The Great Empty
closed!
out of business!
building for rent,
or sale!
22 vacant buildings on one street!
small-town America.
even the sidewalks are deserted...
except for paper cups,
and cigarette butts blowing
in the breeze...
empty windows,
boarded up doors....
the echo of voices
from the past,
from another day...
lost to the great empty!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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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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Small Town U.S.A
Pizza parlors,
muffler shops
7 Elevens
and I-hops
Boarded windows,
shuttered stores
Cracked windows,
unlocked doors
Dry cleaners,
Laundromats
Empty motels
Vacant flats
One street towns
No traffic lights
No city sounds
Few family fights
Friendly dogs
Friendlier people
Highest thing
Grey slate steeple
Houses with porches
rustic family farm
Weather vanes on roofs
Old American charm
Grain silos
Rusty water tower
Windmills
Water power
Sincere supplication
Sunday school prayer
Organ music, seeping out
Rising into clover scented air
Small town America
Barns and bales of hay
People still say “Good Morning”…in
…Small town U.S.A…
poem by David Whalen
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Small Town America
just an old southern
mill village.... cotton mills
on one side of the road,
furniture factories on the other.
momma worked there,
my sister worked there,
my brother worked there,
and i worked there....
$1.90 an hour, loading trucks
by hand, stacking rolls of cloth
eight feet high without a lift...
putting brackets on beds, or
running bandsaws....
hard hand work, paid every week.
all those buildings empty now....
windows boarded over, signs
falling.... rats run across haunted floors.
even the old gas station
down at the end of the road....
is closed.... no more gas,
no cigarettes, no cold beer.....
and the Sons Of Jesus,
and the Elk's Club quit sharing
the old dance building on the corner....
no one lives here anymore.....
no one lives, no one dies....
and the bum on the corner
that looks like your brother
has no name.... in
small town America!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Vacancy, For Rent
walking the streets
of a small southern town...
empty buildings, empty houses,
'vacancy, for rent'
no one moving much,
even the church parking lots
are empty.... seems like
Jesus and His disciples
packed up, and moved on...
probably looking for work!
only a sense of quiet despair,
the sound of old cars rusting,
and the howling of a dog.
just read the news:
an elderly couple, married
67 years, murder suicide...
he'd been sick, she had
alzheimer's.... afraid there'd
be no one to take care of her...
another unmarked grave,
forgotten people, abandoned
by their own government.....
another empty house that
used to be a home...
'vacancy, for rent.'
just walking the streets
of a small southern town...
church bells are ringing...
and the smell of death
hangs in the air!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Then There Was You!
clouds hanging, frozen still,
banging the tool shed door.
sunlight colors the morning
with a hundred things to do.
cars speed by going nowhere,
the railroad tracks are empty.
the old store building creaks,
the windows boarded over.
the ghosts of small town heroes
going to and fro unseen.
a different world, a different me,
and then there was you!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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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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Our Small Town
Love going for walks around town
A small town a holler from the big city
The many old building lining the main street
Which by the way isn't main street that's a block away
From the small library to the high school a jot to get to
The sidewalks resemble the old boardwalks from yesteryear
The shops vary as the street winds to the highway
The country air blows thru the street full of manure
Good ole air, they say around here
The small diner with the local farmers dwell at
Talking of this year's events from farming to politics
The ladies at the sew shop talking gossip
It's amazing how time don't change as years pass
Every year the town picnic to the 4th July jamboree
To the harvest dance and everything in between
Small town people living the old time ways
Wishing every town was as good as it
Walking thru saying hey to neighbors all around
Can make everyday a good day
Seeing people in the park enjoying the kids play
The banner welcoming you to our small town
Small town America, loving it, living it
poem by Michael Peterson
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Fogging Up The Windows
the sound of a small child crying
hungry in the night
of a young woman sleepless
waiting for daylight
the sound of church bells ringing
not too far away
the sound of an old man dying
remembering how to pray
the sound of two hearts breaking
a thousand miles apart
of the last tear a fallin'
unseen in the dark
the sound of lifetimes wasted
of a love that didnt last
the sound of memories forgotten
of a time already past
can you hear?
can you hear?
a lone tree a fallin'
a hoot owl callin'
life and death, a lover's breath
fogging up the windows
of an empty room...
fogging up the windows
of an empty room...
the sound of the nails driven
into His screaming hands
the sound of salvation
entrusted to a man
the sound of bodies falling
of buildings swept by flame
the sound of different voices
whose souls are the same
can you hear?
can you hear?
a lone tree a fallin'
a hoot owl callin'
life and death, a lover's breath
fogging up the windows
of an empty room...
fogging up the windows
of an empty room....
