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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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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But Your Name....
who are we then to linger?
the pine needle bed turned brown.
the sky filled with emptiness,
where wings once sang in glory.
the mountain path deserted now,
footprints borne away by the wind.
as time exacts its heavy due,
leaving nothing as if a gift.
we who dared to speak of love,
who drank deeply with abandon.
who lit the candle as if it would last,
who dared the darkness to answer.
who kissed neath moonlit trees,
and danced till we were drunk.
who made love as if we owned the clock,
as if the leaves would never turn.
do you remember? lest we forget,
what was done, what was the cost!
when rivers flowed on summer's eve,
and the mockingbird naked prayed.
when wars were fought and lives were given,
and old women wept for they knew.
while the child slept in a dresser drawer,
and the dog bayed at the wind.
now passion curled in the stump of the tree,
the axe takes with head bowed low.
the trail of lovers sap gone dry,
on the bare belly of infinity.
the owl struck mute leaves the night,
with only the sound the wind betrays.
tis not god nor judgement but your name,
that pens damnation on salvation's breast!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Talking.... (Who Listens?)
even the silence of the night talks,
small children talk in their dreams;
old people talk staring out windows...
trees talk shedding leaves,
empty buildings talk to ghosts;
dead bones talk to the wind...
the wind talks those who mourn.
the hungry talk to their oppressors,
the prisoner talks to the walls.
the desperate talk to the noose,
lovers talk with simple touch.
soldiers talk to their fears,
the unborn talk to our decisions.
the moon talks to the night,
and the night talks to the dawn.
the soul of man talks,
and calls it god.
the conscience talks to the heart.
death talks to the living....
who listens?
who really hears?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Death Papers.... (Part Two)
i, the body
of earth and wind,
cry for the mountains,
the valleys, and rivers.
i am man,
the warrior naked,
muscled dark and lean.
with eyes borrowed from the hawk,
and hands that turn the ground.
i bear the feet of time determined,
the marks of the whip scar my back.
with hardened phallus,
and panting breath,
i follow the trail of the wolves.
i am woman,
the warrior naked,
long hair swept by the wind.
with eyes borrowed from the owl,
and hands skilled in healing.
i bear the feet of time determined,
the scar of the chains on my wrists.
breasts born with fire,
garden wet with hungry birth,
i am the trail the wolves follow!
and now,
i, the body
lay down my cross,
seed in the furrow,
sunlight waiting
for darkness's goodbye kiss.
for i, the body,
am earth and wind....
mountains, valleys,
and rivers cry for me!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Voices Of Infinity
i dance with animals in the night,
run naked with trees,
and drink strong moonlight.
i sing with the rocks,
and crow with the dawn....
i beat the drum primeval!
i rush with the waves
to strip the shores,
of all vestiges of passing.
i howl with the wind,
i dance with shadows and sounds,
and lay naked on the cool earth.
i am the ache inside the shell,
the hand that sprinkles dust...
come walk with me,
let us taste the very darkness,
let us call for the light
with the voices of infinity!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sound Of The Beating Heart!
we spend lifetimes searching
for the sound the leaf makes
turning from green to orange to red...
we spend our loving burning branches
in the shadow of the tree.
we spend our faith trying to capture,
and hold the wind for a moment...
never knowing that what we search for
is only our own being!
we are the leaf, the branches, the fire,
the tree, and the wind...
the sound, the loving, and the faith.
and yet we are nothing.
we are but a moment,
familiar taste and scent.
we are eternity,
the breath of an unknown god.
the sun has set,
stillness comes walking
across the mountains.
i listen for the voices
that have no face.
dead poets sit by a vagrant fire,
immigrants, refugees...
spinning old tales.
my friends smell like trees,
and leaves turned brown.
we cross bridges unseen,
with no destination.
and the only sound
that even god can hear...
the sound of the beating heart!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Autumn Waste
There is no break in all the wide grey sky,
Nor light on any field, and the wind grieves,
And talks of death. Where cold grey waters lie
Round greyer stones, and the new-fallen leaves
Heap the chill hollows of the naked woods,
A lisping moan, an inarticulate cry,
Creeps far among the charnel solitudes,
Numbing the waste with mindless misery.
