Weeping... (Betrayed)
weeping...
i know the sound,
the feel, the taste.
the deep intensity
of storm laden skies.
the grey dust
on the building vacant.
the stink of human flesh,
when hunger ripens into need.
the death of oil tainted water,
and smoke choking out the air.
the sudden take of violence,
seems reason never justifies.
the cold clank of chains,
the sobbing dirt of endless fields.
the baby gasping for life
in a room designed by hate.
the old woman dying on a makeshift bed,
rats running across the floor.
the old man left alone,
to read books that resemble life.
the church empty, the alleys full,
the eyes staring at the ground
in the unemployment line.
the hand too poor to be touched,
the body too old to be loved.
the jack-o-lantern face of god,
in a world too stoned to know.
the rope hanging from the ceiling,
the silence when words run out...
weeping...
time betrayed by the hands of death!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Related quotes
Sacred Common Things
i wake to the sound of weeping,
only to find it's me,
weeping for the world.
i wake to the feel of my hands,
reaching out for other hands...
only to find it's god,
both reaching and taking.
i wake to the smell of fear,
in skies ridden by gunfire,
in alleys reeking with despair,
in children that stink of hunger.
i wake to the taste of longing,
to love and be loved...
and arise once again,
to do sacred common things!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Stolen Child
(wb yeats)
Come away, human child
To the water
Come away, human child
To the water and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand
For the worlds more full of weeping than you can understand
Where dips the rocky highland
Of sleuth wood in the lake
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There weve hid our faery vats
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen cherries
Come away, human child
To the water
Come away, human child
To the water and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand
For the worlds more full of weeping than you can understand
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light
Far off by furthest rosses
We foot it all the night
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep
Come away, human child
To the water
Come away, human child
To the water and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand
For the worlds more full of weeping than you can understand
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above glen-car
In pools among the rushes
The scarce could bathe a star
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
We give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams
Away with us hes going
The solemn-eyed:
Hell hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside;
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast
Or see the brown mice bob
Around and around the oatmeal-chest
For he comes, the human child
To the water
He comes, the human child
To the water and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand
From a world more full of weeping than he can understand
Human child
Human child
With a faery, hand in hand
From a world more full of weeping than he can understand...
Than he can understand...
He can understand...
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Final Question!
what's it going to take
for you to see me?
for the world to hear my voice?
to put a name to my face?
for time, and redemption,
and a reason for being?
what's it going to take
for me to die like a man?
what's it going to take
for my life to have value,
for my body to be a bridge?
for my soul to give shelter,
my spirit to cut through chains?
what's it going to take?
baby, what's it going to take?
what's it going to take
for me to bring forgiveness?
for the words that i sing
to bring healing and hope?
for my name to be everyman?
and everyman my reason to be?
for this bridge to be walked on,
this shelter to stand the storm?
what's it going to take
for this spirit to be your wings,
for my life to be worth dying?
and my death to bring life?
what's it going to take?
baby, what's it going to take?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Written With Nails (For Terence)
metal jacketed truth bullets
spat from the empty tomb
on the third day, ...
grave clothes lying empty.
human stink garbage sweat grime,
hands reaching for hands...
candles made of flesh,
matches of dried bones.
truth lightning gentle weeping sorrow,
food bowls held by shaking hands.
eyes that see, hearts that feel,
simply living, by the fire!
spiritual writings written with nails,
compassion's hammers, caring's shovel...
lifetimes building shelters,
and planting gardens for the poor!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Deviance
I embrace the darkness within
Forever serve beneath its hand
Horrid thoughts that surface to me
Ceremony bloods command
I will live through this forever
I have done the things you grieve
As you kneel before its evil
Death is here deep inside your
Skinned alive now naked
Terrorized no humanity
Seek salvation from an mia god
Empty vessels chanting for your death
Walk the streets beneath the shadows
Searching for a cryptic bride
Eat alive the conscience I hate
Without pain I watch you die
I will live through this forever
I have done the things you grieve
As you kneel before its evil
My face is the last you'll see
Soaked in blood the mask you wear
Haunting cries the dead scream for me
Staring eyes invoke no guilt
I can taste your mind your lifeless
Face the dead and dying
Feel your life drain
Through your soul
Seek salvation from an mia god
Empty vessels chanting for the dead
Death is yours
Your veins have dried
Staring eyes of glass now empty
Still you speak with lips so cold
In my head I hear you cry
God is dead can't save me
Taking lives with impunity
Resurrection of a deviant Christ
Feeding hate to capacity - deviance
song performed by by Slayer from God Hates Us All
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All The Same!
