What We've Clinged To.... (Only Straw)
this body, made of straw,
now empty, blown by the wind.
leaving only the faint scent of eggs,
the echoed imprint of wings.
no more, and no less,
than the branch, than the tree,
than the memory of sunlight,
and the haunt of rain.
freedom sheds its bark,
god is buried beneath leaves...
perhaps only snow can transform.
only voices linger,
nay it be not names!
while squirrels devour the nuts
of a thousand passions!
nests be not wings, nor beak or talon...
what we've clinged to is only straw!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Behind The Final Curtain
it is then only this....
the bark peeled from the ancient tree.
the yowl of the cat in hunger,
the slap of wings against gone.
tis the height of passion;
i have turned my deepest colors,
yet my dreams have begun to fall...
i cant stop them.
and the sound of voices like hammers on tin,
be the bottle broken before it hits.
when memory becomes history,
and tired clouds wink and disappear.
the setting sun tastes of vinegar,
as smoke rises in wistful plumes.
and beliefs crawl in empty nests,
while squirrels madly drink and die.
as holiness runs like rain,
down the trunk and into the ground.
the sacred dance of the senses,
while lovers touch in secret closets.
and the world pregnant with desire,
waits behind the final curtain!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Conversations With Hune
who names the flower a flower,
and the weed a weed?
and are not names
cardboard boxes
meant for the fire?
from the womb of darkness,
the sun reborn again and again...
each time with different faces,
different fingers, different hands...
or perhaps we see with different eyes!
do we speak the truth?
or doth the truth speak us?
perhaps 'we' are an illusion,
and there be only truth.
or perhaps truth is an illusion...
and we are only what we are...
what we are...
nameless particles of namelessness...
forms of the formless,
formless by nature.
words spoken by word,
or not spoken at all...
leaves fallen from the tree,
nests of straw left empty...
the sound one wing makes without the other,
the way air cries beaten by wings...
the sound the tree makes
when cut through by the saw...
the scream as it falls!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Birds' Nests
he summer nests uncovered by autumn wind,
Some torn, others dislodged, all dark,
Everyone sees them: low or high in tree,
Or hedge, or single bush, they hang like a mark.
Since there's no need of eyes to see them with
I cannot help a little shame
That I missed most, even at eye's level, till
The leaves blew off and made the seeing no game.
'Tis a light pang. I like to see the nests
Still in their places, now first known,
At home and by far roads. Boys knew them not,
Whatever jays and squirrels may have done.
And most I like the winter nests deep-hid
That leaves and berries fell into:
Once a dormouse dined there on hazel-nuts,
And grass and goose-grass seeds found soil and grew.
poem by Edward Thomas
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An Afterthought!
even stone shudders,
groans and cracks...
shifting on it's axis,
changing!
squirrels find erections,
and name them trees...
homes that reach to infinity,
beds fulls of nuts!
only people build houses
out of things dead...
feeling safe in the numbness
of walls that cant touch!
ah! but birds build nests
out of straw discarded...
waiting for angels to fill their wings
with stardust and magic!
and if god created breasts,
rainbows, and sunsets...
then rainbows and sunsets
were an afterthought!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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All birds must be by now back in their nests
All birds must be by now back in their nests
Sharing with their offsprings
The experiences of the day
And feeding them
With the fruits, nuts and worms
Selectively gathered
With love and care
So that they grow
And soon become strong and skilled enough
To fly on their own wings
They would have started teaching
Their young ones
How to mend the nests
Which twig would go where
Which spongy feather would go where
So that all can have a comfortable sleep
Telling the stories of the past
How the eggs those hatched them
Were protected from invaders
And how they were waiting for these young wonders
Come out breaking the shell
That housed them and helped them shape
Also cautioning them against
Dangerous hungry invaders
With the scheme to devour them
And not to venture into the wind
Before they are trained adequately
In spreading the wings
And in perching on branches
Without the fear of fall
Mom, you did not get us the fruits of this tree
A query from a young one
And mom said, wait two more weeks let the tree flower
And blossom with its orange flowers
Fruits appear within a month
Mom is living is just struggling
No, the dear one
Living is a challenge
Successful living is facing them with joy
Regardless of your overcoming
Or succumbing to the challenge
A clear demonstration of care and love
All birds must be by now in their nests
I am waiting at the local rail station
For the next train towards home
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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Tired of Nuts
If by birth I was a squirrel
With dreams someday I'd speak.
I would not spend time
Jumping from tree to tree
Or staring at birds searching worms
Pecked from the ground and pulled with beaks.
I'd gather all my nuts to munch,
And practice vowels from a branch...
'A-E-I-O-U' I'd do,
Adopting fresh skills to enhance!
And I would do this out loud, of course...
