Black Thunder

black thunder/ broken pieces, tired eyes.
church bells silent ringing, crow feet scarred pillows.
small children walking, without tongues praying,
wagon wheels bogged down in sand.
black thunder/ second hand lives, worn out lies.
dead soldiers mournful singing, borrowed tomorrows.
blind mouths moving, talking without saying,
unlit rooms forged by fugitive hands.

black thunder/ pregnant women without faces.
waves lapping orphan feet, ships lost in the storm.
refugee stars lost in unmarked skies,
an old tree dying rotting on the ground.
black thunder/ families disappearing without traces.
trash blown deserted streets, old men waiting to be born.
molded crucifixes, covered with flies,
clouds chant scriptures without a sound.

(guns silent weeping,
angels prayerful sweeping.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Southern Gospel...

he carefully pried at the screen
with his pocketknife... laying low
against the building, almost dissolving
in the shadows.
the probing lights of cars passing saw
nothing, no sign of life.
slowly, without sound, he removed the
screen.... pushing the window up just
enough, he pulled himself up and through
the window like a snake.
it was some kind of office at the back of
the church. he waited a minute for his
eyes to adjust. his body hurt, even his
soul hurt! every breath cut like a knife.
making his way to the door, he slipped
out into the hall. the silence was deafening.
on down the hall to the sanctuary... opening
the double doors, he made his way into the tomb!

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am.... (Hand Of Silence)

i am the fire raging out of control,
the blade of the shadow on poverty's neck.
the broken sound when no one can hear,
the cold feel of the gallows,
the wings of the dead bird.
i am the raccoon trapped,
and the fury of loss.
i am the waiting that kills,
moment by moment.
i am the hand too tired to touch,
the baby just born that no one wants.
i am the ribs showing on the starving child,
the refugee fleeing with nowhere to go.
the smell of despair at the county dump,
the apartment without curtains or furniture.
i am the soldier killed who hesitated with conscience.
i am the prisoner afraid of both detention and freedom.
the young gay teenager who hangs himself,
the pregnant girl who takes too many pills.
i am the protester beaten and left on the sidewalk,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Pages in the Book

in the midnite hour 'neath the street lamp shadows,
where lifetimes come and go, and salvation follows.
and the heart stripped bare has no need to lie...
the taste of your lips, the tears that i cant cry.

with beaten hands and swords into plows;
giving all that i am, more than i can do without.
i'd trade eternity for one moment by your side...
with your hand in mine and nothing left to hide.

making love in the dirt by the cementary stones,
the yip of the dogs while the wind howls and moans.
your fingers dig into my back, i dive into your soul...
where fire was discovered, spinning out of control.

you close the book, turn the page, walk out the door,
call it all a lie, say you dont love me anymore.
the scars of passion in the shadows 'neath your eyes...
hymns of hope and redemption where the sparrow flies.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Urn....

He finally pulled in the drive.
Another endless night at work.
Exhausted, he turned off the car,
and stumbled for the back door.
The neighborhood cat rubbed
against his legs as he fumbled
for the key.
As he opened the door, he noticed
that the light over the sink was on.
Shaking his head, he shrugged, and set
down his lunchbox.
He reached in the cupboard for the
bottle and a glass. He poured a small
shot, and hesitated for a moment.
He could hear the night just outside
the window. Something inside of
him let down. He kicked back the shot,
and headed for the bathroom.
A quick shower, and he found his way
to the bedroom. Lying naked on the

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sounds Of The Earth

i feel the sounds of the earth,
cant say how or why!
the hurtling swagger of rivers,
the deep bass stillness of mountains.
the whispered longing of the trees,
dancing naked in moonlight.
the hymn of the grasses,
calling forth life.
the groan of the earth,
just turned by the plow!

i hear the reggae beat of the cities,
the hum of movement and work.
the chords of factories and mills,
the horns blown by the shops.
even the hollow beat
of business, of buy and sell.
and the low gutteral moan,
of the homeless, jobless, and lost.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Propped Against The Wall

beneath the thunderous clap
of coming storm,
shadows scurry from limb to limb.
sunlight weeps through pregnant clouds,
and the spider builds his web.
with the feathered taste of sparrow's wings,
in the rhythm of marching ants.
logs cut and split, stacked against the house,
the spicket drips, and no one cares.

poverty tugs at the walls,
while voices tense with hunger's beat,
are lost in empty rooms.
children run between the cars,
with dirty faces, without shoes.
dogs bark from rib cages exposed,
as water boils on the stove.
the smell of time and elderly feet,
fans turn in paint peeled windows.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am.... (Namaste)

i heard your soul whimper
from across the miles,
in the dead of night,
when you thought no one cared.
i saw the light in your eyes,
when you fed the hungry child,
and brushed the dirt from his face
with hands that trembled.
i felt the tears,
that you couldnt cry...
as you buried your only son,
killed in their wars.
i smelled the fear in your body,
but tasted the grit and determination,
as they beat you to the street
for protesting their greed.
i shook with the cold lonliness
of your tiny cell,
where they left you
with no identity or hope...

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am.... (Falcon)

i am...
the lament of oceans,
grieving lost children.
the latent sound of artillery,
mother and son huddled.
i am women oppressed,
sold into slavery.
i am the crack in the window,
through which freedom stares.
i am black skin white skin
drenched in blood,
i am sweat and toil,
fields swept by heat.
i am the american poet,
who learned his craft in sawmills...
built houses by hand,
and grew his own food.
i am pigs and chickens,
slaughtered in cells.
i am pride in prison,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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From A Poet's Desk....

i have days filled with images,
smells, sounds, tastes...
images that talk without speaking,
that ache, that cut, that bleed...
small things, never noticed, or forgotten.

remember staring at sunlight dancing
in pine sap, alone in the woods, a small boy.
the way my bare feet felt in the creek,
the way my mother talked about god,
as if they were intimate friends.
the day my best friend's brother died,
we were about seven, i think he was five...
the freckles on the face of the girl i loved,
in the fifth grade...
and the day of mourning, alone in the woods,
when her family moved away.
the day President Kennedy was murdered...
the streets i walked at night as a teenager.
the questions, always the questions...

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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