We Are Not Alone
tired, so tired...
She laid Her hand
on my shoulder,
and whispered:
'can you not see
the sky, the clouds,
the wind walking
through the treetops,
sunlight dancing on
raindrops clinging to
the long grasses....
can you not hear
the howl of the wolf,
the cry of a new baby,
the moan of the wind....
be still, and know
that God is with you! '
but i could not
see or hear above the
clamor and the roar,
the voices of the starving,
of the homeless,
of women beaten and used,
of children without families,
of families killed by the bombs,
of the prisoner wrongly executed,
of the poor and oppressed.....
She whispered again:
'look closely, can you not
see My face in each of these?
be still, and know
that I am with you! '
i stood up and smiled,
knowing we are not alone!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Related quotes
These Are (My Children)
standing in line at the mission,
they're ladeling bowls of steaming soup.
the winter wind whips down
between the buildings like a knife...
pulling tattered coats tight hunching.
and i can hear Shantideva whisper,
his hand on the ladel...
his body the meat of the soup,
his blood the broth...
'these are my children! '....
they walk in long staggered lines,
refugees from the bombing...
hungry scared children clinging,
afarid to lose sight of...
what's left of their families.
nothing behind, and nowhere to go,
not on any side...
and i can hear Jesus whisper,
His life the torch that lights the way,
His body the shelter against the night,
His blood the water, His hands stir the rice...
'these are My children! '....
the addict shivers, strung out and desperate...
the homeless family huddles in the car.
the young prisoner sleepless with the fear,
the old man going hungry feeds his bedridden wife...
the jobless young father begs to pick up trash...
and i know beyond all doubt,
my body, my soul, my spirit...
the wind that hears their cry.
'for these are my children! '...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Bowl and The Spoon
i hear the sound of humanity's voices,
the sound of suffering and need.
i smell the fear, and i feel the anger,
of those left alone, the victims of greed.
i feel the hate of the guns and the bombing,
the terror of women and children.
i cry the tears and shed blood with them,
i hear the prayers of the dead for the living.
i feel the hunger of children left starving,
i am the anger of the unemployed in line.
i breathe the despair of those left homeless,
i am the hope of those looking for a sign.
i am the body that somehow god needed,
i am the ears the lonely pray for.
i am the eyes that see through the heart,
the prisoner walking through the last door.
i hear the sound of the baby crying,
i feel the mother walking across the room.
i am the father praying for work,
i am the bowl and i am the spoon.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sounds Of The Earth
i feel the sounds of the earth,
cant say how or why!
the hurtling swagger of rivers,
the deep bass stillness of mountains.
the whispered longing of the trees,
dancing naked in moonlight.
the hymn of the grasses,
calling forth life.
the groan of the earth,
just turned by the plow!
i hear the reggae beat of the cities,
the hum of movement and work.
the chords of factories and mills,
the horns blown by the shops.
even the hollow beat
of business, of buy and sell.
and the low gutteral moan,
of the homeless, jobless, and lost.
feet without names,
marching without direction.
the cries of young children
afraid and hungry in the night.
the bang of the idol chasers,
the wranglers, and the pimps...
some working the market,
some working the parish.
i hear the sounds of the demons,
that cry war in the night.
that bang the bloody drums
of patriotism and fear.
i hear the sounds of the guns,
the thunder of the bombs.
the last prayers of young men,
dying alone in their fear.
i hear the shuffle of the money,
the boots beneath the table.
i hear the sound of the shovels,
digging grave after grave.
i hear the pen on the page,
as history is written,
in a book that not even
hell could contain!
i hear the churning of stomachs,
the grating of bones.
the tremble beneath
paper thin flesh.
i hear bare feet on the road,
the poor seeking refuge.
i hear the women weeping
as child after child dies.
and i hear the clank of glasses,
food shoveled on plates.
the shallow laughter,
the hypnotic hum of excess.
the condemning guilt,
food thrown in the trash.
the restless panting of the dogs,
just outside the door.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Descry
I stood in a grand wood alone
whispering to God upon his throne:
' Is it truly true
nothing is more powerful
than magnificent You? '
Then, I stood by the great ocean
and whispered to God:
'Can You hear me above the roar?
