"hancock" poems
It was hard in the Moonta Mines that year
For the miners, down in the pit,
It wasn’t a place for a weak man, but
The Cornish Miners had grit,
They burrowed deeper with every day
Extracting the copper ore,
And the skimps grew high in the heaps that piled
Not far from the Moonta shore.
They wore their helmets deep in the mine
With a candle fixed to the brim,
And worked in the glow of the candlelight
While the pumps pumped out and in,
They pumped for water, they pumped for air
For the air in the mine was rank,
And water seeped at the lowest lode
Where the atmosphere was dank.
They built their cottages out of lime
And mud, with a building board,
On Sundays, that was the only time
Once they had prayed to the Lord,
The Cornish Miners were Methodists
Built numerous churches there,
And Cap’n Hancock had said, ‘Attend!
Or your job is gone – Beware!’
Those men of flint had hearts of gold
And they raised their children fine,
Sons would follow their fathers then
And go to work in the mine,
One Christmas Eve they were gathered there
By their hundreds, on the green,
A candle lit on their helmets each
Like a glittering starlit scene.
The wives and children were there as well
With their voices raised in praise,
The swelling sound of an angel choir
With their humble miners ways,
They called it Carols by Candlelight
And the movement grew apace,
It spread all over the world from this
The Moonta Miners grace.
David Lewis Paget
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
Voice Rejoice
by Roger W Hancock
Victory Voice,
voicing calmly,
enunciating clearly,
slow deliberate talking,
battling the stuttering.
Fighting the stammering,
during my conversing,
when heard clearly,
spoken calmly,
Victory’s rejoice.
© 12-07-2011 Roger W Hancock, www.PoetPatriot.com
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 2:56 AM UTC
next to prime rib
is a miniature fir
or bush
lumberjacked at
the trunk
you press like a bobblehead
plugging nostrils with green
steam and shake and
nobody wants to spitspoil red meat
and everyone agrees
so you collect veggie trees
arrange them in a forest
and reenact little red riding hood
with a cherry tomato
you bite -
you ******* werewolf
vampire where were you
when the fetus
crowned like a tulip pistil
harnesses by an umbilical noose
and the nurse paused and said
she's dead
and cried
and she cried too
while I waited with her father
her mother
and mine
and three friends
and nine months of this
for that
you ******* ******
not even john hancock
can sign a birth certificate
and a death certificate
in a nightmare
let alone in one night
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:13 PM UTC
Dear Nithya
Wish you a very very happy birthday!!
I am sure this birthday will be that much more special
Given the momentous event that is going to happen
An event that will change your life for the better
Well, I've known you since I was a kid
Though we haven't met frequently
Nor have we spoken a lot
But I've always been fond of you
You are a very nice person
Very warm, friendly and jovial by nature
You bring a lot of cheer
To everyone around you
Not a single moment with you
Can ever be called "boring"
You are so witty
That the Sorting Hat will scream "Ravenclaw!!"
The moment it touches your head
Also, you are very sensitive
And care deeply about your family, cousins and friends
We've had some great times
Whether it be India, US or Ireland
Coming to Ireland, you were an excellent tour guide
The incredible views of the Pacific Ocean from the Cliffs of Moher
Continue to give me goosebumps to this day
And Glendalough Upper Lake was nothing less than Paradise on Earth!!
Finally, I shall never forget the moment
When we had the finest Irish beer, at Temple Bar
Then, as far as US was concerned
The cruise on Lake Michigan was absolutely unforgettable
As were the views from Hancock Tower
Not to mention, the picnic we had at the Chicago Bean!!
Anyway, coming back to you
I hope you have a day to remember
Wish you loads of love, happiness and merriment
And may the Lord bless you!!
Aug 11, 2023
Aug 11, 2023 at 1:02 PM UTC
I heard somewhere that
public schools are going to stop
teaching kids how to write
in cursive.
Guess that means we the dying breed of fancy, huh?
But seriously, America, let's get real.
Cursive is the unspoken *** of penmanship.
Its stops and starts are infrequent;
one neverending pleasure stroke of
ups and downs,
comely curves,
delectable edges,
all made in one fluid motion.
It's always somewhat satisfying to pen...
