At Rest

my garden is silent...
and all the bees have sacrificed
their very beings to the unmarked graves
of flowers fallen.
the squirrels left the trees
like lovers spurned...
and small birds left feathers
in way of epitaph.
in some ways autumn tastes like
the bruise on my lips,
that you left the last time you kissed me,
the one no one can see!
the old car in the drive,
the one that wont crank,
moans in the rust of betrayel.
there are things i couldnt write,
or even speak for a long time.
it's funny how free you feel,
with a noose around your neck!
funny how sharp your eyes become,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Simple Words, And Quietness!

i used to write
with exploding images,
and intricate rhymes.
mapping the grand design
of passion unfolding.
but now i've reached a place
of quietness, and simple words,
raw honesty, and tiny flames...
and i'm at peace with myself.

i know that all war is wrong,
that hunger and homelessness
are a scourge, the result
of our own actions.
and i feel deeply the responsibility
to share in the suffering
of one and all.

i dont blame anything on God,
we havent even touched

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Letter From God

dont call my name anymore.
you dont even know who i am!
no more churches, temples, and mosques,
the wind has no need for a home.
no more battles or wars in my name,
no more judgements bound by your fears.
no more talk of heaven and hell,
till you walk the path before you.

for as long as you kill
to feed your greed.
as long as you allow
children to go hungry.
as long as you discriminate
out of your ignorance...
as long as you take
more than you give.

you do not know me!
you kill my messengers,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Oblivion

thunder and lightning, gunfire,
the stench of death...
we race towards oblivion,
cant feel, cant get our breath!
drum beat and shadows,
lost in the blinding heat.
dead poets and childrens' bodies,
rubble beneath our feet.

smoke fills the air-
trees fall, rivers run dry.
fighting over a loaf of bread,
and the last bowl of rice.

ghoulish gasoline prophets
ring the bell, count the cost...
old people put out on the streets,
now all is over, all is lost.
forgotten faces lost in the roar,
demons dance on unmarked graves.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Window Left Open...

the vase fell to the floor,
and shattered into tiny pieces.
the broom in the corner wept.
the box in the closet drew breath sharply,
the book on the shelf turned away.
the bulb in the lamp burned out.
the spider packed up its web and left.
the empty nest fell from the tree.
rainwater gushed from the gutters.
the young boy locked in his room
crawled out the window.
the neighbor's dog barked...

god gathered her clothes,
and put on her shoes.
while warships sailed for another land.
drones killed three women on the way to market,
another baby died without having lived.
another factory shut down,
another church burned to the ground,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Swollen (Final Chapter)

they talked throught the night
as the candle burned down, exchanging
the stories of their lives.
then finally, they just sat in the stillness,
listening to the walls of the old house
breathe.
he thought about his life, the work, the
family, the love... all gone.

she whispered, 'be still, they're coming...'
the lights of the cruiser inched up the
street. stopping, they shone a light into
the old house, like fingers probing.
they sat motionless, afraid to move..
finally, they moved on.
'they'll be back, someone's called...' she
began to cry.

he sat up and dug in his pocket. pulling
out a wadded up old black and white photo,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Aint Got a Friend

listenin' to an old owl,
waiting on the world to end.
just listenin' to an owl,
waiting on the world to end.
baby, if you aint my woman,
you know i aint got a friend.
i's prayin' for deliverance,
just reaching for a line.
prayin' for deliverance,
reaching for a line.
aint got nothin' in my pockets,
nothin' that is mine.
read the holy book, highway signs,
and a letter that you wrote.
read the holy book, highway signs,
and a letter that you wrote.
you think i'm past my prime,
baby, you cant smell my smoke!
well, the babies are all gone,
and the car dont crank no more.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Waiting, Still Waiting

i have been to the place where dignity calls,
heard the sounds of families running for cover.
felt the pounding of guns, smelled the stench of bodies,
watched men who hated theirselves in another.
saw ghouls counting money stained by blood,
saw priests counting bodies buried in mud.
felt the sting of the lie, the cold inside empty.
heard the groan of towns and burning cities.
both broke outside and broken inside.
where good men pray for the courage to die....

still the shout and the fury of freedom shakes...
tis the hand that gives and the hand that takes.
we are no more than the doubt and the ache...
waiting, still waiting, for the storm to break!

now who will lead and who will follow,
the path of yesterday dont lead to tomorrow.
the end of the world, the beginning of time.
while the sheep are lost and the goats are blind.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Headstones....

i am the headstones without inscriptions,
i am old boots that dont have a face.
i am the grey beard, and the morning pains,
and conversations with parking meters.
i am the leaf that waited for a thousand years,
(or so it seemed, if not longer) ...
now turning in the furious rage of passion,
and tomorrow i will fall!
i am a snowflake on the lips of time,
the wheel steady in the worst of storms.
i am the child that died at three years of age,
that never learned to read or write.
i am first love, and the first kiss.
the first hunt by grandpa's side.
i am the salmon that swam upstream,
to sacrifice its soul for your pleasure.
i am the memory of bears and buffalo.
i am the kerosene shacks of poverty.
i am the naked corpse of love,
the nail bent in the board of the bridge.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Capitalism Battles Freedom

when capitalism battles freedom,
you get what we've become...
profit begats slavery,
the many become enslaved.

founded on freedom?
we took this land from
the Native Americans,
took their way of life,
their rights, their dreams...
in the name of God?
of progress?

we brought over the slaves
from the African shores...
to work, to use, to abuse...
we took their lives, their way of life,
their hopes and dreams...
in the name of free enterprise?
of profit?

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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