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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Fallen, Empty, And Broken
fallen soldier
fallen sky
fallen angel
from on high
fallen heartache
fallen soul
fallen man
losing control
empty bed
empty arms
empty dreams
empty heart
empty wallet
empty hands
cant take nothin'
from an empty man
broken promises
broken vows
broken spirit
wont allow
broken fences
broken lives
broken tomorrows
broken nights
fallen, empty, and broken
every road is the same
bent, bruised, and shaken
still numb from the pain
now you dont answer
when i call out your name
fallen, empty, and broken
walking in the rain...
fallen, empty, and broken...
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Simplest Of Things...
there is a rare beauty
in the simplest of things...
the door knob tarnished,
the book with the worn cover.
the hallelujah shout of the snail,
rain water standing in an old tire.
the lampshade covered with dust,
the iron sitting unattended.
the child's toy left on the floor,
the hand that always somehow fits.
the old woman's heavy breathing,
the coffee cup stained half empty.
the cry of young lovers from a distant window.
the dog's low growl at something unseen.
the tattered remnants of the robin's nest,
the broken eggshell clinging to grass.
the old hymn sung by the man working his garden...
the swing of the axe, the stacking of wood.
the spider clinging to the outhouse wall,
potatoes laid out in the cellar for winter.
the grave solitary three days after the funeral.
the cat cradled on the step while it rains.
the laughter of a love long in journey.
the cup of coffee shared with the transient stranger.
the prayer of the child, and the room gone dark....
words spoken from the heart with hands and feet.
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Lover, Come To Me!
lover, come to me!
i am the wind,
the sound, and the fury.
the small patches of fur,
left in the ditch.
the stained sheet,
the crack in the window.
i am the barking of dogs,
the song of cicadas...
i am the broken plow,
the hammer laid aside.
the bucket full of rainwater,
the tree bent by the storm.
i am the bodies of the innocents,
the nightmares of the guilty...
the stink of blood
dried by the sun...
the wagonload of melons,
the tornado swept roof.
i am the small shop,
where things are built by hand.
lover, come to me!
the oceans rage...
mountains are shaken,
the night has no end.
the sweat of desire,
covers my nakedness.
i am invisible.
i am the ghost
whose body you feel!
i am the madness
that your stillness defines...
lover, come to me!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
What If God......
what if god is a dog,
or a fallen leaf?
the pebble that bruised your foot,
dust on the windowpane.
that old milk cow,
the stall that needs cleaned.
the plow caked with dirt,
the bag of seeds.
the fallen tree,
or the gust of wind.
rainwater in a barrel,
the pile of trash in the alley.
the river rising,
the eyes of the owl.
the upside down bat,
the darkness of the cave.
moonlight sifting through branches,
the leader of the ants.
the word the hand speaks,
when it brushes away tears.
the hatred of the ignorant
that weeps when no one sees.
a cup of coffee,
or a bowl of rice.
the smell of failure,
asking for forgiveness.
the baby bird that fell,
the nest left empty.
the child born,
that no one wants.
the disease that kills,
snow on the ground.
the old bridge that shakes,
the lantern waiting to be lit.
the last page of the book,
that no one reads!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Can You... I Can!
can you hear the murmur
of the empty vase?
the moan of the cupboard bare?
can you feel the coldness
of the empty room?
the heartbeat of the chair?
the hammer cast aside?
can you touch the tremble
of the mailbox full?
of the grass wild and haggard?
can you smell the absence?
the memory, and the grain?
can you light the match?
can you taste your breath?
can you shovel the dirt,
head bent with prayer?
can you lay down the box,
and cut the strings?
can you... i can!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Animal Eyes Staring
we have become hunger,
animal eyes staring,
waiting on movement.
there are shadows that talk,
and those that have nothing to say,
when time itself becomes an enemy.
do we walk on water,
do we dive and swim?
or do we drown with hesitation?
when illusions become empty plates,
filling stained cups with nothingness.
there's always another door,
another path yet untrodden.
