The Broom In My Hands
we walk the edge of suicidal silence,
sweeping shadows beneath curtains
with brooms made of straw.
while somewhere soupbones
boil in the pot,
and the sound of coffee making
startles children's trains on tiny tracks..
the heroin news grates against the mind,
and dogs wait in silent anticipation.
Jesus dies again, a matinee,
the Bill Of Rights stutters
neath a thin layer of dirt.
travelling shoe salesmen grope lady's legs,
and old men on park benches
peer over bifocals.
the woman ironing, in her bra and panties,
quietly curses, with trembling hands!
bare chested men split wood in the sun,
while boys tinker on cars with oily hearts.
the soldier returned home to no home,
hangs himself from the rafters.
a picture of his baby boy,
falls from his pockets.
crows gather on a wooden fence rail,
the young woman lights a crack pipe,
staring at naked walls.
while dead bodies march in lines that rhyme,
with buildings left empty,
and mailboxes spilling over.
the soft silk of the thigh,
and the lip turned up...
names whispered and lost,
small rooms speak of distance.
be it love, be it madness,
the clock falls from the wall.
and nothing feels real....
except the broom in my hands!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Walk The Path In Stillness
walking barefoot...
down alleys dark,
while children play
with garbage and broken glass.
past unlocked doors,
through buildings spent,
left for ghosts and tribal memories.
past walls charred by sweat and time,
left to smolder with empty ache....
to the time before the time before,
when living had a name.
under war torn skies,
over bodies strewn,
and left for birds of prey.
down dusty roads,
holding a child's dark hands,
in shadows anguished pain.
the skies aflame,
as if stars died, and every veil is rent.
to the sound of freedom's hungered drums,
and shadowed wings beating fury.
to the barren room,
the mattress on the floor,
frost upon the pane.
where lovers turned upon the spit,
with bodies made of water.
eyes wide open, living thrust,
tongues tracing maps to destiny.
the hardened cock,
buried in soul's wet lips,
while angels silently prayed.
and the candle burned
till the break of dawn,
and moonlight's final kiss...
the barren room of the empty house,
where eternity revealed!
the field once plowed
has now turned brown...
sparrows pick at the dust.
and scriptures written
in hickory rust,
whispers lost to sound!
battles fought, and flags laid down,
cover caskets that wait for dirt.
the little girl's shoe, the old washtub,
the broken pot beneath the window.
while dogs bark, and ants converse,
and hearts are covered with snow.
the faces of god fade into wood,
stacked and thrown into the fire.
be it dream, be it madness,
or the simple turning of the wheel...
the wind turns with a final kiss,
bare feet walk the path in stillness!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Courtroom Is Empty
the courtroom is empty,
the gavel untouched.
no hands on the book,
no jury of twelve.
(and the hands of the clock
have stopped!)
small children killed, tossed in the trash,
women abused, old people hungry, alone.
young girls sold into slavery
young boys sold into war
homeless ghosts walk the halls,
without hope in man or God.
and there's no sound, no feeling,
not even a breath of air
(and the hands of the clock
have stopped!)
an American tragedy,
or just human tragedy.
justice bought and sold,
afforded by just the few.
the wheels of Wall Street turn,
politicians barter with lives.
drinking the blood of the babies
that will never be born!
the takers keep taking,
and the honest man falls
to die nameless in the ditch,
covered by ashes and dust.
and there's no sound, no feeling,
not even a breath of air.
(the hands of the clock
have stopped!)
the courtroom is empty
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Dont Even Know Their Names!
his spirit left his body,
and walked through the hells.
a firm voice spoke:
'keep your eyes open,
look, and see! '
he saw dark skinned children,
their bodies frail and thin,
their features carved with hunger.
he saw women and children,
running from the bombs,
young men gunned down,
in the streets.
he saw the homeless family,
sleeping in a beaten old car,
hoping no one would come
to make them move.
he saw the young addict shaking,
the young woman helpless,
her baby crying in the bare apartment.
he saw the young man sent to prison,
trying to hide his fear,
a fear so strong they
could smell it on him!
he saw the woman who'd been beaten,
the man jobless and angry.
he saw millions of Native Americans,
slaughtered, and left for the crows.
he saw the old couple hungry,
in their apartment with no lights,
and no heat in the dead of winter...
