You Are (My Path)
you are my path,
my journey, my song.
the sunlit table,
the book, and the cup.
the baby's soft whimper,
the angry stare at the news.
the pot that simmers,
the meat, and the bone.
you are the fire,
built 'neath the trees.
the hug of the limbs,
the forever of the roots.
the sound of the lone bird's wings,
in a sky no one touches.
the smoke from the chimney,
the cork in the bottle.
the spider's web,
the quilt turned down.
the hands on the broom,
and the empty corner.
the reason for God,
the ghosts of the night.
you are my path,
i am feet, and desire!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Related quotes
New Born Baby
If only I could come
and more and more
and night light shed its wings of fire
leaving me in a darken path
and long keep me with empty pocket
and to kiss empty glass
but today is the night
with joy of a new born baby
just not another night
only if I could walk with you
with full of money to drink with you
with night after night to shed
Ripples of song
and a kisses of new born baby
but today is desserted
with empty pocket to enjoy
in search of you
Whenever there is a darkness,
I thank you understand my ways
poem by Thampi KEE
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What.... (If Not To Listen...)
what are we here for then
if not to listen...
to words spoken by the longing heart,
to the sound and inflections of suffering,
to the very heartbeat of need.
to the human cry against injustice,
to the song of freedom
borne by an angry wind...
to listen...
to the soft cry of the newborn baby,
to the moan of lovers entwined.
to the hum of the tractor,
and the thud of the axe.
to the hope of the hammer pounding nails.
to the voices of people choosing dialogue,
to the honest plea for forgiveness...
to listen...
to the song of the mockingbird,
the bark of the dog,
the meow of the cat...
to the marching chant of the ants.
to the sound of the butterfly's wings,
rhyming infinity!
to listen...
to the stillness in our own heartbeats.
for the name we had before birth.
to the prayers of clouds and trees.
for the sound of the Lover's footsteps.
to the ancient wisdom of mountains,
the forever birth of the rivers.
for the voice we've followed throughout time...
to listen...
for the bowls of hunger being filled.
for the silence after gunfire ends.
for the sound of hands joining ours.
for the sound of feet walking beside!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Brunt Of The Storm
the old woman
sits on the floor,
talking to the vacuum cleaner,
and laughing with the broom.
and the pictures of children,
like leaves turning seasons,
stare silently from a distance,
both chosen and not!
the dog bows her eyes,
with worry and love.
and the drone of the tv,
bores holes in the wall.
long grey hair glistening,
as sun sifts dirty blinds.
and the smell of passion,
has turned to old feet.
and no one gives a cold damn,
or understands why...
she has no need of people,
no need for chatter.
she feeds the dog and stops,
staring at the urn on the mantle...
and curses softly,
then breaks down and cries.
only the dog, and the spider in the corner,
hear the whimper,
and feel the brunt of the storm!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Follow (I Am The Flute)
i follow...
the hoot of the owl,
the smoke that leads
to the fire.
the hollow of the hand,
to the hard and the soft.
the salt of the sea
to the dark and murky unknown.
the erection and the breast,
to the womb that creates.
lightning to the thunder,
and thunder to lightning.
the hammer to the nail,
the bullet through the barrel.
the spirit through the book,
back to the tree in the forest.
the body to the grave,
the universe back to dust.
i follow...
the sound of the flute,
till i come to see...
that i follow nothing,
and no one at all!
for i am the path,
and the feet that walk.
i am the flute,
the sound and the lips.
i am the breath,
the desire, and the vision...
for i am no one,
and nothing at all!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Howling
the pregnant lion, the burning bush,
the hammered flute, well gone dry.
without a prayer, the eagle falls
in blackened cinders to the earth.
the food stamp mom, her head down,
children stare with blank milky eyes.
there's another man down in the project,
news at five, news at five.
deserted smokestacks stare at an angry sky,
buildings filled with rats and ghosts.
abandoned cars, abandoned lives,
old gas pumps rusting in the wind....
and the wind blows and howls,
ripping shingles from empty houses, ...
breaking limbs from trees long dead;
drowning out the sound of children's voices....
