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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Empty Hands
He rode in town on a white horse
With nothing in his hands
He came to gather his people
And take them to their promised land
When he came he knew there would be bloodshed
But still no violence made his plans
He came to fight in a battle
With no guns or money
But with his empty hands
With his empty hands
With his empty hands
With his empty hands
They said hey boy what you lookin'at
As they eyed his dreaded mane
He said my father has sent me
I've come back to reclaim
The children whose hearts
Were so whole and pure
Now it's you who'll die in pain
So they lynched the man
Who fooled the word
And all the children gathered
In his empty hands
In his empty hands
The children ..... empty hands
In his empty hands
With his empty hands
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
song performed by by Lenny Kravitz from Let Love Rule
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Our Hands
My hands once warm,
And clothed in yours,
my hands once full,
and held in yours.
Empty hands,
Cold hands,
my hands have lost their,
Partner as you once were for me,
Your hands at once rough,
and soft,
Always gentle when in mine,
our hands would meet to fill the cold,
My hands now empty cover tears,
my hands once warm now with
a freezing touch,
your hands are gone,
the warmth they held has left,
these hands of mine.
poem by Rebecca Adams
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Walking With The Lover...
walking with the Lover...
i see empty fields plowed,
come alive with crops abundant.
empty factory buildings filled
with the ghosts of hard working lives.
empty houses lit up,
and the sounds of families.
empty hands given cups and bowls,
empty hearts held close!
empty words given meaning,
empty promises fulfilled.
walking with the Lover...
touching the plenty of empty!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Dreamed.... (Hands)
i dreamed last night...
and all i could see were hands.
sometimes hard and calloused,
sometimes soft and feminine.
skilled hands, laborer's hands,
loving hands, nurturing hands....
fingers digging in the dirt,
fingers holding a pen.
fingers playing a piano,
fingers unbuttoning blouses.
hands extended, hands gripping the rope,
hands holding the shovel,
hands covered with resin.
hands folded in prayer,
hands balled into fists.
hands stuffed in empty pockets.
hands that define both history,
and destiny!
hands scarred and bruised,
hands covered with age spots.
hands that speak many languages.
hands that know mistakes, and failures.
hands that built fires,
hands that put fires out!
hands that wiped away tears,
that picked up trash,
and revealed souls....
whose hands?
my hands, your hands?
god's hands?
does it really matter?
hands engaged and involved,
in the very act of living!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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My mother's hands
My mother had thick, wide, hands,
callused from years of hard work.
I used to like to hold them,
feel their strength and warmth
Those were the hands that cared,
caressed and held her me close.
Those were the hands that scrubbed
and washed, cooked for us and nursed.
My mother had beautiful hands
and would paint her nails light pink.
They were warm, artistic hands
that could crochet well and knit.
Those were the hands that created,
made beautiful shawls and clothes.
Those were the hands that altered dresses
I wore ‘til they were old.
My mother had beautiful hands
that cooked and cleaned and scrubbed,
and within the things that those hands did
were bundles and bundles of love.
poem by Ruth Walters
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One, Two, One... For You
the dust in the empty pockets
of the poor man,
walking home from work.
the plowed field just planted,
at the feet of sun and rain.
the simple house built by hand,
lifetimes written into the walls.
the last touch, the last kiss,
the moment never forgotten....
hearts wrapped in hearts,
live and die as one...
one set of footprints,
one name on the stone.
one set of wings,
one fire, one clap of thunder.
two words spoken, two empty vases.
one heart, one hawk flying,
two hands times two,
one dream!
two sparrows part,
one nest, and one tree!
two sides, two faces...
one memory!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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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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Truth Is
Truth is the Magpie’s morning call
Answering the Tui from the bush
The sound of wind in yellowed grass
Shaking leaves from autumn’s trees
Truth is a dropp of wine
Running down an empty glass
Rich red and scented as
That love I once held dear
Truth in a lover’s gentle touch
That calls response from body/mind.
Truth is a pillowed breast
Unconditional share of being
Hidden places of the dark
Glowing softly within.