How will You find me,
my footprints have washed away all along the shore? '
Finally, I stood upon the highest mountain top
and whispered to God:
'Can you see me now,
the mere speck that I am,
even just a glimpse, somehow? '
No reply came.
Not in words
I could hear.
No powerful voice
loud and clear.
I waited
'til the end
of day.
Then quietly, alone,
I simply walked away.
On my way home
travelling into the dusk,
a desert I did pass through
with a quiet and lonely
darkened view.
Nothing moved,
not a sound.
Except, for the slightest breeze
whisper wonders my way,
through the tops of a few scraggly trees.
I stoped
I looked
I stood.
Amazed at this wind
passing by through the twisted and bent woods.
It was at that moment
in the darkness,
at the edge of desolation, among the lowly trees,
that I became fully aware,
God is everywhere, even right here next to me.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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Within War, Within Peace
I was born long ago, in a city far away
not knowing would I live yet another bloody day
There were bombs all around me, deep into the night
children dissapeared as I stood by in fright
You would try to run, but could not hide
the taunting enemy, was by your side
You didn't know, who they were
it felt as if, it was all a blur
Families destroyed and pulled apart
by greedy hands, supporting this art
I now look back at all the sin
people with sorrows, who were killed within
I was born long ago, in a city far away
within war I stood up and embraced my day
I was born long ago, in a city far away
but within peace, I chose to live, in a city by the bay.
Charlie vergara
10.30.2007
17140
poem by White Tiger
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(Hope Poem) Clinging On To The Last Bit Of Hope
Writing The Next Chapter,
Always The Next Chapter.
Clinging To The Last Bit Of Hope Knowing It Will Have To Due.
Know The Very Next Day Is Another Follow Through.
Where Is That Day Of Rest?
Where Is That Day Of Success?
A Life Full Of Emptiness.
Completely Monotonous.
Like A Soldier I Keep Putting One Foot In Front Of Next.
I Harbor No I'll Will Or Regret.
But I'm Still Getting Tired Of The Next.
Writing The Next Chapter,
Always The Next Chapter.
Clinging To The Last Bit Of Hope Knowing It Have To Due.
Knowing The End Is Far Beyond My Reach.
Even With All I Got It Means little To Nothing.
Materialistic Is So Unrealistic.
The More You Take The More You Got To Pay.
Maybe Sometime
But For Now I'm Just So Tired Of Next.
Writing The Next Chapter,
Always The Next Chapter.
Clinging To The Last Bit Of Hope Knowing It Will Have To Due.
Take Some Anti Depressants To Spread It Out.
Just Got Make It Again And Again.
Like A Constant Buzzing In My Ear That Just Won't Go Away.
It's Giving Me A Headache.
Think Soon I Just Might Break.
Like An Earthquake Everything Is Starting To Tremble And Shake.
I'm So Tired Of The Next,
But Still I'm Writing The Next Chapter.
Always The Next Chapter.
Clinging On The Last Bit Of Hope Knowing It Will Have Due.
I'm Holding On As Long As Can.
But Slowly I Feeling Less And Less Like A Man.
Just Another Weakling.
And Here Comes The Next,
Oh The Next,
THE VERY NEXT.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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So Tired
Scent on a postcard
A memory left behind
Warm hand, cool look but no time...
Winsome lose some
Hung up on old flame
My heart depends on fire
So who am I to make demands on love?
...relax and walk on by
So tired
So tired
Beaten like a drum
So tired
Living life alone
So tired
Beaten like a drum
Kiss the right faces
And tap the party line
Short measure of cheap skate pleasure
Easier said than done
Sip the night water
But not too drunk to say
Well just who am I to ever hope to love you?
Id turn and shy away
So tired
So tired
Beaten like a drum
So tired
Living life alone
So tired
Beaten like a drum
Once upon a bed
You said you loved me
Once upon a bed
Those eyes of blue
Now what am I supposed to do?
So tired -
So tired
Beaten like a drum
So tired
Live my life alone, so alone
Once upon a bed
You said you loved me
Once upon a bed
Those eyes of blue
And what am I to rhyme with you?