poem by Eric Cockrell
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America
Let us be lovers, we'll marry our fortunes together"
"I've got some real estate here in my bag"
So we bought a pack of cigarettes and Mrs. Wagner pies
And we walked off to look for America
"Kathy" I said as we boarded a Greyhound in Pittsburgh
"Michigan seems like a dream to me now"
It took me four days to hitchhike from Saginaw
I've gone to look for America
Laughing on the bus, Playing games with the faces
She said the man in the gabardine suit was a spy
I said "Be careful, his bowtie is really a camera"
"Toss me a cigarette, I think there's one in my raincoat"
"We smoked the last one an hour ago"
So I looked at the scenery, she read her magazine
And the moon rose over an open field
"Kathy, I'm lost" I said, though I knew she was sleeping
I'm empty and aching and I don't know why
Counting the cars on the New Jersey turnpike
They've all gone to look for America
All gone to look for America, All gone to look for America
song performed by by Simon & Garfunkel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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America
Let us be lovers well marry our fortunes together
Ive got some real estate here in my bag
So we bought a pack of cigarettes and mrs. wagner pies
And we walked off to look for america
Kathy, I said as we boarded a greyhound in pittsburgh
Michigan seems like a dream to me now
It took me four days to hitchhike from saginaw
Ive gone to look for america
Laughing on the bus
Playing games with the faces
She said the man in the gabardine suit was a spy
I said be careful his bowtie is really a camera
Toss me a cigarette, I think theres one in my raincoat
We smoked the last one an hour ago
So I looked at the scenery, she read her magazine
And the moon rose over an open field
Kathy, Im lost, I said, though I knew she was sleeping
Im empty and aching and I dont know why
Counting the cars on the new jersey turnpike
Theyve all gone to look for america
All gone to look for america
All gone to look for america
song performed by by Paul Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Can't breathe
They stifle me,
those tall, tenement buildings
with their walkways, enticing crime,
luring thugs with knives
to wander up, unhindered,
along stone staircases that lead to
institutionalised front doors
of greens or dull blues.
Don't go inside,
don't look behind those doors
where kitchens overflow
with last nights cups and plates
and bits of stew and fag ash.
Where carpets stick to shoes
and cigarette butts lie, dead,
along the dust ridden edges.
There are no excuses,
who can we blame, who?
Not the council workers, no.
Not the occupants,
they're deprived, they're needy.
Not the rich or middle classes,
they off load the blame
but I can't breathe, I can't breathe.
poem by Ruth Walters
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My Dark Dreams
I'm in the dark
And I'm lost
In my mind, screaming
Through the empty
Space, filled with no light
All I hear is my echo
I listen and hear the echo
Of silent breaking through the dark
Nothingness that consumes any light
That I don't see, in this lost
Place of empty
Dreaming, in which I scream
Soon as it stops, the screaming
High painful cry, and the echo
Fades, leaving me again in the empty
Hallow thoughts of my dark
Sleep, and wander through my mind lost
Of what I had, it was my light
What I had was like a warm light
That held me from the bitter screaming
Of the cold, it found me when I was lost
It covered me like a blanket, and echoed
Through my soul, with it I was never in the dark
And never left empty
Now, in my sleep, I am empty
The warm blanket of hte light
No longer holds me, but exposes me to the dark
And painful piercing screams
Of my own voice echoing
In my nightmares of what I've lost
I am lost
In the emptiness
Of my own pain, that echoes
Through me, and all I want again is the light
For it I scream
In my dreams, but all I get in the dark
I dream of the dark and I'm lost
My screaming is only heard by the empty
Space in my mind, where light shined, but there is only echo.
poem by Nicole Hiebing
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A Call For A Creative Home
A derelict building stands
Windows boarded, gardens overgrown
A gate firmly locked
Keeps the world at distance
Turning the building into a tomb
Of wasted potential
Artists gather looking for a place
A home to share their craft
That they may entertain the world
Spread the love of their art
They are met with stony walls
And the locked gates of a tomb
Those who can make the difference
The holders of the keys
Sit in their well lit, warm offices
Dipping biscuits into cups of tea
Seemingly unready to listen
Or just make a decision
A derelict building stands
Gate locked, windows boarded
The artists gather looking for space
They ask for a helping hand
But those who could help
Sit silently in their offices
Dipping biscuits into tea
poem by Matthew Holloway
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They Spoke To Me Of God....
they spoke to me of god,
and small things burning on piles of leaves.
while cast aside nests lay weeping,
in silent tribute to forgotten paths.
empty cages with doors flung open,
cigarette butts on temple floors.
footprints from nowhere to nothing,
canned thoughts on dusty shelves.
it's easy to say peace will come,
not so easy to take the arms.
while crippled poets walk past burning huts,
and aircraft carriers meditate on troubled waters.
children's faces drift through dreamless sleep,
bodies gathered by passing squirrels.