Truth is a young child’s smile
Lifting arms in simple trust
In the world as they see their place
Warmth, food and love
Truths are all these, and more
Truth is what you think perceive and feel
Truth is what you make of it
Truth is.
poem by Thomas Golding
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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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These Hands
Given by God -are these hands!
One can do many things -with these hands
With love one can help a strangers' hands-
Allay and comfort the elders' gnarled hands
Clean sweep and mop with these hands
Decorate and embellish with these hands
Cook and serve food to all with these hands
Clasp a loved one with these hands
Applaud one with pleasure with these hands
Dig the soil and form a garden with these hands
Hold a book to read with these hands
Write and post a card with these hands
Type a poem to cheer someone with these hands
Draw a picture and sew clothes with these hands
Paint a beautiful scene to amuse with these hands
Play a game of volley ball or cricket with these hands
Swim the waters and row a boat with these hands
Pick the harvests and fruits with these hands
Feed the animals and birds with these hands
Seek the warmth of dear ones with these hands
Feel the soft petals of a flower with these hands
Fold the palms to pray with these hands
Given by God - are these hands!
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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Five Sacred Truths
nonviolence...
hands open and empty,
hearts open and given.
bodies laid before feet,
spirit given for direction.
no gun, no hatred,
no fear, no greed...
can put out the light
of compassion!
truth...
accepting nothing less,
settling for nothing less...
at all costs, without hesitation.
freedom...
has to be for all
to be for one!
equality, diversity,
responsibility...
community, family!
sacred...
all that lives,
formed by the formless...
respect and awareness.
communicate...
real people using real ears
to listen, real hearts to feel,
real hands to reach out,
real souls to stand by!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Truth About Jesus
what made Jesus
the force that changed
history forever?
was it His death on
the cross? or was it
His life, the way He lived?
He dared to live compassion
with human hands... knowing
the risk, He took it....
He knew that all lives
are connected... and lived
what He knew to be true....
'the kingdom of heaven
within you...'
His death merely an extension
of His life... the final step
of a long journey....
'the way, the truth, and the life...'
compassion, compassion, compassion...
God's hands are human!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Justice, Equality, Compassion, Human!
i spit hammers and nails,
can taste bullets and swords.
my eyes are the bodies
of the innocent that lay dying.
my fingers touch the ribs
of small children starving.
my tongue's made of coal dust,
oil, and death by profit!
my ears hear the cry of freedom
from the cells of the oppressor.
my heart sleeps neath the bridge
with the homeless family at night.
my fists smash the lie and the liar both,
my arms carry the weight
of the working class's lives.
covered with the stink of poverty,
i shed the clothes of pretensions,
apathy, and human greed.
and my desire grows hard
when i see a better day...
my back bears the stripes
of man's mistakes and failures...
i cry justice, i am equality,
i breathe compassion, i am human!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Human Statement!
i dont do churches
with stained glass windows
and pews, and copper plates
held by hands beckoning salvation...
my church is lined by trees,
with great rolling hills,
wild animals roam freely,
birds fly overhead!
i dont do dogma,
hellfire and damnation....
we speak compassion
with silent voices!
our prayers are hands,
reaching out to help,
with eyes that see sameness,
and hearts that have ears....
knowing that we are what
we do and have done....
there is no coincidence,
nothing happens by chance.
if you want to know that
God is real, if you want
to see God...
look in the eyes
of another human being!
the path to salvation,
the path to being human!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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16 Penny Nails!
strong harsh words,
16 penny nails driven
by a big hammer....
truth tears at the flesh
of the lie and the liar!
things arent pretty anymore.
hurt is real!
homeless is real!
jobless is real!
hunger is real!
the streets are real!
prison is real!
prejudice, oppression,
hatred, violence....
people used, and thrown away!
persecution... over religion,
over sexual choice,
over political viewpoints....
wars fought over oil fields,
riot squads beating peaceful protestors...
women losing the rights
to their own bodies....
lonliness, suicide, drug addiction....
a harsh picture, faces put on bodies....
and yet beneath it all
there still lies a beauty...
all human beings, all human beings,
made in the image of God!
how can we not respect each other?
and how can we overlook....
the value of life?
with trembling hands wiping away
the blood, sweat, and urine of life...
trembling hands that when joined
become the hands of prayer!
