Month: October 2019
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Poem: Peacocking – 31/10/19
He peacocks here, he peacocks there, he struts and struts as people stare.
His showiness is all-too-easily-seen, and it reflects where he is going and where he has been.
This bright bird with eyes that stare into your soul, they delve inside without concern for you nor care as they take hold.
They intensify, enveloping you,
Making certain to assess and formulate a plan or two for you.
There is nothing these eyes do not see,
For they view me, they wholly see me.
For, this bird is rather sneaky, he wishes to play a game that is not so pretty,
A game in which he can manipulate you,
Into believing there is more than the two of him and you.
For, his eyes, those eyes, upon his feathers they deceive,
Wonder not whether they are in reality or falsified as can possibly be seen,
Because as he resumes strutting and mesmerising all that can see him,
I wonder to myself where this illusory bird has come from,
And when from my life he will leave.
I do not need the deception in my life,
Of a strutting male as I try to once again make sense of the inner chasms and strife,
As I will know from the past, there’s no reason to feel as though I’m an outcast,
Simply because I am different from this showy, eccentric male.
One day I’ll shine my feathers, the true colours showing through the brown.
It’s not easy sometimes, being overshadowed by another leading the crowd.
© 2019 Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
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Prose Poetry: Shedding Intolerance – 29/10/19
I’m like a brightly blazing deciduous tree except I will not weep for you. Because while my colours alternate from light greens to crisp fawns and crunchy dryness as the seasons go from bright to dark, days longer to short, at this moment I’m far less tolerant, adaptive I am not.
Release not the inner emotions, the angst which we both feel. The grinding of stone upon pavement, the scratchy itching frustration I feel. The knowledge that I am absorbing a melody that I do not wish to be performed through me, and the strangeness and wearing down of my barely-present tolerance is surprisingly unyielding. I feel rather affected, and most certainly quite ill at ease.
I’d much rather be alone in these moments, and cast off my unwanted and unfeeling leaves in silence. They are not necessary. And neither is this irritation which is featuring heavily in this ongoing dramatic story.
There’s a brief pause now, an interlude, to allow anger and the stifling feeling of unrest to build into an explosive level of intent and mistrust. Because, neither of us seems to want to admit wrongdoing, or take responsibility, or be willing to say we’re sorry. We’d rather war with our displeased silences than allow ourselves to become defeated and at a loss.
But instead we’ll confide in one another, especially with you sharing how you truly feel. Your frustrations, your sufferings, your immense irritation; your desire for me to wholeheartedly acknowledge your communications about how you feel. It is not all about me, it is due to the surrounding world which surrounds your considered yet busy, ever-changing bubble; you voice, you vent, you scream, then you’re seemingly spent. We now link hands, and forehead to pressed forehead we gaze into one another, our eyes calming the other, the viewing of our aching souls entwined together.
You wrap your arms around your now-caring and almost-barren tree, as the last leaves from my limbs fall with gentle ease. Winter is upon us, allow each to warm the other with a manner of understanding and openness to be felt and seen. For, our hearts are fiery in the heat in which they deliver and the clipped words and admonishments are lost in the airy but biting winter’s breath — this argument seems like the end of an unwanted era. Allow us to communicate more effectively, to prove true calming consideration at its best.
© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
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“Our Whimsical World: Illustrated Stories” Debut Story Book Available Now!
Good afternoon, all! I’m pleased to be able to present to you Our Whimsical World: Illustrated Stories, my debut collection of illustrated short stories. I had so much fun illustrating and writing these! Each story has a lesson or moral to be learned, with the collection being divided into three separate sections according to younger, slightly older, and older readers.
Please click the image above to read the blurb and discover a little more about my book.
Our Whimsical World: Illustrated Stories is available as a paperback from Gumroad, and as an e-book, and audiobook, from various retailers listed below.
I sincerely hope you enjoy the whimsical journey.
