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Back to the Poetry index.

ART of / in Poetry

A look into the mind of the PoetPatriot

Free Verse or Rhyme? Self Portrait This Poet’s Voice Pressing Vanity
Glow the Obvious Clear as Fog P O E T R Y Inspired Truth
Poet Brush First Mark What Me? Clichéd Critique
Rhyme  Just a Nobody The Art Within Poem’s Purpose
The Doubts Inspiration   Lost Words The Art Of Snow
Word Works Soul of A Poet Gift of Rhyme Poem Not Poetry
'KUZ Broken Writ birthing a poem First Response
Art in Haiku   -   Request to use Materials

Free Verse or Rhyme?
by Roger W Hancock

Sometimes free verse,
occasionally rhymes.
I find mixing the two,
to enhance my verse.
Though the mix
will bring more critiques.
I write what I like,
and I like the mix.

As you can see,
rhyming comes easy to me,
though sometimes no so.
As inspiration dictated,
If, I like what I see,
if sounds good to me,
the work will stay just so.

I rarely rewrite,
as most good poets do.,
In this post, in middle stanza,
I did edit some, to,
the rhymes, see, me.
I arranged some lines,
in all three stanzas,
editing, as I write.

(c) 06-15-2012 Roger W Hancock




Self Portrait
by Roger W Hancock

Portrait in words, sometimes;
originality of an inward self.
Elevated beyond perception,
thoughts deep drawn out.
Poetry in patriotic passion;
american inspiration.
Troops to honor,
responsibility’s key.
Insurrection of literature,
obvious or obscure;
tempered poetry.

Ó 07-10-2007 Roger W Hancock

This Poet’s Voice

              By Roger W Hancock


Many a Poet’s voice,

Heard in various places;

Bookstores, libraries, cafes.


Hear age old poets' voices,

In sonnets rhymes haikus;

Echoes in time’s chambers.


Sane, insane poet voices,

Angelou, Cyrano,

Burrows, Ginsberg, Platt.


Roaring poet’s voice,

Waving from pleasure,

Pain of the insane voices.


Poet’s quiet voice

Dark dormancy may kill.

Waits to keyboard pluck,

Monitor voice takes shape.


Revealed voice remember,

Type that came in broken sleep

This poet does not cursive write,

At night or day, or on the beach.


Roger W Hancock Ó May 11, 2003


Pressing Vanity
         by Roger W Hancock

Vanity, spamity,
Tickles my pride.
My ‘id’ is raised,
My ‘Me’ is praised.
I’m no good,
They say I am.
I got this spam,,
Contest ends when?
Always ongoing.
Enter the verse
Better the worse.
You’ll be praised,
Published I am,
But who will see?
So many suckers,
also my name.
Award notification,
Please the fine print.
Prize claimed,
Costs so much more.
Charges for this,
That you will pay.
What is it worth?
Vanity displayed.
Low, down hearted?

Ó November 1, 2003 Roger W Hancock


Glow the Obvious
                    by Roger W Hancock

Often with fog so thick we fail,
To see beyond the obvious.
Mysteries halt past nose
Exploration by words.
Preconceptions cloud,
Mind’s perceptions.
Through imagination come,
Creativity of genius thought.
Cavern of cranial mass,
Illuminated by a single spark.
Sky view, universal thought,
Possibilities boundless.
Onlookers view in wonder,
Poet’s glowing face by starlight.

Ó Roger W Hancock September 22, 2003



Clear as Fog
         by Roger W Hancock

Intelligence ambiguity ,
Mind’s confusion of ideas,
Pressure builds to insanity.
Relief comes when night’s fog,
Opens crystal clear,
Myriad of mind’s thoughts.

Ó Roger W Hancock August 20, 2003


In Acrostic poems, the first letters of each line are aligned vertically to form a word. The word often is the subject of the poem.

