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Auburn Poetry
 
Roger W Hancock; AKA: PoetPatriot
is a life-long resident of Auburn Washington.
Hancock is the poet, writer, researcher, and
webmaster of PoetPatriot.com and ImagineAuburn.com
It is only appropriate that some of his works be about
his hometown; Auburn, Washington.
 

PoetPatriot.com

Original Patriotic Poems
 
Honoring Our Veterans

Love Poetry

 
Auburn Poetry
122 Years Old  -  Haiku Auburn  -  Haiku   Auburn, Mine!
Imagine Auburn My Town My Town Auburn Town to City
Town Pillars Auburn's Grace Slaughtered Name - Rhyme Unique Image
       
  Remembering the Businesses  
  Massey’s Remembered  
Wagner’s Hobbies Doctor’s Clinic Assoc. Cavanaugh’s Hardware Ben Franklin Store
       
Set in or around Auburn
Striped Water Poets - the Poem                  The poet circle - Striped Water Poets
1973 Teacher Galli - Haiku Young Naiveté Similarity
Rosie Gradie's Cafe "D. R." Willowed Sentry
  Drift  (Part One) Drift (Part Two) Sun Shines - NEW !
       
  Back to ImagineAuburn.com  

Auburn Haiku Poems
122 Years Old
                   by Roger W Hancock
 

Auburn's Birthday Joy.
One-hundred-twenty-two years,
Town to city grown.


© 06-06-2013 Roger W Hancock, www.PoetPatriot.com
 

Auburn
by Roger W Hancock


Mine, yours, it's our town,
"More Than You Imagine." so...
imagine much more.


© 08-14-2007 Roger W Hancock, www.PoetPatriot.com

 


Auburn, Mine!

by Roger W Hancock


You may think this town is yours,
Our Mayor may think it is his,
I've got news for all of you...
Auburn is MY Town!
I placed my claim when I proclaimed
At Auburn General Hospital,
with a cry when I was born.
I delivered papers, worked odd jobs,
attended Auburn schools and college on the hill.
Most of my career with Pacific Northwest Bell,
US West, then Qwest (now it's Century Link),
I maintained the phone lines
in Auburn's homes and businesses.
I've watched you work, live and play;
I thank those who ruled and maintained,
this city I call my own.
I'll allow you to imagine,
Auburn as being yours.
All my life I've only really known,
City of Auburn;
this is the town I love.


© 02-01-2012 Roger W Hancock, www.PoetPatriot.com
 




'Imagine Auburn' was written to be used in the Uniquely Auburn celebration in 2006
Using the poem 'My Town' (below) as the basis.

Imagine Auburn

           by Roger W Hancock

From Slaughter town to City of Auburn,
downtown formed and houses built.
Now Auburn Way, White River diverted;
Division and Main, streets divide,
downtown stretching west and east.
I remember pictures of horse buggies on main,
Model T’s and classics of the nineteen-fifty’s,
the classics each August, parade down Main Street.
My paper routes delivering the Auburn Citizen,
then the Auburn Globe News brought me near downtown.
I’d pass by, aged red brick buildings, standing tall,
then on to Main, to spend a burning dollar.
Too young by statute, to approach the bar,
from glass door of the Rail or Pastime Taverns,
I’d order a hamburger with toasted bun. Yum!
Andie’s Ice Cream Parlor across east tracks on Main,
today traditional meals at Andie’s Restaurant.
Werner’s, Sprouse-Reitz, Manson’s Drugs,
and Cavanaugh’s Hardware now is gone. 
Rosie’s shoe repair shop, just off main,
first black man I ever knew, I’d leave a left-over paper.
Rosie would always tip, and give encouragement.
Auburn’s past stores, we scarce remember;
JC Penney’s, Kasper’s, Benjamin Franklin,
Tenents Bookstore, now Comstock Books.
I walked the isles of Wagner’s Hobbies,
wishing, dreaming, planning my savings.
Ya, know! Wagner still rules!.. On the City Council.
I first banked at Valley National Bank, which became,
the Key, off Main, now in new building off the Ave.
Weiss left town, Nelson’s still here to sell us jewelry,
Safeway, once on Main, has since moved twice.
Change is inevitable, yet still remain,
Christian Science Reading Room on the Way and Main;
Rainbow Café still the same’ also Rottles Department Store.
Wow! Movies on a big screen, one theater left in town,
our city now leases, the Auburn Avenue Theater.
Auburn’s General Hospital where I was born,
behind the walls, were walls of an old log cabin,
rebuilt as Auburn Regional Medical Center.
Auburn’s progression to our future,
transitions in the wake of developing progress.
City Hall’s, not so old brick building,
expanded across to number ONE on Main.
Oh! The sign, East Main Street’s landmark,
Massey’s Grocery is now our Justice Center;
City Council’s vision with a new City Park,
creates a combo-park for shopping and recreation.
Walking new sidewalks we will remember our past,
enjoy the present, our future… imagine.
Auburn’s growth, north, west - up, down - east and south;
shopping malls, business buildings, parking garages,
expanding Auburn to a productive future.
We will miss the old, but welcome new;
Auburn, now more than we imagined.


