Tis America.... (You Vote)
the long haired tongues
of your poet kings,
burnt tenement stoops,
crack dusted windows.
bare breasted brown skinned girls,
popping gum on skates.
the ghosts of lost fathers,
who swallowed heroin spoons,
or bodies of the movement,
long dead of hunger and want.
no job, get a gun,
locks are made to be broken...
higher education,
behind white tainted bars.
when equality means,
an equal chance to die,
and living tastes like daylight,
sucked through a straw!
tis America, you vote,
sell blood, pop a car.
heroes die in Afghanistan,
schools smell like waiting.
and the name on the mailbox...
is vacant!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
America Revisited
put down your crack bowls
and your republican flags...
and let's go walking thru
the streets and alleys of America....
let's walk past the empty houses
with foreclosure signs in the yard...
past the vacant factory buildings
where the homeless break in
at night and sleep...
past the lily white churches
and the dead zone schools...
past the county jails and the courthouses
and the rooms where lawyers
buy and sell justice...
past the housing projects
where babies buy groceries...
down to the tent cities where
dreams hang in the air like opium.
down the dark streets where young
girls and boys sell their bodies
for their vampire pimps...
and everyday citizens buy them!
down to the unemployment offices
where angry people stand in
numbered lines...
past renegade gas pumps
guarded by dollar store slaves...
past the words of Jefferson, Franklin,
and Thomas Paine....
to the hypnotic ads of puffy-faced
liars with titles and plans...
down to the cemetary where
the last shreds of freedom
lie in unmarked graves....
and we call this....
America!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Secret Of The Grail
What was magi mystery;
of mesmeric long-haired kings?
What was the mystery of the long-haired kings?
A secret the Cathars knew.
The Knights Templar their military arm,
did guard this secret well.
On pain of rack, through branding iron
And cruel thumb-screw,
they gritted teeth and suffered hell -
still none would tell.
The word San-Greal means Holy Grail
Sang-Real means of the blood.
A royal bloodline from the son -
heirs of a spirit pure and just.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Epilogue (Part Three)
shivering nails,
black and white coffins whisper.
bodies without heads,
strewn in the sand.
the taste of gunpowder
on my lips.
i bow, but cannot pray!
the sound of the oil rigs,
the coarse rhythm of greed.
take and destroy, take and fulfill!
the cry of sea life,
the gurgling choke,
soon to be the children
of flaccid men.
buildings like bodies,
stripped empty and bare.
the memories smell
of life that once was.
empty, and pulsing,
with the want of need,
no one hears the ghosts within.
hunger and homelessness,
heroin and Jesus.
the shelves are bare,
the mother's eyes are bleeding.
the nameless and unwanted,
cast aside in the storm,
while ghouls walk amid
the rubble of the lie.
sing for me, pray for me,
take my hand, take my hand...
even when i close my eyes,
i still hear, still feel,
the faces of the wind!
and god, if there be,
in each and every tear!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Our Children!
those brown skinned babies...
starving in Haiti, Africa,
and around the world.
laying dead victims
of bombing and gunfire...
are our children.
those white skinned,
black skinned babies,
born into the housing developments
and trailer parks,
into crackhead pill popping
poverty... those,
are our children too!
those blood stained babies,
found in desperate dumpsters,
our children, again.
those unborn babies,
born into hopeless situations,
or never to be born
into a world cold and hard...
our children too!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Election = 2012 Poem
With looming worries about jobs, homes and healthcare
College debt, Afghanistan, terrorism and disease.
Americans seek clear options this November
As we pray for those we vote for on our knees.
America needs a president who relies on faith and prayer
One who can lead by example, servitude and more.
Someone who loves our freedom and our heroes of the past
Who inspires us like none we've known before.
Whoever wins the final vote
We pray they succeed and restore America's glory.
The time has come for all of us to rise up and alter
As freedom, love and commitment becomes our story.
If President George Washington was alive and well
And spoke to America of troubles we face today.
I wonder what he might faithfully suggest
And would we heed to anything he would say?