 P O E T R Y
                         by Roger W Hancock

Psycology of the mind,
Origin of creativity.
Everyone’s possibility,
Turmoil to ecstasy.
Romancing the mind,
Yearning to express.

 Roger W Hancock
Ó August 10, 2003


  Inspired Truth
                         by Roger W Hancock

May all we say inspire,
If not with words then thought.
May our being be,
Inspiration to others near.
Truth to be the basis,
Of every word or thought.
Substance of the thought,
Would fade when truth is not.

Copyright Roger W Hancock October 12, 2004



      Poet Brush
              by Roger W Hancock

In the eyes of a dreamer,
Picture without sight
To say it all with written word,
Poet’s express delight.

From imagination’s inspiration,
Or when reality inspires.
Words within your mind to paint,
Synaptic image canvass.

Many forms, some not formed,
foundation of
translucent canvass.
Picasso inspired verbal picture,
Masterpiece of written words.

Copyright April 5, 2004 Roger W Hancock 


First Mark
by Roger W Hancock

The archer shoots an arrow straight,
Until velocity slows to change it’s course.
Thin as the wafer bread to break,
before the cup’s serviced wine.
Determined mark upon time’s record,
Beginnings of a plan designed;
Contemplation of mind’s conception,
Foundation of a masterpiece?
Creativity’s first step of many,
An unstaggering canvass stroke.
Straight and thin, drawn just so,
Simplicity begins complexity.
Narrow the width straightly sketched,
Just a line, no curves, begin.

Copyright April 9, 2004 Roger W Hancock


The First Response
                         by Roger W Hancock


The never-ending quest of writers,

Seeking their work be published,

Magazines, newspapers, tabloids,

Better yet, a book, their book.

Self-publishing any can do,

Whether work be well or poor.

Confidence begins to waiver,

Waiting upon a publisher.

Submit, submit, now time rules,

Anxiously growing anticipation…

Opening up letters of acceptance.

Flag on box straight up,

Postman is on his rounds.

Acceptance or rejection,

On oak desk the letter sets.

Investigated thickness,

Two sheets or more,

Feeds your anxiousness.

Letter opener sliding, tearing,

Along top folded seal.

Letterhead faint reversed,

Emerging from the envelope.

Anticipation builds the anxiousness,

In a turtle’s time to open folds,

That content be revealed.

Acceptance or rejection;

Feared rejection notice;

Acceptance joys in stomach flutter.

Savor these moments,

The long stretched anxious moments;

For expected unknown response…

Words inform potential;

Encourage to not give up.

Timeless wisdom of,

This first rejection letter.


Roger W Hancock Ó June 8, 2003





        What, Me?
                                  by Roger W Hancock

I stand, I sit, I wonder,
Wondering … who I am, who am I. . .
Who am I to speak my thoughts my opinions?
I sit on this bar stool,
Bar stool here at Grady’s, if at home a simple chair.
…where was I?  Ah yes, wondering,
Wondering where - or here - or there.
Who am I . . . a nobody . . .  so who cares?
A tree in the forest falls, crashing,
snapping sounds not heard.
My thoughts, opinions silently die,
no one to hear.
Speak out!  Be bold!  Be heard!
What do I fear?     Rejection?
What is rejection but information?
Cannot be rejected if words not presented.
Rejection teaches, what not again to speak.
The tree that crashed without a sound
No reverberation of legacy.
So . . . I no longer wonder
I will speak out, that which I ponder.
And let you decide, or wonder . . .
The value of these words.

Copyright February 25, 2004 Roger W Hancock 








 by Roger W Hancock


I've got a poem that doesn't rhyme.

I've got it writ,  but it does not click.

I’ll not bemoan …     it may in time.  


                         Roger W Hancock  ©  3-4-2001











            Just a Nobody

                                      by Roger W Hancock

I'm a Joseph Compernium, an unknown,

a nobody, works lost in the past.

A Shakespeare, Longfellow, Frost, I'm not.

