Fogging Up The Windows

the sound of a small child crying
hungry in the night
of a young woman sleepless
waiting for daylight
the sound of church bells ringing
not too far away
the sound of an old man dying
remembering how to pray

the sound of two hearts breaking
a thousand miles apart
of the last tear a fallin'
unseen in the dark
the sound of lifetimes wasted
of a love that didnt last
the sound of memories forgotten
of a time already past

can you hear?
can you hear?

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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To My Children...

be true to your own paths.
each of you has a destiny
that is your own.
each of you is on a journey,
that only you can take.
there will be storms, tragedies,
and fleeting moments of triumph.
above all, keep on walking.

be respectful!
respect the people you meet...
their thoughts, their feelings,
their religious views,
their sexual orientation,
their way of life...
but be true to yourself.

doubt all things!
question all things!
even what i've told you.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Simplest Of Things...

there is a rare beauty
in the simplest of things...
the door knob tarnished,
the book with the worn cover.
the hallelujah shout of the snail,
rain water standing in an old tire.
the lampshade covered with dust,
the iron sitting unattended.
the child's toy left on the floor,
the hand that always somehow fits.
the old woman's heavy breathing,
the coffee cup stained half empty.
the cry of young lovers from a distant window.
the dog's low growl at something unseen.
the tattered remnants of the robin's nest,
the broken eggshell clinging to grass.
the old hymn sung by the man working his garden...
the swing of the axe, the stacking of wood.
the spider clinging to the outhouse wall,
potatoes laid out in the cellar for winter.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Admiration... For Those Who Work!

i have a deep admiration
for the common working people
of the world...
having lived among them,
worked and sweated with them,
i sing their struggle!

farmers toiling day and night,
nurses pulling double shifts.
factory workers doing time and again,
carpenters and masons building.
black and white and all colors,
working their lives by faith.
and immigrants, often called illegal,
(though no human beings are illegal!) ...
who come here and work for whatever wage,
trying to build a dream for their families.
let us not forget women,
too often underpaid and treated as less...
truckdrivers, and those who work the docks,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Bells Of Freedom

do the bells of freedom ring
every time someone dies of starvation?
every time a child is abused,
every time a woman's left alone
to raise the kids...

every time a young boy hangs himself,
every time an addict steals his fix...
every time a boy is shot dead in the street,
every time a mother weeps....

every time a boy goes off to war,
comes home in a bodybag....
and no one knows why.....
every time a family is evicted,
with nowhere to go....

every time a factory gets shut down,
and the workers walk away with empty
lunchboxes and shattered dreams.....

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Eternity Then..... (One Small Flicker)

eternity then,
one small flicker of the flame,
a comma in the book of life,
the point where roads meet,
and diverge...
a tiny shard of broken glass,
a dropp of sweat on the back of a worker,
ejaculation, and echo...
each vein of the leaf turning,
a stray dog's turd.
the creak of the wheel that needs geased,
the sound between the gunshot
and the thud of the body.
the moment just after the body is covered.
the whisper of an empty plate,
the marching order of the ants.
the silence when your lover walks out the door.
the color of the bent nail,
the wrinkle on the pillow.
the shout for peace no one hears,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Thoughts Revealed

revolution demands evolution,
for it is only by evolving
that we can make positive change.

open mind, open heart.
closed mind, closed heart.
the door to life remains open.
the door of death remains closed!

religious people kill each other
over their differences...
spiritual people accept each other
for what and who they are,
and learn to work together for common goals.
god has as many faces as there
are living beings!

dont quote me scriptures, or holy sayings.
help me plow my garden!
there are scriptures in the fresh

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Struggle

and so, the struggle continues... we beat our heads up against
imaginary walls constructed by our fears and desperation.
pay something on the light bill, something on the car... damn,
the rent's due again, ... what do you do?
work 50 hours a week for the same money you made in 1980...
but it wont foot the bill in 2011.
everybody's tense, angry, lashing out... desperate people do
stupid things... families disintegrate, or are lost altogether to
the storm... people living in beat up old cars, people hungry,
lost without direction... and nobody seems to care, or to be
able to do anything about it...
our young people fighting in mindless wars overseas come home
to... no jobs!
we have become expendable commodities... numbers, excess
numbers without names...
sometimes i feel like i'm alone in a savage wilderness, with a
pocket knife and a map i cant read. i think we all do
we have got to find a way, to find our way... and i think the
only way we can do it is together!

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Common Sense (Truth)

wars are started by men
with agendas... usually profit,
or religious reasons, or both.
the men that start these wars
seldom fight these wars...
they manipulate the masses to
do their dirty work...
these are the elite people that
control our world. their weapons
for control include:
1. poverty
2. ignorance
3. prejudice
4. religion.

if you keep the people struggling
for food and shelter, they wont have
time to stand against you.
if you keep the people ignorant, they
will blindly follow without questioning.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Speak... Or Else Be Silent!

if you must speak,
speak not of distance or seperation!
speak without claiming identity,
without shouting, 'self'!
speak without grasping,
clawing, and holding.

keep your judgements to yourself!
i dont need to know the color of your god,
or what war you say he was born during.
i am more refugee than disciple,
i will not follow!

speak not of streets of gold
where angels play harps!
let us speak of these streets...
hard and raw, struggling and fighting,
dimly lit, stinking of urine.
littered with the trash of human lives.
speak of the exploding flash we call moment,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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