America.... Revolution, Or The Fall!
America, America,
your pale skinned death testifies!
the cross of your democracy laid down,
the blood on your hands names your guilt.
your bodies laid in soldiers' graves,
strewn across your planted fields.
while wild fires rage,
and your tenements boil,
as your children march to death.
the poverty of indifference,
strikes the bell that cannot ring.
while the wealthy drink the blood
of your disembodied men.
and your hallowed god turns his face,
disgusted by what he's seen.
blood sacrifices on your borders,
blood sacrifices in your mills.
your families driven from their homes,
while your prisons turn the wheel.
and the hungry walk your streets
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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!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Falling Thru The Cracks
wild eyed man in the parking lot
got a pistol in his hand
his old lady holds the baby
motor running to the van
factory shut down, aint no work
havent eaten in three days
good hearted man gone desperate
somebody's gonna have to pay
what the hell! who cares?
lives falling thru the cracks
born too early, born too late
on the wrong side of the tracks
fighting for every breath you take
just fighting to survive
falling down and getting back up
just trying to get by...
she pours herself another drink
dont temember how many she's had
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am... (Hands Of The Clock)
i am...
the hands of the clock,
approaching midnight.
the world on fire,
the thunderous shout of hunger.
i am the ditch,
filled with the bodies of freedom.
i am the hammer,
that drove the nails.
i am the hated, the despised,
and the friendless.
i am the stranger,
that smells like your brother.
i am the enemy
of tyranny and oppression.
i am the blood
shed for the truth.
i am the day after,
destruction and fall.
i am the taste of death,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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To Change...
i've had half a dozen
or more sets of people
come in today talking
about going back to a
more self-sufficient
lifestyle...
people paying off their
accounts, not making purchases.
people buying pigs, chickens,
goats... going to plant
big gardens.
this has been going on for
the last month ot two.
people watching the gas situation,
the rise of food prices.. sky
high electric bills...
young people moving back in
with their families... old
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Lost Children
we have become lost children,
stumbling in the dark.
numbed by the face of our own hunger,
we cannot recognize ourselves in others.
having laid down the torch,
we follow flashlights....
praying to a god too indifferent to hear.
a god created in our own image,
complete with holes and burnt tongues.
we blame the snake for our desire,
and wear the mark of Cain.
we build weapons made of fear,
and bury our parents in sterile graves.
we wear the chains and shackles,
with heads bowed as mindless servants.
we close our ears to the cry of suffering,
and our eyes to the ribs of need.
so who will come, and who will shout?
who will stand and face the storm?
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Fight Back
fight back!
another store robbed,
broad daylight.
over the counter,
grab the money
from the register...
tries to run...
clerk hanging on,
another clerk joining in...
an elderly black woman trips
the suspect, another old man
jumps in to help....
had him down twice,
but he got away...
battered and bruised...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Hand To The Plow,2011
sitting outside this morning,
watching it rain.... gathering,
gathering strength from i
know not where...
seems like we're not making
any headway... teetering on
the edge of survival...
this year especially tough...
get it up, get it on...
put your hand to the plow!
all around us people,
all different knids of people,
but people... are struggling,
are in need, are in want....
we are a disjointed family,
watching each other sink!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Andy And Opie
shots ring out in the middle
of the night...
tires squeal, a body falls.
the shades are drawn, better
turn out the lights...
9-1-1, nobody calls
old woman lying
in a pool of blood,
her check is gone, check long gone...
crackin, crankin,
swept away by the flood
you're all alone, all alone...
there are bars on the windows
there are locks on the doors
young kids dying in the alleys
dont know what they're dying for
no one has the time to care
and no one is keeping score
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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My Hand Remains...
i have walked with you..
this lonesome road.
over the hills and
through the valleys deep.
across the plains,
from night unto day.
through storms, harsh winds,
and unforgiving rain....
my hand remains in yours!
we have sought shelter
by the way, underneath the trees.
built small fires, and huddled,
exchanging the words of the soul.
from season unto season,
as the bark grew grey...
my hand remains in yours!
and if there be God,
was this so ordained?
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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