Novice be with humble thoughts.

The premise will last, the prose may not.


Roger W Hancock  - ©  3-3-2001 










Broken Writ

by Roger W Hancock


Upon the notebook I did write,

At least I think I wrote the note.

It is hard to tell the condition now,

what was said back then.

Mint condition it is ‘till now,

Yet the words are quite so vauge.

Scribbled note as many do,

to remember thoughts of prime.

It may simply be,

futile effort of written work,

what I wrote that day.

I do not often cursive write,

but do so on the keys.

I do not wish to decipher,

words I scribbled out.
May be worse poem yet,
I have purpose set.
Scrawling poem a futile act,
Penmanship a no good fact.
Roger W Hancock  ©  9-29-2002 










Poem’s Purpose
by Roger W Hancock

What is a poem, if it is not read?

To what end if it brings no joy,

or to the author bread?


Roger W Hancock   ©  - 1-30-2002     


The Art Within  
by Roger W Hancock


Talent natural is not learned,

practice to perfection attempt to earn.

Inspiration makes for a better work,

from a spiritual work or an inward effort.


Expand yourself beyond education,

be not bound by your own perception.

Limitation be as a noose to kill,

creativity suppressed within your will


Your values, loyalties ensue,

to bring out sure that art in you.

Emotions you use, knowledge to guide,

possibilities endless, universally wide.


Art for display or a service performed,

let all your work be as an art you formed.

Do your best in every labor,

be an art gallery in every endeavor.


Roger W Hancock  - ©  11-23-2001 




Back             Index






                           by Roger W Hancock


One may never know when,

inspired thought their way expose.

A simple note or lengthy letter,

within may be a prose.


As I wrote a letter one day,

the words became a poem.

As I emphasized, with one’s pain,

my thoughts formed into verse.


Thoughts be deep or just afloat,

inspiration the greatest footnote.

Record those thoughts as they come,

lest the greatness, lost become.


One must be ready for the anointing,

to write the words God gives.

Response to one who asks for prayer,

may become that next epos.


Roger W Hancock   ©  - 1-27-2002



  The Doubts  
by Roger W Hancock


 I read various poems,

 then I do wonder,

 the ambiguous evasiveness,

 me eludes.


 Either I’ve not talent

 or the world’s gone mad.

 Unlearned I am of poetry,

 not even an undergrad.


 I do not know,

 if my craft is true art.

 Whether worthy to be read,

 or to accompany trash carts.


 From within my mind,

 I write what I feel.

 Complete it becomes,

 when to me, good it feels.


Roger W Hancock   ©  - 1-16-2002





Back          Index





The Art Of Snow  
                      by Roger W Hancock


Trees stretched branches bare,

covered white with early snow.

A view in the negative,

shadowed dark by light.  


A grove of skeletons,

bones shaded by the real,

the trees to shadow snow.

Cobwebs frosted icy white,

highlighted by God’s nature pen.

No activity by the builder,

to spoil that view for you.  


Then the plain white field,

can you see composed within?

In the middle hunching, shivering,

you must look so close to see,

white rabbit there, within the snow.


Roger W Hancock   ©  - 1-30-2002 


Lost Words  
by Roger W Hancock

Where are those words,

I thought last night?

So profound,

they were.  


I thought I would,

remember them.

But now evasive,

now they’re gone.  


I did not write,

those words I thought;

those words I thought,

last night.  


For now I grieve,

for words now gone,

those words I thought,

last night.


Roger W Hancock   ©  - 1-29-2002

















    Word Works
                 by Roger W Hancock

Dictionary to check for accuracy,

of meaning, spelling, how to say.

To reach for help there is no crime,

to help fine tune that gift of rhyme.

Thesaurus for synonymous words,

the other words, for similar array.

Rhyming dictionary to speak in time,

differing words for the line to chime.

So reach up for the book to assist;

articulate well to make the twist.