© 01-11-2012 Roger W Hancock, ImagineAuburn.com



 



My town, Auburn  
                                 by Roger W Hancock

  

In  the foothills,

in the suburbs,

by two rivers,

in the valley on four hills.

From small town to,

thriving small city.

Grand view of Mount Rainier.

Industries and services,

to service our economy.

Many changes over the years,

some good and some I’m not so sure.

All in all this is my town.

Many city parks to recreate.

Growth, traffic snarls create.

Born in this town,

and growing up here,

this town, myself, been reared.

Changes inevitable look elsewhere.

Nowhere else I’d rather be,

than in the Great Northwest,

in Auburn, ward of Mount Rainier.

Roger W Hancock   ©  1-30-2002 - edited 1-31-2012
www.PoetPatriot.com 

My Town
         by Roger W Hancock

Living in Auburn when just a boy,
seems not long, yet far ago.
Years before rebuilding, Mom gave birth;
Auburn’s Hospital pushed past the block.
Terminal Park across the park,
learned to write, the figures add.
Crossing highway, walking to school,
today the kids are bussed that far.
Auburn-Enumclaw Highway, C street south,
has long since become, Auburn Way South.
Two lanes only, graveled shoulders,
five lanes expanded; F street gets a light.
Newspapers; three routes delivered,
Seventeenth past Wayland Arms; third floor.
Main Street was the only “downtown”,
was it not In every person’s town?
Rosie’s Shoe Shop I would pass,
an extra paper left for tips.
From the door, the rail tavern,
toasted burger my order placed.
Once on C Street, (Auburn Way near main)
Community Chapel with “Jesus Saves”
Varied change grows town to city,
town hall; rebuilt a city hall.
Werner’s now Sessions,
Mandarin now burned out Woo’s.
Valley becomes the Key off main,
National Bank of WA now kicks karate.
J.C.Penney’s has gone away,
as well as grocery stores on main.
Still remains is Cavanaugh’s,
But now it gets a rebuilt face.
Wagner’s Hobbies; loved to wander;
Store long sold; Wagner still rules.
Women’s apparel, Kasper’s gone,
Books the Tenants; Comstock Books.
Rottle’s doubled since expanded,
Serves both citizen sexes.
Auburn Citizen and Globe, reminded,
Whenever read the local Reporter.
Though at times back then to wish,
Nostalgia, circles back to now.
So long ago, attempt recall,
Barely remember what once is gone.
This town, My Town we both have grown;
Each, now more than I imagined.


© December 25, 2005, Roger W Hancock, www.PoetPatriot.com

    

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Town to City
 by Roger W Hancock

This town around, for many a home, has grown from town to city.
Remember back before the boom, when just a town back then?
Two lane roads gravel lined, now expands, five wide.
Stop signs, hung by cable then metal arms suspend; signal lights above;
now beside the multi lanes, cameras snap infractions.
Town hall outdated, obsolete, had moved to a new abode;
architecturally modern City Hall still expands beyond the walls.
Many stores have gone the way, remain in history’s wake.
Some stores still retail on Main, expanded for the profit sake,
still provide the needs and wants as citizen rolls increase.
Rottles expanded to support the women; equality in apparel, not.
Tenent’s Books gave way to Comstock Books galore and more.
Nelson’s Jewelry now takes two spots on the downtown walk.
Rainbow café without refrain has expanded back as well.
Railroad presence had decreased, but a comeback blows a hooorn;
traffic slows when rail cars pass, impatient for the progress bridge.
Next to tracks Mel’s Lumber stacked, west boarder, downtown proper.
Berry fields once possessed this valley land, as moist as one could taste,
today berries wild when one can find, among the growth of industry.
Cavanaugh Hardware is rebuilding with investment planned above.
Change inevitable, time insists, “progress” cannot stop.
Industry, retail, residential, makes dense, has pushed the city boundary.
Yet the core, people more; home citizens make a town a home.
Home town has grown becoming a city, “more then we imagined.”