'i cant take it any more,
what has this got to do with me?
i dont even know their names! '
'their names are anybody, and everybody...
they are why you must return.
they are your children, your
brothers and sisters, your father
and your mother...
they are your responsibility!
you must return to finish the work! '
poem by Eric Cockrell
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We Gather.....
i go to the place
where dead people pray...
i walk the stark streets,
struck dumb by poverty's tongue.
i follow voices into alleys
clothed in broken glass.
i lick the scars off buildings
where rats gather to dance.
ghosts never chant, 'i am black, i am white'...
they moan and simmer with calloused hands.
there are no heroes, no martys, no priests...
only the small boy in the doorstep,
with a broken kite.
who are we, who are we?
the sweat stained pelvis thrusts.
while armies gather to feed the crows.
and gods shatter into pulse and need,
orphans walk the womb lost without sight.
the heroin needle, the nuclear strike,
at the crossroads of hell,
just past the end of time.
we gather neath oil rigs
and lift unholy hands...
eating the flesh of our children,
in the name of god!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Wait til I Get You Home
You never cease to amaze me
You can still make me crazy
Baby you can turn me on
With just your eyes
Youre just so darn appealing
You stir up sexy feelings
Every man in the room
Would like to try you on for size
Chorus:
Wait til I get you home
Wait til I get you alone
Wait til I get my hands on you
Wait til I get you home sweet baby
Wait til I get you home
Oh baby you still make me
Feel feelins that can take me
To places where Ive never been before
Well honey Ive got a feelin
Well make some shadows on the ceilin
Tonight by candlelight behind closed doors
Chorus:
Wait til I get you home
Wait til I get you alone
Wait til I get my hands on you
Wait til I get you home sweet baby
Wait til I get you home
Your lovin gets better
Each time were together
Its always exciting and new
Each time we discover
Were still like young lovers
Its always been magic with you
Baby wait til I get you home
You just wait til I get you alone
Wait til I get my hands on you
Wait til I get you home sweet baby
Wait til I get you home
Wait til I get you alone
Wait til I get my hands on you
Wait til I get you home sweet baby
Wait til I get you home sweet darlin
Wait til I get you home
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wait 'Til I Get You Home (feat. Mac Davis)
You never cease to amaze me
You can still make me crazy
Baby you can turn me on
With just your eyes
You're just so darn appealing
You stir up sexy feelings
Every man in the room
Would like to try you on for size
Chorus:
Wait 'til i get you home
Wait 'til i get you alone
Wait 'til i get my hands on you
Wait 'til i get you home sweet baby
Wait 'til i get you home
Oh baby you still make me
Feel feelin's that can take me
To places where i've never been before
Well honey i've got a feelin'
We'll make some shadows on the ceilin'
Tonight by candlelight behind closed doors
Chorus:
Wait 'til i get you home
Wait 'til i get you alone
Wait 'til i get my hands on you
Wait 'til i get you home sweet baby
Wait 'til i get you home
Your lovin' gets better
Each time we're together
It's always exciting and new
Each time we discover
We're still like young lovers
It's always been magic with you
Baby wait 'til i get you home
You just wait 'til i get you alone
Wait 'til i get my hands on you
Wait 'til i get you home sweet baby
Wait 'til i get you home
Wait 'til i get you alone
Wait 'til i get my hands on you
Wait 'til i get you home sweet baby
Wait 'til i get you home sweet darlin'
Wait 'til i get you home
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hammer Purged By Rust (Part Two)
the railed fence broken,
buildings stink with shock,
the sky falls with shattered force.
young boys with brass boners
chase burning limbs,
lips too numb to talk.
in uniforms of pretense,
that hide all remnants of fear.
drilled to perform without conscious thoughts,
their mothers prayers denied.
to the kingdoms of the poor,
unleashing the vultures of greed.
