The Things I've Lost
in the things i've lost i found god....
not in the things themselves,
but in the empty spaces left behind!
in moments given and forgotten,
in laughter that never took a name.
in the sound of breathing that is peaceful sleep,
in the tiny light of a single flame.
in random snowflakes that need not redemption,
in callouses that become the hand.
in stories shared with small children,
in the sky seen through a prison window.
in the dog curled against my feet,
in a meal shared with strangers.
in the beautiful eyes of the dying child,
in the touch of the old woman's hand.
in the sound of wings saying farewell to autumn,
in the crunch of frost covered grass.
in the anger of my enemy,
when we both sat down to talk.
in the stories old boots could tell,
and the dreams that eyes reveal.
in the hand in mine and the feet beside,
in the 'thank you' whispered over the grave.
in the silent conversation of old friends,
in the rose that bloomed out of season.
in the sacredness that stinks,
of human endeavor and holy compassion!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Click here to listen to Precious Moments
Precious Moments My child's first steps
As he falters along
Are forever recorded
In my precious song
My child's laughter
Is music to my ear
And never forgotten
No matter what the year
My child's tiny hand
Slipped into mine
So small and soft
As we both entwine
My child's sparkling eyes
So blue and bright
Reveal when he's happy
And things are just right
My child's warm hug,
And his gentle kiss too
Add to the precious moment,
When he says, "I love you!"
poem by Evelyn Hilpp Heslin
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The Hand
only the human hand,
the caring hand,
the hand covered in blood
and filth, the hand swollen
bruised, and beaten...
the open hand,
not a fist anymore hand,
not afraid to let go hand,
never letting go hand...
feed the baby, plow the field hand,
stroke the face of
the old woman dying hand...
light the fires, sweep the floors hand...
the praying hand, the picking hand,
the paint the soul hand...
only the human hand
can touch with the heart of God!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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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
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Hallelujah! I Am Yours!
i searched till i found beauty,
in the simplest things....
in the hand of a friend,
a leaf blown by the wind,
in a blind dog's eyes,
in the cat curled close.
in the baby just born,
the old man's dying smile...
in difference, and in sameness.
in the lover's body,
in hands calloused and hard,
in moonlit nights,
and quiet conversations.
in long silent walks,
the meal simply prepared,
in the mother and the child.
in the twinkle in the homeless man's eyes,
as we shared a cup of coffee.
in thunderstorms, mountains,
and gliding hawks,
in the snail, the spider, and the ants.
in the trees that whisper,
and the dawn that shouts...
'hallelujah! i am yours! '
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Magical Love
You sound like
The rush of an Angel's wings
Taking flight
When you speak
Or the twinkling of wind chimes
Off in the distant night air
Heard, but unseen
You are like
Morning dew
In the afternoon
Or random raindrops
In rare moments
On a soft and sunlit day
You feel like
The softest petal
On a newly bloomed rose
When you whisper
Against my ear
While my eyes are closed
You are the
Crash of the ocean
When its waves wash ashore
Or the still and the calm
Of a storm, just before
Your fingertips trail
Up my spine
Then down my thigh
Your lips never once
Leaving mine
Your touch feels
As light as a fallen feather
Drifting slowly
Toward the ground
All things seem magical
Your love is musical
What a beautiful sound
poem by Erika Wingo
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So Much To Live For
Sunrises gleaming with hope and sunsets calmly fading out of sight
Memories through pictures of wild crazy nights
Raindrops on the roof pitter patter like my bare feet on the wet ground
My baby running through the field her laughter is a glorious sound
The smell of a holiday meal cooking or fresh warm sheets on the bed
The pride I felt at graduation when my name they said
Shared embraces that were matched only by the fireworks I saw in his eyes
I’ve been from shore to shore, trust me when I say time flies
There are moments I’d recreate some tenfold
Laughter with my friends singing loudly and before we leave
I have a hand to hold
Kisses that were magical and rides that didn’t last long enough
The road is long and may not go your way I know that it is tough
But imagine all the things I’d have missed if I’d ended it when I had wished?
poem by Elizabeth Walker
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Winter Rose II A Love Story
As special as a rose of red, that bloomed despite the frost
Is the man for whom the red rose bloomed
Without one, the other was lost.
When first these two souls chanced to meet
The rose was just a bud,
The man was but a boy, a child,
Unsure of how to love.