© 08-05-07 Roger W Hancock, www.PoetPatriot.com

NOTE:   As time progresses, written memories outdated.
Cavanaugh's Hardware rebuilding has gone the way of developer's scandal.



 

 
  Town Pillars
                 by Roger W Hancock


Thinking back to those of past within my scope of youth;
Characters of this small town, precursors of a city.
Mr. Massey sold the groceries at Massey’s grocery store,
history judged the building, now municipal court.
Doctors Eidle, Shepherd and Hahn attended our families’ health.
Eidle’s house call on small boy's 5 year birthday, gave a silver dollar.
Before fast food fad, was Cubby’s drive-in, ‘remember the man who ran;
then one day he seemed much younger, ‘learned later was passed to son.
Gene Kasper ran a woman’s apparel; ‘always thought of friendly Casper.
I would walk a few blocks north, bread to buy from Floyd’s Bakery
later on bakery soured, when for a time, was a hippie shop.
At one time there were establishments that shared their names with presidents;
Kennedy’s Lawn and Garden, Johnson’s Hardware, John Nixon’s Valley Hardware.
Fields north, Pierre’s Dairy; Joe became the talk of town; married half his age.
Rosie the shoe repairman, always ready to chat or work; in a different poem will tell.
Stocking tools even toys, west on main was hardware sold by Cavanaugh.
Prescriptions filled in local stores by Reuben, Manson & Peckenpaugh, later Charles Dunn.
These are names that I remember back to days of youth.
They were some that in their way, helped this little town… grow to be much more.


© 2006 Roger W Hancock, www.PoetPatriot.com



 
      Auburn’s Grace
     by Roger W Hancock

Birth to now, northwest my home,
‘never have considered other.
Ever-trees that keep hills green,
climbing hillsides to mountain foot.
Bearded mount of glacier white,
rainfall warned by clouded cap.
Ice reservoirs release,
cooling waters, hills traverse,
Brisk waters meander past.
This town I call my home,
our community we call Auburn.
Blest divine, by nature’s best,
never, ever, could more imagine,
beauty’s grace surrounds this town.


© 1-16-2007 Roger W Hancock, www.PoetPatriot.com



 

Unique Image
                 by Roger W  Hancock

Unique each town, not so much as mine,
birth to now, there’s nowhere else.
Hillsides evergreen, mountains white,
navigate waves or moguled snow.
versatility man’s adaptability,
retail, service or industry, employ.
Uniqueness in community,
sum of unique individuality.
I am unique or perhaps just weird,
peculiarity lies in each.
Nature summed with man’s creations,
Auburn, “More than you imagined.”


© 1-21-2007 Roger W Hancock, www.PoetPatriot.com

 


Auburn Rhyme

Slaughtered Name
by Roger W Hancock


Auburn was once called Slaughter,
named for Gen. Henry Slaughter.
Slaughter-house was concern,
changed the name to Auburn.


© October 22, 2007 Roger W Hancock www.PoetPatriot.com

 



Massey’s Remembered
by Roger W Hancock


When my parents held spare change,
I’d ride the horse in front of Massey’s,
playing cowboy, feeding it more coins.
Circus colors of goods down isles,
my mother held a baby girl,
with me the eldest, of three boys in-tow.
Massey’s was the first in Auburn,
to shorten the grocery lines,
with multiple checkout stands.
Rows of enticing colorful candy,
taught me, “No,” meant “No!”
I’d ask just once, for a Tootsie Roll.
Landmark sign renovated;
Once long ago, Isles of food,
now a different service, in the halls,
of Auburn Justice Center.


© January 19, 2012 Roger W Hancock ImagineAuburn.com
 

 


Coast to Coast  to Wagner’s Hobbies
by Roger W Hancock

Coast to Coast had been the closest,
to a hobby store back then with model glue
stored behind the counter.
That store closed then a real hobby store:
Wagner’s Hobbies captured the wishes,
of adults with hobbies and boy’s with wishing.
walking the isles of model trains,
tracks on which to run the trains.
I’d buy a model car to assemble,
then with a fire-cracker, blow it up,
to reassemble then blast it again!
Rich Wagner was the real hero in Auburn,
making wishes of children’s dreams, come true;
I’m now grown and still remember, Wagner,
who rules today on the City Council. 

