Eric Cockrell Poems

to be swept away by the storm,
every room in the house akilter.
hair thrown across your face,
lips swollen with longing.
...

i walked down liberal boulevard,
turned left on anarchy and doubt.
made a final right on questioning...
and knocked on the door of an old house.
...

we speak the word 'love' too easily...
love should speak itself!
in tiny doings of the heart,
and small kindnesses shared.
...

we walk barefoot down nuclear beaches,
driven, without direction, to leave footprints.
coughing up spit, and avoiding shadows,
of small minded men following
...

the scar on the doorknob shouts,
everytime i reach for the door.
never asking which way i'm going,
as if i knew the direction home.
...

i too mourn the dead...
the victims of bullets,
preordained by message.
the blown and splintered bodies,
...

even the silence of the night talks,
small children talk in their dreams;
old people talk staring out windows...
trees talk shedding leaves,
...

i often walk in the quiet of the evening
with Mary Magdelene....
listening to the sound of her voice,
as she speaks of things
...

what we believed yesterday was a part of yesterday...
time has passed, a new day has dawned.
our believing has to evolve.... while having the
same roots, the plant changes, coming to fruition.
...

i'm not trying to make people angry
this morning... an intelligent person
know anger is but a symptom of the
disease...
...