But with the gentlest of trembling hands
He held the rose with care
And gazed in silent wonder
At the beauty he found there
For no matter how cold the winter winds
Nor dark the blackness of night
He had only to turn to the Winter Rose
And all the world seemed right
And although the rose no longer grows
In the presence of the man
Her everlasting love will be
Forever at his hand
For he has only but to close his eyes
And open his heart to see
That, in him, her loving light will shine
For all enernity
poem by Dolores Parsons
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I Am The Door!
i have no need of religious balm,
no need of doctrines or spurious cures.
i do not close my eyes when i sleep,
i do not falter, i do not follow.
the path i walk is mine alone,
the light i seek bears my name.
the burden i carry is mine by choice,
the cost of living is this life.
yet the freedom i long for must be shared,
the part feeds the whole, the hand the foot!
for there can be no justice if not for all,
and redemption the bridge that all must cross.
who am i if not you, you if not i?
the hunger i feel wears your face!
eternity comes and goes in moments shared,
if you be the heart, then i am the door!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Freedom 2
Once more, one fear surrounded me
Not knowing that has beaten me
The hot sun speaks louder
A cold pain has shut laughter
No where to run away
As if liberty has turned gray
People shout, clap and walk
People have no opponent to talk
One hope, one fear, one enemy
Many hearts, many thoughts, one enemy
One campus, one map, one road
Prison puts such heavy load
Feet by feet, hand in hand
People want freedom of their land
Oh, hunger of a free walk
Put my old enemy and me into talk
Put his hand in mine
We both shout out the same line
“Jail is bad even in heaven
All we want is freedom, freedom, freedom”
What he wants to do with his freedom I don’t know
But that is freedom on different ways we go.
poem by Kianush Maleki
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This Book!
small, tiny wondrous things,
all too easy to overlook.
moments of laughter shared,
soft conversations about nothing,
that were about everything!
meals cooked together and shared,
long walks on autumn evenings....
watching old movies and in the hero
finding the same path, the same journey,
the same mistakes, the same triumphs.
cutting wood and building a fire;
making love, and the moments after shared.
harsh words, and then forgiveness,
as easy as turning the page....
this book we've written together,
another chapter, another day!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Requiescit
I cannot tell his story. He was one
To whom the riddle of our human life
Was strangely put, and who, because of that
And that he could not read it, died. But a short hour
Before he passed, the woman who stood by,
Weeping as once she had wept to see him born,
Tired with her watching looked into his face
And saw the heavy eyelids dropping down
Loaded with sleep. And she, for all her tears,
Bent for the hundredth time to ease his bed.
And, as she almost touched him, smoothing out
The ruffled pillows, close into her ear
He whispered, never lifting up his eyes:
``No matter now. I shall be soon asleep.''
And then, as if he would pursue the thought
A little way as once he loved to do,
And yet too weak to catch it, he went on:
``And what a trouble it has been to keep
This pillow smooth! And in a little while
It will not want another touch; and then--
This aching head of mine will have done with thought.
Thought! Thought!'' But loud the aged woman sobbed,
``Poor soul, poor gentleman.'' So they remained
For a brief space, the goodwife standing there
Knotting her wrinkled hands and he hard by
Upon the bed and breathing heavily.
For he seemed sunk again in that dull trance
Through which men often pass away from life,
When death, as the lion does, has shaken his prey
And he lies numb and dumb and powerless.
She listened. He was telling slowly over
The names of those whom he had loved in youth.
Many were strange to her; and then there came
One she knew well. She started at the sound
She had not heard for years, and bending near
Heard him repeat it twice. She whispered hoarsely:
``Have you no word for her?''--yet stopped again
Because his eyes were open. Doubtingly
They wandered to her own and seemed to say
``Who, and what is it that you ask?'' And she
Spoke it again. He seemed to catch the name
And said it after her, but like a child
Which knows not what it speaks; and afterwards:
``Ah! Bridget, I have quite forgot that story,
And now, in half an hour, it is not long,
I shall have clean forgotten the name too.''
She cried, ``Oh Sir, it is a life too late.
Would God you had forgot it long ago!''
The tears stole slowly down her withered cheeks
And fell upon his hands. She did not move
While he went murmuring on: ``'Tis very well
Thus to forget. And what a wonder too
It now is''--and there came a sudden light
Into his eyes--``that one should ever care
To recollect a single day of life.
I used to think and plan and plot and scheme
How I might build my life in such a way
That I should take fine memories to my grave.
And now what a small matter 'tis to know
How the years went, when death in half an hour
Is all that is left of them! No matter now,
But only to sleep sound in any bed
And have no dreams.'' His eyes grew dim again
As he ceased speaking. And the woman knew
That he was dying. ``He is gone,'' she said.