© January 29th, 2012  Roger W Hancock, ImagineAuburn.com



Doctor’s Clinic Association
by Roger W Hancoc
k

 
Doctor’s Clinic Association near E & East Main,
Doctor’s Shappard, Eidle and Hahn.
Doctor’s vists to the home where,
on my fifth birthday Dr. Eidle gave me a silver dollar.
The Clinic then moved to 12th Street Southeast,
just off the Auburn-Enumclaw highway.
Home visits faded away to waits in the doctor’s office.
I’d walk alone each week across the highway,
to the clinic for allergy shots and a lollipop.
When grown and a family of my own,
Doctor Greeley was my and my son’s doctor for many years,
My wife as many of her women friends had Doctor Curtis,
medicine woman, for delicate femail ailes.
Several years ago the Doctor’s Clinic Association,
Sold out to… to become a part of
Multi Care Medical Centers.


© January 29th, 2012  Roger W Hancock, ImagineAuburn.com

 

 



Cavanaugh’s Hardware
by Roger W Hancock

 

Cavanaugh’s Hardware down on main,
one hundred year old, family business.
Windows decorated for window shopping,
seducing, warming money in our pockets.
shelves stocked, hardware, appliances,
toys to compliment a child’s imagination.
Cavanaugh’s stability provided confidence,
gave a sense of safety on main street.
Pat Cavanaugh gave the personal service,
even to the very end of the hundred year run.
I once saw a box of picnic table legs with no price,
turning to ask, at the end of isle was Mr. Cavanaugh.
I asked how much? He took two steps,
slapped a sticker and said, “That’s how much!”
When Cavanaugh’s closed I stocked my shop,
with nuts, bolts, screws, and other items,
to prevent future visits to the hardware stores,
now Agrishop or Lowes ‘cross town.


© January 29th, 2012  Roger W Hancock, ImagineAuburn.com


 



Ben Franklin Store
by Roger W Hancock


Barely remember the Ben Franklin Store,
Auburn’s Five & Dime.
However it was the place to go,
for a child with a quarter burning his pocket.
If not candy to entice, there were toys,
inexpensive enough to not break
a parent’s wallet, yet take a child’s quarter.
Rubber cars and trucks for child’s play,
 with ‘Auburn’, stamped on the back or underside;
today those are only seen as collector’s items.
In the same location I have seen those toys,
in the various antique and thrift stores
that have come and gone on Main.

© January 29th, 2012  Roger W Hancock, ImagineAuburn.com


 



Striped Water Poets
                 by Roger W Hancock

In the land, valley of two rivers, 
time removed, past to now.
Poets of Green River Valley. 
rivers of striped waters.
Station transport of commuters;
past's small town of Slaughter.
Growing in numbers and commerce;
One past, dared to imagine, Auburn.
Poetic meeting of many powwows,
Slaughter’s modern City Hall.
By red, white, brown or black;
read, critique, or simply share. 
Creativity nurtured, beckons under,
liberty's unfurled, red, white, and blue.


© June 4, 2006 Roger W Hancock, www.PoetPatriot.com
 



Teacher Galli

by Roger W Hancock

Teacher, long ago,
grew up, did Mister Galli,
at mansion Neely.
 

© 12-30-2011 Roger W Hancock, www.PoetPatriot.com  
 

 

 
 
Young Naiveté 
by Roger W Hancock

Once so long ago, when life carefree,
young soul, so naive. Overheard parents talking,
about the dream-house they’ve been stalking.
Found one they really fancied, up upon the hill,
on the reservation, where Indians riled,
where the Indians went on war-path.
In my mind I envisioned, red-skins on horseback,
arrows from the sky, cheered by hoops and hollers.
Why, would anyone consider such a move?
Put theirs, endanger their family’s lives?
Totally oblivious to the fact,
civility made some “redskins” classmates.
Yet still mind’s view of red-man’s beaded headband,
knife clasped hand to scalp, readying first cut.
That move never happened, since now older, realize,
Indians on reservation gathered,
In “war” parties. . . succumbed, to liquored spirits.

© October, 05, 2007 Roger W Hancock, www.PoetPatriot.com


NOTE:  I am part Indian myself, although, oh, so little.




