Today’s Battleground
                                                             by Roger W Hancock

 I was born and weaned during the beat movement of the fifties.
I was raised during the love free hippy movement of the sixties.
Then became involved in the Jesus Freak Movement
of the late sixties, early seventies. 
Then I saw many fads    with no driving purpose. 
Disco became the seventy’s rage    but had no social purpose.
The eighty’s began a look back to past    as the ninety’s sang past songs.
Now the youth without direction     grab onto social rejection.
Some pulled one direction    others to misdirection.
Socialism, Fascism, Communism? 
The paths today of our society are unclear as many grab from philosophies,
of those once our enemies. 
Hating the rich is succumbing to lies
of social class envy, denying truths of economics 101. 
Desiring to be their own persons,    rejecting past truth, proven. 
Well meaning are the youth desiring to build
a better future upon failed lies of past. 
Rebelling for rebellion’s sake, is misdirection’s best. 
Let your actions not be in vain, look to proven premise. 
It may be tough to admit to self, but establishment with all its faults
was built upon premise proven. 
Those of my rebellion youth either learned the wisdom of the past
or have remained within the failed lies.
They are the ones we see today warring with ideas, thoughts. 
They who did not learn remain to tear against traditional thought,
to cling to anti-social thought, our enemies proved so wrong.
Those who learned the wisdom learned to work within the system,
to turn the wrongs to right from foundation’s proven premise.
Failed lies and proven wisdom are today’s battleground of freedom.  

Copyright March 20, 2004 Roger W Hancock www.PoetPatriot.com 

H o w l      N o w
by Roger W Hancock
(No apologies to Allen Ginsberg.  This is not a Parody)
 

     The best minds of each generation; who decides the naked truth?
     Over aged hippies now on government dole of little use to society by the machinery of liberal day.
     Young seeking, embracing music contemplating, jazz, rock, rap of robbery, incest, rape, murder; no respect for mother, sister.
     Tattered poverty enabled, encouraged, no treatment for man’s torn dignity.

Gun placed to head bearing brains to hell with hopelessness of too much freedom, no morals to hedge day’s demons.

     The best minds of imagination, Ginsberg now dead, have perpetuated hopelessness upon the youth of university of open perverted mindlessness where only the truly great minds learn beyond the liberal rhetoric.

     Experimentation without self-discipline a milk toast of gray matter hallucinating of better life lacking the means to enlighten oneself over underachievement of blaming others.

     War scholars blamed for whatever, among campus self proclaimed gurus enjoying the right of speech without restraint enabled by same scholar’s premise.

     Envisions of ‘one with land’ spiritualism promoted, unknowing of the slavery between tribes.  Glorifying the ‘oneness with the land’ ignoring use and waste by men, Indians.  All men created equal without thought are as dogs ravaging through waste can contents spilt.  Insanity howls through time.

     Crazy obscene odes becoming now shadowed by painted sculled windows, bombs to promote antiwar sentiments.  The insane control the asylums.  Asylums now filled with the drug burned out past dissidents of yesterday’s social nay-Sayers. 

     Young girls, boys, in selfishness having believed the deceit of grass greener selling selves for but a morsel to live until the next green billed trick; themselves, meat for hungry perverted souls.  Unknowing, truth lies just beyond blocking the cries of the crazy man yelling in hateful tone of Jesus’ love.

     Poets oblivious to the effect on society that their ramblings over time have exposed themselves, without inhibitions they say, rather lacking the moral discipline of established social decency calling it a higher intellectual creativity. 

     Movements of youth create rebellion of social etiquette with filth of tongue to quench literary acceptance by all but degenerate minds, their creative genius lost in the quagmire of colloquial verbiage.

     Free love, not so free take, take, a selfish ride through heart’s deception for self gratification.  Sharing of one held dear only by commitment one to another no one else.  Truth is known by all within one’s heart, run but nowhere to hide so lie and try to hide the truth.