striking dead any man who dares to stand,
burying the children on trash covered streets.
to banish thought, to blacken hope,
to sever hands that join!
walls built of bones,
young mothers fight back with stones,
the match of judgement struck.
wave upon wave, led by dogs and owls,
sacrificed in sacred mud!
and the gods of eternity
beat the drums of fate.
the ghosts of compassion,
just outside the doors of hate.
truth hangs in the balance,
the covers are removed.
only the man who dares to be man
will survive the coming flood!
and hand in hand left naked
will build a garden in the ruins.
when light reveals the heart that feels,
and the skulls rise and speak...
children drenched in ash and oil,
warm by fires that stroke the night.
when nothing sleeps with nothing,
and the skies weep with stars!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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Salvation
how many Jesus's does it take?
rock n roll Jesus, civil rights Jesus,
sexual Jesus, Baptist Jesus,
Pentecostal snake Jesus...
heroin Jesus, small town family Jesus,
necklace Jesus, tattoo Jesus,
illegal immigrant Jesus...
Jesus on the cross in a drunk tank Jesus,
Marlboro Jesus, county fair Jesus,
pray for Armagadden Jesus...
or just a man,
living one day, one moment,
one bare naked dirty human need
at a time...
with open hands, open heart,
and open mind!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Snowball
My baby took our love
And then she rolled it up
Rolled it up a hill
Like a ball of snow
Like a snowball grows
Until it gets too big
Until she lost control
And it rolled back down
And it rolled back down
And it rolled back down
And it rolled back down
She took a tiny bit
And rolled it up again
Slower than before
She went a step too far
She had to let it go
I saw it go straight down
My baby turned around
Started up again
Started up again
Started up again
Started up again
Eyes were made for looking
Hands were made for holdin
Hearts were made for lovin
Lips were made for kissin
Legs were made for walkin
Tracks were made to follow
Thats what Im gonna do
Two tracks
In the snow
Two tracks
Up that hill
My heart broke
When my baby left
Two tracks behind
song performed by by Devo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Making Connections
Tendrils grappling in air
Making connections be
It the wind or something else
Out there
Just to hold on to what when
Thin green sword-like palm
Hawaiian leaves stretching to the
Blue skies and sun
Making connections to whatever
Is who knows what slices thin some
Spaces in between light and dark
Some shadows playing like small
Children in the night park playground
Anything to touch life
Yawning to what-is if-this-could-happen
Then what?
Powered Rockets bulleting to space stabbing
& Lots of jet nozzles buzzing to
Vast dark silence clean cutting lines
Colored smoke curving with light
Making connections to planetary skies
Moon, Venus, Jupiter
On to Pluto to Zeus what if
One baby-finger touching fine fish
Fins swimming in ocean-space out-there
Making connections in between haze & fog
What if it is there that which lies next to this
Next to us from far and they can be then near
We are all tendrils rockets baby fingers space ocean fish fins
Making connections this empty hands loosened fingers
Dripping sands and spilling fine touches to wind chimes
Pointing stretching making fingers in between
A short distance making always always
Connections to what if what if I am there too.
Chances are, you chase and find them, footprints
They were once, and they all left, just seconds away.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Discontent
Late at night
our trains pass through broad meadows.
We grip controls, heavy, uncertain, anxious
about schedules,
about stalled cars on tracks,
about small children darting through the night,
small children who dare steel wheels and blinding lights
who dare death at our trembling hands;
we guide our trains
probing the night
along the measured way,
discontent,
without incident.
poem by Steven Federle
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The Hands Of Time!
the hands of a small child,
shaping sand on the beach.
the flutter of wings,
a sparrow's first flight.
seeds planted by hand
in the fresh plowed ground.
the light teasing shadows,
late afternoon to night.
the war hero's silence,
his eyes grown hard.
the family burying the child,
the mother cannot weep.
the hungry stare
of poverty's stink.
the addict's hard edge,
bare rooms, bare walls.
the hanging tree,
and the lovers oak.
the bullet in the chamber,
and the open mission.