And then she started muttering half aloud
``They cannot pass without the sacraments,
These gentle--folks.'' And so she hurried out.
The dying man smiled. When they came again,
She whispered in his ear, and looking down
Saw him still smiling; so she lit in haste
A candle by the bed and knelt aside.
They put the holy oils upon his hands,
Which closed upon the fingers of the priest.
The priest bent over him and laid his ear
To the half--open mouth and presently,
Thinking he heard some words, gave absolution.
But, when they would have gone on with the rest,
They found that he was dead. They buried him
With some small pomp to comfort the old dame,
Who said her master was a gentleman
And must be followed with a mourning coach
And mutes and weepers. There was no one else.
His name is cut upon a stone. His dreams
Were written on Time's hem; and Time has fled
And taken him and them. The grass is green
Upon his grave. I cannot doubt he sleeps.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Have I Told You...
Beautiful, are you, as the flowers of the field.
Beautiful, is the sound of your voice.
Beautiful, is the touch of your hand.
Beautiful, are the eyes that speak of love.
Beautiful, is your understanding and kindness.
Beautiful, is the way you always consider others.
Beautiful, are the courage of your convictions.
Beautiful, are the silent, countless words of, I love you.
Beautiful, is the softness of your touch.
Beautiful, are the children that you hold dear.
Beautiful, is your faith, honesty and loyalty.
Beautiful, are the people, you bless with your love.
Beautiful, are you secret acts of charity.
Beautiful, is the goodness, you give to all.
Beautiful, is the way your never judge anyone.
Beautiful, is your never dreaming...that you are indeed so beautiful.
Beautiful, is your heart...your very soul.
Beautiful, is the way you have made this a better world.
Beautiful, is the helping hand, you extend to all.
Have I told you, you are beautiful in every way?
Hand-Me-Down!
got my hand-me-down boots,
and my hand-me-down jeans.
my broke down hand-me-down hat,
doing hand-me-down things.
my hand-me-down fire,
and my hand-me-down pot.
take a hand-me-down chair,
i'll share what i've got.
got some hand-me-down thoughts,
a couple of hand-me-down songs.
i've got a hand-me-down heart
that wont leave you alone.
we'll talk about hand-me-down freedom,
and hand-me-down truth....
in this hand-me-down world,
it's just me and you!
in this hand-me-down world....
paying hand-me-down dues!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Black Thunder
black thunder/ broken pieces, tired eyes.
church bells silent ringing, crow feet scarred pillows.
small children walking, without tongues praying,
wagon wheels bogged down in sand.
black thunder/ second hand lives, worn out lies.
dead soldiers mournful singing, borrowed tomorrows.
blind mouths moving, talking without saying,
unlit rooms forged by fugitive hands.
black thunder/ pregnant women without faces.
waves lapping orphan feet, ships lost in the storm.
refugee stars lost in unmarked skies,
an old tree dying rotting on the ground.
black thunder/ families disappearing without traces.
trash blown deserted streets, old men waiting to be born.
molded crucifixes, covered with flies,
clouds chant scriptures without a sound.
(guns silent weeping,
angels prayerful sweeping.
dreams born dying, dreams unfolding,
looking without seeing, touching without holding.)
black thunder/ hungry barefoot ghosts whisper.
priests covered in blood, empty windows open.
tiny infinities wrapped in colored matchsticks,
nowhere standing lost by the road.
black thunder/ brothers burying virgin sisters.
dialogue without talking, homeless heroes smoking.
ants' prophecies well hidden, time worn bricks,
strangers huddled against the cold.
black thunder/ salvation starved borrowed clothes.
smoke charred walls, forever dripping to the floor.
flesh tokens paid, lifetimes yet unforgiven,
candles dressed in cemetery suits.
black thunder/ nobody cares, nobody knows.
horses stomping stalls, doors open to doors.
while the dead barter for the living,
with bayonets and religious boots....
black thunder!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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One Mans Opinion
Beautiful, are you, as the flowers of the field.
Beautiful, is the sound of your voice.
Beautiful, is the touch of your hand.
Beautiful, are the eyes that speak of love.
Beautiful, is your understanding and kindness.
Beautiful, is the way you always consider others.
Beautiful, are the courage of your convictions.
Beautiful, are the silent, countless words of, I love you.
Beautiful, is the softness of your touch.
Beautiful, are the children that you hold dear.
Beautiful, is your faith, honesty and loyalty.