and there are small victories
in footprints in fresh fallen snow.
for now we watch the cat,
and pray for those in the news.
following the trail of the ants,
to the edge of the spider's web!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Eternity Then..... (One Small Flicker)
eternity then,
one small flicker of the flame,
a comma in the book of life,
the point where roads meet,
and diverge...
a tiny shard of broken glass,
a dropp of sweat on the back of a worker,
ejaculation, and echo...
each vein of the leaf turning,
a stray dog's turd.
the creak of the wheel that needs geased,
the sound between the gunshot
and the thud of the body.
the moment just after the body is covered.
the whisper of an empty plate,
the marching order of the ants.
the silence when your lover walks out the door.
the color of the bent nail,
the wrinkle on the pillow.
the shout for peace no one hears,
the rattle of justice breaking chains.
the flap of wings when the bird lifts off.
the groan of the mountain stripped.
the funeral dirge of oil stricken fishes.
the turn of the key in the lock.
the sound of god's footsteps,
the mourning cry of the empty room.
the brush of hands when the spirit shudders,
the tremble of lips forgotten.
the collision of ending and beginning,
but a moment, memory, and dust!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Buddha Thoughts (Hands On The Clock)
the old woman
shot and killed
the boy that broke in
and tried to rob her...
she sat staring into space
while the policemen
did their job...
suddenly she began to weep...
they tried to comfort her,
but she just wept harder.
they told her it was over,
that she was all right.
she finally spoke in a broken voice:
'i was thinking about my son...'
'where is he? we'll get him
for you, bring him to you...'
'he's in prison... he got messed up
on pills... ran out, and robbed a store...
he killed the woman behind the counter.'
frozen in deathlike silence,
one by one, they looked down.
they loaded the body into the wagon,
her old cat ran from the porch...
an empty swing hung from a gnarled old tree...
a small trail of blood,
and there was no wind!
her old Bible unopened...
the hands on the clock kept crawling.
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
If You Need Scriptures....
if you need scriptures,
read the scriptures written
on the walls of your soul!
read the scriptures written
in trees, in rocks, in rivers.
read the scriptures written
in the broken alley.
in the homeless man's eyes,
in the addict's desperation,
in the shuffle of jobless feet.
in the cry of the newborn baby,
in the lovers moan of fulfillment,
the scriptures written
in the sweet darkness of night,
in the jail cell,
in the picket line,
in the monk who sets himself
on fire for freedom and justice,
in all the colors of equality...
in the hungry child's hand reaching out...
read them, know them, be them!
life testifies to the living!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I'm Not That Old Yet!
i'm not that old yet,
dont cast me aside...
like a shovel with a broken handle,
of no use anymore.
i'm not that old yet,
the embers still glow.
with a little tender care,
there's a fire beneath!
i'm not that old yet,
my hands still fit the plow.
my back is still strong,
my eyes still twinkle.
i'm not that old yet,
to be forgotten in a chair.
i still need a woman,
a lover, and a friend!
i'm not that old yet!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Wetness....
when the shells are spent,
and the bodies lay quiet.
when the ravens full,
lumber in stillness.
when the spider's web is full,
the felled tree rotted.
when ants stagger in drunken delirium.
when the cat's claw is broken,
the window painted over.
and the name of the logs
forgotten by fire...
all that's left, all that remains,
the trail and the scent of the wetness
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Monastery
Up the long flight of stairs
every tread echoes from stone walls
as if to comment on how stillness
tells of sound its silent origin.
In the quiet library, the central table
bears a careful written message:
‘Silence is spoken here’..
and that’s truer than
at first it seems to read;
round the walls, shelves of books
as silent as the monks
standing upright in their stalls
witness words that seek to share;
yet ultimately, wave fare well, turn back;
speak of silence sought and silence found;
yet cannot speak of silence;
in the name of silence, take a book,
well-worn, from off the shelf;
meet it in the silence of the room,
read a few words, and lay it down;
glance at the other readers round the room;
fall still.