slamming doors and breaking windows,
carryng the fated owl to the eaves.
blowing at my back like the fires of hell,
blowing in my face with the freedom of loss.
the pregnant lion, the burning bush,
the hammered flute, well gone dry.
without a prayer, the eagle falls
in blackened cinders to the earth....
and no one hears....no one feels...
the lone wolf howling....
the spirits of death howling...
the eyes of God, ... howling!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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poem from frances R. (1)
i sang a sad song last night and they all liked it.
i rested for a while on that soft chair on that table by the corner
like a very lonely stranger.
i listened for the singer after me with his guitar singing another
love song.
not for me but for all of you.
i smoked my marlboro cigarette and breathed out some smoke like what
the rest were doing in that crowded karaoke garden,
a tissue was passed, i looked at it on a pinlight
i would be singing again another sad love song as requested by all of you
that time it was the song that i had written myself four years ago
i had given birth to two lovely daughters then when their father left them
i took my guitar went on stage and started to strum and sing
a song i had written years ago, some memories rushing back to me
all of you were silent then with your glasses of wine and smoke
holding hands to your girl or man on your side pressing some
soft flesh and felt the sad song of love creeping like a vine in the air
you waited for the moment when i will cry again
lights and eyes focusing in my eyes
i didn't cry anymore on the stage as you saw me once crying.
my tissue was wet with tears just a moment ago when i sat like any
stranger on that table beside an empty chair.
it was dark on that nook.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Set The Table!
i follow the path
of brown bare feet,
listening to the prayers
of the dust on the window.
the house empty of all that breathes,
and ghosts just dont eat much.
while missiles born of hate,
throb, seeking direction.
and religious poverty moans
in the gutters of man's denial.
hands balled in fists
cannot open doors.
and nuclear light
is just a damned lie!
rivers vomit, great trees are cut,
empty plates rattle pointing fingers.
and turtles weep in forgotten ditches
for the time before man became god.
women dressed in ashes in slow procession
mourn the loss of womb and nipple.
and the bruises on the begger's face
testify to degradation.
yet brown bare feet still beckon,
the dust reaches out in condolence...
the door on the house flung open,
and ghosts have set the table!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Brave Passion
Brave passion whose fire
is quenched by another’s reason.
The journey to the light of love
is consumed with agendas.
Other paths and presentations
dim and darken the way.
He’s angry who does not
find an easy path to joy
chance might place
within an easy grasp
one whom she can persuade.
Knowing pain and pleasure
at passion’s passing.
Thy love is a binding treat,
It is as wiley as a wood nymphs
path one attempts its capture.
For more than a span of time
Beings run wild to attain it
Kisses grown cold from lack of use
Heat quickly when love’s embrace
lights the embers of desire.
Brave passion thee are not
forgotten only left to glide
In space between duty and desire.
For the span of day let passion reign
and reason chase duty to the edge
of reason’s blessed disaster.
poem by Sandra LampeMartin
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Sleeping on a Night of Autumn Rain
Cold cold 3rd autumn night
Peaceful leisure one old man
Lie late lamp go out after
Sleep beautiful rain sound in
Ash long warm bottle fire
Fragrance increase warm quilt cover
Sawn clear cold not rise
Frost leaf full level red
It's cold this night in autumn's third month,
Peacefully within, a lone old man.
He lies down late, the lamp already gone out,
And beautifully sleeps amid the sound of rain.
The ash inside the vessel still warm from the fire,
Its fragrance increases the warmth of quilt and covers.
When dawn comes, clear and cold, he does not rise,
The red frosted leaves cover the steps.
