last smoke!
let babies be born,
let new fathers pace.
let the poor build a fire,
that costs nothing and gives all.
life dances with madness,
and lays down with goats!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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4. A Merry Christmas
Gone shopping for good brandy butter
My homemade plum puddings in need
I don’t want a tin of rum sauce mix
It just wouldn’t do no indeed
Last night’s Christmas Eve rush was crazy
The shop had none left on the shelf
So I bought half a pound of best butter
To mix up with brandy myself
My mixer took brandy and butter
It churned the lot up to a paste
I drank what was left of the brandy
As I don’t like things going to waste
Everyone had a good dinner
With plenty of wine, port and sherry
But no one got fresh brandy butter
We all fell about slightly merry
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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Murphy and Brandy-the love dogs
Murphy is his name,
of a Corgi mix
is he.
2004 we brought
brandy home,
she is a Border collie mix
Murphy fell in love,
it was love,
at first sight
Brandy acts like,
a brand new puppy,
she passed this on to Murphy
Murphy is ten,
had him since 1997,
brandy is six,
both act much younger.
Watching these two,
brings much joy,
as it does for them.
They both demand,
our attention at same time,
it is so hard to do it
Somehow we do it,
Murphy begs,
Brandy lies on her back.
They both do this,
to get our attention,
the more we laugh, the more
they do it.
So much love these,
two dogs have for us,
and for each other.
We will enjoy every moment
until that dreadful day
but happy is this day,
to have them both here.
wrote 12-23-06
The Scriptures
i read the scriptures written in human faces,
in calloused hands, in bruises and scars.
in the spider's web, in the trail of the snail.
in the pot stained with use,
in the axe and the plow.
in the old woman's silence,
in the broken window.
in worn out boots, and the broken lock.
in the gravel drive,
in the eyes of the hungry....
in the fear of those oppressed by war.
in the dead squirrel's body,
in the nest left empty.
in the prisoner staring
through a window barred.
in the old man's chair,
a dog's turd and a hill of ants.
in the fallen leaf,
in the empty room.
in solitude and stillness,
in the prayer of lonliness.
in trash strewn in the alley,
in the grave unmarked.
in the truth of doubt,
in a puddle of rainwater.
in fresh cut grass,
in the cow fresh milked.
in the lover's touch,
in the dialogue of silence.
in the shovel, the hammer, and the flute.
in the grain of the old tree,
and the woman giving birth...
let us speak of nothing less!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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In The Smallest Of Things
when chapters become books,
and passion becomes love...
written in hours and minutes,
in days and weeks...
and weeks become months,
and months become years...
footsteps woven into one.
days of work for nights of small things...
food, fire, children, good books
and good wine...
quiet words spoken, falling like leaves,
the candle lit by touching
in the darkest hours...
do we forget, do we lose memory,
do thoughts become echoes.
bricks laid by sweat and toil
are lost in the wall...
need becomes distance,
and curtains fall.....
you stare at the body,
as if some stranger...
and a lifetime given
like tiny shards of light,
nails covered with rust,
the spider's web empty.
only the trees know,
mountains, and lost caves.
raindrops falling,
and moonlight never named.
the dog barking in the night,
you think for no reason...
ah! but love testifies,
in the smallest of things!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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We... (Stoned By The Struggle)
we, who are stoned by the struggle,
whose faces bear the marks of living.
whose hands tremble a little
as we unbutton the shirt...
whose eyes dim still see.
whose bodies smell like bodies,
whose feet need to be washed.
whose hearts whisper in the empty night,
whose souls restless roam the earth.
whose dreams have become the small things,
whose breath smells of brandy and smoke.
whose doors are unlocked,
whose beds are offered...
we, who are drunk with living!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Write....
i write...
what is given me to write,
with all consuming fire,
burning every branch of self.
i doubt all...
and therefore believe,
touching the untouchables,
with reverence and awe.
i chant...
with dirty hands plowing,
urine drenched eyes searching,
living beneath all thought.
i mourn...
