I See The Face Of Eric Cockrell
In the bee crippled with broken wing
struggling in her last breathe
upon the concrete
the homeless man in stained suit
the one I bummed my last smoke too
yet could have offered more
in the nicely dressed who smugly shun me
the presence beyond the man
sitting across the table conducting
my job interview
the young student shunned at the doorstep
trying to sell subscriptions to further his education
the man with beard and mustache
counting bottles at the liquor store
the one hanging in just trying to make a living
the one who laughs when I tell him
'as long as you have that love....
and every man must retain a sense of freedom'
everywhere I look these days
reflected in my
guilt pride hope and shame
I see the face of Eric Cockrell
poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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Related quotes
The Statement We Make!
the statement we make,
be not written on paper...
it is written,
in the tired eyes of the workers,
underpaid, and struggling.
in the hunger of the unemployed,
in the rage of the homeless.
in the walking of the broken,
in the families of dead soldiers.
in the anger of the young,
with no place to turn.
in the seething of the prisons,
and the tomb infested colleges.
in the smoke filled air,
and the rivers full of waste.
in the haunted mines,
behind the wheel of the big trucks.
in the pot standing empty,
in the fury of the poets.
black and white,
male and female,
old and young,
Christian, Muslim, and atheist...
straight and gay,
all standing equal,
feet set with respect.
an army of one becoming many...
demanding freedom!
the statement we make,
with our bodies and souls,
with our very lives...
written in human blood!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Crippled!
when you take the crippled hand,
and put it to the plow...
a healing takes place!
when you take the crippled heart,
and put it with other wounded hearts,
compassion begins!
when you take the crippled spirit,
and teach it the words of freedom,
wings are loosed!
when you take the crippled man,
and restore his dignity...
he changes the world!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Extension 33
Living at the y, extension 33,
Nothing to care or to worry.
Once I was in love with a blind man,
But my auntie told me, dont do it, its not worth it.
Living at the y, 33 years,
No one to call or to write to.
Once I was in love with a married man,
But my instincts told me, dont tell him, itll kill you.
Im sad I didnt marry the blind man,
But whats a life with three blind children?
Im glad I never told the married man,
It saved my pride and freedom.
Living at the y, in 33 rooms,
Nowhere to visit or write to.
Once I was in love, it nearly killed me,
But now I have my pride and freedom.
Freedom, freedom, freedom, freedom,
Freedom, freedom, freedom and pride.
Freedom, freedom, freedom, freedom,
Freedom, freedom, freedom and pride.
Freedom, freedom, freedom, freedom,
Freedom, freedom, freedom and pride.
Freedom, freedom, freedom, freedom,
Freedom, freedom, freedom and pride.
Freedom, freedom, freedom, freedom,
Freedom, freedom, freedom and pride.
Freedom, freedom, freedom, freedom,
Freedom, freedom, freedom.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Affinity
to say that i have a deep affinity for the Tibetan
people would be correct... but i also have a deep
affinity for all oppressed peoples.
for too long Americans have been insulated from
the hurt and suffering experienced around the world.
now it's come home to haunt us!
we can never forget: as long as anyone is hungry, we
are hungry. as long as anyone is struggling for freedom,
we are struggling for freedom. as long as anyone is
in need, we are in need. as long as anyone lives in
poverty, we are poor!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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An Ode to Greybeard
After leaving the convenience store, we smoked cigarettes insatiately, and were approached by a man with a long grey face, pink from the chilled wind.
Homeless, the man made due with a pile of jackets.
Spare a cigarette? He asked, like clockwork. And received what he bade for.
Without breaking his sight of his caretaker's eyes, he bit the filter out of the end and inhaled so deeply, he must have drank the smoke.
Thanks, pal - crept out from under his mustache and snuck by his cigarette.
His eyes turned slowly to meet mine and were as grey as his beard.
- Remember me when I die
He spoke also - with his eyes.