...no matter how sloppy the technique.
See, children need to learn
how to make love on paper
before they grow up
and slip between the sheets.
It's important to teach them
that it's not a crime to take the time
to practice a little patience and appreciation.
After all, that's how love is maintained, right?
Forget e-signatures.
Forget convenience.
But don't forget the simple fact that
everyone needs a little John Hancock.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC
Uds. son muy tontos.
Les gusta cuando les doy los baños.
Les encantan mis padres porque por el desayuno,
Se lo doy cada día.
Les miro cuando juegan.
Louie, te gusta eschuchar
A música en mi hombro.
¿Lo escuchas, Louie?
Herbie Hancock y Louie Armstrong
Son tus favoritos.
Dec 25, 2009
Dec 25, 2009 at 8:20 PM UTC
robert slept in the back
enveloped in fresh cigarette
with his green sweater hung
over his face and in the front
where we smelled like lotion
and pumpkin hand sanitizer
we tried the lullabies that
were soaked in old lovers
and you invited me over
for dinner, it's so easy
to say that God has
sent me no one
so even if you
do move back
to New York, I
will be able to say
that yes, I made a friend
all on my own and found
that it is so easy to laugh, that
I can be easy to love.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 1:02 AM UTC
I've got an invitation to the Boston Tea Party
I'm letting you know in case you want to come with me
I heard from some friends that it's going down in history
Don't think about it twice
Just say yes
Whoa! Uh oh!
No taxation without representation
Whoa! Uh oh!
These patriot's they know how to show a good time.
Whoa! Uh oh!
What Georgie gonna think when he wakes up in the morning?
Pass me the quill, dear Hancock.
Thomas Jefferson, he has got a way with words
He really makes you believe that this dream's gonna work
(Maybe if you forget that these Brits rule the world)
I'll sign the declaration
It's all I have left to believe in
Whoa! Uh oh!
Paul Revere he says the British are coming!
Whoa! Uh oh!
Can't you hear, the belfry's bells are ringing
Whoa! Uh oh!
Pick up guns we're off to Lexington
Hoofbeats are flying out to the night.
Wait.
Here I stand.
At this Battle of Bunker Hill.
Stop.
Close your eyes.
What happend to our sanity?
Civility?
Humanity?
(It went out the door with our freedom.)
Whoa! Uh oh!
We don't need a King we have our own voices
Whoa! Uh oh!
Life and Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness
Whoa! Uh oh!
Save the date, July 4th 1776
US of A, it's independence.
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 2:34 PM UTC
Fringed by putrescent dusk
Fingernails dig beneath graveyard wounds
Fostered by lexical warfare
Within the harrowing fiascos of tomorrow
Nothing but bated memories
Braided by skin, coffee, and cigarettes
Branded by concrete whispers
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 2:48 PM UTC
Hey when you see me salute cause all you see is the truth
Trying to hang me out to dry, the boy done slipped through the noose
Stick and move with the deuce
There’s
messing with me, I put the poos in the boots
Top of my class, when you thinking recruits
Another level with this
That’ll subdue your upper cranium
My element titanium
Titan in the game and his writing is the same
Now they biting off his style cause they liked him for a while
So I switch my game up so I can tighten up your brow
In arose, exposed from you throwing in the towel
It’s a guessing game wheel of fortune pick a vowel
Anytime you testing with me its double jeopardy
Mid-life crisis no matter what the price is
Poe- Ez ethics, Hancock, death wish
Via satellite so you all can get the message
Lethal weapon make you run it back, interception
Neutralize your top dog cause the broken down protection
Always find the hole like the end of an ********
I’m heating up now just igniting the fire
The shock that you absorb from the end of wire
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 10:19 AM UTC
Listening to Dave Grusin,
"Mountain Dance," vintage 1979.
The thought strikes:
"Why is it that only the
Early Jazz Giants are deified?
Of course, we need Chet Baker and
Miles Davis in our pantheon, &
Gerry Mulligan & Charlie Parker
Not to mention (cue Soupy Sales:
"Smack. I told you not to mention that!")
Coltrane or Stan Getz.