     Twisting fate of time for those who survived the drugs, traps of sex, violence of peace demonstrations, now work from within the once fought system.  Some still within the perversions of their youth, others having grown learning expanding beyond themselves to self realization that in nonconformance they had conformed and now listen to their hearts to become their own, building upon sound principles proved through time.

     Modern poets not so great as great poets of past, Shakespeare, Tennyson, Elliot, names that crisply fall from the lips of men of every intellectual level.  Ginsberg, Kerouac, Burroughs lost forgotten, now known only within poet community.  Remembered not, their wake moves on in today’s twisted concept of creativity. 

     Where now do their howling souls lie?

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Gradie’s Café

                                       by Roger W Hancock

     A Tuesday, day before hump day, just off work, a call to the wife to say I’ll be late.  A poem’s been brewing, stewing, time for a visit, take some notes and catch whatever inspiration vibes awaits my creativity.  

  Becoming evening half way home, across from the Mandarin Lounge, the Rail Tavern with Ballet on one side, vacant store on the other on downtown stretch of Auburn’s Main Street is a small café. Open seven days ‘till eight, six o’clock on Sunday except of course for Thursday night.

  Sitting on black upholstered cushioned chair at not a round but a small square table.  Along both sides of the entryway, where once would have been the store displays, boosted bar with prior tavern stools align the storefront windows.

     Looking around for the spark, observing seeking, poem’s inspiration way.  At the ‘till the cashier - slash - waiter, a young man in long red tie tending change serving patron’s appetites.  

  Through the old store door strolls a lady slowing wandering, upon her face wearing expression of pleased wonderment, selecting a small round table sits down to study cafe’s menu board.  Display of plaques, seemingly of Roman style arranged to the left on one wall, beside and around the shop hang paintings of various styles by local artist to give the place a visual beat.  

  Baseball capped youth at Rhodes keyboard, obviously not a usual gig, on the keys limbered fingers adlibbing soothing flowing tune one might call a mellow jazz. Against the western wall rarely played an old upright piano, I think it’s made of cherry wood, remembering last week it played a honky-tonk tune. 

     Long hair, short cuts, clientele of ages all, long dark coats or dressed up ties, all invited to buy a latté, enjoy.  Salads, bagels, sandwiches just some selections on the menu board. 

  Above the counter where the menu hangs a museum of owner’s interests, snow board, surf boards, unicycles four, models of airplanes, Godzilla, broken balsa wood, and oh my, a straight jacket… I dare not ask, in conversation he says he always wanted one. 

     A visual creativity, atmosphere of times gone by, a look and feel old as nearby hardware store, Cavanaugh’s.  A bicyclist peddles up dressed in… of course he’s the man in blue, no donuts here perhaps still with a hole, a bagel?  The ‘Man’ orders a B.L.T. to go. 

     On a Thursday night at open mike reminiscent of past time’s coffee houses, is where I first made an appearance to this quaint café.

  Audience of few varied ages mostly young from nearby Auburn High or G.R.C.C, the college on the hill, chatting waiting for the next performing piece.  Some to play their instruments others sing theirs or other’s songs the better ones apologizing for piece composed having critiqued, themselves.

  Me, the old man with poems written hoping the young to hear the message within to show a way, cured with youth now aged.  Young and old to each a purpose, to each within creative talent, searches for their creative way here in this quaint café.

     Remember that young man I said with the long red tie, the cashier, because of him on Thursday night this open mike, he’s the proprietor, the man behind the sign, Gradie’s Café.

 © 10-30-2002 Roger W Hancock www.PoetPatriot.com

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If Now, Then

                                                                    by Roger W Hancock 

     Oh, to be young again to have the knowledge I now posses. Oh, again to have the energy and agility that now by fading youth eludes my body.  The body age with aches and pains but the mind although memory occasionally slipping still remains full of youthful creative mischief.  I find experiences and life lessons have culminated with youthful vigor of mind to see what could have been if only then…when I was young… I knew what I now know. 