And mine spoke back - he knew I would
A legacy is only memory.
poem by C.S. Smith
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Prophets Of Profit
in the shadows
beneath the trees,
the men with the long
knives wait;
call them unholy, call them
prophets, men of vision,
men of change...
soldiers of the grey kingdom,
where nothing is revealed.
every starving child,
every bomb dropped
on indiscriminate huts...
every girl baby aborted,
every young boy sent to prison
for his education...
every young girl bought
for an hour, used like a rag,
and tossed aside....
for miles and miles of oceans
poisoned by oil....
for the homeless man
beaten to death by the deputy....
the migrant family terrorized,
the young gay boy found hanging....
the men with the long knives wait...
choosing who will live and die,
who is useful, and who is not...
the judges chosen by
the oil drenched hand....
the prophets of profit!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am Human, I Am Love!
i am the stranger,
the drifter, the hobo...
the rebel, and the lost one....
my voice is a small whisper,
my body a twig.
i am the gift left
on the doorstep of the unwanted.
i am the prayer
that even god does not hear!
i am the child no one wants,
the woman no one loves.
i am blood on the hands,
i am guilt, and forgiveness.
i am the old man's touch,
that no one wants.
i am the child and the dog,
that love the old man.
i am the stray cat,
curled against the step.
i am Judas weeping,
and Magdelene made a whore.
i am the young gay boy
condemned for loving.
i am the soldier who cant
bring himself to kill.
i am the pregnant young girl
who cant tell her parents.
the old man with cancer,
who sits with a revolver.
i am the parent who failed,
and the child who walked away.
i am the broken, and wounded,
i am human, i am love!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Who's Guilty?
they busted a young man,
for stealing a couple packs
of meat at the grocery store,
and running...
but they stole his chances...
for a job, for an education,
for today, and for tomorrow!
now his wife and baby sit alone
in a bare apartment with no electricity...
they stole their hope!
who's guilty?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Hanging Tree.... (What Do We Call It...)
down through the woods
to the clearing where
the hanging tree stood...
sometimes you can still see
the shadows of ghosts,
swinging in the hot summer sun...
now the tree has been cut,
and time has passed,
yet the air's still heavy with guilt.
do we know more?
are we more civilized?
or have we just changed trees,
and gotten better rope?
what do we call the young men
sent to die in the oil wars...
the young people stuck
in the gang ridden slums?
the bullied ones who lose hope?
the illegal immigrants who die for work?
the young couple stuck on unemployment
and food stamps?
the elderly couple evicted
cause they cant afford the rent?
the Muslim family afraid to go out at night?
the gay couple in love who cant get married?
the young children without a father?
the millions strung out on pills?
what do we call it,
if we dont call it hanging?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Progress Of Man?
you cut the howl from your dogs,
blunt the claws of your cats...
then leave them for Buicks to devour
on hungry homeless roads.
cut the balls off your boys,
give them guns, make them soldiers.
then send them to die
under the flag of the lie.
sell your daughters like meat,
burn your grandchildrens dreams...
in the pipes of your excess
in smoke filled rooms.
the progress of man?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Every Child!
the faces of...
every child who'll
go to bed hungry tonite...
every child afraid to sleep
for fear of the soldiers,
the bullets, the bombs....
every child abused
by his parents...
every child humiliated
for being different.
every child who's never
known his own father...
every child with no hope
for an education...
every child sleeping
in homeless cars.
every child alone,
lonely, without love.
every child of every broken home,
every child, every color, every country...
staring at me this sleepless night,
tearing at my heart...
all my children!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Finally Found Forever
i finally found forever...
in the laughter of a small child,
in a raindropp rolling down the window.
in a flower that opened and closed
in one fleeting day.
in the embers of a fire going out.
in the door latch opened,
the shadow walking across the room.
in the old woman dying,
her face peaceful and calm.
in the smile of the young boy cuffed
in the back of the police van...
in the revolver unloaded,
and put back in the drawer.
in the box of clothes
left on the doorstep.
in the cup of coffee shared,
the plate, the fork, and the smoke.
in the moment of eyes engaged,
and talking without words...
in the given without thinking,
the breathe that was felt!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Children In America!
one out of three
children in America,
living in poverty?
what happened
to the land of promise?
children hungry,
children homeless,
children that wont
get a good education!
children, broken families,
children without future.
children without love....
turn to hate!
build your cities,
build your banks,
build your kingdoms
drunk on oil and blood!
your children, dying....
who digs their graves?
who closes their eyes?
who prays for their souls?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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In The Presence....
in the presence...
we cut and stack wood.
boil water for coffee,
wash dishes and fold clothes.
unwrap layers of new sunlight,
write letters and quietly think.
take long walks with dogs,
and speak to random strangers.
offer a hand, and say thank you,
listen for the sound of wings.
laugh at squirrels bickering,
watch as leaves begin to fall.
help old people load their cars,
share a smoke with a homeless man.
walk in awareness and deep peace,
ask what we can give...
in the presence!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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America... The Fallen!