To keep stunned squirrels aware,
I had heights I wanted to achieve
And sights other than nuts to bite...
Before the season dropped their leaves from trees!
And visions of speeches,
To prepare and teach...
More squirrels I knew who grew tired of nuts,
Too close without a challenge to reach.
And 'that' I would suspect from a hunch!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Winter With a Question
The aging trees will creak and groan
To find themselves ringed by frost in sleep
And snow by the wind already blown
Cast upon snow already deep.
The cold is echoed only by silence all,
And the leaves of Autumn entombed in white
At the place where leaves fall
And passing time, vanish from sight.
Who is it that judges these—
Sends leaves beneath the snow
And trees to shiver alongside trees? —
And where do they go?
poem by Ronny Self
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Just A Poem...
i am not a poet,
i am just a poem,
that the poet has not finished!
i am a block of wood
awaiting the master carver...
i am a river,
tugging at the dam!
i am straw strewn beneath the tree,
that once held the eggs of hope.
i am rice cooking on the stove,
the dirty face of the hungry child.
i am snow waiting in total silence,
the hymn of the turning leaves.
i am winter, by god,
on the stoop of spring,
i am was, is, and will be!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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First Straw
Oh a whole new way of looking at things
The way you react to phone rings
The way it feels when you just let it flow
Sometimes I wonder just how it could be
You take every bit before we see it off the rails
I think that you should know
You never cease to amaze me
You keep me from going crazy
And that's one thing I know for sure
Sometimes I see just how it all will be
Take every bit it's so easy the first straw
And this I know for sure
The first straw
So small it seemed impossible
The next straw
Vanished like shooting stars that fall
The last straw
There's no reason for getting there at all
Yeah
No reason to take it there at all
Yeah
The last straw can land in your mix
Your best day could be apocalypse
Nobody pay attention to the first straw
It seems the last one is all we ever saw
The first straw's a metaphore I pick up myself
It tells me something by showing me something else
I think that you should know
The first straw
So small it seemed impossible
The next straw
Vanished like shooting stars that fall
The last straw
There's no reason for getting there at all
Yeah
No reason to take it there at all
Yeah
Everyone reacts when it gets to the weight of breaking their back
I won't let that be us cause the long side never gave back
Yeah
The first straw
So small it seemed impossible
The next straw
Vanished like shooting stars that fall
The last straw
There's no reason for getting there at all
Yeah
The first straw
So small it seemed impossible
The next straw
Vanished like shooting stars that fall
The last straw
There's no reason for getting there at all
Yeah
song performed by by 311
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Forest Magic
I've stood here for a thousand years
the wind my breath, the rain my tears
My skin is bark, the leaves my hair,
From here I can see everywhere.
My wings they span the universe
The Cosmic tide of ebb and flow
Like graceful birds in joyful flight
And crystal dreams of purest snow.
The Fox tickles his way
around my roots,
'The food is all down here', he says
'You cannot see, you are too tall!
Your leaves don't touch the ground 'til Fall!
Everything worthwhile escapes your notice...'
But the Eagle,
nesting there high on my brow
can tease the wind with his feathers somehow...
and glides through the clouds to mock me.
'A pity to reach enormous girth, '
he taunts in his unfettered mirth,
'From here, I see the arc of earth,
while you stay far below'.
A wistful doe she grazes,
Beneath my mighty bough,
She tests the air,
For scents unknown,
In search of what she fears,
For if she isn't careful
The hunter might be near.
Slowly edging forward,
Unaware of her own fate,
Will she meet with sudden end,
Or find her precious mate?
Just then a faerie came awake,
Upon My highest branch,
She sighed the breath of wistfulness,
And did a joyful dance.
poem by Lynne FincherSpringarden
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In The Small Things...
it is in the small things that we die,
in the breath of cardboard boxes,
and the silent scream of forgotten things.
in the scent of pine needles fresh fallen,
and the sound of the creek crossing rocks.
in bat droppings, and abandoned nests of straw....
in smoke curled into the candle.
in squirrels' prayers to fading light,
and the sound of tires on an endless road.
in clouds hanging just above the treetops,
in the single chime of the church bell.
in the broom sweeping the floor of the soup kitchen,
in old men telling lies and shuffling to keep warm.
in the baby curled against the breast,
in the letter never finished.
in the faces of god on milk cartons,
in the wino pissing in the alley.
in the 'i love you' that you choked on,
and the silence that replays.
in the coffee pot singing hymns,
and gravestones whispering to each other.
in the empty barracks and unloaded guns,
in the bare limb tree that still believes.
in the thunder of the butterfly's wings,
in the wrinkles on the old man's face.
in the forgotten nails of the abandoned house,
in the footfall of forever's ghosts
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Self Portrait
The willow tree stands alone.
It grows alone, relying only on the Sun and the Rain.