     If within my youth a wise old man to have been a friend, to pick his brain of his life’s wisdom, not to wait for mine to age.  Youth energy, youth enthusiasm, combined with wisdom aged, an unbeatable combination.  Too bad the two fail to understand the other, the youth rebellion, the aged not listening treating youth as a useless waste of life’s energies.  If I had listened then to old, my insecurities may not have controlled my inaction to speak my mind.  A leader I could have been to lead my generation into a more thoughtful path.  Oh… if I knew then…

     Now in age seeing life more complicated, everyone with a dream, but future dream to live life now considering tomorrow’s path.  Living life for what I can get, selfishness prevails when I fail to introspect and consider other’s needs.  Society changes when without thought to stamp on others thinking of self.  My generation failed to define a cause beyond the selfishness we now see perpetuated by government entitlements the poor remaining poor begetting poor becoming an industry.  If only then, what I now know.

     I have learned the sword of pen to be a mighty weapon in our diverse society.  Letters to the editor to voice opinion, as good as any others.  I write to elicit thought, to agree or not is not the answer sought, but for purpose, consider fact, consider truth. It has taken this old man with regretting thought nearly half a century to take responsibility for even a meager role in society.  What effects could I have constructed if when young I had done the same.  If only then the maturity I am now beginning to grasp to have been within my hands back then… when I was young.

Roger W Hancock © 11-2-2002  www.PoetPatriot.com             

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New Beat

                 by Roger W Hancock 

 

Listen to the past,

when leading to the future.

The youth of this and morrow day,

will they hear the lessons past?

Failure surely be, future see,

if direction merely lack..

Success to be a new beat,

beginning new rebellion fad,

guiding leaders quietly hear,

listen past to future lead,

a new generation...

beat... beat... beat...

 

Roger W Hancock © October 25, 2002 www.PoetPatriot.com  

  

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My Youth, Your Youth

                                                                    by Roger W Hancock 

     Youth; misunderstood, misunderstanding themselves, seeking independence, having grown from childhood too soon.

Rebellion every way which including loose, attempting to find one’s self in the various paths offered by society lacking any fortitude to direct.

     Youth of age fact, maturity evades while the youthful mind in creative genius grabs the direction of least resistance without restraint of parents who only want the best.  Parent, student, teacher; teachers, students, parents, dependence upon each yet even among adults maturity evades. 

     I in body beginning to feel the age of years yet in still the youthfulness of creativity with but a morsel of maturity, which I only now am beginning to grasp.

     Looking back what could have been if only selfishness had not reigned within my desire to be my own.  Today’s youth much wiser be, if… learning from failed premise of past fad movements be their guide.

     What will be the next generational movements, more of the same, more repeated rebellion. Copying the extremes of past extremes yet to go beyond, for what, attempting to provoke the prior generation… as if that generation had not done the same?

     In wishing to make the world a better place, following the waves of others past, thoughtless mindless echoes set to new tunes of Rock stars who for the sake of big money sing anything without a cause, the youth of a new generation finds waste.

     Opportunities provided by technologies, by society’s web of interaction, and the failures of past rebellioned youth, if seen, by the social patriots of next rebellion’s front, can bring society to a better place in history.

     What message will be contained in the message of tomorrow’s ballads?  Who will take the reins and will they listen to the past in leading to the future?  History repeating need not be, but the energies of youth must include some maturity of old, if failures of both . . .  to not prevail.

     Listen to this old man who still in mind is fighting youth rebellion... wondering... where are the leaders, who will be the leaders of the next generational movement?  What will guide youth's energy’s path if anything, or nothing at all.

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New Generation
                                      by Roger W Hancock

       Young people I implore, for your rebellion rebel intelligently, thinking ahead to eventuality of the ends brought about by thoughtless means, instead to a thoughtful end.

Let your face not be spited by thoughtless cutting of the nose or plucking the eyes.  What use to rebel when the outcome… becomes your own demise.

