Best Hancock Poems
Brits have gone bonkers over this:
Matt & Gina just shared a kiss!
Unless you are wealthy
Kissing is not healthy
Keep your distance! NEVER share bliss!
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
Could Read John Hancock
We could clearly read his John Hancock,
And so big leaving us in a state of shock;
Of impact,
Lost track;
Still showy and wanted to knock off block.
(Signatures do seem to be out of stock.)
Jim Horn
A talented man has died and he's gone for eternity.
Prentis Hancock has died at the age of eighty-three.
This great man came into this world in 1942.
He starred in "Space: 1999" and "Doctor Who".
Millions are mourning because his life came to an end.
They are all sorry because they will never see him again.
He was a very important member of the Human Race.
It's sad to know that he's dead and can't be replaced.
When I say he went to Heaven, it's something I'm certain of.
All of his fans are saying goodbye to this man who they love.
[Dedicated to Prentis Hancock (1942-2025) who died on May 30, 2025]
“They used to shoot bison on the trade line,
A thousand mouths to feed,
A hundred newborns afraid of the crusade,
They whine.
Driven to extinction by the same kind that preys on the land,
Bison babies hid their heads,
And stayed crying.
Ruthless hunger,
It’s hard to blame those who raped as the combine,
How were they to know that the population was decaying,
‘Were the bison not already dying?’
Probably trying to shift the blame,
History recounts a thousand men on New Hanover plains,
Guns rattling and their bodies blockading babies,
The population was confined.
Slaughtered every last one,
Then they retired to their camps,
Where celebrations were toasted over full plates with ‘swam-over’ wines.”
My quill and ink tickles the parchment,
Leave the page for many days,
And return to it still drying.
Every word filled its proper place,
My painting garments’ many stains stared at the page,
Even they knew I wasn’t done trying.
“The sword was slipped from the belt case and spilled crimson tears,
And long after the body was left lying,
The slit was still crying.”
It was warped reflections in the ink,
Maybe similar thoughts crossed my mind as those of the Sergeants,
Who condemned many boys to dying.
Remember the blood shed of the bison,
Mass graves littered the American frontiers,
Tales tell of confederate ghosts who remain behind,
Still hostilely occupying.