Vacant Eyes
standing in line
for a cup of soup,
second hand coats,
and worn out shoes.
the hands that
built your houses,
paved your roads,
worked your steel mills...
harvested your crops,
worked on your cars,
built your cities and towns,
your stores and your churches.
tremble with the cold,
hold the steaming cup
like a prayer...
wipe the corners of vacant eyes!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Small People!
it is then...
the small people,
common men and women,
who by their hands built this dream,
who plowed the fields,
paved the roadways...
who picked your fruit,
who built your small businesses.
who worked your factories and mills.
who built your homes and churches.
who drove your trucks, who fixed your cars,
who made your clothes and your furniture.
who worked for too little
to make you too rich....
who hauled your trash,
who wiped your asses.
who worked as cashiers, clerks, and salesmen.
who covered for you when you were sick,
yet worked when they were sick.
who laid your bricks, who cut your logs,
who stocked your grocery stores.
who dug your graves and fought your damn wars,
the small people, that you throw away!
no jobs, no work, no benefits, no insurance...
no medical care, no cars...
no lights, no rent, no food, no shelter...
no name, no reason to be!
the small people...
too old, too tired, too angry, too used up.
self taught, no degree, experience doesnt count.
the small people....
pushed into a corner,
stacked in the alleyways.
broken wheels turning on broken glass.
the small people....
staring back from your mirror,
from the darkness outside your window.
the small people...
who are not going
to take it anymore!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Work To Do!
i came from a generation
that worked.... was born to
work, daylight to dawn,
for everything we had.
we grew our own food, we
cut firewood, we worked
with our hands.
we were taught to work...
we built houses, bridges,
paved roads... worked on
farms, worked in sawmills,
worked in factories...
whatever it took for food
and shelter...
and if a neighbor got hurt,
or sick, and couldnt work...
we helped him and his family
till he could.
those of us left who can work
are still working, a lot of us are
out of work, and cant find work!
and so the world has changed...
it seems like a lot of people
spend more time avoiding work
than working... a lot of people
look for the easy way out...are
dependent on society...
still a lot of good and willing people
just need help.
they call this progress...based
on technology, and looking out for
number one. seperated, almost islands...
greed has taken the place of the bent back!
so when it all falls apart, and that will
be soon, what happens? who knows how
to survive? who has the backbone?
things to think about, and yes...
work to do!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am
i am, become...
i worked your steel mills,
i walked the i-beams of your scrapers.
i dug deep in your coal mines,
i plowed your fields, picked your crops...
i picked your cotton, milked your cows,
worked your furniture factories,
in your cotton mills...
built your tracks, rode your trains,
popped your trucks, poured your concrete...
my sweat and blood, the foundation,
the nails in the wall!
i an America, the common,
and the magnificent...
i am the pulse, the breath, the beat.
i am the lover, the fighter, the dreamer...
i am the father, and the mother...
i am the sinner and the holy.
i am the truth, at all costs.
i am the man behind the wheel,
the dream behind the man...
the faith behind the dream...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Working Class
hard calloused old hands,
back bent with time and work.
feet beaten and worn,
old tired eyes that still twinkle.
i love the working class.
am more at home
with truckers, farmers,
and factory workers,
than politicians and priests.
the lives built brick by brick,
silent years of sacrifice.
hard lines of faith and worry,
and moments of gentle caring.
the hand extended,
the heart that's honest.
the love of passion,
and blowing off steam.
the cook pot, and the table,
set for whoever walks through the door.
neighbor standing behind neighbor,
the saturday night fire,
and the sunday prayer.
i love the working class...
the people that built your cities,
paved your roads,
that have grown your food,
and made your goods...
so what the hell are you doing to us?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Blue Collar Joe
blue collar Joe,
he's standing in line...
aint no trains to hop,
aint no trucks to pop...
he's standing in line,
for a handout, and a hand up....
he made your furniture,
he made your cars.
he wove your cloth....
he made boxes and tools,
he worked your steel.
he made just the right parts
for the right time.....
now you dont need him
to make anything anymore...
cheaper, more profitable,
to ship from overseas....
so he's standing in line....
a line going nowhere!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Living Wage!
a living wage....
seems like not so much
to ask... after 40 years
of
...working
.....daylight
.........to
...........dusk....
feeding someone elses dream...