And yet, we're all getting long teeth and
there's a lot more Smooth Jazz to come,
Post-1950s, take Grusin, for example, or
George Benson or Herbie Hancock, and
What about Earl Klugh & Larry Carlton?
Let's not forget Spyro Gira &
The Daves: Benoit and Koz.
And we would be remiss
To miss Chris, young Chris,
Chris - "The Whippersnapper" - Botti.
But I digress.
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 9:25 PM UTC
riot rhythm
vertical to vertical
we're all going up or down
there's no cross section
it gives me those jitters
where you're lurching fast forward
let's just fast forward
so we can waste time
regretting things
waiting for the dreaming hour
waiting to escape
always hunting for energy
that isn't manufactured anymore
it's when the layers are pulsing in your ears
that you remember the real life
long ago.
muscles spazzing with every
twitch of the clock
there's not enough space in the
world to occupy my heart's
beating motion.
the ambulance is going faster
when you're sinking into the earth
nothing's written in records
and Hancock never lived
nor did I.
buried in the ground is the
only positive pressure I've
ever befriended.
close to the ground
head under a table
deja vu
I wish I lived earlier
so I could feels the same
kind of emotions they did.
I think I do.
tears avalanching
onto the mountainside
below my eyes.
nothing catches my interest
or my eye
quite like a happy tune
with sad lyrics.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
regular delivery
it arrived with the standard 8 vertices
rigid and battered
******* box
i kicked it around the house
oh bout two months
maybe three
till i got sick of lookin at it
it started kicking me back
hard as hell
and right where it counts
you know what im talking about
chunking it out the window
never worked
just re-delivered
i had to sign for that *******
every time
my john hancock is all over it now
i should open it
rip back the crumpled packing tape
and just peer in
and when i did
and that rip stopped echoing
in the cave that is my room
and the moldy ***** were pulled back
the cavity was exposed
a cool gust shot up
curled back my mustache
and made me grin
like i just saw a russian blue
do a back flip
funny too
it smelled like you
sweet perfume
and that ***** drawer whiskey
i gasped and tried to **** it all in
to ghost that hit of you
i stuck my head in
to get _all_ of it
licked the inside of the cardboard
for each last scrap
i made each fold into origami
crane
dragon
turtle
rabbit
so on
and just before i knelt down
to pray for another breeze in a box
i opened a window
and sat with my feet dangling
grinning with you all over me
sure that a wind
would soon blow up from the south
warm and loving
fragrant and laughing
to smack me
just when i need it most
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 4:41 PM UTC
the power of signature confirmation
knowing that someone was there
to john hancock your existence
john henry your being
delivery affirmation runs a close race
but doesn't truly embrace
the majesty of humanity's contact
oh, how it feels to be wanted
who doesn't love the feel of receiving
delivered by hand
im special, im desired
globe trotted to be mine
mystery
desire
suspense
intrigue
to hold the contents of life
mail to your destination of choice
even when sender is unknown
the recipient endures their decisions
return to sender will no longer work
because with you, this mail can no longer exist.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
I wonder, when John Hancock
signed the Declaration,
if he could feel time pulling apart
then back together,
taking the shape
of his America.
I wonder, when Lincoln
felt the cold bullet
enter the curls of his hair,
if he had enjoyed the play.
I wonder, when Nazi’s
burned ownerless toys
and 80-year marriage rings,
if they were shaken
by the screams of thousands.
I wonder, when the sailor
kissed that nurse
when the war had been won,
if he thought about bombs
or her soft lips.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 11:49 PM UTC
I blame it on the radio,
Hancock and the Navy Lark,
listened to quietly in the dark
but then along came the
TV and Looby Lou crashed right into me as
if she didn't know that she ruined my blame
on the radio show,
now it's 425 lines and the TV Times
and pics that flood over me, it's
like living but being buried alive out at sea.