                                               D.R.”
                                                                       by Roger W Hancock
 
There once was a man called D.R., no not doctor, just “D.” “R”.
Crabtree was his sur’.  Settled along south valley, east, along the wooded hillside.
Apparently was wealthy, certainly was healthy, though his apparel did not show.
Stout and lean he worked about, his properties on the hill.
That hillside precisely set, sat below what now is called, the development Lakeland Hills.
Delance was the first name, though few had known, what the middle “R” stood for.

When a willing ear came by, occasionally that was me, D.R. would stop, then on his shovel lean.
Trousers, oh so holey, must be his Sunday worst.
Heat of day, perspiration filled, shirt left hanging on far limb.
Skin darkened, as a white man on a spit, wrinkled belly, leathered by sun more than age.
Eyes that smiled through crowed wrinkles, though his mouth stayed sober, peered from a soiled face.
Voice flavored with the time of age yet held clarity in the language.

A bit more formal, D.R. Crabtree, possessed past stories, always interesting.
Some might say he spun a yarn, though the facts remained each time retold.
Alaskan stories of gold and whores. Depression time ill-repute, fat ones profited most.
Lonely sinful men would seek the company, of a woman, who could laugh.
Discovered gold and giant jade boulder polished by raging river rapids, envy of men’s greed.
Clubbed on head one clear evening, awoke next morning, to find his gold… 'gone.
 
Along the wooded hillside cleared by hand, axe, pick, and shovel;
built, one house, two house, till 4 were built, the fifth with five apartments.
One day a government man drove up in a marked sedan;  D.R. kept to the task at hand,
When asked about construction, simply replied, “What permit?”
Usually kept to himself, never bothered much, with government regulations.
Gov’ man (must have been ‘bout quit’n time,) scratching head, drove away, never to return.

Winding dirt road coiled up the hill through the trees, brush, dirt and clay.
Perseverance, toil, with pick and shovel originally forged this road he built;
Year after year maintained with shovel, as the clay hill slid ‘bout one foot each year.
Excavating for one house a few feet down, D.R. found a cobble stone walk;
digging out for another house, found stone walls, that became the basement; a garage.
Years later, historian conducting research, told of an Indian Mission that once had stood.

Neighbor, my father, returned from vacation to a different view of home,
‘Took ‘couple of hours realizing, the huge weeping willow along the drive, had disappeared.
Confrontation made scarce, the presence of D.R., over the following several weeks.
Surely a character of interest, though his life has now passed on.
Legacy slowly wanes, as time destroys the toils of his personally dug out road.
Hillside still slides and in years ahead, will encroach upon, the development now above.

© 08-09-07 Roger W Hancock, www.PoetPatriot.com 

Authors Note:  D.R. Crabtree is not related to the Roland Crabtree who owned
most of the hill and first began the planning for the development on the hill.
The office of Rodarte Construction sits upon the Indian mission,
unless has since been remodled for a firmer foundation.
 

 

 
 



                               Rosie
                                              by Roger W Hancock

A man named Rosie, surely a nickname it must be?
On my paper route would stop, to chat a bit with him.
Never knew such man before, as black as coal he was.
This black man a shoe shop ran, repairing worn old soles;
down from corner Main next to the barber’s pole.

I suppose, at first I feared, difference of black and white,
though my mother always told, “color'…” just skin deep.
Deep yet soft with a gentle air, from his heart he spoke.
Conversations long lost; remembering echoed wisdom.
This man in many ways stood out, in downtown Auburn.

From a tavern door I ordered, hamburger with toasted buns,
then around the corner, to chat with black Rosie.
When an extra paper had, double he would pay,
Suggest subscribe to save a quarter; he would not comply.
so from… a paper stand would buy, an extra for Rosie.

A man named Rosie, surely a nickname it must be?
Greer on TV field, showed it must be Roosevelt.
“Rosie” somehow fit the man, I stopped some days to talk.
This man I liked, could confide, patience on his face.
If this man remained today, I’d call him… “Uncle Rosie”


© 08-04-07 Roger W Hancock, www.PoetPatriot.com

 

 




Willowed Sentry
by Roger W Hancock

One of two clippings from an adolescent willow,
planted on my father’s land near the county border.
Over years, growing to be quite a mighty canopy,
Shade in which to sit, watch the cars fly by.
Landmark, mid’ East Valley Highway’s half mile stretch,
Past Stuck River to intersection at Stewart and rail crossing.
Lone weeping willow near the highway beckoned,
to family or friends that would come to call.
Sister willow grew yards away closer to the house;
together; deceptive view of each tree’s lonely perch.
Friend from the other mountain side would sit in shade,
with red, golden, delicious apples, for sale by the box.
When the fruit stand was built with cooler for the fruit,
The man would still, in lounge chair sit, under the canopy.
From a distance I could spot the willow where I turn;
Towering tall alone, willowed sentry to the gravel drive.   
One day my father drove off, beginning short vacation,
Upon return, reality altered, something was amiss,
Unloaded, pondering, looking toward the street,
never would have expect’, someone stole the tree!