Beautiful, are the people, you bless with your love.
Beautiful, are you secret acts of charity.
Beautiful, is the goodness, you give to all.
Beautiful, is the way your never judge anyone.
Beautiful, is your never dreaming...that you are indeed so beautiful.
Beautiful, is your heart...your very soul.
Beautiful, is the way you have made this a better world.
Beautiful, is the helping hand, you extend to all.
Have I told you, you are beautiful in every way?
©Joe Fazio
You Are Indeed Beautiful
Beautiful, are you, as the flowers of the field.
Beautiful, is the sound of your voice.
Beautiful, is the touch of your hand.
Beautiful, are the eyes that speak of love.
Beautiful, is your understanding and kindness.
Beautiful, is the way you always consider others.
Beautiful, are the courage of your convictions.
Beautiful, are the silent, countless words of, I love you.
Beautiful, is the softness of your touch.
Beautiful, are the children that you hold dear.
Beautiful, is your faith, honesty and loyalty.
Beautiful, are the people, you bless with your love.
Beautiful, are you secret acts of charity.
Beautiful, is the goodness, you give to all.
Beautiful, is the way your never judge anyone.
Beautiful, is your never dreaming...that you are indeed so beautiful.
Beautiful, is your heart...your very soul.
Beautiful, is the way you have made this a better world.
Beautiful, is the helping hand, you extend to all.
Have I told you, you are beautiful in every way?
Have I told you, my beautiful one, that I love you?
Recompense: (For Lord Kilhacken)
That which I saved I lost
And that I lost I found,
And you are mine, oh tender little ghost,
Whose grave is holy ground.
That which I kept is flown,
So fast the children grow,
The only child I keep to be my own
I lost long years ago.
The little ones that stayed
Slip from me while I cry:
Oh, not so fast, so fast, you golden-head.
Swift as the wind they fly.
Not two days are the same.
To-morrow will not see
To-day's young children, crested like a flame,
Gathered about my knee.
One day a day will dawn
Will see me dispossessed --
An empty nest whence singing-birds have flown.
Who shall refill the nest?
The years run out like sand
To strip me of my pride;
Then in my hand will steal a clinging hand.
I keep the child who died.
God gives and does not lend
This one lamb of the fold;
And he will need his mother to the end
And never will grow old.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Beautiful Are You...
Beautiful, are you, as the flowers of the field.
Beautiful, is the sound of your voice.
Beautiful, is the touch of your hand.
Beautiful, are the eyes that speak of love.
Beautiful, is your understanding and kindness.
Beautiful, is the way you always consider others.
Beautiful, are the courage of your convictions.
Beautiful, are the silent, countless words of, I love you.
Beautiful, is the softness of your touch.
Beautiful, are the children that you hold dear.
Beautiful, is your faith, honesty and loyalty.
Beautiful, are the people, you bless with your love.
Beautiful, are you secret acts of charity.
Beautiful, is the goodness, you give to all.
Beautiful, is the way your never judge anyone.
Beautiful, is your never dreaming...that you are indeed so beautiful.
Beautiful, is your heart...your very soul.
Beautiful, is the way you have made this a better world.
Beautiful, is the helping hand, you extend to all.
Have I told you, you are beautiful in every way?
Have I told you, my beautiful one, that I love you?
We are blessed to know, one who is as beautiful
as you, in so many ways.
P.S.
I love you.
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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At Rest
my garden is silent...
and all the bees have sacrificed
their very beings to the unmarked graves
of flowers fallen.
the squirrels left the trees
like lovers spurned...
and small birds left feathers
in way of epitaph.
in some ways autumn tastes like
the bruise on my lips,
that you left the last time you kissed me,
the one no one can see!
the old car in the drive,
the one that wont crank,
moans in the rust of betrayel.
there are things i couldnt write,
or even speak for a long time.
it's funny how free you feel,
with a noose around your neck!
funny how sharp your eyes become,
on the very edge of darkness.
funny the sound tears make,
the ones we cry inside.
the creaking of the door,
that opens into unknown.
the way the hand feels,
when it throbs for touch.
by the way i saw Jesus today,
with a basket in the store...
standing in line to pay with food stamps,
talking to a bent over old woman.
and Aristotle and Plato,
picking up trash in the parking lot...
perhaps that was Rilke sweeping,
or just a stray dog.
and the young boy walking
down the road and singing....
perhaps that was my heart,
trying to remember your face!
or perhaps it's just me,
listening for the sound of your feet.
my garden is silent....
my soul is at rest!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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