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Blood of an Innoccent Little Vampire, Maria
Blood of an Innoccent Little Vampire, Maria
By, Demon
Maria,
Maria come to me,
Mom will sing a song to you that she once knew,
Far,
Far that angel did cross and he gave me my dear Maria,
Oh my Maria that I love so,
My little angel,
My angel of white and black,
My dear angel that I named my Maria,
My little angel covered in blood,
Oh my Maria what have you done,
Blood covering your whole body,
So many dead bodies on the floor,
So much blood every where on you and me,
The bite marks on our bodies,
Where did they come from my dear Maria,
The blood dripping from our mouths,
Oh my Maria what have we done,
The blood tastes so good to us,
The angel that gave me my Maria,
Wasn’t an angel he was a vampire,
A white haired demon with blood red eyes,
Our fangs paired with our angelic vampire.
poem by Demon Elwin
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Barefoot
Loving me with my shows off
means loving my long brown legs,
sweet dears, as good as spoons;
and my feet, those two children
let out to play naked. Intricate nubs,
my toes. No longer bound.
And what's more, see toenails and
all ten stages, root by root.
All spirited and wild, this little
piggy went to market and this little piggy
stayed. Long brown legs and long brown toes.
Further up, my darling, the woman
is calling her secrets, little houses,
little tongues that tell you.
There is no one else but us
in this house on the land spit.
The sea wears a bell in its navel.
And I'm your barefoot wench for a
whole week. Do you care for salami?
No. You'd rather not have a scotch?
No. You don't really drink. You do
drink me. The gulls kill fish,
crying out like three-year-olds.
The surf's a narcotic, calling out,
I am, I am, I am
all night long. Barefoot,
I drum up and down your back.
In the morning I run from door to door
of the cabin playing chase me.
Now you grab me by the ankles.
Now you work your way up the legs
and come to pierce me at my hunger mark
poem by Anne Sexton
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We must recover the element of quality in our traditional pursuit of equality. We must not, in opening our schools to everyone, confuse the idea that all should have equal chance with the notion that all have equal endowments.
quote by Adlai E. Stevenson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Southern Gospel... (Part Two)
he lay still on the floor,
wrestling with the darkness.
his life flooded his senses,
and the lives of all others!
he stood again by his mother's
grave... felt again that emptiness.
and the first time he'd ever been in love,
the softness of her skin, the gentleness
in her eyes. the way her lips tasted
when they kissed, the way her body
felt beneath his... the eternal sadness
in her voice when she said goodbye!
the birth of his children, the house and
the home... the same 8 hour shift, year
after year...
the day they announced the layoffs, the plant
shutting down... the day the unemployment
ran out...
times of war, acts of courage, and murder that
bruised his conscience.
the taste of whiskey, corner tables in lonesome
bars... the homeless streets, the thugs, heroin stoops,
and jail cells....
if god wasnt dead, well... maybe he was!
maybe that was it, maybe he'd been dead for
a long time...
sometimes hunger was the only way he'd known
he was real...
that, and the smells, the tastes, the touching...
hell, if he had to do it again, he'd do it even harder!
he lay shaking on the floor, tears rolling down
his face, the taste of blood on his lips...
thinking... maybe this is god, the hurting,
the memories, dirty hands and tired feet...
and lapsed naked into salvation without a name!
the next morning, the custodian found a dead
body beneath the altar... he called 911...
and the preacher he'll preach next sunday on
heaven and hell... never knowing, never realizing,
they'd lain there at the foot of the altar!
the true religion, the life and death of a common man!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Praying For Emptiness!
walking barefoot down the streets
of the holy city...
listening to the sounds,
the whimper, the cry, and the roar...
praying for emptiness....
the clock beats in rhythm
with the sidewalks and the walls.
the smell of burnt flesh
hangs in the air....
'Jesus Saves' painted on a fence....
oil rigs and chemical sprays,
fields filled with unmarked graves.
windows broken, doors sway, rusted hinges,
cars abandoned, vacant buildings,
dead bodies, eyes lost stare!
the spirits of the children
sing haunting and low...
words pierce like nails,
the birds hear and weep....
a hand gun, a needle, half pack of smokes....
nobody saves the night from the dawn!
praying for emptiness...
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Against the Dispraisers of Poetry
Chaucer is dead; and Gower lies in grave;
The Earl of Surrey long ago is gone;
Sir Philip Sidney's soul the heavens have;
George Gascoigne him before was tombed in stone.