© 08-08-07 Roger W Hancock, www.PoetPatriot.com




Gradie’s Café no longer exists but when it did, had an open mike night, where mostly youth from the local high school would attend. The PoetPatriot occasionally attended and wrote what he calls New Beat Poetry to promote thought among the youth.

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. [Was] Open seven days ‘till eight, six o’clock on Sunday except of course for Thursday night.  [Now just a memory as other ghost stores in history on main.]

  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                                                     More - New Beat Poetry

 





"1973" was written prior to the 30 year reunion of
Auburn Senior High School, class of 1973.


1973

                 by Roger W Hancock

Long, so very long ago,
Memories becoming blur.
Ever changing since that time,
What now not then are we?
Marriages, children, debts,
We’ve become that which we,
Back then against rebelled.
Most likely to succeed, what really,
Happened to that popular steed?
Sosh’s, flunkies, greasers, geeks,
Diploma changed our attitudes.
‘Jesus Freaks’ a fad for some,
Other’s built their life upon.
Bomb scare, a break from class,
Imagined not the locker blown.
Future imagined then,
Reality, now compare.
Similarities, few we see…
Differences, then and now.
Hometown, Auburn; our futures;
“More than you imagined”.


Roger W Hancock
Ó July 27, 2003 www.PoetPatriot.com


 
   




          Drift  (Part One)
                                  By Roger W Hancock

Day’s cool past as humidity decrease by morning sun rays,
Expectation of a blistering cloudless day.
Each step on soil, placed deliberately, though each slid a few inches,
narrow steep trail beside the railroad tracks crossing the Stuck River.
Plastic raft and paddle clutched in hands, arms stretched for balance,
huff and puff to inflate, then rest before the launch.
River flowed meandering with rippled anticipation of sights beyond.
Birds I’ve never seen before, one swoops from heaven in qwest for food,
just as the surface is broken by a fish in flight, escaping talons, splash.
Weasel, otter, unknown critter scampered from the briar brush,
almost missed if eyes not spot, stealth dive from the river bank.
Relaxing, drifting, taking-in the occasional break from the briar shore,
surprising how slow the flow over the current’s strength.
Water rushing, sounds a warning; ‘rapids ahead?
Sitting upright with paddle positioned preparing for the worse.
Ninety degree tributary, remembering Lake Tapps generators,
relaxing though premature, a surprise awaits ahead.
Disturbance on the water surface; swirling whirlpool.
Fun without the danger, not! Approach appears more ominous.
Speed picks up, paddling to avoid the vortex, to no avail,
raft is grabbed into the force, paddling was most futile.
Trapped inside the maelstrom, first order’, relax conserve,
around, around endless circle, contemplate predicament.
No view of road or house, cannot call above the roar,
on my own, with only God, contemplate on him.
Decided course of action, against redundant course,
bursting energy paddle, traverse the power gurge.
Success nearly had, paddle to secure,
well past the purl of swirling fear, current’s back to calm
.

© 08-11-07 Roger W Hancock, www.PoetPatriot.com

 

 


 