     Your fathers and mothers rebelled in youth, to what end?  Only to see the same rebellion of offspring, wondering why the futile efforts… of their own youth.

     Learn from the mistakes of prior mistaken movements of misguided youth rebellions.  Be your own, withstanding the great pressures of the uncaring pressures of your piers.  To improve future of a new generation be stealth, be smart, listen to your parents before rejecting their instruction.  Do not shut your ears to schooling, listen and examine to determine the good and bad then decide rejection.  You are the spies for a new generation.  Learn from my failures, the failures of a past generation of youth.

     Rebel within your intelligence, learning building for the intelligence of a new generation.

     Grab not to the failed premise of Marx, and Stalin, letting not your feelings to rule your mind to the closing of your thoughts to the proven truth.  Communism and socialism both in theory have a better way but in practice becomes an oppressive way. 

     Man is competitive and cannot cohabitate in a system where all are to be equal in everyway, in housing, income, governance.  We have seen the proof of human experience in such actual live models of the theory played out to oppressive and inhumane ways.  Fascism where gun control, where no private individual owns a gun enabled the control of a nation to the expansion of ridged nationalism creating attempted genocide on others.  Stalin’s communism to remain in power repressed exercised speech in killing dissidents of their rebellion, that his war crime rivaled...  Adolf’s crime.

     America is not perfect but her premise has enabled this cushy free society that you enjoy.  Take her best and build upon the proven elements of this twisted free society to build a sounder better way for a new generation.

      Vast as the blue sky above opportunities, yours to possess. You also possess the opportunity to fail, learn from the failures of others past to your success.  Here’s to the success of a new generation.

 Roger W Hancock © October 27, 2002 www.PoetPatriot.com

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God’s Beat

by Roger W Hancock

     Life in God a poetry, soundless words in lifting meaning of evading thoughts of life.

     Strength of oak be found in such a tiny seed in itself a miracle explained away in natural way by those with no ears to hear.  Wonders of the birth of man or animal the complexities that form from such tiny egg and sperm to the fullness of a being.  I wonder why others wonder “How can there be a God?”  Within my being the wonder is “How can NOT there be a God?”  In the beating of my heart I feel the surging power of God; blood life pumping through my veins.  From my heart brotherly love can pour to family, friends, and strangers poor yet more a conduit of greater love than any man can love, the love of sacrifice of son for us, to show the greater love.  The heart, a bioelectrical machine yet capable of so much more; man can build a pump but cannot build a heart.

     Blaming God for destitute in spite of all that’s offered us, a vain and wasted thought.  God is God, for point one, this is his story not ours he defines the perimeters of this mortal life.  God is Love yet God is just to all there be a point, though not for us to know but to listen to his call.  Calling, tugging, pulling he calls for everyone, even you who swears his name but in your heart be hardened tissue diseased within your aching heart failure to see that sin is sin, small or large, in me or you.  When we refuse to see yet within we know, we try to blame others even God for our own diseased decaying condition that lies within our hearts.  In spite of all our wretchedness, all our selfishness, it is within the sacrifice that can cleanse the worthlessness.

     This life we live within ourselves in loneliness though not alone we wallow in self pity, blaming others, blaming God, blaming anything, rather than the self reflection of who we really are.  Discourage not the greater life of living life today, may not be a grandeur life, with money, cars, and more, but to live within love greater than any one mortal can possibly love.  Father, stern and just with a firm forged rod of ancient iron, justice a harsh fair tougher love.  His son Jesus advocating for my sins, your discretions, final closing arguments of bloodied nails impaled through hands and feet.  Comforted by the Holy Spirit of a reprieving purpose for this earthly walk.  Upon the shameful cross, innocence of the hope for mankind’s hopelessness reconciling the righteousness long lost… by one apple’s bite.

   Roger W Hancock © 10-29-2002 www.PoetPatriot.com              

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