In these bare paths, these melancholy lands,
What dream, or flesh, could ever have been young?
What lovers have gone forth with linked hands?
What flowers could ever have bloomed, what birds have sung?
Life, hopes, and human things seem wrapped away,
With shrouds and spectres, in one long decay.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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In Prison
Wearily, drearily,
Half the day long,
Flap the great banners
High over the stone;
Strangely and eerily
Sounds the wind's song,
Bending the banner-poles.
While, all alone,
Watching the loophole's spark,
Lie I, with life all dark,
Feet tether'd, hands fetter'd
Fast to the stone,
The grim walls, square-letter'd
With prison'd men's groan.
Still strain the banner-poles
Through the wind's song,
Westward the banner rolls
Over my wrong.
poem by William Morris
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A Good Knight In Prison
Wearily, drearily,
Half the day long,
Flap the great banners
High over the stone;
Strangely and eerily
Sounds the wind's song,
Bending the banner-poles.
While, all alone,
Watching the loophole's spark,
Lie I, with life all dark,
Feet tether'd, hands fetter'd
Fast to the stone,
The grim walls, square-letter'd
With prison'd men's groan.
Still strain the banner-poles
Through the wind's song,
Westward the banner rolls
Over my wrong.
poem by William Morris
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Broken Shutter
a spark of fire
from the devil's forge,
a meteorite cut
from an unknown planet.
the memory of God
drawn on cave walls...
a nuclear blast,
dust forms from formless!
the heretic's trial,
fire and defiance.
cold rain falling like needles
to the frozen ground.
darkness and light;
evolve and change....
the human heart opens,
wolves howl, babies cry.
the wind blows a broken shutter
against an empty house!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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All Of This, And More!
the color in the stone,
the green in the grass.
the language of the wind
whispering through the trees....
the mountains that listen in stillness.
the baby's mouth, eyes follow suit,
the thundering wings of the moth,
majestic in flight.
the bleet of the sheep,
the low growl of the bear.
the rhythm of the water,
pounding the shore....
the moan of the lover,
universal and primitive.
the scent of the rain,
just before it comes!
the fit of the light
in the darkness of empty,
the lips on my heart,
sucking the fire from my blood.
all of this, and more!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Do Buddhas Weep?
do buddhas weep?
do trees bend in the moonlight
as if to touch the grass?
do mountains groan in their stillness?
do the bird's wings taste the sky?
do the mouths of the dying
form prayers that the living
cannot hear, or understand?
does the wind know
from whence it came?
does it care?
does it know where it's going?
does it matter?
when we lay the clothes
of suffering down...
and walk naked into the night,
will we be alone?
and if i made love to you
across this distance...
would you dream of wolves,
and candles?
do buddhas weep?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Darkness, Man, And God!
lonliness...
the soul cried out for
the presence of god,
even while held in the womb!
and so stars appeared,
for we feared darkness...
forgetting darkness our mother.
and we howled as wolves,
until there was fire.
yet the flesh we cooked
was our own...
darkness wept, and created dawn.
and the tribes of man rebelled
against the scent of the mother...
and civilization was born.
and men created distance,
between themselves,
between themselves and god.
so man created progress,
fueled by conceptual learning...
and so fed his fears,
and the distance widened!
so men created images of god,
faces cold and wrathful!
and men killed each other,
being drunk with blood.
and men raped the earth,
as savage beasts,
without the heart of animals.
prophets came and pointed the way,
men sold their words for profit!
unable to love, men learned to hate...
till the world aflame screamed, 'stop! '
and hunger became the way of the masses...
hunger for bread, and something more.
the great mother's tears fell like rain...
and the womb shuddered in silence.
till one by one, pilgrims extending hands,
formed a bridge, and lit a lantern.
and the children, born and yet unborn...
returned to the womb of darkness.
praying love and touching human faces,
aware of the presence that never left.
the sun set in glory on the cool dark night...
knowing dawn, as sure as the stars,
was coming! the howl of wolves,
the barking of dogs, the flap of wings...
suddenly silent with awe...
and connection!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Turned Back The Clock!
ethanol in his blood,
clear creek water eyes.
the air atop a mountain,
his spirit flies...