       Drift  
(Part Two)
                                By Roger W Hancock

Adrenaline awakened; aware of appreciation enhanced,
Heart pumps resounding pace, responsibility in relaxation.
Paddle cuts into the surface, drips on legs, to other side,
I’m acutely aware of the whirlpool beginning paddle wake.
More briars along the shore, began wonder of shores ahead,
‘decide Sumner, the limit set; bridge town proper near.
Corn tassels extend above the field grass now along the bank,
Footprints have stirred the muddy shore, evidence of life.
Largest bird I’ve ever seen, casting shadow’s flight,
throw back to prehistoric? Blue Heron’s legacy.
Height so far unable to discern flight of hawk or eagle,
swirling the sky for a vortex view of possible prey beneath.
Every once in time’s occasion, among the grasses and berry vines,
I catch the stirring of the brush, not the critter’s quick retreat.
Time passes ever slow; sun perched now in western sky,
better now consider where, the place to land the raft.
Bridge spans above ahead, though too soon it seems,
Sits too right angled to the bank for the bridge I though I knew,
Is there another, I do not know, dare I pass it by?
Out-side bend a tiny patch of moistened mud surrounded by much brush,
I thought it strange for a bridge near town, no path to road above.
navigating the plastic raft pushed by current’s strength,
I had to grab a limb and pull myself to shore.
No recent evidence of any path, I contemplate this briar spot.
Concrete bridge support extending twenty feet, sandwiched by berry vines. 
‘Contemplate further rafting, unknowing exactly where I was,
‘did not wish to pass too far, may have to walk back home.
From the valve release all air decide to take a stand,
no one from above could hear, “help!” I yelled in vain.
Well, ‘must give a try; with paddle hacked the blackberries,
finally had cleared enough to spot a four inch pipe aside bulk head base.
One hand on pipe clutching raft, to position myself,
to clear a path up embankment to reach the road above.
Vines and branches crumpled, tromped, gave traction on the ground,
As I progress, such short ascent, to success at road above.


© 08-11-07 Roger W Hancock, www.PoetPatriot.com

 




Similarity
by Roger W Hancock

 
Today at the clinic on 12th street,
I sit as everyone does in the usual tradition.
I had, as all of us do, hurried to be on time,
then wait, wait; the doctor’s off schedule.
A woman standing warmly wrapped,
loving eyes lowered, placed upon her beau.
Clad in heavy navy blue coat her man sits stooped,
tending, unwrapping their baby in the stroller.
Every newborn has an angelic look,
whether truly beautiful, average or homely.
I’d say this one was of average,
small, they’re always so small, oval head.
Wrinkled forehead cheeks and chin,
as though the skin were a size too large.
Wrinkles birthed to be soon forgotten,
await a return of years away in the twilight age.
This child looked so very familiar,
captivating my regard, reaching towards my soul.
Innocently lay, tormenting my faculties,
I wonder what drew so intently my gaze.
This child of a darker ethnicity, reminded
lost clarity of my own offspring two decades ago.
Awakened from infant captivation, I hear,
my name resonating breaking the fascination.
Differing, parents; time and race declined;
twenty years past and black and white.


© December 5, 2007 Roger W Hancock www.PoetPatriot.com

 

 

Sun Shines
by Roger W Hancock


South'O Seattle,
sun sets still above west horizon,
overlooking beauty of Pacific Northwest,
before set to final rest.

© June 30, 2013 Roger W Hancock www.PoetPatriot.com



Auburn Haiku

Auburn

Mine, yours, it's our town,
"More Than You Imagine." so...
imagine much more.


© 08-14-07 Roger W Hancock, www.PoetPatriot.com

More Haiku Poems


 
 

Exercising your right to vote entitles you your right to gripe.                      - Roger W Hancock  Exercising your right to vote entitles you your right to gripe.                      - Roger W Hancock  Exercising your right to vote entitles you your right to gripe.                      - Roger W Hancock  Exercising your right to vote entitles you your right to gripe.                      - Roger W Hancock  Exercising your right to vote entitles you your right to gripe.                      - Roger W Hancock  Exercising your right to vote entitles you your right to gripe.                      - Roger W Hancock  Exercising your right to vote entitles you your right to gripe.                      - Roger W Hancock  Exercising your right to vote entitles you your right to gripe.                      - Roger W Hancock  Exercising your right to vote entitles you your right to gripe.                      - Roger W Hancock
 


 

 












 




 

 
























































 


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Exercising your right to vote entitles you your right to gripe.                      - Roger W Hancock  Exercising your right to vote entitles you your right to gripe.                      - Roger W Hancock  Exercising your right to vote entitles you your right to gripe.                      - Roger W Hancock  Exercising your right to vote entitles you your right to gripe.                      - Roger W Hancock  Exercising your right to vote entitles you your right to gripe.                      - Roger W Hancock  Exercising your right to vote entitles you your right to gripe.                      - Roger W Hancock  Exercising your right to vote entitles you your right to gripe.                      - Roger W Hancock  Exercising your right to vote entitles you your right to gripe.                      - Roger W Hancock  Exercising your right to vote entitles you your right to gripe.                      - Roger W Hancock

 


 

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