the church locked empty,
boxes to beds in the alley.
the old man who cant forgive
what the young boy did.
the hands of a small child...
the hands of time!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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christmas not far from the Holy land
A fleeting mental picture
Conjured up in young lad’s head
Of shopping malls and Christmas trees
Of warm kitchen and warm bed
anticipation of a great Christmas eve
Of family gathered round the Christmas tree
These pleasant thoughts give reality leave
for a moment he’s home, and again carefree
Harsh reality returns, pushes memories away
helmet is pulled down tight on his head
Near and around him his compatriots lay
Some frightened, some trembling... some dead
Hands shaking, teeth clenched, eyes wet with tears
Blankly staring, without seeing... carnage abounds
Aging by the second, yet still young in years
Will be haunted forever, by War’s savage sounds
On a cold mountainside, somewhere in Afghanistan
Young men are killing and in turn being slain
On Christmas, and not too far from the holy land
One must wonder 'dear God, what do we gain? '
When our boys are back... or their bodies returned home
Afghanistan will return to a country of yore
And Christmas’s will never be the same Christmas's
That our young men knew once before
poem by David Whalen
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Dark Southern Skies
faded sign falling down
from an abandoned mill
mailboxes full of
unopened bills
houses with no curtains
old cars up on blocks
all the stores are empty
all the doors are locked
dark southern skies
no one's home anymore
no one hears the cry
no one sweeps the floor
man without work
his woman turns away
dark southern skies
and there's no one left to pray...
empty crib gathers dust
a Bible by the bed
workboots in the corner
with this ring i thee wed
pictures on the wall
dont answer in the night
and empty still looks empty
in the morning light
dark southern skies
no one's home anymore
no one hears the cry
no one sweeps the floor
man without work
his woman turns away
dark southern skies
there's no one left to pray....
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Kitchen Poem
An Elegy for Tristan Tzara
In the hungry kitchen
The dog sings for its dinner.
The housewife is writing her poem
On top of the frigidaire
Something like this:
'Hear in the kitchen
The crows fly home
Into the red-robed trees
That walk across the sky.
Hear under the floor
The three fountains rising and
Trickling through the bridge
Into the sea of poems.'
In the kitchen the housemother
Pours soup for her thousand children
As her man eats his silence
And the dog swallows its poem.
In all. the kitchens of Europe
The radio shouts good news:
'Millions have had no accident today
All wars have come to an end
An honest politician
In another country
Wants to become a plumber
All men will be equal, next year
Volcano vomits ice-cream
A silent poem has been invented.'
In my holy kitchen
I draw the blinds of night
On the homes of sleep.
I hold the world in my palms.
Now that I am old
I can measure life with words.
There's a nightingale in my coffee.
My bread is buttered with memories.
Since the old woman died
I have two souls.
When I was small we had a lucky black cat.
We had a magic horse-shoe on the wall,
It was rusty and brought no luck
But fetched the fields into the kitchen
And made us not forget horses.
When you are old you make your own magic.
You speak oftener for the dead.
You move free in the wonderland of the past.
You invent a future on the other shore of death.
You must speak for the dead,
You are their rusty horse-shoe
In all the kitchens of the world,
Not the mug on the radio
But a thought rescued from the past.
(There was love in the thin soup
A bone some lentils and great love.
My mother's hands were clouds.
There was a bluebird in the gasjet
When she bathed us by the kitchen fire.
There will be no such soup again
Nor such transcendent poverty.
I have lost the treasure of poverty.
The old woman is dead and buried
In her wonderland of oblivion,
But lives in my kitchen poem
In this 'sentimental' aside.)
Now that I am an old man, I think in bed.
I think nothing. I think poems -
The metronome of sleeplessness and death,
The art of being deliberately alone and yet
A centre in the vortex of the world,
Feelings stretched drum-tight on the grid of thought
As your decaying flesh taut on its bones,
Sensations phantom ideas dreams, pinned bugs
On the living conveyor-belt of experience,
While in the poem you are everybody else,
Each poem merging into another construct,
All poems rationally absurd impermanent
------------------DADA------------ ------
There being no poem ever, no poet ever.