What can I do but watch Scooby Doo
and wish it weren't so, wish
I could blame
the radio.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 8:48 AM UTC
When I come to the end of my journey
And I travel my last weary mile
Just forget if you can, that I ever frowned
And remember only the smile
Forget unkind words I have spoken
Remember some good I have done
Forget that I ever had heartache
And remember I've had loads of fun
Forget that I've stumbled and blundered
And sometimes fell by the way
Remember I have fought some hard battles
And won, ere the close of the day
Then forget to grieve for my going
I would not have you sad for a day
But in summer just gather some flowers
And remember the place where I lay
And come in the shade of evening
When the sun paints the sky in the west
Stand for a few moments beside me
And remember only my best
Author: Mrs Lyman (Abbie) Hancock
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 12:56 PM UTC
(with apologies to Gil Scott-Heron)
You will have to stay home, sister.
You will charge up, tune in, drop out of all activities.
You will scroll through memes, trawl the news,
Skip the tea, you're running low.
The epidemic will be endlessly televised.
The epidemic will be brought to you in a trillion parts,
With declining commercial interruption.
The epidemic will show you pictures of Trump and Boris blithering,
Dreaming of fried chicken at the end of televisation,
"Oka-a-ay...".
"You are a terrible reporter!"
NHS-badged Hancock will look the part,
But cannot answer the question
Should I look after my sick self-isolated seventyish neighbour?
Fauci facepalms
And is gone.
Watch out, guys.
The epidemic will be televised.
The Epidemic (starring Tom Hanks) will not be brought to you on the big screen.
There will be no big screen.
The Epidemic will not play Glasto
Lit by 300,000 Androids.
The epidemic will be brought to you by friends and strangers.
The epidemic will be televised.
The epidemic will not inject fat into your posterior.
You will not need to shave or deodorise.
As it turns out, you are not worth that expensive holiday.
The epidemic will make you a bedroom star
Vlogging your incarceration to ten followers.
The epidemic will be televised.
There will be pictures of coughing queues at supermarkets
Toilet roll riots, thermometer wars.
There will be pictures of you and your best mate
Pushing that cart down the block,
Packed with Branston Pickle baked beans
Though you posted fifty times online about hoarding.
You will not have dressed for the occasion.
You will not care who wins Love Island.
You will not care who wins The Great British Bake Off.
Eastenders will be cancelled
After 35 years of continuous drama.
You will dodge the police for a quiet walk
On a brighter day.
The epidemic will be televised.
Reporters will cough.
Ministers will be replaced
Suddenly
Parliament will be suspended.
Politics will cease to be televised.
The epidemic will be right back, after a message.
You will have to worry about a germ in your bathroom,
Your food supply, the tiger in your tank, your loved ones,
Whether, if you cease to breathe, there will be a ventilator.
You will consider getting in the driver's seat.
Where to go?
Would you like to see your mother?
Would you like to cross a border?
The Caravan Park is occupied
By the Military.
Slowly, slowly
The screens will darken.
The epidemic will no longer be televised.
The Epidemic is not a game. You cannot return to a previous Save.
The epidemic is live.
Mar 24, 2020
Mar 24, 2020 at 3:38 PM UTC
I view the future with much equanimity
And try not to rely on consanguinity.
My loss of blood to NHS phlebotomists
Whose hides are thicker than hippopotomists
Or, if you prefer it, hippopotami
Exacerbates a lot of my
Concerns with the diminution of supply,
Reminiscent of Hancock and his cry:
A pint of blood! You must be mad!
That’s almost an armful. It’s really bad
If I do not have enough
Left to fill the smallest coffee cup.
But do not grieve excessively,
I’ve left a glorious legacy.
A double pocketful of books
Into which no one ever looks;
As well as countless music scores
That it seems everyone abhors,
Regarded by equal abhorrence
As evidenced by non-performance.
But one we greet with jubilation
Refrigerated Transportation
Beloved by transport chiefs galore,
Who hide it in their frozen store.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
Sickles' corps had broken; the Rebels had them on the run.
Hancock foresaw disaster; perhaps a worse one than Bull Run
How could he plug the gap in the line and rally men to stand?
"What Regiment is this? " he asked of Colville, in command.
The First Minnesota volunteers- they were sorely undermanned.
They were Lincoln's first volunteers, staunch Union men in Blue
Hancock ordered them to charge; a death sentence, they knew.
With bayonets fixed they made their charge outnumbered twelve to Two.
The Rebel regiments were shocked, disbelieving what they saw;
The company sized regiment who'd come through three years of war.