hearing the lament of dead bodies,
doubled over with hunger,
no place to lay my head.
i burn...
with uncontrolled passion,
for the leaf, for the river,
and the prayers of small children.
i run...
just a dog among dogs,
barking and baying,
with the scent of raw life.
i love...
with hot breath panting,
with both candle and phallus,
the whisper of tender touch.
i fly...
beyond body and bondage,
beyond concrete and ashes,
dark wings seeking light.
i howl...
with pen and paper,
with human words scratching,
at the walls of the tomb!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Your Love Lingers On
Long after your touch has faded from my body
And the scent of your sweet perfume has gone
Long after your kiss is faded from my lips
Your love lingers on.
Chorus:
It's still in the air, it's everywhere.
It never disappears, it surrounds me like a melody
Reminding me you were here.
Long after the glow has faded from the moonlight
And the stars have given way to greet the dawn
Long after the night has faded to sunlight
You love lingers on.
Chorus:
It's still in the air, it's everywhere.
It never disappears, it surrounds me like a melody
Reminding me you were here.
Long after your whisper has faded from my ears
And the curtains are no longer drawn
Long after the passion fades into memories
Your love lingers on.
Chorus:
It's still in the air, it's everywhere.
It never disappears, it surrounds me like a melody
Reminding me you were here.
Your love lingers on.
Your love lingers on.
song performed by by John Michael Montgomery
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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From the biography of an unknown woman: XL
Looking out through the window
She saw a sky of melancholy
In shades of ink-blue and black
In the ticking of the clock on the wall
She heard the loud and clear hollowness
Filling the empty room
Some stray memories sweet and bitter
Simply struggled like a flickering candle
Placed on the window sill
In the distant night is heard
Painful whining of dogs
As she struggled to close
The window against the blowing wind
13sep2010
14.14hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Mocking Bird, Mocking Man
he is sometimes
tempted to mimic a mockingbird
that mimics him
most of the times
on top of the tree fronting
his window where he
faces the sun and moon
the mockingbird mocks him the moment he mocks it
and he in turn mocks the mockingbird that mocks him when he mocks it
both of them are bored
and have nothing good to do
they mock each other
morning noon and nigh time
bird man bird, man bird man bird
in truth the man wants to be a mockingbird
in truth the mockingbird wants to be a man
the problem is
no one is talking and no one is listening
no one wants to be himself/itself forever.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Window of Heaven
The window of Heaven is open,
The angels can fly to and fro,
And those that I love can all gather,
And look down at Christmas below.
For Christmas is special in Heaven,
The love is so easy to see,
And down from the window at Christmas,
God sends a present to me.
'I will forever be with you,
Your side, I shall always be near,
And though you may not always see me,
In your heart I will always be there.
I will warm up your soul during Christmas,
My love is a fire burning bright,
Then my blanket of love will surround you,
And keep you all through the night.
On the brink of your Christmas morning,
I'll be the star at the top of the tree,
Shining my light on your teardrops,
You'll see a reflection of me.
Then as the gifts are all opened,
With the children encircling the hearth,
Look deep in their little faces,
Their kisses will be from my heart.
For the window of Heaven is open,
My love can pour out so free,
And those that I love can all gather,
And look up to Heaven at me.'
poem by Jean Penner
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The Message
Wind of the gentle summer night,
Dwell in the lilac tree,
Sway the blossoms clustered light,
Then blow over to me.
Wind, you are sometimes strong and great,
You frighten the ships at sea,
Now come floating your delicate freight
Out of the lilac tree,
Wind you must waver a gossamer sail
To ferry a scent so light,
Will you carry my love a message as frail
Through the hawk-haunted night?
For my heart is sometimes strange and wild,
Bitter and bold and free,
I scare the beautiful timid child,
As you frighten the ships at sea;
But now when the hawks are piercing the air,
With the golden stars above,
The only thing that my heart can bear
Is a lilac message of love.