Now I lie alone and so defenceless
Dream of love in sunny daze with you
So tired...
song performed by by Haircut 100
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All He Really Needs
old man sitting
alone in the afternoon
sunlight....
listening to the wind.
tired of the fight,
tired of the struggle,
tired of bailing water
in a sinking boat.
tired of having less
and working more....
tired of the want and need....
when all he really needs....
is a friend, a good book,
a cup of coffee....
maybe a drink!
a little time for himself,
and a lover who
doesnt want anything more
than his company!
and dammit, that's not
too much to ask!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Posting Pictures
i'm going to quit writing poetry,
and start taking pictures...
pictures of the homeless,
the jobless, the hungry,
the war victims, drug victims,
crime victims, victims of oppressive
regimes, beaten, imprisoned, threatened...
starting right here!
the elderly left to die in want,
those left to live on the street,
families sleeping in cars,
parents burying their children...
smoke stacks smoking,
nuclear disasters, oil spills,
mountains being mined,
timber being cut...
lonely people walking alone!
small children crying...
lovers left in the cold...
empty churches full of people.
i'm going to post these pictures in color
for all the world to see,
post them in dead silence...
maybe then someone will hear,
hear, and offer a hand!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I'm Tired
I'm tired
Not i went to sleep at 2: 00 am and had to wake up early
Not like dozing off in class
Not tired like I need more sleep
But tired of bloody wars and useless fighting
Of seeing poor, starving children who look like very fragile twigs
Of those people who are victims of hate crimes beacuse they are
different
Of hearing about children plagued my bruises from abuse
Of racism that is still and probably will always be devouring the world
I'm especially tired because I can't do much to help it all
poem by Leila Mass
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Where Does The Wind Go
Where does the wind go on cold, cold nights
Out of the sight of the bright sunlight,
Under the gaze of the glowing moon,
When all the world is tired and sleeping;
Moaning and carrying on something fierce
Could it be that the wind is weeping?
Where does the wind hide it's broken heart,
Out on the lake, around the boat
And even when no one’s there to hear,
Does the wind ever look for an alibi
When it's so quiet, you can hear your breath,
But the wind only heaves one threadbare sigh?
Where is the place wind could stay it's breeze;
So fidgety, flighty and full of glee
Holding it's breath till the doors fell in;
The windows all cracking their window jams,
Saving it all for a winter's storm
When the trees bend as low as they can.
poem by Patti Masterman
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Cyclic Tragedy On Ramadan's End Roads
departing families mass homeward migrations
yearly at Ramadan's end journey Indonesians
2012 officially 824 were killed on inadequate roads so poor...
why are Indonesians dying trying to visit get safe home?
too tired car drivers running over crashing on cell phones?
kill but a score lethal pot hole roads kill mass more...
who will tragic die on these yearly mass ill fated journeys?
families cage traffic jam grid locked on mammoth journeys?
on little scooters with little tyres are most ill fated families!
poem by Terence George Craddock
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A Flower In The Summer Sky
a pink flower
across the open sky
a beautiful sunrise
a night sky vanished
a beauty hazed by yellow rays
gone too soon
gone too soon..
the flower embrace
embraced me with warmth
it was there
though 'was faint
heard the wind
heard it said
'i did'
heard it said
'did you? '
i whispered
whispered softly
whispered to it
whispered..
'..with all my heart.'
inspired and for a flower in the clouds during a beautiful summer, when you had stolen my heart.
Speak Not To Me Of Hell....
there is no need to speak to me of hell.....
i hear the cries of women and children
dying in the bombing...
i feel the tears of mothers burying
their only sons.
i reel with the hunger,
of refugees and homeless families.
i hurt with the anger,
of the poor and desperate.
i can smell the failure,
that drives people over the edge.
i am imprisoned,
with those behind your bars...
