The causes wither away
For they never amount to much.
The fights fade into nothing
For they are rarely worth it.

Didn’t Dalton say, “Nobody wins a fight.”

Anymore I’m learning to not care.
The upheaval of wanting things
Is too much to bear,
Not just for me, but for Our sustainability.

Wasn’t it Ragnar who said something about being a patient man?

Of course Dalton and Ragnar are just characters
Who both survived in the hypocrisy of their quests,
As do I, although,
I’m learning.

A Friday Carry Me Back To Old Virginia

These Virginia peanuts and
Cold hitting my stomach
Put the fire out
That accumulated throughout
This lackluster day.
The peanut dust and salt
Send me back to my days on the James
Cracking shells and skipping stones
On the river’s peaceful waters.
So on these days when nothing at all
Brings boredom’s belch brigade
To the point of esophageal reflux,
I’m thankful for the Conway Twitty on the radio,
A cold Chesapeake Bay rinse, and these most glorious peanuts .

Straight From Voicemail

So, sir, hearing your voice was quite a shock.
A calendar year has done nothing to quell our disbelief
Of the past twelve months without you.

There we were, though, together,
In your honor and you spoke to each of us
Much like you do everyday.

For Skip it came through as ice cream, just as cold as yours.
Steve heard your call to adventure by trying to understand Netflix.
I felt your influence through the warmth of our family.

All three of us were lucky to know you,
To have married your daughters,
To be raising your grandkids.

And rest assured, Poppi,
We’re taking care of Angela too,
Just liked we’d promised.

We miss you, man.
The Mexican fiesta was awesome
And it sure was good hearing from you.


Change is the constant.
Information changes.
Knowledge changes,
Both moving quickly.
How come attitudes and behaviors
Take so long to catch up?

Rain Today

How unbelievably bright the sun was this morning
The beauty of nature’s light adorning
All who were willing to bathe in her rays

In a few hours she changed her mind
Leaving the soulful energy behind
And releasing torrents that kept blue skies away

She is calm now, her energy tired
But the mood around her is still wired
After her stormy foray

Punched Out

A man got home after work,
His day symptomatic of weariness.
He found his running shoes
In the middle of the living room,
No where near where he left them.
His dog sheepishly grinning
At the mystical way in which the shoes
Got off the chair.
They walked,
Coming back for snacks.
Dog treats for the pit,
Fritos and ranch dressing for the tired worker with
Libations courtesy of Lord Baltimore.
The dog begged,
Pandora showered the room with Jackson Browne,
And the haze began to lift
As the snacks hit
With the land’s pleasant living liquid washing
Over the frayed nerves.

Both were thankful.

No Thought of Being Lost

Talk of lost years
Inspires feelings of regret
A little favor
Might be able to relieve

Nah, I’d rather not be forgiven that way

I think I’d rather have peace now
With my future paved in ways
I could never regret
Or be in need of revisionist intervention

Yep, I’d rather keep moving ahead

Moving on in the warmth of my wife
And the security of my family
Their promise, the solution to
Whatever plagued the past

So I’d rather not think of lost years

Basking in the present, Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm…

The Ledger

The ledger, undated,
But probably from the forties
Records the recitation program
For one A.D. Dabney,
Who in second grade
Was memorizing verse
And performing an oratory
That would speak
To a fulfilling life.

The pages are faded,
The handwriting worn,
Rusted paper clips
Holding notes with stylish cursive writing that
Spell out the poems
To be spoken to an audience
By a youngster
Barely old enough
To read.

Who could have known this book,
Reconciling the practice schedule
Of some elementary school task,
Would record the formative years for
This young boy and
Serve as a foretelling of his grace
As a husband,
As a father,
And as a man.

All rights reserved-Chris Hancock

My Hypocrisy

An assassin is moving to town,
Pinning a historic triangle under
The barrel of a stubby nosed .22
That is probably making money
As a museum piece somewhere.

The area is marketed as a model of Liberty
And I’m betting the crosshatch of demography
Would rather this guy
Live his life somewhere else.
But not so fast friends of the American Dream…

We hold these rights, as distasteful as they are in this case,
To be the foundation of our fabric weaving folly
And this man, who is a heinous criminal,
Has done his time and might be residing on the 13th fairway soon
Thirteenth??? Eerie, huh?

Don’t get me wrong, I’d rather he stay in his confinement,
But the system is there for us all, justly and fairly.
He will get out.
Hopefully, he will not hurt anyone again
Or live his life near me.

Brush Strokes

Overnight a master artist
Brushed color into nature
Bringing a vibrancy to the trees and bushes
That pop against the dullness
Of winter’s eternity.

Overnight the joy returned,
The landscape dancing with greens, whites, and yellows.
Their effect on me?
A simple thanks
For the artist’s efforts.


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