America the great,
...America the fallen,
can
...you
.....not hear?
can
...you
.....not
.......feel?
the men and women
that built your highways,
your cities and towns...
worked your mills,
your factories, your farms,
are crying out!
we have to eat too!
we need shelter!
we need hope!
honest hard working people...
is this
...how you
......pay us back?
do you remember our names?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Loose Change
I built a house of cards
Built a house of rain
Built a house of love
Its hard to build again
Built a road to reason
Built a road to fate
Built a road to the promised land
Right up to the gate
Loose change in my pocket
Future in my hand
Too many distractions
For me to understand
Too many distractions
Got to get back home
Get into something solid
Get out of the zone
Some roads bring renewal
Some roads hide and wait
Some roads promise everything
And steal your fuel away
Loose change in my pocket
Future in my hand
Too many distractions
For me to understand
Some roads I been flyin
Some roads I crashed
Some roads I been sleepin on
Some roads I got back
Some roads I been runnin
Some roads I was stopped
Some roads I been walkin down
Some roads I was lost
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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They Came From Distant Places
They came from distant places to this far southern shore
The men who built the city at rest forever more
Some of them could not speak the language but they were strong and young
And they were willing workers and their praises ought be sung
The men who built the city their grandchildren old today
They worked hard to support their wives and families from their old homeland far away
They built the factories, homes and railways and they worked hard for their pay
The men who built the city for years with Nature lay
No monument built to them no last post for them played
For the men who built the city there was never a parade
Only their direct descendants would have heard of them by name
To be honest and hard working is never a claim to fame
The men who built the city their praises remain unsung
And today their grandchildren are not what one would call young.
poem by Francis Duggan
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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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Hunger Is!
broke and busted,
wandering the streets...
with nothing but the clothes
on your back and
the shoes on your feet...
and havent eaten in two days.
the mission's closed,
no soup line today...
and you start staring at the trash cans,
behind houses, behind restaurants.
you watch people walking to their cars,
people going into stores,
hands in their pockets, or
pocketbooks on their shoulders...
just looking for a chance.
numb to the fear, to any feeling,
to the sound of sirens,
to the sound of voices talking and laughing...
and there's no right or wrong...
only then, do you know,
hunger is!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Hands.... (That Dared To Speak!)
the hands....
that cleaned the old man
lying on urine stained sheets,
that planted the bulbs
in the old woman's flower bed.
that washed the dishes
for forty years....
the hands...
that built the old barn,
that plowed the fields,
that harvested the crops....
the hands...
that stroked desire's body,
that found each secret treasure,
that closed the window.
that held the baby,
that taught the child to write,
that buttoned his suit
on the day he was married.
the hands....
that buried the body,
that brushed leaves from the grave,
that packed away pictures.
the hands....
that picked up the pen,
that turned bloodstained pages,
that dared to speak!
the hands...
now old and withered,
painfully bruised,
often clasped in prayer,
that open to take the small child's hand;
that unlock the door,
and beckon to those in need...
the hands...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Hands That Built America
Oh my love
It's a long way we've come
From the freckled hills
To the steel and glass canyons
From the stony fields
To hanging steel from skies
From diggin in our pockets
For a reason not to say goodbye
These are the hands that build America
Ah ah ah..... America
Last saw your face
In a watercolored Sky
As sea birds argue
A long goodbye
I took your kiss
On the spray of a new lined star
You gotta live in your dreams
Don't make them so hard
And these are the hands that built America
Ah ah ah..... America
Of all of the promises
Is this one we can keep
Of all of the dreams
Is this one still out of reach
???
Its early fall
There's a cloud in the New York skyline
Innocence...dragged across a yellow line
These are the hands that built America
These are the hands that built America
Ah ah ah..... America
Ah ah ah..... America
song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ad Perpetuam Memoriam
and for the memory of those
who died before us
those who carried the woods
on their back
from the mountains to
the cities that
they built when once we were
children
playing on the very first roads
that they built
cheers! without them
where could we have been
altogether?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Grandpa Was A Carpenter
Oh, grandpa wore his suit to dinner nearly every day
No particular reason, he just dressed that way
Brown necktie with a matching vest and both his wingtip shoes
He built a closet on our back porch and put a penny in a burned-out fuse
Grandpa was a carpenter, he built houses, stores and banks
Chain-smoked camel cigarettes, and hammered nails in planks
He would level on the level, he shaved even every door
And voted for eisenhower, cause lincoln won the war
Well, he used to sing me blood on the saddle and rock me on his knee
And let me listen to the radio before we got tv
Well, hed drive to church on sunday and hed take me with him too
Stained glass in every window, hearing aids in every pew
Grandpa was a carpenter, he built houses, stores and banks
Chain-smoked camel cigarettes, and hammered nails in planks
He would level on the level, he shaved even every door
And voted for eisenhower, cause lincoln won the war
Well, my grandma was a teacher, she went to school in bowling green
Traded in a milking cow for a singer sewing machine
Well, she called her husband mister, and she walked real tall and proud
She used to buy me comic books after grandpa died
Grandpa was a carpenter, he built houses, stores and banks
Chain-smoked camel cigarettes, and hammered nails in planks
He would level on the level, he shaved even every door
And voted for eisenhower, cause lincoln won the war
song performed by by Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Roads Are Built
They drill and bite the ground for hours,
My family just devours.
