In department store foyers, free samples sprayed,
A collision of cosmetics muddle the air.
The olfactory overpowered by such obvious odours,
Why do natural notes disconcert you?

Not the gym heavy sodden or overworked,
Recognition of an individual, whilst eyes remain shut.
Faint trace of the familiar or frenzied pheromones,
A headiness misplaced by the cologne wearing clones

Preference for the perfumed, the artificial sweetener.
Marketed meticulously
Musk manufactured yet not made by man
Of flowers dear, of oils and compounds.

Fresh, fruity, citrus or spiced
Artificial aromas keep your own scent disguised
Society simulates this sophistication of the senses,
Masking yourself from me as you are wooed,
Accustomed to this attraction, till you let down your defences
How shall I know you when you are ****?

Bleeding buffers,
pressed against
a world that pictures...
ramifying colors--
spidering glass that crackles.
What a beautiful
headdress.
Stasis of newness,
plus and minus the
headiness of years.

There was a fake sunflower stapled to the corner of the cabinet where you first entered; my mother had banged her head on it in her twenties, and my Babcia took the initiative to cover it up from there on. The pots, rusted, and old, and dating back forty years, collected dust atop the fridge. A creaky, old, loud fridge that smelled permanently of kielbasa and applesauce, the light flickering inside, and it stood about five feet too tall for me. Before it, sat a rug, threads pulling loose and the faded face of a Great Dane looking up at you inquisitively. I used to sit on the island, not the kind you eat breakfast at nowadays. The surface was an obstacle course of splinters and softened wood that threatened to split, and the various, torturous tools my Babcia implemented upon her doughs and meats. It smelt like cigarettes, and cider, and all-spice year round; it used to make me dizzy. With the turning of the leaves, returned the headiness of cinnamon as my Babcia boiled sticks in a *** on the corner wood-burning stove, a reminder of times past. The back door that led to the garden never hung correctly, and whined with use every time it opened, whether from the wind or one of us. Dirt, weeds, and leaves were tracked in; galoshes more of a decoration beside the door than ever used practically. I cut my finger once on the pasta maker that was ******* into the counter beside the sink; one of these industrial farmhouse sinks that never managed to **** down the bread crumbs and corn all the way. I had been playing with my cousin’s power rangers in it, much to his dismay. They never were the same after I made them go for a swim. The cookies, usually oatmeal, were kept in a cracked, porcelain rooster that sat strict and unyielding next to the window; more sunflowers there as well, this time on the curtains that were stained despite how many times they’d been washed. I was never very tall, but I was good at climbing. Even in my dresses. And with feet blackened from the garden, I would struggle onto any available surface in that kitchen, and watch as my Babcia worked, knuckles dried and cracked as her hands mercilessly kneaded dough; whether it be for breads, pies, or pretzels. She would coat the pretzel dough in cinnamon sugar and feed me tiny pieces of it, and with a sip of her hard cider to wash it down, I was spoiled rotten in that kitchen. Despite the dust, the rust, the dirt, the clutter; it was my tiny kingdom, with an overloaded dishwasher, wooden spoons that met my backside more often than I prefered, and an ever boiling kettle. I can remember the way the sun would shine through on August nights, just before dinner started at 6:30 pm, the way the evening would cast the entire room gold and green, Stevie Nick’s voice gritty and soft, and the entire house smelled of pierogies and sausage. The adults would be bustling to and fro, and I would pretend to help, when really all I was doing was stealing bits of biscuits and gravy for me and the dogs. I can remember the stillness of early morning, the wafting scent of coffee that flooded the room like steam, I can remember struggling to reach the jam, the familiar ding of the toaster, and my Grandfather’s hands, fat and calloused, pushing me up until I was settled onto the island, and the windows opened as he smoked, the blackest cup of coffee you’d ever seen in one hand, and the gray of his hair turning white in the light of the rising sun. If I closed my eyes, I am able to envision it all. Each speck of dust that danced in the air, every berry stain that became useless to try and remove due to my clumsiness, the stacks of Blues Clues applesauce that took up the bottom shelf of the fridge, and the sight of the vegetable garden just through the back door, bountiful and green and ready to harvest.

A collection of poetic writings
Of questionable mastery

THE

FIRST TOME










There are many forms and styles
Of poetic expression that I am
Just beginning to be introduced to
And understand

A number were written prior to my joining the
All Poetry site and beginning my education

To me, poetry is rhyme and rhythm, but
It has form, as I have learnt.

