Biography of Eric Cockrell
i am 58 years old... have been writing poetry for over 40 years... had a troubled youth, was in trouble a lot, was a drug addict... survived it all... have worked a variety of jobs... have 4 grown children,3 grandchildren.
was a member of the North Carolina Writer's Roundtable for a while... write poetry, songs, political and spiritual commentaries...
am somewhere between a Buddhist and a gnostic Christian...
am a renagade socialist by political nature...
believe most of all that compassion is the one true path!
Eric Cockrell's Works:
'Scar Tissue', self-published in the 1970's
'Awakening', self-published in the 1980's
Eric Cockrell Poems
A Child Is Dying
for every tree you cut down, a child is dying. for every barrel of oil that you drill and spill,
A Better Idea
they want to ban books, ban abortions ban gay marriages ban free thinking
That's Enough For Me!
from a tiny acorn, the oak tree grows. what a man cant find, a child will know.
he wears her like the badge of honorable abuse....
9/11, And The Days After
how many died that day at the World Trade Center? how many died in the field?
it took ashes... for me to draw a picture of your living in black and white...
A Buddha's Eternal Moment
one lone rose opened by the sun, the faint memory of rain, and the dark damp earth.
i quit trying to save the world... and just offered my hand, and walked beside it. i quit trying to find the truth,
1900 poems... love letters written in flesh, with all the scars
The Shadow Inside My Shadow
poverty is not my cousin, is not my lover, is not my preacher, poverty is not my brother.
In Every Dawn
there is a moment just before darkness, when every sound is amplified. when the senses come alive, and smell and taste take bodies.
16 Penny Nails!
strong harsh words, 16 penny nails driven by a big hammer....
2012, Ending, Or Beginning!
the curtain is drawn, the memories of another year, a year of hardship and need,
I Dont Write Poetry!
i dont write poetry... i sweat poetry, i drink poetry, i breathe poetry, i make love to poetry, i fight poetry, i eat poetry,
our love is spillt
onto winter's dead earth.
amid the rubble of
decaying leaves, and
only an echo
of living remains;
and the promise