Yet, though their bodies lie full low in ground,
As every thing must die that erst was born,
Their living fame no fortune can confound,
Nor ever shall their labors be forlorn.
And you, that discommend sweet poetry,
(So that the subject of the same be good)
Here may you see your fond simplicity,
Sith kings have favored it, of royal blood.
The King of Scots (now living) is a poet,
As his Lepanto and his Furies show it.
poem by Richard Barnfield
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Andy And Opie
shots ring out in the middle
of the night...
tires squeal, a body falls.
the shades are drawn, better
turn out the lights...
9-1-1, nobody calls
old woman lying
in a pool of blood,
her check is gone, check long gone...
crackin, crankin,
swept away by the flood
you're all alone, all alone...
there are bars on the windows
there are locks on the doors
young kids dying in the alleys
dont know what they're dying for
no one has the time to care
and no one is keeping score
Andy and Opie just
dont live here anymore....
Andy and Opie just
dont live here anymore.
baby girls got a baby
the daddy's lost
dreams crumble, ashes to dust...
left her in a dumpster
cant pay the cost
feel the heart beating, weeping to rust...
there are bars on the windows
there are locks on the door
young kids dying in the alleys
dont know what they're dying for
no one has the time to care
and no one is keeping score
Andy and Opie just
dont live here anymore...
Andy and Opie just
dont live here anymore...
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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By Unmarked Graves....
i read the labels of soup cans,
the poetry of mechanized food.
while children starve in the back seats,
of cars up on blocks.
and cell phones pray with neon glow,
to the souls of the fathers
buried in unemployment lines.
heartless bastards wave numbing flags,
guarding the border, masks and rifles cocked.
bars on the windows of pregnant schools,
where freedom unravels with sterile yawns.
the fields are quiet, bodies decompose...
crows pick fruit from trees long dead.
microwave Jesus's fill plastic bowls
with fingers severed from forgotten hands.
live or die, most choose death!
young lovers taunt roaches on motel walls.
the wheels of justice groan in the heat,
and darkness erect, prophesies.
the labels of soup cans,
and the brim of old hats!
leaving only tongues left naked
by unmarked graves!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Herion (WNET TV, 1966)
I don't know just where I'm going
But I'm gonna try for the kingdom if I can
'Cause it makes me feel like I'm a man
When I put a spike into my vein
Then I tell you things aren't quite the same
When I'm rushing on my run
And I feel just like Jesus' son
And I guess that I just don't know
And I guess that I just don't know
I have made the big decision
I'm gonna try to nullify my life
'Cause when the blood begins to flow
When it shoots up the dropper's neck
When I'm closing in on death
And you can't help me, not you guys
Or all you sweet girls with all your sweet talk
You can all go take a walk
And I guess I just don't know
And I guess that I just don't know
I wish that I was born a thousand years ago
I wish that I'd sailed the darkened seas
On a great big clipper ship
Going from this land here to that
On a sailor's suit and cap
Away from the big city
Where a man cannot be free
Of all the evils of this town
And of himself and those around
Oh, and I guess that I just don't know
Oh, and I guess that I just don't know
Heroin, be the death of me
Heroin, it's my wife and it's my life, ha-ha
Because a mainer to my vein
Leads to a center in my head
And then I'm better off than dead
Because when the smack begins to flow
I really don't care anymore
About all the Jim-Jims in this town
And all the politicians making crazy sounds
And everybody putting everybody else down
And all the dead bodies piled up in mounds
'Cause when the smack begins to flow
Then I really don't care anymore
Ah, when that heroin is in my blood
And the blood
song performed by by Velvet Underground
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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They Call This America, Dont They?
the cum stained prayers
written on tenement walls,
where brown eyed girls, head held high...
wear poverty's drench,
backs strong and straight,
amid the pale cries of babies birthing.
roaches scatter, bare feet skim the floors,
empty cupboards whispering moan.
food stamp dreams, two days away,
they call this America, dont they?
the trailer wrecked, paper thin walls,
duct taped tile by molded tubs.
the broke down truck, the mailbox spills,
unemployed and out of time.
box fans on stolen power,
dirt faced children, starving dogs.
an American flag, a worn out Bible...
they call this America, dont they?
the old couple melting, tiny apartment,
before a black and white tv.
half filled pills, empty Alpo cans,
yellow tinged pictures on the table.
a phone that didnt ring,
before it couldnt ring...
the sound of bones grinding to dust!
dont make much noise,
who gives a damn?
they call this America, dont they?
