Is It Too Late?

what constitutes deliverance?
how do we define, and draw the line,
between the sickness, and the cure?
between written morality, and ingrained morality?
between doubt of god, and the presence of god?
between hope, and despair?

do we accept what we see as real?
or must we touch, and taste, and feel?
is not the part of our heart that we hide,
the part that needs to be revealed?

whose hand is on the wheel?
who named the stars, and discovered fire?
must we not lose what we're most afraid
to lose in order to find what we most need?

do we spend all of our lives
trying to regain what we lost as children?
why are we afraid of darkness,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Coexist!

'when i inhale, you exhale....' Morrigna.

pretty much nails it!
what does it mean to coexist?
day would have nowhere to go,
if night didnt come.
one needs the other to identify itself.
one is not the other, but one is dependent
upon the other.
the garden you plant needs both sunshine,
and rain... sunshine and rain are seperate forces,
yet one cannot be without the other.
and the garden wont grow without both.
we are ebb and flow, coming and going.
as diverse beings with diverse beliefs,
yet human beings needing each other.
we are not all night, we are not all day.
but we each are worthy of respect.
if we would turn the page, and walk away from indifference,
then we begin as seeing each other for what we are,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Conversations Angels And Demons (Part Four)

standing in the middle of a parking
lot, talking to an old man...

he said: 'i've never seen it
this bad... everybody on edge,
struggling, scared...
nobody knows what's going to
happen...
and hell, half of everybody you
meet, or more, taking them damn
pills...'

'yea, they come in here all the
time, middle of the day, whacked out...'

'pills and poverty go together... you
cant make it, cant stand the pressure,
they prescribe you the pills.'

'i think the medical profession got it

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Bridge

i stared across the bridge,
lantern held high...
searching the trees and
the shadows for a sign.

the surging river below
made my heart stamp its feet;
the wind blew, almost moaned,
the bridge groaned as it swayed.

taking off my boots,
i crossed barefooted and sure.
looking down, i could not see rocks,
but i knew they were there...

on the other side the damp dirt
felt good to my feet...
i followed the path down,
ever down... a wolf howled!

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Occupy... (Citizen Of The World)

occupy...
Wall Street, banks, financial institutions.
the Congress, the White House, the Pentagon.
the court system, the prisons...
empty factory buildings, small businesses,
the coal mines, the oil fields,
the docks....
vacant foreclosed houses,
homeless shelters, soup lines...
the lines of the unemployed.
the fields ready to be picked.
the illegal immigrants bent backs...
the big trucks shut down...
minimum wage slave jobs...
cheap imports made by child labor,
the oil industry, the automobile industry...
occupy...
big farms, those who would spray harmful
chemicals on the crops...
family farms, threatened foreclosure by the banks.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am Responsible.... (Poet's Heart)

i am responsible....
for the child dying of starvation,
whatever color, whatever country.
for the young Muslim child alone,
his family killed by the bombs.
for the addict shaking on the street corner,
for the young girl selling her body
on that same corner.
for the family kicked out of their house,
who have nowhere to go.
for the young angry men in prison,
for the victims of the crimes.
for the stink of poverty,
and the abuse of wealth.
for the planes, the bombs,
the guns and the flags...
for the political prisoners who spoke out.
for the elderly going without food and lights,
trying to pay for their medicine.
for the victims of racism and prejudice,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am..... (Feathered Wing)

i am the kiss of the feathered wing...
having no body i walk across oceans.
driven by ancestral blood i go deep in the mines,
listening for the voices of freedom.
i define hunger with faces and eyes,
i unload the gun, and tear down the idols.
i am the maker of mountains,
bare branches bringing forth leaves.
i am the winds of change,
the still small voice within.
i am the womb of the unborn child,
i am the casket, the forever dirt.
i am the groan of the lover left alone,
the shout of the old man's empty room.
i am the stink of poverty,
and the bitter taste of wealth.
i am money burning
on the altars of mankind.
i am the voice of the god
you no longer remember.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Hem Of The Holy Garment...

we who speak as if we knew,
still jump at shadows in the night.
stopping for prayer and crossing ourselves,
reciting scriptures with trembling hearts.
or sit crosslegged on our debit cards,
for a dose of enlightenment.
or walk behind teachers as if we were sheep,
praying to be delivered from the battle.

god is not god,
god is more than that.
cannot be bought by ritual or repitition.
enlightenment hath no debit card,
and sheep are led to slaughter.

the path must be walked,
the battle must be fought.
the soul's questions cannot be answered
by anyone else.
the truth is much broader than our concepts,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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To The American People

common sense solutions:

tax the wealthy.
tax corporations and financial institutions.
put a tariff on imports.
go back to building things here.
get behind the American farmers.
grow as much of your own food as you can.
raise the minimum wage.
change from oil addiction to alternative fuels.
stop the damn wars.
feed every child!
give every child equal education opportunities.
stop prescribing narcotic pills like m & m's.
take money out of the courtrooms.
let anyone live here that works and contributes.
teach your children respect.
teach them to read.
teach them to work.
make health insurance a part of your taxes,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Listening

listening... for the sound
your hand makes when it touches mine...
for the words your eyes whisper
when you laugh...
for the song your heart sings,
and the prayer your sleeping body
becomes, pressed against mine.
for the sound of the cicadas
chanting in drunken rhythm...
for the boiling of beans
in my grandmother's kitchen.
for the crush of the bat
driving the ball deep into the gap.
for the gurgle of creekwater
running o'er a melon wedged tight.
for the sharp crack of the gun
and the bullets whistling overhead.
for the cry of the hungry baby
and the slap against his mother's face.
for the clank of the leg irons

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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