This booklet will only allow 16 pages
Of which this is the second, so
The remaining 14 will carry a number of
Pre All Poetry, and post All Poetry
And hopefully you may perceive
An improvement









AMERICAN SUMMER

A Blackmans death, caused by police
Subsumes the brain, and reason kills
And primal animal contained, released
To the world displays their ills

Subsumes the brain, and reason kills
Property garners but scant regards
To the world displays their ills
Respect of any, is shattered shards

Property garners but scant regards
As need to possess, over rides all else
Respect of any, is shattered in shards
It’s take what you can, from any shelf

As need to possess, over rides all else
The reason for the riot is lost
Its take what you can from any shelf
The black man’s life

The reason for the riot is lost
As other feelings rule the mind
At looting time it’s free of cost
As Humanity leaves civilisation behind

As other feelings rule the mind
Mankind gone feral, no longer smart
As humanity leaves civilisation behind
A blackman’s dying, tore life apart








AGES OF MAN

A stage, they say a joke that is
A plank upon the ground
Players they say, the people is
They’ll beat you pound for pound

Their entrances and exits,
will keep unto themselves
and as for seven ages
that’s what this story tells

man begins all worm like
a kid a useless thing
poops, and pukes and whines a lot
and doesn’t earn a thing

Schoolboys next, Oh! God forbid
Why did we make this one
It must have been that point in time
When I did some stuff for fun

The lover , ah!, my ***** did melt
A poet he did try
The effect upon the mistress’s brow
Did make the eyebrow cry

The military man, so full of spit
And polish at the fore
Did play his part, with bearded kit
And veered the cannons gore

Age number six has changed the scope
To a lean and loudly man
Whose time is on the downward *****
And no longer in the van

Seven ages man will glory in
Not all we wish to recall
Love and home, and wondrous sin
As begun will finish small







Bedtime Story (Homework No 5 Pantoum

The child did love their bedtime read
With granddad sitting on the bed
The Knight & hero’s rearing steed
And in the story her childhood shed

With grandad sitting on the bed
The hero’s steed went racing past
And in the story her childhood shed
The royal queen she came at last

The hero’s steed went racing past
And stopped the dragon there and then
The royal queen she came at last
Helped herd the beast back to its pen

And stopped the dragon there and then
From having chook and pig repast
Helped herd the beast back to its pen
And granddad closed the book at last

From having chook and pig repast
The story ran down to the end
And granddad closed the book at last
The next book read, the child would lend

The story ran down to the end
No further words left to be said
The next book read the child would lend
With granddad sitting on the bed







Christmas Thought

We gather here on Christmas eve
to share part of the joy
2000 years ago this day
Mary would have a boy

that day affirmed mans place in life
the woman to her chores
and life upon this blissful earth
was governed by mans laws

years have past and times have changed
relationships are growing
of woman's emergence from the home
into the place of knowing

who knows what life would have been like
if Mary had, had a girl
would have have held his rightful place
or ended up a churl

no matter how it would have been
it is, as it is, to-day
kinds thoughts & joy to all mankind
with love on Christmas day

the feeling of love to all mankind
its stay is rather short
there is no place for thoughts like that
in a world where wars are fought

life's hard cruel lessons, shut us in
we dare not - extend or feel
until that time round Christmas eve
when we give thanks, as we pray and kneel

William Hancock penned: 20.12.82 (pre AP)


Faerie Symphony

brushing his fingers across the glistening crystals
produced a cacophony of harsh discordant notes
rebounding off the caverns walls and music thoughts did smote
Placing hands upon the crystals, calming down the thrum
fingers selecting differing lengths, did flex and start to drum
harmony like butterflies, did rise as motes in light
traversing down the caverns walls and drifting to the night
outside the valley trembled, uplifted, and it sighed
the gentle folk looked inwardly, but outwardly they cried
taking his fingers from the glistening crystals,
they died



LITTLE MISS MUFFET

Miss Muffet was a comely girl
and turned the heads of most
But wouldn't share her curds and whey
A really dreadful host

The field held an eight legged beast
Whose local name was schnider
He managed to get her curds and whey
when he went and sat beside her

It is better to share than to lose it all

Bill Hancock
07.04.2020


Fates Feast
watching his body, sink slowly into the tree
this I laughed is your, reward deserved for jilting me
laughed again, and watched his unmatched beauty fade
realised too late, the wastefulness of mistake I've made

the prince his body slowly turned, to timber light and fair
wondered sinking further in, I really thought she cared
I courted her with flowers and commented on her hair 
It seems I would have better luck, If I had spoken to the bear

Revenge the forest maiden, reeked on the prince in spades
now he was ever with her, part of the forest glade
her demands she thought were simple, leave all and live with me
and feast upon the passersby for dinner lunch and tea

the prince he was a vegan who tried to sway her round
made out greens were good for her, beat meat, by the pound
the maidens heart was broken, in tatters lay her dream
when he refused, ensorcelled him into the forest green

These days on paths less travelled, in the forest down the way
a magnificent tree stands from the rest, its beauty on display
Not many pass it anymore, as they say it's haunted still
By the soul of the forest maiden, who died lonely on the hill