i am the illegal immigrant,
picking your fruit.
while my children are hungry,
and my wife scrubs your floors.
the young black man in your prison,
the anger of the poor.
i am the books,
you forbid us to read.
i am the Vietnamese family,
whose children speak english.
the young Sioux poet,
whose words sound like tears.
i am the white man's reservation,
and the white man's god....
the sound of the gas pump,
the feet of soldiers marching to death.
i am the grandson of the miner,
who never came out.
the body of the union organizer,
buried beneath rubble.
i am the picket line,
the cold floor of the cell.
i am the old woman who died,
alone in her nursing home bed.
the sound of the church bells,
on midnight's empty streets.
i am the needle and the crack pipe,
the sound of the window breaking.
i am the whistle of the train,
so near and so far.
i am the child adopted,
by two women in love.
i am the mission, the soup line,
and the shelter....
the body in the alley,
and no one cares.
i am the song of America,
i am the wind of freedom.
i am the torch of justice,
the bridge that has no name.
i am the god of many colors,
and all the same!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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To Find The Home!
i drink the cup
that is your flesh...
i revere your scars,
your bruises,
the stink of your heart.
the scent of your eyes,
the silence of your ears...
my tongue writes your body
on infinity's glass!
i listen for your voice
beneath the trees.
i feel your nearness
in the hoot of the owl.
i share your anguish
by the silent small fire....
the horse i ride,
bears your name.
i am the ghost of city streets,
the body left for the wolves
on the mountainside.
i am the air frozen with fear,
as the great bear stands
in magnificent fury.
you are the bridge,
the lantern, and the hound.
the purple struck sky
of sunset eternal.
the body that feels,
smells, and tastes like love...
the moan that stills the wind!
this distance but a paper veil,
a wisp of smoke,
the moment before and after.
the call of death,
the threshold of storm...
set the fire...
and walk away!
(sometimes you have to burn
the building down...
to find the home!)
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Listening
listening... for the sound
your hand makes when it touches mine...
for the words your eyes whisper
when you laugh...
for the song your heart sings,
and the prayer your sleeping body
becomes, pressed against mine.
for the sound of the cicadas
chanting in drunken rhythm...
for the boiling of beans
in my grandmother's kitchen.
for the crush of the bat
driving the ball deep into the gap.
for the gurgle of creekwater
running o'er a melon wedged tight.
for the sharp crack of the gun
and the bullets whistling overhead.
for the cry of the hungry baby
and the slap against his mother's face.
for the clank of the leg irons
across a cold concrete floor.
and the wail of the widow.
for the song of the workers
bent neath the sun in the field.
for the speech of the visionary
who already smells like death.
for the pounding of the oil rigs
raping the earth without feeling.
for the lies of the politician
stealing the souls of the people.
for the sound of hate's fists
pounding the gay boy to death.
for the scream of raging empty
when they bring a mother's boy home.
for the sound of the door,
closing for the last time.
for the memory of an old hymn,
calling from beyond the river.
listening... for the moan of lovers,
bodies slapping in the night.
for the wild beating of a heart
dissolving nameless into mine...
for the echo of something more
than a drink and a feeling...
that needs to breathe, to run, to fly,
and to dance
listening
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Fogging Up The Windows
the sound of a small child crying
hungry in the night
of a young woman sleepless
waiting for daylight
the sound of church bells ringing
not too far away
the sound of an old man dying
remembering how to pray
the sound of two hearts breaking
a thousand miles apart
of the last tear a fallin'
unseen in the dark
the sound of lifetimes wasted
of a love that didnt last
the sound of memories forgotten
of a time already past
can you hear?
can you hear?
a lone tree a fallin'
a hoot owl callin'
life and death, a lover's breath
fogging up the windows
of an empty room...
fogging up the windows
of an empty room...
the sound of the nails driven
into His screaming hands
the sound of salvation
entrusted to a man
the sound of bodies falling
of buildings swept by flame
the sound of different voices
whose souls are the same
can you hear?
can you hear?
a lone tree a fallin'
a hoot owl callin'
life and death, a lover's breath
fogging up the windows
of an empty room...
fogging up the windows
of an empty room....