Here, silence speaks of stillness;
stillness joys in silence.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Wait For The Bus!
you can read the grain
of timeworn faces,
much as the grain of the ancient oak.
and rivers exist somewhere,
behind tired eyes, universes beneath dirty nails.
no one gives much of a damn for old men,
that's why there are benches, stoops,
and worn out old chairs.
perhaps god is knitting, or discovering
another Einstein....
and just doesnt have time to collect the lost!
while women bury their dreams in flower pots,
and the young burn clocks to the moon.
dogs piss on blades of unmarked grass,
giving names to faces unseen.
as old men with erections and scars,
translate the forbidden tongues.
seeing the naked light inside shadows,
they fart scriptures, and wait for the bus!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Tinged With Oil
sunlight dancing
on a puddle of rainwater
tinged with oil....
empty cars locked,
rusting in the warmth.
empty bottles, cigarette butts,
and ghosts walking quickly,
going nowhere, leaving a trail
of nothing behind.
stray dogs, beat down stop signs,
people afraid to touch,
much less to feel...
sunlight dancing
on a puddle of rainwater
tinged with oil....
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
My Temple
do not speak of god,
of the father, or the mother...
nor the creator...
i do not dwell in temples,
creeds, or written scriptures.
i am formless, taking forms,
i am infinite, becoming particle.
i am clay and grass,
stone and wood...
i am flesh and semen,
and intimate eyes!
i am hungry, will you share?
i have no home or bed,
may i sleep with you?
i am lonely, will you speak with me?
i listen, will you listen too?
i am star and cosmos,
a simple dropp of rain.
i am the growl of thunder,
the sudden flash of lightning.
i am the bridge, will you walk me?
i am the lantern, waiting for the match.
i am the woman giving birth,
i am awe and wonder.
i am the language of silence,
the dirty hand extended.
i am truth, never settling...
i am the ache of the soul,
the tremble of the heart.
i am the sparrow's wings,
leaving the nest you cling to.
yet i am the straw that made the nest!
i am life unrestrained, i am death quite naked!
i am the sound you make,
when words will not do.
i am nameless, giving names,
i am thought set free.
i am compassion evolving,
my temple is you!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Am... (Tongue)
i am...
the tongue that sleeps inside the mouth.
the erection that falls on darkened alone.
the crack of thunder over distant hills.
the simple prayer of a child in need.
the whore, the thief, and the addict.
the liar who leads running from himself.
the young girl sold in the cattle stalls.
the shot fired before guilt could breathe.
the hammer, the nails, and hands that know.
the woman giving birth, her screams, her desire.
the fallen priest, and the migrant worker.
the truck loaded with a lifetime's ghosts.
the father, the mother, and the empty house.
the well run dry, the roof that leaks.
the willow tree, and the mockingbird.
the citizens killed by the armed squad.
the activist buried without a word.
the woman strong, the man bent and broken.
the tears of an unknown god
falling on the earth scorched and smoking!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Broken Glass
broken glass,
autumn chill,
the spoon tarnished...
with time.
an old lid turned up,
half filled, half empty,
wearing a spider's web,
and time earned rust.
a dog barks, a truck
goes by....
an old mattress
on the bed...
a baby's born
in a rundown trailer,
an old woman dies
alone in her chair.
life turns, the hands
of the clock sharp....
cut the fingers
at the touch....
the untamed heart,
on the unknown path,
fallen leaves left
by the door!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Scars (On The Face)
ecstasy...
the window broken
by moonlight.
the bastard star,
that licks the wound.
the fire that burns flesh,
and opens the casket.
the hammer
that breaks the shell.
love sap spilled
on a forbidden book.
the history of mankind,
written in charcoal.
the tears of the prisoner,
set free, drunk on freedom.
the garlic lips,
that tempt the hunger.
the hunger's howl,
and the silence of the wolf.
the lover's tongue
on the beating heart.
smoke rising from the fire...
scars on the face of the wind!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!