Hiccup of the Mind

Have you ever tapped the keyboard
Then looked at what was written
accessing where the thoughts were stored
And found the rhyming process stricken

Panic doesn't quite occur
Between the ears, a blank
words to page no longer purr
Encyclopedic knowledge sank

leave the keyboard and the chair
a glass with ice and liquid gold
Sip and savour, ceiling stare
berate ones self and blank mind scold

From off left field, revelation comes
fingers keyboarding begins again
The words you're reading are the sum
For from out of mind, letters do rain

Bad Location

Do they consider me
I don't think so
Other wise they wouldn't
Stand where they stand

Think of what it means
to be a tree
try to imagine where 
my fingers are

The girl is standing on them
I choose this spot
For the solitude it promised
****** tourists



Macbeths Misadventure

(a parody of Bill Shakespeare’s Macbeth and the three witches brew a spell)

Macbeth whilst travelling stopped at the pub
A cauldron and three hats on the sign
Had heard from others how good was the grub
And entered with drink and a stew in mind

The cooks, three weathered crones did strive
To keep the patrons upright and live
this struggle you know was a hapless one
already knowing what went in the drum

Newt and frog and dog and bat
The first crone donned a pointed hat
Snake and adder worm and wing
The second crone donned the apron strings

Toad and venom, entrails too
The third crone added nightshade brew
Double trouble, don’t add no more
The broths near walking out the door

a steaming *** was served Macbeth
the sight of which removed his breath
The vapours turned his nose hairs green
His liver hid behind his spleen

A mouthful made his eyelids quiver
His entrails turned into a river
His mind did cartwheels in his head
Two mouthfuls and he’d be stone dead

Refusing nicely, he said had troubles
Left a tip, he paid them double
Listen not what others say
And live to see another day



The Musician

Resting her body on the chaired podium
And leaning slightly down to the left
Her fingers caressed the highly polished surface
Of the Cello

Left hand clasping the frets
And the right hand wielding the bow
She addressed the strings with a gentle wave
And made the music flow

Somber, sounds, moaned off the instrument
Quickening and they rose in tone and pitch
Wrapping around the chamber
In a haunting hugging melody

Rising, rushing, falling and softening
Harsh and hard, then silent, but wait
Hand twitches and the refrain returns
Only to die again, as the hand falls away

Returning the cello to its resting place
And the bow into its niche
Her hand runs gently over the polished timber
The caress of a lover and friend


The Book

A thing that comes in black and White
and some times in colours as well
with words and concepts, one can write
scenes and stories, in minds to dwell

it's such a simple seeming thing
two covers, some pages between
with words that have the authors ring
Fact or fiction the reader gleans

A simple start on bark or stick
or was it paint upon a wall
to carvings on stone walls and brick
waiting discovery, then tell all

today we progress further still
into the realm of digital times
where phone or tablet makes the ****
and hand held printed book declines

regardless of the current trend
hand held books are still much loved
and continue to be there to lend
for as long as man can use a pen



© a month ago, Bill Hancock











The Lizard Slithered

Crawling stealthy below the leaves
eyeing insects upon the trees
mosquito's winging with the breeze
the lizard slithered - tongue flicked free

eyeing insects upon the trees
climbing tree's to gain it's dinner
the lizard slithered - tongue flicked free
it must eat or grow much thinner

climbing tree's to gain its dinner
mosquito's high upon its list
it must eat or grow much thinner
though beetles added meaty grist

mosquito's high upon its list
the lizards belly filling fast
though beetles added meaty grist
none of its food was made to last

the lizards belly filling fast
cold air came calling in the breeze
none of its food was made to last
the lizard slithered - tongue flicked free


cm coli picture prompt lizard slithered 120 words © a month ago, Bill Hancock   rhyme










Wordsmiths Hey

Have you ever wondered of poets
And the things they do try to write
Does it take, five minutes of writing
Or four candles worth, into the night

does the theme come from somebody social
or seeps out from ones deep inner dark
or comments from words thrown out vocal
from jibes that like barbs hit their mark

the words from mind's vault, start to line up
some jumbled, some straight, others curved
with a headiness, like good wine that's supped
A poet's souls being readied to serve

After theme, then the style is selected
And if rhyme, then the rhythm as well
If the endings or rhymes not connected
It's the poets, equivalent of hell

If freestyle, I'm not sure what matters
If Haiku, it don't ring a bell
There's others I have no idea of
Is it write, to write or to sell

A poet is plagued as a wordsmith
as their thoughts, are constant, a stream
the ink on the page, like, a musicians riff
is the success, or failure of dreams




The Caretaker

astride the gentle steed of nature
the nymph did guide its sharp beak home
into the golden hued ambrosia
around the outskirts insects roamed

The summer lady adorned with flowers
kept a watchful eye on the little nymph
as she passed her special gift, her powers
to her assistants, the brownie, pixie and slyth