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am..... (Feathered Wing)
i am the kiss of the feathered wing...
having no body i walk across oceans.
driven by ancestral blood i go deep in the mines,
listening for the voices of freedom.
i define hunger with faces and eyes,
i unload the gun, and tear down the idols.
i am the maker of mountains,
bare branches bringing forth leaves.
i am the winds of change,
the still small voice within.
i am the womb of the unborn child,
i am the casket, the forever dirt.
i am the groan of the lover left alone,
the shout of the old man's empty room.
i am the stink of poverty,
and the bitter taste of wealth.
i am money burning
on the altars of mankind.
i am the voice of the god
you no longer remember.
i am the touch that breaks down walls.
i am conversation without words,
i am black and white,
both male and female!
i am death unlike what you feared,
i am the bridge you're afraid to cross.
i am the pierced tongue,
and the language of birds.
i am the promised land
deep within you!
i am the wail of justice
during the height of the storm.
i am the storm, and the quiet that follows.
i am the end of human striving,
and the beginning of breath.
i am the price and the cost of condemnation.
i am the scriptures written in the grain of trees...
i am the hand that stills troubled waters.
i am nothing, came from nothing,
to nothing i return!
i am the sight that heals blindness,
the cure for the disease.
i am you...
evolving!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Forgotten Ones
The hopelessness that weighs heavy-
On the soul
Tears that fall from sunken eyes
Bearing witness to the hunger and disease
To the pain and the death
Of both the young and the old
Frail, fragile arms
Reach out from a lonely forsaken land
Where a true blessing would be
Clean water to quench their thirst
Where too many are suffering
And too few are willing
To lend a helping hand
In poverty and sickness,
The weak and starving lie
Trapped in a place
Where it's a struggle to live
And much too easy to die
Without a voice
To call for help
Given no choice
For what they've been dealt
Desperate prayers sent up from
A dark, cruel world
Words that are meant from the heart
For the mercy of the Lord
Wails from a broken body
Where death eagerly awaits
Swinging his sharp sword
A baby's painful cry
Haunts its Mother
In the agony of her last goodbye
Her dying child staring up at her
A gaze without innocence or trust
Only fearful and betrayed eyes
Existing in such endless, utter despair
Beneath the unrelenting, scorching sun
I can hear the pleas of these poor,
Precious souls
They are the Forgotten ones
poem by Erika Wingo
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A death gap
Death is stop gap arrangement between life and non life
It may not spare anybody including husband and wife
It is new beginning for another birth somewhere else
We think so much unnecessarily in this regard and remain tense
This is the only weapon God has created to deter
The word it self may not be liked or taste sweeter
It brings gloom all of sudden and person is taken back
It breaks him from within and develops some crack
It may not go well to match with our thinking
It may give shock waves and send you sinking
Everybody is helpless and watch it with surprise
You can see them weeping at their dear one’s demise
It is very hard for them to believe in such tragic end
They will always wish for death to foes and not to friends
When it boomerangs on them they feel helpless and cry
When death can’t spare any one then why to feel shy?
The death binds people together and makes them believe in religion
It is not confined to any particular placed or region
It is universal and has its implications in different way
No matter how much may be the influential man but he has no say
It binds person to remain attached to some faith
Religion books or preaching provide him knowledge about death
It is very important for us to know then meaning of life as human
The death fear is paramount and is considered as real but common
Science has progressed so much to create parallel
They might have developed skill and excelled
No one has produced scheme to revive the dead
The message is loud and clear and must be read
The death is certain and bound to happen anytime
You may escape unhurt once in life time
It is caution signal for you to wake up
You should not consider it miracle or storm in tea cup
It may pick you up at anytime and from anywhere
Life has uncertain and has to end some where
It is said that good work may speak for itself
The philosophical answer for it is deep like sea shelf
You may want to perform so many things at a time
You may set course in action and consider it prime
Your internal desire may proved to be an oasis water
It may fail to meet your aspiration or needs to cater
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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I Am... (Window Bare)
i am...
words spoken with dark skinned hunger,
battles fought in the realm of the heart.
right and wrong that convicts the motive.
the smell and the feel of all that is common.
the question asked in the silent church.
the blood spillt on the courthouse steps.
the language of factories, mills, and shifts.
the cast iron skillet well seasoned.
the field plowed, the seeds planted.
the man standing against the angry mob.
the body hanging from the gnarled old oak.
the prison cell, the stink of fear.
the lovers lost inside each other,
the old woman staring at dishes just washed.
the haunting whisper of buildings vacant.
the old man's body found three days later.
the fury of the neon streets,
the deal made, the blade withdrawn.
the soldier come home to homelessness.
the farm foreclosed by the unseen bank.
death and life, and faded jeans,
the lone rose wilting in the window bare!
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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Death, Inevitable Death
Death, inevitable Death.
So now You come to show Your world,
Hence the blackened cloak – unfurled.
And peering down upon my form
– Bereft of pity – Your eyes of storm.
Death, inexorable Death.
