My Temple
do not speak of god,
of the father, or the mother...
nor the creator...
i do not dwell in temples,
creeds, or written scriptures.
i am formless, taking forms,
i am infinite, becoming particle.
i am clay and grass,
stone and wood...
i am flesh and semen,
and intimate eyes!
i am hungry, will you share?
i have no home or bed,
may i sleep with you?
i am lonely, will you speak with me?
i listen, will you listen too?
i am star and cosmos,
a simple dropp of rain.
i am the growl of thunder,
the sudden flash of lightning.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Black Crows
Darkness and light, wrong and right
thoughts bleed and dissolve, dreams evolve
paper and smoke, churn and stroke
prayers drip like sweat, slavery and debt
White trash fires, unholy liars
truth falls off the edge, desire walks the ledge
political drugs, who picks the judge
hammers of fear, moments lost to years
Graves open and close, nuclear rose
black shadows turn, pages crumple and burn
lightning or gunfire, stakes higher and higher
death clock chimes, wind thru the pines...
black crows on the lines... black crows on the lines...
Mothers crying and cold, babies bought and sold
welfare Cadillacs, anxiety attacks
trailor tub meth, lonesome last breath
kneeling by the bed, prayers for the dead
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Gospel, The Dharma, Black And White!
we are the gospel,
and we are the dharma.
we are the breath of awareness,
the truth that walks on water.
we are the light shining
from a distant harbor...
we are the prayer,
and salvation's hands!
and yet we are the murderer,
who kills for the rush.
the packet of powder
that controls and drives.
we are the gluttons,
who throw our crumbs to the hungry.
we are the eviction notice,
and the declaration of war!
we are the baby
nursing at the mother's breast.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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In The Small Things...
it is in the small things that we die,
in the breath of cardboard boxes,
and the silent scream of forgotten things.
in the scent of pine needles fresh fallen,
and the sound of the creek crossing rocks.
in bat droppings, and abandoned nests of straw....
in smoke curled into the candle.
in squirrels' prayers to fading light,
and the sound of tires on an endless road.
in clouds hanging just above the treetops,
in the single chime of the church bell.
in the broom sweeping the floor of the soup kitchen,
in old men telling lies and shuffling to keep warm.
in the baby curled against the breast,
in the letter never finished.
in the faces of god on milk cartons,
in the wino pissing in the alley.
in the 'i love you' that you choked on,
and the silence that replays.
in the coffee pot singing hymns,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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No Reason to Believe
black and white print, rain wet papers.
the liturgy of the movers and shakers.
the angry rant of the homeless on the streets,
while the elite still sleep on satin sheets.
sell your mothers and daughters on the corner.
sell your sons to the wars in foreign lands.
learn to hate, to use, and to destroy...
bow down to your gods made in the image of man.
there's no reason to believe when you're hungry.
when you're down on the bottom, nowhere to go.
the law of liberty becomes the law of survival.
you gotta pay for all the seeds that you sow.
the cash register rings, another soul disappears,
and the soldiers of oil have already won
while the children down in the project,
become users armed with hatred's guns...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am There... I Am Here!
the further i get from myself,
the closer i get to my self...
in variant forms expounding,
in a thousand blades of grass.
in the block long laid in the factory building,
vacant but for ghosts of unnamed families fed.
in the boat too long stuck in sand,
in the dirge darkness of the mine.
in the rabbit turd, the chattering squirrel,
in cattle feeding awaiting death.
in the sterile stink of the hospital,
in the bedpan, and the monitor silent.
in the crud of the old man's beard,
the sagging breasts of the old woman rocking...
in the cry of passion from the back seat of a car,
in the old man bumming a smoke.
in angry minds gathered at the table,
whispering of revolution.
in the picket line, and the heads caved in,
in the death row cell.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Just Before Dawn....
i've been too long in the valley of death,
too long in the prisons, too long at the wheel.
too close to the blade, too far from the fire,
too long defined by lonliness and grief.
they say there's a wind,
that comes from a forbidden place.
that strips leaves from the trees,
and causes mountains to shudder.
they say there's a god,
whose name we cant say.
who walks naked in the instant,
just before dawn.
and they say there's a lover,
who smells like me.
who tastes like my hunger,
whose voice i know.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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On Reading, 'A Few Reflections On Imitatio-Dei
reply to Hune....
i lean probably more towards the buddhist interpretation... we are all buddha, waiting to evolve.... in the same sense we are all god, taking form, evolving.... we are the hands and feet of eternal creation, continually dying and being born.... god is no more distant than the self... and we choose that... the bridge does not lead outward, but inward....
the problem lies in the 'need' to imitate... how do we imitate what we already are?
do we live? or are we imitating life? the social consciousness, the compassion, and the actions we ascribe to the divine are there within us, hidden beneath layers of ego...
we long for a distant sea when the waves are already lapping at the feet of our heart!
our heart speaks to us of this, yet all we hear are distant echoes, garbled by concepts. the fire of dialogue is lit.... we sit across from ourselves!
as always, your writings inspire both deep thought and introspection... i read them in paragraphs, gulping for air....
and i'm quite sure tonight when i'm trying to sleep, these thoughts will return.
thank you for lighting the fire!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Blame It On God
i hear the clamor,
i feel the roar.
waves pounding against the rocks,
bare feet walking the tiny cell.
the lies we've told
much less than the lies we've become.
blame it on god,
and kill the insurrection.
for every bite we take,
another does without.
for every turn of the page,
another grave is dug.
we pray to war,
afraid to sleep by ourselves.
and borrow from the darkness,
to silence the dawn.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Who am I?
who am i?
the man who plowed your garden,
and tended your crops;
who hoed the weeds
in the hot summer sun.
i am the man who cut your wood,
sawed it into stacks,
preparing for the coming winter.
i am the carpenter
who built your home;
with boards of flesh,
and nails made of blood and tears.
i am the infidel
who brought you a holy candle,
and made love to you
while it burned down.
who am I
i am the minstrel in your courtyard
dodging bullets and angry lynch mobs.
i am the soldier you sent to battle,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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