#1 Zero
Listen now, let me speak
I will be the dog at your feet
And come along when you call
Be the little bird in your straw and sing you a song
I'll be there to take the fall
Though you tread upon me for no reason at all
Chorus
But just when you think you've left me blind
I will keep you in the corner of my eye
I will never leave your side
Though you call me your number one zero
your nevermind
I'll be your king, I'll be your pawn
I will builid a pedestal and put you upon it
Chorus
But just when you think you've left me blind
I'll be creeping right up behind
Cause if I need to
I will keep you in the corner of my eye
corner of my eye
Down on the street, over your night
Out of your sleep, out of your sight
if I need to, if I need to
Out of your mouth, in every word
Down in your ego one thing is sure
I will keep you, I will keep you
Chorus
But just when you think you've left me blind
I will be creeping right up behind
Cause baby if I need to
Lord, I will keep you in the corner of my eye
I will be the bird in your straw
But you won't get far
I will keep you in the corner of my eye
song performed by by Audioslave
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Along Came a Spider
Three small children played under the trees,
giggling as the crimson leaves
floated down onto their soft, innocent hands.
They ran about after eacher other
until they collapsed on the roots
holding the forest together
and their breath came out as a flutter,
their giggles came out in bursts,
and their hair stuck to moist skin.
They were tired.
They decided to go hom for their supper,
as they knew that their mothers would worry.
But, along came a spider.
This spider was no monster.
It was no towering beast coming
to attack the children. To do them harm.
It simply scurried past them,
and somewhere in their human nature,
the children were told to follow.
The children did as they were told.
To a feast the children came, following this spider,
and grinned at a tiny table set for a hundred-
each guest sat in his chair.
Their friend, the spider, took his seat and awaited
his applause, for he had brought,
as the party knew,
their dinner, fresh and soft.
And so the insects climbed the children;
they giggle as the tiny feet
caressed their untainted skin,
and the children ran in circles
with their new tiny friends,
until the insects could hold on no longer
and the children were safe at home.
poem by Zoe Guillory
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A Coloured Print by Shokei
It winds along the face of a cliff
This path which I long to explore,
And over it dashes a waterfall,
And the air is full of the roar
And the thunderous voice of waters which sweep
In a silver torrent over some steep.
It clears the path with a mighty bound
And tumbles below and away,
And the trees and the bushes which grow in the rocks
Are wet with its jewelled spray;
The air is misty and heavy with sound,
And small, wet wildflowers star the ground.
Oh! The dampness is very good to smell,
And the path is soft to tread,
And beyond the fall it winds up and on,
While little streamlets thread
Their own meandering way down the hill
Each singing its own little song, until
I forget that 't is only a pictured path,
And I hear the water and wind,
And look through the mist, and strain my eyes
To see what there is behind;
For it must lead to a happy land,
This little path by a waterfall spanned.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Gasping For Light
1
i built a fire in the yard.
slowly walked back into the house.
gathering everything of value.
my books, my clothes, my boots,
old photographs, letters, pictures,
everything i've ever written.
every memory.
took them outside,
and fed them to the fire!
and walked off barefoot
into the night.
2
lover, dance with me!
we call unto each other
from distances, through barriers,
breaking down walls of seperation;
through tears and angry silence,
echoing through the night.
i kiss your eyes, your lips,
the arch of your neck.
your fingertips, your feet,
the inside of your thighs.
your wetness.
you open your eyes,
and the shadow disappears!
3
spirits dance in the moonlight!
a soft wind rustles
through the trees.
the howl of a dog,
car lights on a forgotten road;
a screen door closes softly.
old house wrapped in stillness.
only a faint sound.
the footsteps of God
walking in your heart!
4
i can smell your perfume,
or maybe the scent of rain coming.
i can taste you in the
cool damp earth,
in the blood of a small animal
killed by a passing car,
in the cry of the baby
waking up hungry,
in the web of the spider.
in the hollow of my soul.
5
two moths lost in the darkness,
gasping for light.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Immoral Scars...
i am the broken watch,
on the underpaid desk.
the eyes grown dim,
the hair turned grey.
the endless chapters,
each named, then forgotten.
the wings of the bird,
killed by the cat.
the shoebox of letters,
the paint peeled wall.
the taste of old whiskey,
the fireplace full of ghosts.
swallows in the chimney,
snake skins on the ground.
the song of autumn,
waiting beyond the moment.
the sprinkle of rain,
the silence of the trees.
the brush of the hand,
so intimate it startles.
the moral heart with immoral scars.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Our Little Girl
Her heart knew naught of sorrow,
Nor the vaguest taint of sin--
'Twas an ever-blooming blossom
Of the purity within:
And her hands knew only touches
Of the mother's gentle care,
And the kisses and caresses
Through the interludes of prayer.
