Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Month: January 2020

  • Poem: The Raspberry Crusher – 31/01/20

    Poem: The Raspberry Crusher – 31/01/20

    I taste the tartness carelessly left coating my teeth,
raspberry goodness,
sour, slimy, almost eye wincing
still ripely sweet,
 
my eyes widen,
a great surprise,
as I absorb the flavoursome layer,
my tastebuds tingle, they tango,
sweetness most certainly assured,
if we’ve detoxed from refined treats prior.
 
The naturalness of Nature’s offerings
I am yet to feel ungrateful for her juice
pressed forth into my hand,
as round raucous raspberries they sang and danced
until I gently rolled them between forefinger and thumb
crushing them,
caressing them,
sweetly, carefully.
 
The juice stains
it drips close to my white dress
I bound aside but
alas!
 
A crimson tear,
captured within the fabric for all of time,
a reminder,
of fruity bloodshed,
I lick my hands,
grin from ear to ear.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

Photo credit: MasterTux from Pixabay

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  • Poem: “P.S. I’m still here” – 31/01/20

    Poem: “P.S. I’m still here” – 31/01/20

    P.S. postscript,
in little hummingbird whispers,
I’m still here.
 
Advantageous circumstances finally presenting themselves
from Heaven’s open hand,
her palm which begs me to take from her,
 
I deserve these now.
 
P.S., she whispers, in airy breath,
you’ve ached enough,
no longer will you suffer,

I am here to prove you worthy and kind,
your tears of tumult disguised in the once-silent study
where tattered and worn your stoic self became

now, those tears dry, crystallising, salty.
 
P.S. I whisper
tentatively
I am here

Like those words don’t belong,
I am still here, I repeat,
enunciated, strong.
 
I will remain fighting.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Poem: A Little Crescendo – 30/01/20

    Poem: A Little Crescendo – 30/01/20

    Sometimes I need to realise that the wind
simply needs to unwind
to leave his breath upon the windowsill
and tangle within the trees.
The branches and he will create a mischievous dance
a mild form of light-hearted sorcery
as the magic weaves its language
strange capitulations together;
they succumb to each other
the swooning moments
it seems he’ll never leave.
 
I’m here watching o’er these two
it’s amazing to see,
precious to view because I know 
there is little fight left between this pair
they secretly cherish one another
they breathe through
air to wood
wood to air.
 
Sometimes the wind needs to cherish something
other than itself
blustering around something other than me
although I miss his presence
I know he’ll return when he deems it rightly so,
he’ll take his leave,
come back to me.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Poem: King Sunflower – 29/01/20

    Poem: King Sunflower – 29/01/20

    How we rise like sunflowers,
bright and blessed,
sunlight beaming on our faces,
glancing sideway-winks,
and hearts as heavenly warm as though heated by eternal caresses.
 
Held aloft by those firm stalks which holds our sway and
keeps us in place,
you, my wonder, are everything I wanted,
everything I’ve needed,
this should be all I need to say.
 
For your ostentatious yellow collar breathes around
the darkness of your pitted pollen which
pleases all the bees who wander hungrily,
flitting through the atmosphere as though they
have no other care
than collection
and collection for their hive,
to please their precious queen.
 
Am I your queen?
I ask of you, the head of the Sunflowers,
am I everything you dreamed of, wanted,
and needed?
 
My precious queries ache,
I sing them for you,
draw nearer to your flamboyant petals
which compliment,
which compel my gaze to come closer.
 
I grasp onto the stalk for stability,
a miniature sunflower crawls leaf and root
up until that shining face,
my dear, I have made it,
we are together,
and will you look at the smile upon your flower,
there’s no happiness going to waste.
(28/01/20)
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

Photo credit: Image by Couleur from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Marry Him – 28/01/20

    Poem: Marry Him – 28/01/20

    Will I ever find a place,
a home to rest my weary fingers and shuttered eyes,
my fingertips so tired from tap-tapping
emulsifying my emotions,
please don’t pry,
please, don’t.
 