Lauren xo
Available as a paperback at:
Gumroad and various Amazon sites
Available as an eBook at:
Amazon Kindle | Apple Books | Barnes & Noble Nook | Kobo | Scribd | !ngido | Angus & Robertson | Mondadori
Available as an audiobook at:
[ https://books2read.com/oww ]
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Prose Poetry: From Strength to Strength – 28/10/19
There may be times where you feel as though it’s all too difficult to go on. These moments can catch us by surprise, or creep up on us, their bated breath upon our backs, stirring heat upon our shoulders. You know that Defeat is upon you; you are aware that it is there. Any moment now, it can tap our shoulders and say, in a convoluted manner, “Why don’t you give up? You’re never going to succeed anyway, anyhow or anywhere.” And here, my friends, we are presented with a choice, do we revile against these words, thrust these Moments aside, fling them to the past, and walk strong, proud and tall, elegance in our stride? Or do we allow ourselves to crumble, for in moments such as these as this seems the easiest option?
It matters not how we take potential failures, what matters most is how we strive to make ourselves more, make ourselves better. To carry on with courage, and strength with ardour, knowing that to fail is not in itself a failure, but a learning curve. And there may be many opportunities to learn, do not feel defeated because you are faced with these chances to better yourself, because, I for one know, that many mistakes in my life were made, and I have become a better person for acknowledging the failings. In becoming a better person myself, I have succeeded. And for you, just compare your beginning, the middle, the endings, and allow yourselves to know where your story has commenced, and where the opportunity will come for it to restart. For with practice and going from strength to strength, we can achieve and triumph.
© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
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Prose Poetry: Icy Heart – 27/10/19
Your heart, my love, has grown as solid and as cold as a block of impenetrable, unbreakable ice. I can’t imagine you remaining like this for much longer – it’s devastating in its effects, my aching heart, my saddened eyes. Because my heart, my love, is breaking, cracks and fissures quietly appearing, into pieces I become, as you sit there pleased, smiling to yourself because for you, this is punishment, admonishment that I deservedly accumulated with ease.
But then you smile quickly – you cannot help yourself, that flash of delight that shows that you’re no longer pretending to be a harsh version of yourself, and now I realise that you were simply just playing a little game, toying with my emotions for that brief moment. Seeing how much I adore you as I crumbled before you, until you lovingly uttered my name.
© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
Illustration inspired by a reference photo:
Shutterstock image: 146245403, artist: Xanya69
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Fiction: The Arachnid Queen’s Deadly Songs – 27/10/19
The Arachnid Queen weaves a web of delicate songs and spells, but this caster is known for causing perils in great a-many tales. While she crawls and creates, she plots the doom, of those unfortunate souls, lurking, unawares, waiting for her in the privacy of a stifling room. How she struts in toward them, turning this way and that, because while her spindly arachnid form is anything beyond compare, she doesn’t believe in being visually poignant, compliant nor aware.
No, she prizes her spinning ability above them all, to be the black widow in the tales of those whom happen to helplessly trip and fall beneath her multitude of feet. She glances down at them acting so feebly – she will wrap them slowly, it will amuse her greatly, don’t you understand? It’s all so plain to see!
And she’ll continue to lure them in like the easy prey, victims that they are, only known for wanting to be seduced by something that they secretly fear but cannot draw themselves any further from, neither walk nor run further, because her songs, the lyrics, they draw them in, such lilting, sweetly sung tunes, like the sirens pulling in the sailors to their deaths, she drags them in with such fine musicality, her deadly cadences are anything but folly.
Would any rise above the Queen’s misdeeds? Would a victor arise, to avoid his encasing, future suffocating wrapping, simply because for the wrong being he had fallen with ease? Nothing is proven in this measure, they are all mesmerised — ears, hearts and minds — seduced by her warbling spells, until one rather bland evening the sign of the Jackal is cast across the skies: something important surely is about to befall them all.
While the Queen lazily sits upon her throne, casually singing rhymes, tunes, trills, arpeggios, a hero-in-the-making spots his chance to escape to freedom of his own. A tear in his casing, close to his left hand, my, the Queen’s error in weaving here is uncomfortably astounding, and with a quiet ripping with his thumb he frees himself. But he will not yet leave – he refuses to do so, not without assisting the other captives in the saddening scene.
And now here is the perfect opportunity; the Arachnid Queen has lulled herself to sleep, the devil in the details, why, they are already being seen, and with a few slashes here and there, the men escape to freedom, with the snoozing Queen entirely unaware. She will awaken with rage, I promise you this, it will be of complete and utter disrepair, and awaken the entirety of her captive kingdom.
© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
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Story: A Race With Conniving Emu of the Bush – 26/10/19
“I can’t fly? Well, I’ll be damned!” the bushy emu said to me. With a squawk and a wink he ran past me with great ease, a bush sprinter as proud as can be.
He then returned quickly as he could.
“What do you say to a little race?” he suggested coercively, “The winner gets to sample all the fine tastes of the Bush’s delicacies.”
I wracked my brains for what these delicacies could be and whether they would suit my palette, but after understanding that this emu was offering up fruits and seeds, I was pleased as punch to verse this bird who carried upon his face such a cheeky permanent grin as his habit.
“Ready, set,” he uttered, and before saying “Go” he sprinted away from the scene, the dust billowing in my widened eyes, shocked at the audacity of this bird which had just been seen.
Still, I began the race after fairly uttering my version of the starter’s “Go”, and ran and ran as fast as my tiny little human legs could push me forth, struggling as I had never ever known.
But on my path, I noticed the Emu of the Bush; he had fallen down, sprained his ankle. He was flat on his toosh. I was horrified, he looked in such pain. If I were an untoward being I could have continued on with the race, being the reigning victor without any complaint.
However, I was not of that type, I was empathetic to his plight, and from my backpack I carried everywhere, I removed my first aid kit, removed a bandage and upon his ankle it was tightly applied.
Tentatively he stood, gingerly on his sore foot, but then with a grin, he realised he could still run with some ease. And off he trotted, ahead of me, towards the end of the race’s scene.
I was devastated, I could barely lift my jaw from the floor, but I resumed my style of a slow human run, impeded by a sense of an ego made sore. Again, I spotted him having fallen by the side of the path but this time I wouldn’t, did not stop, and through the discussed ending of the race did I reach with a victorious laugh.
It was only then that Emu caught up, fossicked in the brush for my prize: a large handful of small stones known as gizzard stones, which assisted emus with grinding up their meals.
It seemed that today both of us had been taught a lesson or two.
© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
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Prose Poetry: The Pansies – 25/10/19
The pansies, they glare at me. They are not charming; they glare and then squint as though trying to decipher me. Their little yellow mouths whirring away with intent, the leader speaks loudly, he doesn’t want me in their view.
Because here I am admiring their view. Laughing to myself as they try to makes riddles of their lives, make complex their measures when they are simply precious flowers avoiding the blights. Though they are temperamental, they are hardy, and this is why they have survived in my overgrown, sprawling garden.
Now it’s as though they’re blowing me raspberry kisses, their yellows spreading into a widened “O” that is utterly reminiscent of those bubble gum-blowing days when as a child I would pop and pop that piece all afternoon, if not all day.
Some pansies start to sink, they’re beginning to bow, to the true master of their garden, yes, it is I, a masterful gardener, their actual Leader, and with due respect they nod their heads, while their nominated pansy leader forcefully rises his head himself. He is too proud to bow, he is too vain to find in himself fault, and the truth of the matter is that he will never deliver his power to anyone other than himself.
The rest of the pansies squint at me in my glowing light, humbling knowing that as the one who tends to them, they must respectfully be in a mode of both gratefulness and gracious delight.
© 2019 Alice Well, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
Photo by Lauren M. Hancock 2019 ©
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Prose Poetry: Wrapped Like a Burrito – 25/10/19
I love it when you make your bed around me,
as though I’m a mini human burrito.
I adore being so silly in the kitchen for you
as I wriggle and wiggle,
showing my happy dance,
a humorous movement, slight grooves,
more laughter, if you please,
just a little, if you will.
I appreciate when you bring me cups of coffee and tea
and become slightly angered when you
forget about me and don’t,
But all’s fair in our little tiffs and wars,
Our hearts meld, that’s what matters most.
Allow us to go from strength to strength,
Taking on the challenges of the world.
Us two against whom?
None, there are none standing in our way,
Because we control our life’s climate,
Our weather,
Our potentials, we decide them.
We are but two constellations in the
sky known as the fabric
Of human life,
We burn brightly together and
linked in arms we are forever,
Our names will be written in our
version of the skies.
Our adoration for one another, while playful,
Raucous,
Can be seen in the quiet moments
where we say nothing at all,
There is no need to talk or touch.
A simple understanding that you are there for me,
And I for you,
And even in the most trying of times,
We will remain as tightly linked
Firmly held together with permanent glue.© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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