Gentle wind, will you carry this
Up to her window white
Give her a gentle tender kiss;
Bid her good-night, good-night.
poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
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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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Older...
they call it getting older,
i call it rust!
or maybe autumn leaves,
and the promise of snow.
an avalanche in slow motion,
a door that creaks when closed.
a latch on the bedroom window,
ashes that smolder with hope.
a tree fallen across the path,
the old car that turns over,
but wont start.
the plow crusted with dried earth,
the hammer on the shelf.
you and i...
nothing forgotten!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Poet's Significant Other - for Mary and Todd
On the shelf above the crackling fire,
the day’s work over, shadows swaying and flickering
across the room, in the firelight’s glow;
here is love abiding
On the shelf above the crackling fire
a few slim books, some of them poetry, some of them signed;
open them and the world spills out
tumbles laughing and crying, shouting
like children home from school with stories;
like grandparents reminiscing over photos with a smile;
like the last of the night’s pillow talk
one already eyes closed, the other treasuring thought
On the shelf above the crackling fire
two bookends hold the books in place
pressing lightly against each other
as two lovers walking through a door, a gate, from here to there
one bookend’s image we know well
familiar to us from the books
How little we know, of that other bookend
without which, without whom,
there might not be these books, lightly pressing
on the shelf above love’s glow
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Lingers
The rain is gone,
It's pitter patter silent,
It's accompaniment of thunder quiet,
It's ensemble of lightning dark,
but the smell still lingers.
The soft breeze carries the scent,
A cool night with damp grass,
The animals hide in dry brush,
The people tucked away at home,
The air thick with the weight of silence,
The thunder once so loud and startling,
Now distant and still moving further,
The lightening once so bright and threatening,
Now a distant glow that illuminates the horizon,
The storm has passed.
And like the rain,
you are gone for now,
Too far from my grasp,
For now my arms are empty,
But your smell still lingers.
The breeze from the open window carries your scent,
A cool night with warm sheets,
The restless hearts calmed,
The racing thoughts slowed,
The air thick with new memories and feelings.
The sounds once so crisp and real,
Now the silent rise and fall of chests,
The light in our eyes once so bright and alluring,
Now hidden behind closed lids,
The storm has passed.
The rain now as calm as our dreams,
And the storm as silent as our breathing,
Until once again the lightning will strike,
And our eyes light up again,
But for now, the smell still lingers.
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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History And More!
tis the buttered squash,
the chipped plate that whispers.
the dumpster box the cat sleeps in.
the scar on the hand,
and you cant remember when.
the blow to the face
of the child born in poverty.
the overthrow of the kingdom,
leaving mice to run amuck.
the broken key on the typewriter,
the cricket trapped in the bathtub.
mold around the window,
the stack of old tires.
the strange feel of love's body,
too long distant and gone.
the hands on the clock,
that stopped too long ago.
the place just beyond thoughts,
where stars breathe and have bodies.
the smell of the soul,
and the taste of eternity.
the heaving breasts of the darkness,
the dirge of the trees.
the kiss of the clouds,
that would steal the moon.
the crackle of the fire,
and conversation without words...
the lines beneath the eyes,
that sing of history and more!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Autumn's Hint....
the leaves on the tree are whispering...
squirrels panic, and fireflies disappear.
birds prepare their wings for journey,
i sharpen the axe, the woodpile grows.
the fields mourn with stomachs filled.
the chimney moans with an ache.
brandy waits on the shelf in silence.
mason jars filled with beans.
the air pregnant with chill and woodsmoke,
this body ripe with the taste of love.
unmarked graves wait for headstones,
pumpkins wait for the knife.
eyes turn, waiting for the fall...
autumn's hint, rust on my lips!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Night
a very small candle by the bedside,
a stack of books that whisper and moan.
a radio i forget to turn on,
and an alarm clock that i hate...
dirty clothes sorted and stacked
like dreams that didnt go well.
a pack of Marlboro's, a couple old hats...
a window that leaks an icy breeze...
my old guitar and a rifle in the corner,
a few prayers that never got said.
your pillow haunted and cold...
i dont want to sleep alone.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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