‘When? ’ The only question out of Thee.
My dream retorts 'But ne’er for me! ’
But now awake, I bid you so –
My giving tears cry ‘Where to go? ’
Death, adamant Death.
You cast Your spell and guide me 'way,
For life and I have had our day.
And what of me? I prey You, tell!
Be glorious in Heaven or gnarled in Hell?
Death, ineluctable Death.
Oh wiry ghoul, I'm here to follow –
I leave my body grey and shallow.
‘Come! ’ You bid in thund’ring tones,
‘Beg farewell to shattered bones.’
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
Death
Death death
Death death death
Death death death death
Death death death death death
Death death death death death death death death
Death death death death death death death death
Death death death death death
Death death death death
Death death death
Death death
Death
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Stolen Child
Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that dropp their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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I do not want to be your weeping woman
I do not want to be your weeping woman
holding you to me with a chain of grief.
I could more easily bear the flames of your anger
than the frost of your kisses empty of desire:
I do not want to be your gentle lover
dragging you to me on a rope of pity.
Sooner that you never touched me than that you ever
should touch me from a distance made of mercy:
I do not want to be your silent mother
always forgiving and smiling and never loving.
If you forget me, forget me utterly. Never
come to my arms without interest: I shall know it:
I do not want to be your weeping woman
pinning you to me with a sword of tears.
I do not want to be your weeping woman.
poem by Alison Boordson
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Throw Down A Line
Throw down a line, help a poor boy
Whos drowning in the stormy sea
Throw down a line, help a poor boy
Whos hanging in a nowhere tree
Have you got a place for me
Men are tied in chains of silence
I look on violence, up, down, left and right
Is there no hope of light
The peaceful hand that once caressed me
Hurts like the rest, because its turned to stone
Talons of steel have grown
Throw down a line, help a poor boy
Whos drowning in the stormy sea
Throw down a line, help a poor boy
Whos hanging in a nowhere tree
Have you got a place for me
Yeah, oh help me, yeah
Throw down a line, help a poor boy
Whos drowning in the stormy sea
Throw down a line, help a poor boy
Whos hanging in a nowhere tree
Have you got a place for me
See the moon, its getting nearer
But no more clearer than the earth below
What do we really know
I feel the stab of pain returning
Despair is burning in my heart again
Why dont they see the end, ooooh
Throw down a line, help a poor boy
Whos drowning in the stormy sea
Yeah, throw down a line, help a poor boy
Whos hanging in a nowhere tree
Have you got a place for me
Throw down a line, help a poor boy
Whos drowning in the stormy sea
Yeah, throw down a line, help a poor boy
Whos hanging in a nowhere tree
Have you got a place for me
song performed by by Cliff Richard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ways
hey mrs fields, why do you look so sad
is the whole world gone mad or is it still a strawberry-cake
how i wish to kiss your sweet, sweet lips
to share your blissfulness
it made me feel like floating on a cloud
im talking to you soon
theres so much left to say
on a crystal winters day...
and the snowflakes outside show a million ways
show a million days in their dance
and the wind blows them on and carries them away
into anywhere from moment to moment
hey mrs grey, tell me what would you say
if i turned on the sun and poured all the colours down on you
would you smile and say its alright
i can see the light at the end of the tunnel
and then wed face the sky, sitting side by side
going very far to a distant star...
and the snowflakes outside...
i can tell by the sound of your voice
and i can tell by the look of your eyes
there must be something goin wrong in your life
but please, please believe me, baby, im by your side
theres so much left to do, so much left to say in a million ways
theres so much to be seen, so much to be touched, so much to be loved
take my hand and come out to play ..
theres so much left to do
for me and for you...
theres so much to be loved
please, come back
dont walk into the dark
hey mrs fields, why do you look so sad
is the whole world gone mad or is it still a strawberry-cake
how i wish to kiss your sweet, sweet lips
to share your blissfulness
it made me feel like living anew
im talking to you soon
theres so much to be done
when the winters gone...
and the snowflakes outside...
theres so much left to do, so much left to say in a million ways
theres so much to be seen, so much to be touched, so much to be loved
take my hand and come out to play...-acap
song performed by by Alphaville
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Are.... (Part Two)
you are....
the grey damp lines,
beneath the eyes of my heart.
words intimately spoken,
falling on an empty room.
the broken wheel,
left spinning in the dust.
the letter carried by crows,
to the snowbound north.
you are...
the faucet dripping,
the candle hidden in a drawer.
the sound of the spoon,
falling to the floor.
that pair of old shoes,
and a copper kettle.
the smell of perfume,
become the stink of time.
you are....
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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