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The Day America Died

i am the old farm house,
the iron skillet, and the well.
the mule and the plow,
and momma's family Bible.
i am the single shot.22,
squirrel dumplings,
and strawberry pie.
i am collard greens,
pintos, and cornbread.
i am the field plowed,
wood cut and stacked.
jars of green beans
stacked on the shelf.
i am the work hardened hand,
and the gentle touch.
i am the simple things,
that cant be bought.
i am generation after generation,
footstep after footstep.
the prayer of scrubbed faces,

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Am (You)

i am...
the shadow inside your shadow,
your breath, and your smell.
the memories of your childhood,
and the day your father died.
the cats that came one by one,
the forty dollar runaway.
the forbidden love, and the dare,
the loss, the grave never tended.
i am childbirth, and the baby,
nursing at your breast.
i am the snake in the garden,
the spider in the outhouse.
the kerosene heater, and the iron skillet.
i am the galvanized bathtub,
the water bucketed up the hill.
i am the want of spring,
the passion of summer,
the turning of autumn,
the final stillness of winter.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Scent Of The Lover....

i am still water, moonlit and waiting.
i am the crucifix made of fingers,
the letter written in blood.
the fool tripping over windmills,
the beacon from a distant shore.
dust in the corner, dew on the grass,
the eyes of the racoon,
the bat hanging upside down.
the whisper of moss,
the depths of the cave.
the pine tree fallen across the path.
i am the kiss long silent,
the iron skillet, the tin cup.
i am the body of the wind,
without beginning or end.
i am the child alone,
and the woman abused.
the angry man, and the broken glass.
i am the farmhouse deserted,
the voices of ghosts.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sorry Sorry Sorry

In time Of need to you
i wasn't there indeed
it was my mistake
My friendship it is too costly
never people have to measure
A honey was lost
memories were post
in our minds the most to you
A friend me want to be you
And more worries you got
sorry, if i let you down
In the middle of the crowd
Sorry, I didn't get the point
Of being so depressed
Sorry, because i wasn't there
when you needed a teddy bear
mistake people do
bcaz i am human being
but they correct them due
There for you, i am going to be

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poem by Khushi throne
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I Am... (Window Bare)

i am...
words spoken with dark skinned hunger,
battles fought in the realm of the heart.
right and wrong that convicts the motive.
the smell and the feel of all that is common.
the question asked in the silent church.
the blood spillt on the courthouse steps.
the language of factories, mills, and shifts.
the cast iron skillet well seasoned.
the field plowed, the seeds planted.
the man standing against the angry mob.
the body hanging from the gnarled old oak.
the prison cell, the stink of fear.
the lovers lost inside each other,
the old woman staring at dishes just washed.
the haunting whisper of buildings vacant.
the old man's body found three days later.
the fury of the neon streets,
the deal made, the blade withdrawn.
the soldier come home to homelessness.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Nameless Selves

it is only I,
nameless selves,
dissolving, evolving...
appearing, taking form,
only to disappear back
into formless fermentation.

leaving only the stink of living...
the green scent of plants unfolding,
the grey soot linger of poverty,
of countless stones laid,
and trod upon.
blood and sweat and shit and prayers,
the pine walls of eternal casket.

the soured milk of nipple bitter,
the stench of rope,
too close to the flame.
rich red clay worn by infidel boots,
whose fathers were unknown.

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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Old Man's Nursery Rhyme

I.

In the jolly winters
Of the long-ago,
It was not so cold as now--
O! No! No!
Then, as I remember,
Snowballs, to eat,
Were as good as apples now,
And every bit as sweet!

II.

In the jolly winters
Of the dead-and-gone,
Bub was warm as summer,
With his red mitts on,--
Just in his little waist-
And-pants all together,
Who ever heard him growl

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poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Moving Water

When you do things from your soul, you feel a river
moving in you, a joy.

When actions come from another section, the feeling
disappears.

Don't let others lead you. They may be blind or, worse, vultures.

Reach for the rope of God. And what is that? Putting aside self-will.

Because of willfulness people sit in jail, the trapped bird's wings are tied,
fish sizzle in the skillet.

The anger of police is willfulness. You've seen a magistrate
inflict visible punishment.

Now see the invisible. If you could leave your selfishness, you
would see how you've been torturing your soul. We are born and live inside black water in a well.

How could we know what an open field of sunlight is?

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poem by Rumi
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Your Conviction With Such Commitment

Did you think I was a figment,
Of your imagination?
Something generic
You can treat as you please.
Something you were taught,
Was beneath your high ideals?

Humor me.

Well
It is no secret by now,
We both have been made aware
Who achieves incompetence
And who denies accountability
With accusations of not being responsible,
For any implementation of wrongdoing

Do you use olive or vegetable oil,
In your skillet?
Or

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Stronger Than Me (Amy Winehouse)

Stronger Than Me

Sauterne princess
sauvignon (so-vee-yan) wine
satin blues in an alto hue
you seduced me in the misty air of a London fog.
your rock, your jazz, your soul

your cool vibrato floats - like champagne bubbles - on the brim of crystal flutes
your songs melt in my veins - like a stream of the Free Basin sea
your harmony’s whisper - like oil simmering - in a hot iron skillet
You are stronger than me

petite frame, sweet, insane,
entire stage, all alone, little widow spider girl,
alluring and sexy, you kidnapped me with your forlorn poetry.

teasing me with your passionate eyes
b flat rhythms.
Your moody syncopations,

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poem by Orin Griffin
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