Eric Cockrell Poems

Sunday morning redemption...
black coffee and cigarettes,
the silence that only Sunday brings.
the week behind, jumbled and lost.
...

someone sent me a letter,
and asked me if i was black or white, , ,
i cut my finger, signed my name
in blood at the bottom,
...

i pray, therefore i am.
i work, therefore i am.
i give, therefore i am.
i get knocked down,
...

walking through the wetness,
rain falling softly.
the rhythm of the wipers,
the trees bow to the wind.
...

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,
...

thunderstorm, and ashes...
wild horses running free.
wolves panting in the darkness,
owls shudder in the night.
...

is the bridge to the past
really the chain that holds us?
have we spent all of our lives,
running to or running from?
...

we collide,
rogue stars travelling darkness,
upper lip and bottom lip,
the knife and the flesh.
...