This willow tree offers shade.
It only shades during the day, casting a monster
of a shadow in the mornings and evenings,
its size shrinking in between. Its shadow
is solid in some places, but has empty
places of sunlight dotting the ground beneath
it, allowing room for purity among the darkness.
This willow tree is immune to the Wind.
It bends whichever way it needs to survive,
sacrificing its tiny leaves to be carried away.
This willow tree is a home.
Small birds build nests on its branches,
laying eggs that will bring new Life to the World.
The nest is supported. Some things of little
weight can be supported, but anything that drags
the branches too close to the ground
will be dropped so the tree can be saved.
This willow tree is weak.
As it grows, its branches come closer and closer
to the ground, for it cannot support the weight
of itself anymore. It cannot help its own soul.
With one swing of an ax, the tree will be felled.
It will be finished, left there to be eaten
and burrowed in and rotted away by the Earth.
poem by Zoe Guillory
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Sent By Sparrows...
if i undress your eyes very gently,
will i find the last vestiges of fire?
did the great wings of hunger
scar the skies of your soulless darkness?
is the screech of the owl
hidden in your tight numbed lips?
does the snail trail of my body,
still cling to your need in the moonlight?
must my fingers fumble with the latch,
and my footprints haunt your sleeplessness?
or am i just the tree that fell
in the fury of the storm?
am i the leaf floating on the still pond?
the things i buried in the small wooden box,
that night beneath the willow.
perhaps among them were you and i....
will the spiders resurrect us?
if i am dead then let it be,
for what's given is what remains.
and the small imprint on your pillow
that smells faintly of me,
is just a bad dream sent by sparrows!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Blown By The Wind
(bairnson)
All along the shoreline
There are footprints by the sea
They head into the distance...
Then they lead right back to me
I made the break to freedom
Now Im following the dream
Youre never going to get here
If you hold the old routine
Now everything we possess
That fills our empty lives
Is only good for leaving far behind
We are blown by the wind
Just like clouds in the sky
We dont know where were going,
Dont know why
We just ride with the wind
And well drive through the rain
We dont where well get to
Or if well get back again
Call along the valley
And you just may find us there
I couldnt say for certain
Cause we may be anywhere
Head into the sunset
Or just wander out to sea
Wherever your heart leads you
Is the place youre meant to be
And someone who could be impressed
With ordinary lies
Could really use a little peace of mind
We are blown by the wind
Just like clouds in the sky
We dont know where well go,
But well get by
We just ride with the wind
And well drive through the rain
We dont where well get to
Or if well get back again
Now everything we possess
That fills our empty lives
Is only good for leaving far behind
We are blown by the wind
Just like clouds in the sky
We dont know where were going,
Dont know why
We just ride with the wind
And well drive through the rain
We dont where well get to
Or if well get back again
Vocals eric stewart
Guitars ian bairnson
Drums stuart elliott
Bass john giblin
Keyboards gary sanctuary
song performed by by Alan Parsons Project
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Waiting For the Snow
Waiting for the Snow
When the leaves turn golden
And the geese fly south
Where will I be?
When the wind turns cold
And the bear is in hiding
Where will I be?
When the streams are frozen
And the rabbits’ color turning
Where will I be?
When the leaves begin to fall
And the northern cardinals stay
Where will I be?
When the nuts fall down
And squirrels store walnuts
Where will I be?
When the corn is harvested
And the deer seek shelter
Where will I be?
When the grass is brown
And the pheasants are flying
Where will I be?
I will be riding before the wind
And winging t’ward the sun
Flying from the snow
I will be waiting for spring
And sleeping till then
Hiding from the snow
I will be hiding till I’m white
And searching the ground for food
Waiting for the snow
I will be looking for berries
And singing merrily
Waiting for the snow
I will be saving acorns
And jumping form tree to tree
Waiting for the snow
I will be searching fields for corn
And hiding in thickets
Waiting for the snow
I will be hiding under grass
And calling out loud
Waiting for the snow
The Fifteen Acres
I
I cling and swing
On a branch, or sing
Through the cool, clear hush of Morning, O!
Or fling my wing
On the air, and bring
To sleepier birds a warning, O!
That the night's in flight,
And the sun's in sight,
And the dew is the grass adorning, O!
And the green leaves swing
As I sing, sing, sing,
Up by the river,
Down the dell,
To the little wee nest,
Where the big tree fell,
So early in the morning, O!
II
I flit and twit
In the sun for a bit
When his light so bright is shining, O!
Or sit and fit
My plumes, or knit
Straw plaits for the nest's nice lining, O!
And she with glee
Shows unto me
Underneath her wings reclining, O!
And I sing that Peg
Has an egg, egg, egg,
Up by the oat-field,
Round by the mill,
Past the meadow,
Down the hill,
So early in the morning, O!