The roads are built forcibly and wrongly
For the longer days will forbid duty strongly.
Cars are correct, buses are bossy,
The roadways are built powerfully.
We shall drive our mighty rivers of concrete
Like major knowledge of an athlete.
Where is the beat of the river’s water?
Inside the shoes and limbs of the driver.
poem by Naveed Akram
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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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Beware The Wrath
beware the wrath of the man
whose degree is written
in the callouses and bruises
on his time worn hands...
who gave it all, and then some,
never quitting, nor looking back.
whose family his world,
whose faith in the others
who worked and walked beside....
whose life you've destroyed
with unthinking greed,
who now has no identity
other than a number....
beware the wrath of the man
who built your home!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Santa Fe In Winter
The city is closing for the night.
Stores draw their blinds one by one,
and it's dark again, save for the dim
infrequent streetlight bending at the neck
like a weighted stem. Years have built
the city in layers: balustrades filled in
with brick, adobe reinforced with steel,
and the rounded arches smoothed
with white cement. Neighborhoods
have changed the burro trails
to streets, bare at night—
no pedestrians, no cars, no dogs.
With daylight, the houses turned galleries
and stores turned restaurants open—
the Navajos wrapped in wool
crowd the Palace of the Governors plaza
to sell their handmade blankets,
silver rings, and necklaces
to travelers who will buy jewelry
as they buy everything—
another charming history for themselves.
poem by Deborah Ager
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Made Of Stone (808 State Remix)
Your knuckles whiten on the wheel
The last thing that your hands will feel
your final flight can't be delayed
No earth just sky it's so serene
Your pink fat lips let go a scream
You fry and melt I love the scene
Sometimes I fantasize
When the streets are cold and lonely
And the cars they burn below me
Don't these times fill your eyes
When the streets are cold and lonely
And the cars they burn below me
Are you all alone
Is anybody home?
I'm standing warm against the cold
Now that the flames have taken hold
At least you left your life in style
And for as far as I can see
Tin twisted grills grin back at me
Bad money dies I love the scene
Sometimes I fantasize
When the streets are cold and lonely
And the cars they burn below me
Don't these times
Fill your eyes
When the streets are cold and lonely
And the cars they burn below me
Are you all alone
Is anybody home
Sometimes I fantasize
When the streets are cold and lonely
And the cars they burn below me
Don't these times
Fill your eyes
When the streets are cold and lonely
And the cars they burn below me
Are you all alone
Are you made of stone
song performed by by Stone Roses
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Made Of Stone
Your knuckles whiten on the wheel
The last thing that your hands will feel
Your final flight can't be delayed
No earth just sky it's so serene
Your pink fat lips let go a scream
You fry and melt I love the scene
Sometimes I fantasize
When the streets are cold and lonely
And the cars they burn below me
Don't these times
Fill your eyes
When the streets are cold and lonely
And the cars they burn below me
Are you all alone
Is anybody home?
I'm standing warm against the cold
Now that the flames have taken hold
At least you left your life in style
And for as far as I can see
Tin twisted grills grin back at me
Bad money dies I love the scene
Sometimes I fantasize
When the streets are cold and lonely
And the cars they burn below me
Don't these times
Fill your eyes
When the streets are cold and lonely
And the cars they burn below me
Are you all alone
Is anybody home
Sometimes I fantasize
When the streets are cold and lonely
And the cars they burn below me
Don't these times
Fill your eyes
When the streets are cold and lonely
And the cars they burn below me
Are you all alone
Are you made of stone
song performed by by The Stone Roses from The Stone Roses
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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