An old man in a kitchen, cooking words.
I am no poet I am
Lived by unfinishable poems,
The horse-shoe hammered
On the anvil of my brain.
I think nothing. The poems think me.
I do not often write them down,
Being a structuration of the unknowable
That dies upon the page,
My inward poems whispered for the dead
While the living bury the living
With foul political slogans.
An owl is hooting in my poem
Which sleep will end.
Good night, poet of life,
Be with me always.
I give you my kitchen poem,
Immortal TRISTAN.
poem by Francis Scarfe
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Woman is home
While the man stands,
His woman shall stand;
While the man falls,
His woman shall fall.
And when the woman falls,
Her home itself falls.
Home sans woman, no home.
03.02.2001, Pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Empty Hands
He rode in town on a white horse
With nothing in his hands
He came to gather his people
And take them to their promised land
When he came he knew there would be bloodshed
But still no violence made his plans
He came to fight in a battle
With no guns or money
But with his empty hands
With his empty hands
With his empty hands
With his empty hands
They said hey boy what you lookin'at
As they eyed his dreaded mane
He said my father has sent me
I've come back to reclaim
The children whose hearts
Were so whole and pure
Now it's you who'll die in pain
So they lynched the man
Who fooled the word
And all the children gathered
In his empty hands
In his empty hands
The children ..... empty hands
In his empty hands
With his empty hands
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
song performed by by Lenny Kravitz from Let Love Rule
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Smart Woman
Smart woman (in a real short skirt)
By: jimmy buffett, marshall chapman
1988
This song is about being in my 40's in the 80's. it seems i'm learing more than i'm forgetting.
-- spoken:
"so i told her, ooh you got money of your own? well, that gives me the urge to merge."
Bimbo limbo is where i've been
I know you know that it's wearing me thin
The times are changing, and it's about time
I'm rearrangin' all the guilt in my mind
Chorus:
I'm looking for a smart woman in a real short skirt
Smart woman who knows how to flirt
Smart woman got a mind of her own
Smart woman that'll take me home
Take me home
I'm not your macho kind of guy
But i can be so when i'm feeling shy
Hey, baby, where'd you get your good looks
Ooh, babe, i want to carry your books
Chorus:
I'm looking for a smart woman in a real short skirt
Smart woman who knows how to flirt
Smart woman got a mind of her own
Smart woman that'll take me home
Take me home
Beauty and brains (beauty and brains)
Best of both worlds (best of both worlds)
Think i can change (think i can change)
If you'll be my, be my, be my girl
Chorus:
I'm looking for a smart woman in a real short skirt
Smart woman who knows how to flirt
Smart woman got a mind of her own
Smart woman that'll take me home
Take me home
Chorus:
I'm looking for a smart woman in a real short skirt
Smart woman who knows how to flirt
Smart woman got a mind of her own
Smart woman better take me home
Take me home
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Please Come Home
It must have been about a 100 years
At least a hundred years
I wish you would just come back
Just come back home
The day we met feels like 100 years ago
And Im still waiting with my hand right by the telephone
Yeah maybe where you are you cannot make that call
Or you cant find the pen I know its not your fault
CHORUS
My friends think Im insane
Cause I've turned old and gray
And Im still waiting and I cannot be alone
Please come home (please come home)
I watch the clock hands tick my hours turn to days
And I cant fall asleep cause I don't want to miss that ring
I know that this year your car will park outside
But I can't put my arms around the girl who took my life
REPEAT CHORUS
Its been so long
Its been about 100 years
And a million dreams since the last time
Ive seen your pretty face I would do whatever it takes
I would wait another 100 years
And if that didnt work
Maybe Ill try and see what forever feels like
But until then and I know you hear me
And whatever your doing wherever you are please come home
That day we met feels like 100 years ago
And Im still waiting for you
Baby baby wont you please come home
Please come home
Wont you please come home
Please come home
Wont you please come home (Please come home)
song performed by by Uncle Kracker
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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