speak not to me of hell,
but rather redemption and action...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I'M TIRED OF WOMEN...by talile ali
I'M TIRED OF WOMEN
I'M TIRED OF STRIFE
TIRED OF LOVING
TOO HIGH OF A PRICE
I'M TIRED OF SMOOTCHIN
I'M TIRED OF HUGS
I'M TIRED OF EYE GLANCES
I WANT MORE OF THOSE SHRUGS
ALL OF YOU WOMEN
THINK MEN ARE SO BLIND
TREAT US ALL LIKE CATTLE
TO MILK AND ENTWINE
I TIRED OF DEALIN WITH DUCKED UP WOMEN
I'M SIGNING OFF WOMEN
GIVEN THEM UP INSTEAD
I'D RATHER BE SANE NOW
DON'T WANNA BE DEAD
SO IF YOU'RE ATTRACTED
TO ME WHILE IM OUT
I'M TELLING YOU WOMEN
AS LOUD AS I CAN SHOUT
I'M TIRED OF YOU WOMEN
OF ALL THE ABUSE
OF ALL THE LOST MOMENTS
OF ALL THE SPENT TRUTHS
DON'T WANNA BE YOUR CONFIDANT
DON'T WANNA BE YOUR FRIEND
STAY AWAY FROM ME WOMEN
YOUR DESIRE WILL BE MY END
SO AS I MARCH ON
STAY OUTTA MY WAY
I'M TIRED OF YOU WOMEN
GET AWAY FROM ME,
OK?
poem by Talile Ali
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Knowing you
Exhausted and tired, I met you,
All the right reasons I saw,
Asked for a hand you gave me both,
Called for care I received love,
Knowing you knowing love
Shivering without any hope,
I asked for warmth i got heat,
In your tender arms i rested,
Darling give me more
Knowing you is knowing love
You took me by the hand,
Whispered in my ear,
You called me to your side,
You loved so dearly,
Take my hand you will see,
Love is becoming us,
Knowing you is knowing love
Tell me you love me,
With words im healed,
With the gentle touch im in ecstacy,
Knowing you was a fortune,
Like a beggar finding gold,
Knowing you was knowing love
poem by Gaylord Munemo
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I Hear....
i hear the cry of a thousand naked voices.
i hear the sound of the turning wheels.
i hear the guns, and the moment after,
i hear the blood of bodies in the fields.
i hear the cry of babies without mothers,
i hear the hunger of faces without names.
i hear the whisper of god in the homeless,
the hearts of the poor in the falling rain.
i hear the truth beyond all lies,
i hear the hand that takes another.
i hear justice's cry for deliverance,
and the prayer of the stranger that is my brother.
i hear the hammer and wings of freedom,
i hear equality chanted and sang.
i hear the beat of life calling forward,
to dare, to give, tis not in vain!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Anemos Cries With The Wolf
The lightening clashes in the sky
thunder roars
rain crashes to the ground
dark clouds consume the all
a cursive wind blows
critters take warning
Luna has vanished
midnight is upon us
wind chimes sing
leaves dance in the wind to their tune
the anemoi are displeased
their howls echo
the wind has a mind of it's own
It calls to me
guides me
a wolf crawls from his den
as untamed as anemos
he cries to the moon
Sol soon begins to rise
breathless and tired
the wolf stumbles back to his den
and awaits another moonless night to sing his lonely song
poem by by unknown author
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Voices Of The Children
how many times will we turn to the wind
and hear the voices of the children?
how many bodies, how many graves,
before we forgive and are forgiven?
who makes the choice?
and who has the voice?
whose hand can stop the killing?
who defines liberty?
brings back community?
brings back the touch and the feeling?
and when will we know
they'll never be tomorrow
unless we live today?
will we find God in each other,
in our sisters and brothers,
in what we do and what we say?
how many times will we turn to the wind
and hear the voices of the children?
how many voices, how many graves?
before we forgive, and are forgiven!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Mother Nature Is Crying 'Why
WIND- why do you howl so?
is it because you want to be heard
of all the pain you feel.
or is it that you must have the last word.
TREE-why do they call you the weeping willow?
is it because you are tired of crying
for all of humanitys errors.
and need to rest your head 'on a soft pillow'.
RAIN- why do you not cry as often as you used to.
you leave the land parched and dry
and the human heart, with a heavy sigh.
RIVER- why does your mind not flow
as clear and clean as the white snow
which falls from the skies.
is it because you're tired of the lies.
ICE GLAZIERS- why does your heart melt so.
is it because mankind is moving so slow.
OCEANS- why is your heart so deep with pain
that you reject the wind and the rain.
MOTHER NATURE- is crying and we do
not see or hear,
and she is in constant fear.
fear that we are destroying her children
and all that they have to give.
she is like any mother crying
'let my children live'.
my children are here to give you all that you need
if you just plant the seed.
the seed of love and devotion
is the only magic potion.
poem by Louis Rams
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