The brownie ran through the Forrest floor
her touch bringing the summer buds to bloom
knocking on the animals doors
their seed collection, a promised boon

the pixie sprang from branch and flower
spreading colour of many a hue
For such was the summer ladies power
and she touched and shared where it was due

the slyth began her eternal sigh
lifting the new seed into the air
to get it planted, before the cry
the Queen of winter, it's now her care

the four continued their epic task
for none of the seasons last for long
The plants only had so long to bask
As autumn commenced to croon its song

the seasons play their role in nature
not one does stand alone
each one portrays a different stature
if one fails, nothing grown

Contest PIC;Pixie astride hummingbird lady looking on
© 3 months ago, Bill Hancock



New Australian

They came into Australia
from places far and wide
where the system failed you
no further place to hide

sailed into, the North Head Bay
Quarantine, into they go
diseases of, they must be clean
The Physicers, make them so

Not all the migrants, survived the race
the souls, of expired bodies left
rooms and tunnels, claimed in place
which overtime, the live have left

Company, comes scarce these days
from haunting tourists, as they tread
the dark and errie, passageways
of the station, on north head


The quarantine station in SYDNEY Australia and New South Wales, was located on the bay inside the Northern Headland of the entrance into the Harbour

Immigrants (who became the New Australians) came with TB, Cholera Typhoid and the other known diseases of the late 1800 to early 1900's

The migrants had to spend time at the station until they showed to be symptom free. Sadly not all made it, and it is said that their souls / Spirits still occupy the tunnels, rooms and cottages of the old Quarantine  station to this present day - Ghost hunters regularly quest in there. It is also a tourist spot. © 12 minutes ago

Clutch and govern my heavenly petal-velvet structure
Travel into my passion-crash-hot galaxy
Stretch the depths of my subliminal self
Gobble up my softness
Tame my tight, flowery innerness
Finesse my wetness
Decimate my gayness

Make my body ache amorously
With your bewitching searing masculinity
Exert pressure on my vessel
Scorch my gorgeousness
Let your hotness crawl into my core
Come inside my backdoor
Let your **** do its job

Smack my big bangin’ *****
****** your mean cream stick deep in my luscious goodies
Part my cheeks, let your delectable egg-shaped bell-end
Shop in my ****** chocolate factory
Feel your throbbing brawnilicious machoness
Making its way further into my inner world

Tease my sweet, warm portal
Make my senses go crazy
Put me in a temperature danger zone
With my backside cocked up
Feeling your ultra **** seduction
I am in a frenzy of delight
So ensorcelled by your **** slaying straightness
How you violate my gayness

Spit in my delightful private hotbox
Push me back on your slickness
Make me feel your merciless hardness
Drive deeper into my passionate psychedelic paradise
Fill me completely with your virility
Make me superheated
So mesmerized by your powerhouse pumping monstrosity

Take me to downtown poundtown
Feel you move magically against my craft
In mystic, cosmic harmony
You rock your glorious hard-boiled rod inside my guts
Make me shift and shiver
Squeeze your prominent toned arms
As your deep cut-throat strokes surge
Through my homosexual haven

Crack me open, such slamming vibrations
Such greatly pulsating sensations
Hot thrashing magic
I am bereft of speech
Feeling your relentless skyrocketing rhythm
Splashy *******, you are the baddest bedazzling flex
You make me breathe deep and hard

Make me erratically shudder
Drag me nearer into your immersing tenderness
Plunge crunkness into my creamy gleaming tunnel
Burglarize my manhood
Send ultrahot shocks to my walls
Let your thuggishness flood through my guts
Alter my thoughts and feelings

Compel me to feel your disastrous ravenous wildfire
Strike me with your crack of thunder
Make me lose apart of myself
In your utter rushing lushness
Cause me to concede to your headiness
Feel your hands on my unfettered and majestic chestnuts

Knead them manfully
Carry me into the grandly extravagant museum of your splendor
Nodding off into a salaciously spacious fantasyland
I feel you move faster and faster
Take me with mega slamming force
Make me burn for your mad world-class masterpiece

All of your unsurpassed delectableness in my vessel
You pluck my rosebud, shove extra lust in my innermost being
I listen to you let out a shout and spurt out
The purest hot man oil on my phenomenally provocative form

You came into my life
As a sheer, sweet angel
Divine, desirable, stylish invitingness
A dancing fondness I longed
To interlock with and feel
A strong surge of breeziness
And blissfulness stream
Through the entranceway
To my heartland

You gave me such sensations
Of collectedness
Caressed and intermeshed
In your dreadhead headiness
A breathless heavenliness
A swirling delectableness
So overpowered in your empire
Feeling your oceanic romance
The elevated elation and tastefulness
Of your enchantment meeting me directly