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mailbox Opens By Itself?
How does a mailbox open all by itself?
No, it needed a human’s help.
You opened it, then looked in,
you saw the note,
you were caught again.
So you played Sherry
with your stupid little lie,
your made up false alibi.
“All the mailbox doors
open just like M.D’s.”
“I” tried your game
this morning
it didn’t budge or
even squeak.
I could sit there all day
long opening mailboxes
till I’m blue in the face,
NO movement from my
mailbox not even a trace.
See last week you were
in my mailbox
and you took the 1st note out,
you were scared
without a doubt.
See the mailman put
mail in after that,
so this week you went
on your little rant.
You called the cops
and stated your false case,
then put a note outside my place.
Making me take the note out
before the mailman got there
the very next day,
so that I would think
the mailman took the
first note last week away.
But SEE the mail did come today,
and guess what the note did STAY.
So how did you know the note was
still in my mailbox today
and why would you care?
Because you are GUILTY
and so you dared.
You looked again—what a fool—
Like you think I’m stupid?
No, I’m on to you.
Now take your old dog
and your lying ____
and move out
while you still have
the chance.
Written on March 15,2011 by Christina Sunrise
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Sleeping Alone
sleeping alone...
tastes like burnt wood chips,
three days after the fire.
yesterday's cold cup of coffee,
spider webs, and bones.
metal shavings,
and empty boxes.
bullets on the shelf.
the broken edge of the cup,
blood on the tip of the tongue.
dust, and brown leaves,
the first winter freeze.
sleeping alone...
tastes like death!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Lost In Eternity!
long shadows cast,
the corner now empty.
the bare branch scrapes
against the window
of the house left vacant.
the desk left cluttered,
as if in waiting.
the candle half burned,
naked without fire.
the woodstove cold as ice.
the gravel drive now virgin,
the mailbox rusted shut.
the yard oozes like an open wound,
in the womb of stillness.
nothing moves, nothing at all!
another world?
maybe it never was!
the rope tied in a noose,
the noose around empty.
the hoot of an owl...
lost in eternity!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Heroin
I dont know just where Im going
But Im goin to try for the kingdom if I can
cause it makes me feel like Im a man
When I put a spike into my vein
Then I tell you things arent quite the same
When Im rushing on my run
And I feel just like jesus son
And I guess I just dont know
And I guess that I just dont know
I have made very big decision
Im goin to try to nullify my life
cause when the blood begins to flow
When it shoots up the droppers neck
When Im closing in on death
You cant help me not you guys
All you sweet girls with all your sweet talk
You can all go take a walk
And I guess I just dont know
And I guess I just dont know
I wish that I was born a thousand years ago
I wish that Id sailed the darkened seas
On a great big clipper ship
Going from this land here to that
I put on a sailors suit and cap
Away from the big city
Where a man cannot be free
Of all the evils in this town
And of himself and those around
Oh, and I guess I just dont know
Oh, and I guess I just dont know
Heroin, be the death of me
Heroin, its my wife and its my life
Because a mainer to my vein
Leads to a center in my head
And then Im better off than dead
When the smack begins to flow
Then I really dont care anymore
About all the jim-jims in this town
And everybody putting everybody else down
And all of the politicians makin crazy sounds
All the dead bodies piled up in mounds, yeah
Wow, that heroin is in my blood
And the blood is in my head
Yeah, the gods good as dead
Ooohhh, God that Im not aware
I just dont care
And I guess I just dont know
And I guess I just dont know
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Was It Worth It?
The ground runs red
As the rain falls down
What to do now?
Everything I've known is gone
My old life
Old world
Washed away
Like the burnt remains
Of my childhood house
That I stand before
Do the means justify the end?
I can't help but ask
Was it worth it?
All the battle fields
Where the smell
Of death and gunpowder and blood
Still permeate the very air
Children grieve with their mothers
Who have all lost husbands and fathers
Uniforms made of grey
Lie battered and torn on the ground
All this pain and sacrifice
To win a losing war
Was it worth it?
poem by Autumn Winds
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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