yes, they spoke to me of god...
as if they really knew!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Howling
the pregnant lion, the burning bush,
the hammered flute, well gone dry.
without a prayer, the eagle falls
in blackened cinders to the earth.
the food stamp mom, her head down,
children stare with blank milky eyes.
there's another man down in the project,
news at five, news at five.
deserted smokestacks stare at an angry sky,
buildings filled with rats and ghosts.
abandoned cars, abandoned lives,
old gas pumps rusting in the wind....
and the wind blows and howls,
ripping shingles from empty houses, ...
breaking limbs from trees long dead;
drowning out the sound of children's voices....
slamming doors and breaking windows,
carryng the fated owl to the eaves.
blowing at my back like the fires of hell,
blowing in my face with the freedom of loss.
the pregnant lion, the burning bush,
the hammered flute, well gone dry.
without a prayer, the eagle falls
in blackened cinders to the earth....
and no one hears....no one feels...
the lone wolf howling....
the spirits of death howling...
the eyes of God, ... howling!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Love For Sale
When the only sound in the empty street,
Is the heavy tread of the heavy feet
That belong to a lonesome cop
I open shop.
When the moon so long has been gazing down
On the wayward ways of this wayward town.
That her smile becomes a smirk,
I go to work.
Love for sale,
Appetising young love for sale.
Love thats fresh and still unspoiled,
Love thats only slightly soiled,
Love for sale.
Who will buy?
Who would like to sample my supply?
Whos prepared to pay the price,
For a trip to paradise?
Love for sale
Let the poets pipe of love
In their childish way,
I know every type of love
Better far than they.
If you want the thrill of love,
Ive been through the mill of love;
Old love, new love
Every love but true love
Love for sale.
Appetising young love for sale.
If you want to buy my wares.
Follow me and climb the stairs
Love for sale.
Love for sale.
song performed by by Ella Fitzgerald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This House Is Empty Now
(costello/bacharach)
These rooms play tricks upon you
Remember when they were always filled with laughter
But now theyre quite deserted
They seem to just echo voices raised in anger
Maybe you will see my face
Reflected there on the pane
In the window up above for long
In broken home
Yet this house is empty now
Theres nothing I can do
To make you want to stay
So tell me how am I supposed to live without you
These walls were lined with pictures
Remember the glass we charged in celebration
But now I fill my life up
With all that I can to deaden this sensation
Do you recognize the face
Fixed in that fine silver frame
Were you really so unhappy there
You never said
So this house is empty now
Theres nothing I can do to make you want to stay
So tell me how am I supposed to live without you
Oh, if I could just become forgetful
When night seems endless
Does the extinguished candle care
About the darkness
Its funny how the memory
Will bring you so close then make you disappear
Meanwhile all our friends must choose
Who they will favour, who they will lose
Hang the garland high, or close the door
Or throw away the key
This house is empty now
Theres no one living here
You have to care about
This house is empty now
Theres nothing I can do
To make you want to stay
So tell me how am I supposed to live without you
This house is empty now
This house is empty now
Theres nothing I can do
This house is empty now
This house is empty now
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ballad for the Forgotten Workers
down by the river, down on the street,
past the empty factory buildings,
smokestacks that no longer smoke.
past the run down tenements,
past the vacant store fronts.
to fires that dont burn, and...
...engines that dont stroke.
down the road, leaving the city behind,
there's miles and miles of fields,
stone silent and turning brown.
tractors rusting in the sun,
a bucket by the well...
old house lies empty, falling down.
the sea of hands lost forever;
red and white, brown, and black.
headstones in the parking lots,
but they're never coming back.
built your cities, built your country,
plowed your fields, fed your hungry.
thrown away in your quest for power...
but their names mark the hours!
(steel workers, no more steel!
teachers, no more books!
farmers in the food lines,
no carpenters, no cooks.
cotton mills moved to Asia,
we cant even make tables and chairs.
no time clocks and no paychecks, ...
... nobody really cares!)
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Love For Sale
Love for Sale
Billie Holiday, Cole Porter
When the only sound in the empty street,
Is the heavy tread of the heavy feet
That belong to a lonesome cop
I open shop.
When the moon so long has been gazing down
On the wayward ways of this wayward town.
That her smile becomes a smirk,
I go to work.
Love for sale,
Appetising young love for sale.
Love that's fresh and still unspoiled,
Love that's only slightly soiled,
Love for sale.
Who will buy?
Who would like to sample my supply?
Who's prepared to pay the price,
For a trip to paradise?
Love for sale
Let the poets pipe of love
in their childish way,
I know every type of love
Better far than they.
If you want the thrill of love,
I've been through the mill of love;
Old love, new love
Every love but true love
Love for sale.
song performed by by Simply Red
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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