Roger W Hancock   ©  - 1-30-2002








Gift of Rhyme  
by Roger W Hancock


To me God gave a gift,

a talent of words to rhyme.

Talent to write a great surprise,

to me who could not write.


Some may say I had the skill,

Dormant lay ‘til now awake.

Little difference as to why,

I did not have ‘till now.


Whether given to me now,

or given years ago.

The ability is new to me,

a gift from God above.


Now the words come fluently,

responsibility be mine.

I must hear the words of God,

to put them into rhyme.


Roger W Hancock   ©  - 4-18-2002 





Back to Index

Soul of A Poet
by Roger W Hancock

My soul yearns to express itself,

emotions, opinions churn inside.

Words tumble to surface thought,

twirling around my busy mind.


My values, rearing, and my faith,

culminate in unconscious thought.

My mood, my thoughts, innermost,

to be the message of a poem.


Concept surface to consciousness,

from deep within the poet’s soul.

Message forms into rhyme or prose,

expressing thoughts deep inside.


Much may come from deep within,

though only some will find a page.

I write what comes, I still remember,

before the words from mind to fade.


Many poems that could have been,

now only a memory of poet’s past.

Thoughts that never shall be written,

forever remain, in the Poet’s soul.

Roger W Hancock   ©  - 3-19-2002


The following Revised May 13, 2002 
- Send me your Critique, Hancock?@?
  - Remove the ? morks.


Soul of A Poet
by Roger W Hancock

My soul yearns, express itself,

emotions, opinions churn inside.

Words tumble to surface thought,

twirling around a busy mind.


Values, rearing, and one's faith,

culminate unconscious thought.

Mood, thoughts, innermost,

becoming message of a poem.


Concept ascend to consciousness,

from abyss of poet’s soul.

Message forms rhyme or prose,

express thoughts deep inside.


Much may come from depth within,

only some to find a page.

Write emerging thoughts, remember,

before words from mind to fade.


Many poems, fathoms linger,

memories of poet’s past.

Impressions genius, never written,

forever abide, in the Poet’s soul.  


Roger W Hancock   ©  - 3-19-2002 












  by Roger W Hancock


Just bekuz I was so close,

I had to write some poems.

Obsession now my lesson,

of several poems to write.

I saw that I'm

so very close,

that all the lettered alpha,

 begin a titled poem.

All except of course,

‘K’, ‘U’, ‘Z’.

So just because

I was so close,

fingers poised

at keyboard write,

just to pen

those three last poems,

to complete the

‘A’ to ‘Z’.

Just Be KUZ.


Roger W Hancock  ©  9-29-2002 





A Poem, Not Poetry
by Roger W Hancock

Can a poem not be poetry?

To have a cute premise,

to rhyme, beat in time.

Enjoyment of many,

too simple to other poets.

It may not bring imaginary,

nor to bring the imagery.

Many enjoy simpleness,

without knowing it lacks.

May not fill our senses,

Deep in mind’s recesses.

A poem it may be,

yet still... not quite poetry.

Roger W Hancock   ©  - 5-11-2002 




Index  Return





 The following was written around the phrases:

"creative genius within"  and  "to see another day"


   birthing a poem.
                                           by Roger W Hancock


lessons of experience

exposing message

creative genius within

to birth living poetry

life experience

to see another day

in another poem


Roger W Hancock © 11-12-2002   



 Clichéd Critique

The following was written around the phrases:

"Let's give it a spin" and "the lost and the lonely"

Clichéd Critique

   by Roger W Hancock

Among poetry circles,
Critique builds skills.
“let’s give it a spin,”
cliché, unoriginal.
perhaps a new twist,
’turn momentary spin.’
spin around cliché,
turn to new phrase.
Original becomes,
use twisted surprise.
”The lost and the lonely”;
’lonely, lost become…’
The piece must be,

Original to you.

© 6-23-05 Roger W Hancock




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