III
I stoop and swoop
On the air, or loop
Through the trees, and then go soaring, O!
To group with a troop
On the gusty poop
While the wind behind is roaring, O!
I skim and swim
By a cloud's red rim
And up to the azure flooring, O!
And my wide wings drip
As I slip, slip, slip,
Down through the rain-drops,
Back where Peg
Broods in the nest
On the little white egg,
So early in the morning, O!
poem by James Stephens
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Carrion's Redolent Ululations
Beneath the wings of the ravine condor
Perched upon my dislocated shoulders
And in the scraping of its scaled talon
I found myself a lackluster prey
Already devoured by drifting webs
Of the starlight's tale; a carrion
Putrefied in believing and unbelieving
And submitting only to an immolation
Sating verve in embedding roots
In the lost fathoms of a parliament
Digressing the fear that hones a man
Into what a lion would have become
Perhaps, averting deaths in cognizant places
And taking leisure upon cheap ryes
Spewed to sedate the thorough wile
Have I made a shack, shabby or not,
In this derided chance of slipping away?
With the died-out leaves of summer breeze
Have I made enough drivels to ignite
And char myself again in the gravels?
As the clock never swallows itself
And the sun never sleeps with its eyes
How do I subsist this hunger game?
When time would reach the dock
And the ships sail its oars to different currents
Is it suffice that I have been present?
Would that compensate the lack of life?
As I avert the eyes of the scavenger
Have I defeated the malingerer?
Should I nourish the famished land
Buried beneath the taut and thinning ice?
Ephemeral as everything goes
How do I learn to satisfy
And molt wings apt to circumnavigate
The same plane where you linger?
poem by Norman Santos
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Broken Wings
Broken wings
Broken wings
Twirls in ballroom gowns
Echos of glory
And reminders of things lost
Broken wings
Broken wings
Only feet to help carry on now
A thousand voices
Singing the same song
Broken wings
Broken wings
Feathers litter the ground
Where the proud used to stand
Where only broken wings remain
poem by Autumn Winds
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Shortest Straw
Suspicion is your name
Your honesty to blame
Put dignity to shame
Dishonor
Witchhunt, modern day
Determining decay
The blatant disarray
Disfigure
The public eyes' disgrace
Defying common place
Unending paper chase
Unending
Deafening
Painstaking
Reckoning
This vertigo it doth bring
Shortest straw
Challenge liberty
Downed by law
Live in infamy
Rub you raw
Witchhunt riding through
Shortest straw
This shortest straw has been pulled for you
Pulled for you
Shortest straw
Pulled for you
Shortest straw
Pulled for you
Shortest straw
Shortest straw has been pulled for you
The accusations fly
Discrimination, why?
Your inner self to die
Intruding
Doubt sunk itself in you
It's teeth and talons through
You're living catch-22
Deluding
A mass hysteria
A megalomania
Reveal dementia
Reveal
Secretly
Silently
Certainly
In vertigo you will be
Shortest straw
Challenge liberty
Downed by law
Live in infamy
Rub you raw
Witchhunt riding through
Shortest straw
This shortest straw has been pulled for you
Pulled for you
Shortest straw
Pulled for you
Shortest straw
Pulled for you
Shortest straw
Shortest straw has been pulled for you
Shortest straw
Pulled for you
Shortest straw
Pulled for you
Shortest straw
Pulled for you
Shortest straw
Shortest straw has been pulled for you
Behind you, hands are tied
Your being, ostracized
Your hell is multiplied
Upending
The fallout has begun
Oppressive damage done
Your many turned to none
To nothing
You're reaching your nadir
Your will has disappeared
The lie is crystal clear
Defending
Channels red
One word said
Blacklisted
With vertigo make you dead
Shortest straw
Challenge liberty
Downed by law
Live in infamy
Rub you raw
Witchhunt riding through
Shortest straw
This shortest straw has been pulled for you
song performed by by Metallica
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Between My Horse's Wings (Expanded)
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
The wind rushing forcefully
Through my long dark hair
The feel of the cool air
Beneath the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy
The muscles work powerfully
To drive us into the night
The stars wink like little lights
Above the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
As I ride over the ocean and sea
My muscles tense as I hold
My skin red from the windy cold
Flowing past the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
I revel in this dangerous ecstasy
A silvery mane blows in my face
Blown back, by the wind we race
Born on by the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
As we fly through the air swiftly
My face is lifted toward the sky
Arms outstretched, wind rushing by
The beating of the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
Faster and faster, we seem to fly
The wind tugging at my body
As I look to the heavenly bodies
Shining on the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
My horse flies gracefully
Over the fields and streams
Are these things only my dreams?
Sitting between the horse’s wings