16 penny nails, with heart!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Scriptures
i read the scriptures written in human faces,
in calloused hands, in bruises and scars.
in the spider's web, in the trail of the snail.
in the pot stained with use,
in the axe and the plow.
in the old woman's silence,
in the broken window.
in worn out boots, and the broken lock.
in the gravel drive,
in the eyes of the hungry....
in the fear of those oppressed by war.
in the dead squirrel's body,
in the nest left empty.
in the prisoner staring
through a window barred.
in the old man's chair,
a dog's turd and a hill of ants.
in the fallen leaf,
in the empty room.
in solitude and stillness,
in the prayer of lonliness.
in trash strewn in the alley,
in the grave unmarked.
in the truth of doubt,
in a puddle of rainwater.
in fresh cut grass,
in the cow fresh milked.
in the lover's touch,
in the dialogue of silence.
in the shovel, the hammer, and the flute.
in the grain of the old tree,
and the woman giving birth...
let us speak of nothing less!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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My heart is my hands
My hands
Is
Only my hands...
Not for
your hands....
So...
I want too work
My hands...
I want too serve
My hands...
I want to do about
Somthing of my
Hands...
My hands is
Free for only
Sleeping time only...
my hands is
working all the times
My hands not only
Hands...
It is human workers...
Allways for my friends...
My hands...is my heart...
My heart is my hands.....
Ok...How is your hands...?
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Day Is Done
nuclear fission, sins of omission,
hide your eyes, buy the lies!
hearts gone numb, minds struck dumb,
the flesh dies, stink and flies.
roll down the window, just past tomorrow,
trading souls, fighting for control.
politicians kiss and tell, on the road to hell,
the fire gone cold, nothing left to hold.
broken down, running on empty.
packs of wolves roam the cities.
children's bodies down in the alleys,
nowhere to run, day is done!
nowhere to run, day is done!
the curse of invasion, profitable occasions.
fly the flag, drums and bodybags.
different shades and colors, forgotten brothers,
it's easier to kill, than it is to feel!
the cries and the voices, ghosts of our choices,
rome burns, with every turn!
poverty's needle, almost inconceivable,
blood on the hands, blood on the hands.
broken down, running on empty.
packs of wolves roam your cities.
children's bodies down in the alleys,
nowhere to run, day is done!
nowhere to run, day is done!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Empty
try looking at my hands
they are empty now
for i have released
what fullness was there
what fist
what clenched hands i had
once they were so
beautiful
in bravery
but
then
there is always a threshold
of courage
suddenly you find hands opening
to the sun
hands without a grip
hands that wave goodbye
to all your friends
hands that
grasp nothing.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Tomb Is Empty
Face it friend, the tomb is empty; death couldn’t hold Christ, you see,
Although He died for you and me, He’s now on the Throne of Eternity.
The stone, covering where Christ lay, by God’s hand, was rolled away.
In that tomb where Christ was laid, only Christ’s grave clothes stayed,
There He stood, in a body Glorified, Jesus Christ, who bled and died.
Mary was the first one to that tomb, bearing a heart filled with gloom,
She assumed the body was taken, but she would be gladly mistaken,
For, with her heavy heart that day, she would soon hear an angel say,
You will not find Christ Jesus dead, for He rose just like He had said.
She left to tell others not to grieve, for The Lord, they too would see.
Now Mary filled with a joyful heart, from an empty tomb would depart,
Filled with wonder she ran to those, other disciples, to say Christ rose.
Peter began running fast ahead; as they had thought Christ was dead,
Now he ran with much anticipation, enthused by a brand new situation,
Looking inside he just saw clothes, for from the grave Christ had rose.
But all hearts stayed, like the tomb, until Christ entered into that room,
Showing them His hands and side, proving He was The One who died.
Christ would stay for forty days, filling their hearts with joy and praise,
Filing them with His Hope and victory, that will last through all eternity,
Where they shall remain forevermore, with their Savior, Christ our Lord.
(Copyright ©04/2007)