Her baby-feet had journeyed
Such a little distance here,
They could have found no briers
In the path to interfere;
The little cross she carried
Could not weary her, we know,
For it lay as lightly on her
As a shadow on the snow.
And yet the way before us--
O how empty now and drear!--
How ev'n the dews of roses
Seem as dripping tears for her!
And the song-birds all seem crying,
As the winds cry and the rain,
All sobbingly,--'We want--we want
Our little girl again!'
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Bring Me Your Cup
Did I ever say, how I feel about you
A thing I never found that easy to do
The things that you do, dont need to be heard
You know your actions, baby, speak louder than words
(chorus)
Ive got the bottle, bring me your cup
Pop the cork, and try a sup
And when youre empty, Ill fill you up
Well drink it down till the sun comes up
Im heading home, like a steaming train
Foot to the floor, in the driving rain
My head is aching and my mouth is dry
Ive got a thirst only you can satisfy
(chorus)
Ive got the bottle, bring me your cup
Pop the cork and try a sup
And when youre empty, Ill fill you up
Well drink it down till the sun comes up
song performed by by Ub40
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Randolph
That night as Old Man McCoy fled through the woods, the trees in his path refused to budge. Their branches batted him like hands and smacked him in the face and chest and groin. Behind him the screams of his wife slowed his pace, as did the agonized pleas of his sons. Tears streamed down his face. But the gunshots urged him on faster, toward help, justice, he wasn't sure what. Over his shoulder he saw whorls of whitish smoke against the dark, and a corner of the sky lit up orange from the torched cabin. He'd known something awful was going to happen when he woke up, this morning. Lying in bed last night he'd heard two wildcats fighting. All day long it was too quiet. Then, catastrophe-fire and hot lead. After mid-night the trees turned to men and crowded in. As he ran the twigs snapped underfoot and he ran until the lights of the town came in view and he remembered it was New Year's. There would still be a few revellers at the tavern. He would round them up and return to what was left of the cabin. Nothing could persuade him not to. His poor wife! He was so ashamed. But, alive. Alive to make them pay. Alive to get revenge! So he ran on toward the light.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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A Baby's
A baby's laugh is like a song,
Sung by a beautiful bird.
A baby's cry is like a storm,
Like the thunder in the sky.
A baby's breath is like a soft wind,
The wind of a cool summers day.
A baby's beauty is like a butterfly,
Fluttering its magnificent wings.
A baby's body grows,
Like a new tree shooting up into the sky.
A baby's like is as fragile as a star,
Shinning forever.
A baby's a wonderful creation
poem by Ellie Price
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Hiding From The Broom!
i walk the paths of stillness
into the setting sun...
in the company of dead poets,
and a few mongrel dogs.
we come to a clearing,
and gather wood for a fire,
waiting on the night spirits to join us.
my hands are broken,
they cling to nothing and no one.
i see with my ears,
and listen with my eyes.
my soul rhymed by darkness
dissolves into dust,
while crickets chant eternity.
i return to an empty house,
curtains pulled, door flung open.
lighting a candle, i sit on the floor,
waiting for death, or morning.
only then i notice the spider,
candlelight tracing the web in the corner.
and in this moment i knew,
of such am i!
a moment, a corner,
my heart just a web...
waiting on love,
while hiding from the broom!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Touches Of Her Hand
The touches of her hands are like the fall
Of velvet snowflakes; like the touch of down
The peach just brushes 'gainst the garden wall;
The flossy fondlings of the thistle-wisp
Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of brown
The blighting frost hath turned from green to crisp.
Soft as the falling of the dusk at night,
The touches of her hands, and the delight--
The touches of her hands!
The touches of her hands are like the dew
That falls so softly down no one e'er knew
The touch thereof save lovers like to one
Astray in lights where ranged Endymion.
O rarely soft, the touches of her hands,
As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands;
Or pulse of dying fay; or fairy sighs;
Or--in between the midnight and the dawn,
When long unrest and tears and fears are gone--
Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eyes.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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