Canister ripped through their lines; there was no time to weep.
Five minutes Hancock needed; for that long their grief would keep.
This field knows many heroes; so many fought and bled.
But let us pause and honor these brave Minnesota dead.
They bought time for the General; the Union held the Ridge.
We might not have a country had they not done what they did.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 9:55 PM UTC
Small print
What a way
To cheat another day
History has taught
How to respond
And Play
There's nothing to fear
But fear itself
Knowing this is wealth
Theres one word
A join of two
Reveals theres nothing had to do
Loophole
Loophole
A hole of loops
Infinite
Every loophole has a loophole
How significant
Thats why its called
Loop
Hole
Endless DNA
Theres just one name
That keeps it sane
The name lives to this day
John Hancock
Sign that sh*t
Big and bold
No fear
Showing that
No cowardice
Is within
Is clear
Let the loopholes
Noose the necks
Of those with bad intent
Now thats enough
Wasting thought on this
My mind is not for rent
Just remember
Boomerang
Three little birds that sang
Killed by the bell
Welcome to hell
Theres no one else to blame.
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 12:03 PM UTC
Let’s not get too political here
In 1773
The most British thing Britan did was make an act of tea
Meanwhile,
The Sons of Liberty reacted with a tea party of their own
The Boston Tea Party
Tea smugglers starting the chants of “no taxation without representation”
consuming about 2-3 cups of tea per day but the secret to making a huge cup of tea
is by throwing a tea party
Lets invite Darthmouth, Eleanor & ******
Bringing 240 chests of cheap black tea, 15 chests of superior cheap black tea, 10 chests superior black tea & 60 chests of green tea
Toss it all into the Boston Harbour
After all they are THROWING a 3 hour tea party
John Hancock and Samuel Adams
Got about 116+ guests arriving at 7pm and leaving by 10pm
In those those 3 hours
a total of 45 tons of tea was spilled
Legend says the harbour still tastes like tea but very salty
However, In today’s generation
There’s still more tea coming up from the Boston tea party
Sep 16, 2024
Sep 16, 2024 at 3:07 AM UTC
Half obscured by powder smoke, the long Grey line comes on.
“Double canister and hard shot, pour it on them boys!”
They dress the line and still they come, inexorably, like fate.
We are in need of some support, but will it come too late?
A high wood fence disrupts their charge, like clotting blood they mass.
As many a dying Virginian boy wishes for his cup to pass.
“For Fredericksburg!” “For Fredericksburg!” Alonzo Cushing cried.
We worked our guns and gave them hell for all our friends who’d died.
Our blood is up and still they come, over the parapet.
We are all determined this is as far as they will get.
A breath of air, a cooling drink, a lover’s soft embrace;
Strange things crowd into your mind when in a hellish place.
A company of New Yorkers, coming on the double quick,
Have piled into the Rebel mass where the fighting was most thick.
Back you go, proud Virginians, back over the low stone wall.
Not so many as started out, no longer proud and tall.
A rebel of some prominence sits, dying, near my gun.
He asks for General Hancock, strange to hear that name upon his tongue.
My friend, Alonzo Cushing, lies beside the caisson where
He bleeds profusely from his wounds. He is too far gone to care.
He will not live to see the Sun rise in the East again,
Or live to hear a nation’s thanks for what he did for them.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 8:00 AM UTC
*Graham Hancock - The War on Consciousness:
".. and I stand here invoking the hard-won right of freedom of speech to call for and demand another right to be recognized, and that is the right of Adult Sovereignty over Consciousness.
There is a war on Consciousness in our society, and if we, as Adults, are not allowed to make sovereign decisions about what to experience with our own Consciousness while doing no harm to others- including the decision to use, responsibly, ancient and sacred visionary plants, then we cannot claim to be free in any way, and it is useless for our society to go around the world imposing our form of democracy on others while we nourish this rot at the heart of society and we do not allow individual freedom over Consciousness.
It may even be that we are denying ourselves the next vital step in our own evolution by allowing this state of affairs to continue, and, who knows, perhaps our immortal destiny, as well."*
Please watch or at least listen to the whole speech. It's only 19 minutes.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y0c5nIvJH7w
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 5:11 AM UTC