Lonesome Refugee's Song

with purpled rage i strike the page,
with words i cant contain.
whether to justify or testify,
that lives be not lived in vain.
all that's strange, the cry for change,
the burned out buildings moan.
the tried and true, the old and new,
the lonesome refugee's song.

no need for preacher, or well paid teacher,
this blade against the wheel.
no vain illusions driven by confusion,
let us speak of what is real.
the blood stained hands of arrogant man,
that cannot be washed clean.
the hollow greed that takes from need,
the faces that haunt my dreams.

the cost of war, capitalism's whore,
driven by the oil that kills.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Soul's Rebellion (Part Two)

you shake me...
'you ok? ,
you must have been dreaming...'
am i dreaming,
or have i always been,
just a shadow, a form,
walking through heated dreams?

too long bound by guilt,
mine, yours, anybody's,
and everybody's....
what am i afraid of?
the image in the mirror,
unarmed and toothless!
even the thief has a god,
the murderer salvation.
the redemption of a poet...
to die and dissolve.

marching, marching,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Poet's Farewell

i have labored for a thousand years
to build the ark that rides out
the storm...
to bring peace to a war torn earth,
to bring healing and understanding.
i have bowed in prayer with all faiths,
in temples, in mosques, in huts.
i have come in many forms,
red, brown, black, and white,
male and female both.
i have listened without judgement,
i have felt what you have felt.
i have known your poverty,
and your anguish,
and the insides of your prisons.
i have felt your passions, your hatreds,
your fears, and your hopes...
i have forgiven, and been forgiven.
i have taken lovers,
and stood with friends;

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Day By Minute...

love is the part of me that dies,
the stain in the silent sink.
the lip crusted with obscurity,
the finger gnarled in the oak.
the glance that parts the clouds,
the broom forgotten on the porch.
the single parent cooking macaroni,
the dog curled at the foot of the bed.
the rent receipt in the ashtray,
grass that needs to be mowed.
the same jeans the third day,
dirty laundry, and shoes left by the door.
the book closed, the turned down page,
the light bulb that burned out Tuesday.
the distance you stare into,
shaving with a dull razor and cold water.
wilted flowers on the mantle,
the cup of coffee grown cold.
the split of lightning across your thighs,
the bark just before you came.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Warrior's Pledge... (Part Two)

well, i've known poverty's ashes,
felt hunger's hot tears.
i've been to the place,
where men face their fears.
grieved the wars of the foolish,
the indifference of those that should know.
and known the bitter taste
of the seeds that we've sowed.

i've seen the old woman dying,
in a room by herself.
seen everything she loved,
put back on the shelf.
felt the hate and the greed
of those who buy and sell.
i've seen the distant shore,
and i've walked through hell.

i've felt the weight of my actions,
that cant be denied.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Seasons In Hell

i'm quite sure we all have our seasons in hell...
through which the metal is forged by a very hot fire.
we often think we're the only ones,
but all people at some point suffer despair.
it is not whether we are going through hell,
but what we do with it that matters.
we can become hardened and calloused,
and lose all hope...
believe me, it's easy.
or we can stand firm at the chance of all loss,
and be willing to evolve, whatever the cost.
i've heard it said that suicide is the unpardonable sin....
wrong!
the unpardonable sin is betraying ones self....
i would never choose to be where i am right now,
but i know there are people in even worse situations.
my consciousness tonight is with those who are hurting...
i condemn no one, i make no judgements.
i claim no name, or no position....
other than that i am human....

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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You Are Not Alone....

have spent all morning
talking about taking responsibility...
the problem is we come from the
generation that blames...
we blame every one and everything
else for the mess we've created.
we blame politicians, businessmen,
religions, people of different
colors, different sexual orientations...
our parents, our neighbors,
bigots, the world economy...

but bottom line, people.
we are responsible.
we are the price, and the cost.
we are the reason that there is
hunger, want, need, and poverty.
we are the cause of the fighting,
and the victims of our own choices.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Dance, I Sing, I Dare Defy!

I am not the I your fear defined,
not the cloth that hid your passion.
I am not the shoes you bought to wear,
and put up for special occasions.
I am not the truth you pawned for food,
not the car that broke down on your way home.
I am not the picture you chose to paint,
using only colors that you liked.
I am not the sin you couldnt commit,
nor the reason for your failure.
I am not the photographs you packed in boxes,
nor the footprints you swept from your porch.
I am not your savior nor your twin,
not your excuse to walk away!

I am the fire that consumes all without prejudice,
I am the dawn that comes in spite of...
I am the storm that destroys all you've known,
I am the new day, the new way, the question....
I am the wolf, the tongue, the scent of the neck,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Inbetween, We Live!

the human heart feeds...
we are born hungry, born searching,
born needing, born wanting....
left alone on an island...
we lift our beaks to the sky,
gulping for flesh, gulping for air,
gulping for fire....
still smelling of ocean,
and something dark we cant name,
we run into the open,
running, not knowing where.

i cannot live
without the taste of darkness,
the smell of flesh,
and the touch of that
which is hidden...
i shout into the ocean,
and hear only the roar...
i leap from the ledge,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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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,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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