America...
lady of freedom weeping
in your streets broken,
cluttered with the bodies
of the jobless, homeless...
the hungry faces of your children
struck dumb by your apathetic hand....
do you hear? do you see?
do you feel? ....
whose graves will you mark
with your oil tinged pride?
whose god will you worship now?
and who will be left to carry
the heavy mark of your sins?
America....
the fallen!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Freedom Demands Action!
this be not a free country...
as long as one child goes hungry,
one child cant afford to go to school....
as long as there are unemployment lines,
as long as there are vacant houses,
and homeless families.
as long as our sons and daughters
are sacrificed to the gods of war.
as long as our elderly cant get medical care.
as long as they burn and ban books,
as long as one is censored for speaking truth....
as long as the religion we profess
denies the rights of other religions.
as long as the young gay couple,
who want to adopt a child,
a child that no one wants...
cant get married.
as long as justice is bought and sold,
and is different for different colors.
freedom demands action!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Do, Say, And Stand!
the whole force and mission of the Occupy
movement lies in the action of re-occupying
the body of freedom itself, bringing about a
fresh and new sense of equality, fairness,
and hope for every citizen.... a mission we
are all called to be a part of...
in every facet of daily life, freedom demands
that we do, say, and stand in a way both moral
and based on community... living the truth!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Malachys
Eddie said the beat was wrong
Tom didnt like the tune
The boy with a beard in the corner
Laughed in the middle of a song
He didnt stay very long
Eddie said the lights were low
Tom said the treble was high
The boy with a beard in the corner
Laughed in the middle of a sigh
Dont think we ever even caught his eye
Sometimes I used to find
Id be singing to you
As if you were sitting
At the table by the door
Eddie said a friend of his
Is making it big in l.a.
Ah well everybody down at malachys
Says Im gonna make it someday
Sometimes I used to write
A song for you
As if you were sitting
At the table by the door
Sometimes I used to find
Id be singing to you
As if you were sitting
At the table by the door
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An interesting Interview
I was called for an interview in a Liquor store.
The Boss is short and stout
And a big Cuban cigar in his mouth.
He spat and started the conversation.
'This is a mop and you must handle it very carefully
As it's like a delicate woman, if you grab tightly
You get bad results and be careful at all.'
He gave me the mop and I mopped a certain area.
Then he smiled;
'What do you think of my smile? '
'Really that resembles me Winston.Churchill.'
'Not Hitler? '
'Perhaps if that typical mustache pasted? '
'I hope that we can work together, you drink? '
'Only when my pocket happy and sounds.'
'All right, I'll call you soon before the Christmas season.'
My old sleigh skidded in the Snow-White dream.
* To all my friends in the site.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The Prodigal
I face the day again
Against the window pane.
I remain your closest friend,
And wish you back again.
You wonder how i feel;
You think you've pushed too far.
If only you could see this pen
Scribbling down my heart.
I'll be waiting.
I may be young or old and gray,
Counting the days,
But i'll be waiting,
And when i finally see you come,
I'll run when i see you--
I'll meet you.
But still the days drag on.
Why did you decide to go?
Did you only need to see
What only time can show?
I'll be waiting.
I may be young or old and gray,
Counting the days,
But i'll be waiting,
And when i finally see you come,
I'll run when i see you.
And even if
You never do return,
Still i will have learned
How to love you better.
I'll be waiting.
I may be young or old and gray,
Counting the days,
But i'll be waiting,
And when i finally see you come,
I'll run to meet you.
I'll be waiting.
I may be young or old and gray,
Counting the days,
I'll be waiting,
And when i finally see you come,
I'll run to meet you.
song performed by by Amy Grant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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