The Poet Endureth!
i stare at my face in the mirror,
and count with the heavy rhythm
of the clock... moment by moment...
every feeling, born and unborn,
every taste, intoxicating, burning the lips...
every smell, faint and overpowering...
every touch... real and imagined...
and who am i? and what have i to give?
i am the sound that you cant define,
cant put to words, cant control.
i am the fire that warms you, and destroys you...
the water you drink that drowns you;
the wind at your back, the infidel wind
that whispers to you in the middle of the night.
i am the small child, lost and crying,
i am the murderer, still someone's son.
i am the woman you'd die for,
that leaves you broken and bleeding.
i am the priest, the prophet, the thief,
the addict, the whore...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Dust
the old man puttered around his bushes...
taking his time, ... time was all he had left.
since his wife had died, it seemed like everything
was suspended. just him and the dog now, and
the dog was old and blind.
Maria watched him. everyday the same thing, in
his yard, or walking his dog. she thought to herself,
'that's just sadness walking...'
Maria was 28, never married, kinda plain, but clean.
her boy Tyler was seven, a boy's boy, and in school.
she put the pie in the oven, and walked over to the
coffeepot. she paused for a moment, then poured
two cups, and walked out the door.
'hey, George, want a cup of coffee? '
'thank you, dont mind if i do.'
they exchanged small talk...after a bit the old man said,
'getting a little tired, gonna have to sit down. you wanna
come in? '
'yea, just for a bit.'
they went in the back door, and sat down at the kitchen
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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From Essays On Man And The Divine Feminine...
we all are a holy mixture.... birth and death, hunger and fire, day and night, male and female.... reside within each of us.
most males are trained by society to diminish the feminine in themselves. this makes the man more aggressive, more violent, more success driven, more seek and take by force... and incredibly lonely, empty.
Robert Bly and the men's movement understood this problem, and sought by naked exploration of the self to find the cure, to be the cure. and yes, Hune, there are many men who find this wholeness, and live it.
women, having been treated as inferior for ages... have begun the fight for equality, have sought to make their place in a male world.
and in so doing have taken on some of the male ego.... and often some of the worst parts of it.
what we have to find is a balance! there are good men, and good women...
and there are men and women not at peace with themselves, who do bad things, who act from the ego, and not from the heart!
i am a man, both good and evil reside in me. i choose to seek the goodness, but i trip and fall quite often. the holiness of man resides in my common struggle.
the divine feminine also resides in me. the holiness of woman is a part of who i am.
i am both penis, and womb. i am the maker, and the one who gives birth.
i am both living, and dying. i am both the ocean, and the shore. i am both sin, and redemption.
balance, flow, and intimate understanding.... when sexuality is a prayer, when the small child sitting on the lap the true scripture....
when the hands that pulled the trigger now dig in the ground....
when the language of owls and trees and stones is understood...
when death becomes the very orgasm of life.... when light seeks darkness....
amen, and amen!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I'll Be Around
i'll be around...
in the wind that rustles your curtains,
in the whisper of darkness that taunts the moonlight.
in the silence that roars, and is then still...
in the prayers that children do not understand,
in the dying old man's aloneness.
in the blood that testifies against the hands,
in the hands that cannot escape the heart.
in the feet walking by their own will,
in the soul scarred by mistakes.
in the hungry mouth and the desperate eyes
that have seen and known too much.
in the fear that comes in the middle of the night,
and the dawn that never seems to come.
in the need to worship and the faith to act,
in the doubt that destroys false idols.
in the pound of the guns, the cries for help,
and the fire that has no favorites.
in the defiant stand, feet set firm,
the mark of the chains on backs and wrists.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Cynicism, and Hope
as i grow older
my cynicism grows...
i've grown tired of paper kingdoms
& dreams that end
with the taste of blood in my mouth.
i do not believe that
God lives in synagogues & churches,
or in the exhortations of evangelists,
or in the rituals of priests...
or in hell-fire & damnation,
the sword of judgement, the end of time,
or in holy graves...
i see God in the eyes...
the eyes of small children,
of homeless men beneath the bridge...
in the eyes of young lovers
madly lost in each other...
in the eyes of the old woman dying
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Freedom Rant, Part Two... (For Greg And Terence)
socialism, existentialism,
the pages are revealed.
patriot lies, god dies,
unmarked graves in a field.
the addict weeps, cold hard streets,
poverty has a heavy hand.
discrimination, salvation,
leaving footprints where we stand.
single mothers, live for another,
food stamps and minimum wage.
desperate young men, without a friend,
commit acts of senseless rage.
the prisons turn, the money earned,
fills the bellies of greed.
children taught to kill, against their will,
to survive, to feed the need.
those who slept with goats, and came in boats,
to steal the land of the free.
buried the bones, beneath time and stone,
became written history.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Right Here, Right Now!
when we buy clothes made in sweatshop conditions
in Asian countries, or elsewhere, because they're
cheaper, we are in fact supporting human rights abuse.
when we buy oil from Arab countries that oppress and
abuse their own people, and regulate women to 'second-
class slavery', we are a part of that oppression.
when we throw away or waste food while children
around the world are starving, we become the cause
of that hunger.
when we drive big suv's and trucks that get less than 15
miles to the gallon, we are the driving force behind the oil
spills!
when we sell away our own people's job's for a bigger profit
overseas, we become the victims of our own greed.
you say we cant fix everything, how can we be responsible?
our country gives more aid than anyone....
we give aid to the countries we profit from.
if we took the money we spent bombing other countries
into submission, and then rebuilding them... and spent it
instead on food and medicine and training for the impoverished...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Liberty... (Dont Betray Me Now!)
Liberty...
dont betray me now.
i have paid your price,
in bodies burning,
and mouths that tremble.
in toil and struggle,
in sweat and faith.
take not thy hand from my heart,
for you have spoken to me with eyes.
eyes that see the beauty
of the common, and simple.
eyes that drink equality,
seeing hands joined in darkened rooms.
eyes that pray common prayers.
who am i to have a face?
who are these faces,
giving dignity to names?
history written in warm blood,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Thirteenth Street Bus
god died...
nothing else unusual about the day.
the Thirteenth Street bus was late again,
people passed each other walking heads down.
when the bus finally arrived,
no one was there.
old Mr. Peterson and his crippled wife,
were nowhere to be seen.
three hours earlier...
an angry young man sat alone,
hugging his knees and shaking,
in an empty room neath a bare light bulb.
unable to focus or think,
peeling back the layers of hell...
consumed by the rage of need.
old Mr. Peterson made the coffee,
and boiled water for oatmeal.
two creams and a sugar,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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From The Desk Of A Renegade Socialist... (Chapter 33)
morning breaks, that they have not taken
from us, for they do not know how.
and all the weary stripes of the night,
the marks of turmoil, the blood stained
sweat, the blow of grieving spirits, and
the weight of the anger, are for a moment
lifted. yet the scars remain.
coffee makes in small apartments, in trailer
parks, in welfare housing, in soon to be
foreclosed houses, in run down diners, in
farm houses, in alone, stinking alone, wanting,
needing, hoping against hope dwellings of the
common all across America.
teachers laid off, or underpaid, in book burning
banning ignorance.... firefighters who cant make
it on what they make. minimum wage cashiers,
nurse's aides, trash collectors..... without a chance.
angry lost kids who need education forced into
military service or prison.
human rights violated, or taken. free speech an
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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