a child of the earth,
he names each tree.
fills the empty nest,
sets wild animals free.
dances naked in the firelight,
with shadows in the cave.
makes love on the ground,
no longer afraid.
gone back to himself,
primitive and unbound.
at one with the turning,
the scent, and the sound!
the howl and the moan
of wind searching rock.
le laid down his grasping,
and turned back the clock!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Could It Be The Wind? (For Dave)
is it then the wind,
that rattles the pane?
causing the candle to flicker,
the curtains to walk?
could it be the wind,
making shapes of shadow?
and that long shaking moan
you feel in your bones?
the wind that whispers
in voices almost remembered.
that tugs at the door
to your forbidden room?
that taste of blackness
from an empty cup?
could it be the wind,
or something more?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Fading Lady Night
Ive had desert visions
When the moon is shining bright
The end of the rainbow promise
Almost in my sight
Sat with my back against cold stone
Waiting for the morning light
And all the things Ive seen in dreams
Have kept me up all night
Always reaching to the sky
Soft hard stone
Im sitting here and thinking
Bout all the centuries its known
Got a feeling someones near
Listening to the east wind moan
You know theres no one here
But I just dont feel alone
Fading lady light
Always here with me
Singing your song in the wind at night
You know Ive never felt so free
Youre my reality
Dont you fade away from me
The wind it paints your face
As it stirs the shifting sand
Nightmare creatures closing in
They leave at your command
If only you were beside me now
Maybe I would understand
And I could leave my dreams for life
To live the dream we planned
(repeat chorus)
song performed by by Jefferson Starship
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On The Trail Of Pessoa
i've walked this road for so long,
that i know what silence tastes like.
i hear only the simple sounds,
or the simplicity of sound...
i no longer confuse shadows,
and i sleep with dogs.
owning nothing,
there's nothing i would kill
to purchase!
there are no footprints
in front of me,
i follow no one.
intimate encounters with strangers,
for we are all strangers,
even to ourselves.
perhaps a word or two,
or not...
we share the cup, and the fire.
i have long conversations with trees,
read intimate stories
written in branches and leaves...
sing lovesongs to small pools of water,
pick up the broken shell of the hatchling
with awe....
my eyes bow in reverence
in the presence of women...
small children come to me,
tell me stories about dreams.
we build kingdoms of sticks,
discarded by birds....
stray cats sit on my lap,
i learn the language of paw.
i listen to the wind
humming in the spider's web.
and dead things rest
by the side of my chair...
waiting for dawn, just waiting!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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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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Written On The Walls
One the night the darkness fell
Across the naked land
A demon force was summoned up
From the bowels of hell
The stench of death grew thick that night
We knew it was the end
We run to find a place to hid
The land was raped and bare
The wind it blows a eerie cold
A fog that never lifts
Their tears will flood the land tonight
And the thunder's drowned by screams
As I lay here
Freezing veins of ice
What will be for me
What will be the price
Is it what they say
Is it written on the walls
Why can't we stop
This shattered worlds' fate
Why didn't we try at all
Armageddon town life is gone
We knew it was the way
Written down so long ago
I'mplanted in our minds
Our fathers told us of this hell
They read it on the walls
It's written on the walls
It's written on the walls
The frightened children know not why
And no one will explain
We've brought it all upon ourselves
An ending to this world
Forgiveness for your soul you pray
But it's written on the walls
song performed by by Iced Earth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Catching The Night
It’s a low lingering moan persisting through the night outside these walls
An ode to the memory of bones – the mortal lease on life – tuned to the limitless time.
It moves its chorus through the air just now, chilling and thrilling, shaking the moon drenched limb,
Swaying the grass with graceful hum and then falling with the quiet of the dark.
It’s the song of a lonely shadow in the trees churning just in sight
Sweeping and crooning just inside the dim light
Calling for eyes that can see its ballad sifting down through the leaves
And it’s heard and it’s seen as it drones its willow branch dream.
There it has been, lofty and endless as the wind,
Its eerie eyes cast down, barely catching the dim light
Its sounds speaking its loss without end,
That low lingering moan traversing through the night
Telling the story of time, the lost friend,
And giving heart to the memory of life