I am so ragged,
wretched be my soul these past days, 
and I ache for somewhere to rest and be content,
paper smeared with pains of yesterdays.
 
I am tired, bone-tired, my muscles ache too, and the
inked crimson cavalries chant
Reign over thee, Reign over thee
they’ll take my energies most willingly.
 
I try not to let past events
get to me, 
to enter my dried-out soul that will ignite
with the slightest of sparks,
 
Beyond the moon is where my eyes are cast,
hoping to avoid inevitable decimation that seems
far too close
and far too soon.
 
When the firebomb hits,
set off by my innocent little soul’s notepaper,
I will dive with the rest of them
for cover and safety,
 
but my wordsmiths and bards,
where else we be if we didn’t already bear
ourselves wholly?
 
The paper in my soul takes on shades of aggressive red,
now blackness, the depth of my plaintive despair.
Some corners though, are hopeful blue,
and mangrove yellow in certain parts to be viewed.

This is but a fork in the road,
I will marry him, marry him,
marry who?
I have wedded the quill,
he is kind and reassuring,
and he doesn’t talk back,
he’s perpetually with me,
marry me, marry me,
I once begged,
we will make a life of our own,
he colours me all over, you see.     

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Poem: Not of This World – 26/01/20

    Poem: Not of This World – 26/01/20

    She is not of this world, 
borne of an entity and a place
where daggers and betrayal are commonplace,
inside her heart lies dainty ticking time-bombs.
 
In her world, featuring prominently, are those egos, egos,
ergonomic and plentiful,
potent in their intoxication,
and scents of creation,
fresh, tall and poplar,
she is not of our world,
she makes of it what she may.  
 
Tombstones rise within her vision
creaking aching monuments applicable
to her alone,
familial ties lay beneath the soft sandy soil,
petite, concerning, but never do they overwhelm.
 
She comes from a world unlike ours,
she seems as free as the clouds,
though on the horizon
lies a promise,
a blood-red warning,
that soon, she must start running.
 
The unspoken have their own way of speaking,
deeming themselves relevant 
on both ends of a spectrum,
highlighting what she will never say,
a deeply personal experience,
an explosive type of expression.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Poem: A Nightmare – 26/01/20

    Poem: A Nightmare – 26/01/20

    In the darkness, I can feel the heaving,
the staggered breath of something unearthly,
with rounded edges that pulsate eerily upon my fingertips,
da doom, da doom.

I envelope myself around this living catastrophe,
it’s begging to be tamed,
assumed,
taken over,
approached with the lushness of virginal buds of spring,
I can carry us under, and over,
and away.
 
Who explicitly states we must be separate — fools!
No allowance to be entwined together until the light of day?
Ne’er will their permission
come,
be saved,
in the trying periods when mess gets in our way,
shoved aside,
then hands and feet we crawl,
dragging through the thick soupy darkness,
only to again meet this being,
Thing,
it seethes at me,
I simply cannot allow myself to take it in.
 
There are too many possibilities to trial, you see,
too much future aggravation at stake.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Poem: A Herd of Human Water Buffalo – 26/01/20

    Poem: A Herd of Human Water Buffalo – 26/01/20

    I watch a herd of human water buffalo go by,
within my vision, their grunting asides and laboured movements sway and swing
one way, and to the other.
The leader is coolly cautious;
he does not need to show any fear,
he is the preferred leader of the pack,
he wants to project a pretence,
that being gruff and strong are characteristics to savour,
these traits are none to fear.
They propel the herd forward,
ahead is the direction they belong.  
 
Then in the back, a hissing,
some whispering from lips of babes,
Why are we here
Why is he so arrogant,
Why are we made to be upon his haughty page?
 
He cannot believe this backstabbing;
he immediately knows what to say.
 
Off with you,
begone,
find your own protection at night where your heads lay.
If you can find a leader with half the courage and care of myself
you’d be very satisfied girls,
but my being is deemed unworthy of your wishes to stay.
Now succumb to the unnatural emptiness,
the lonesomeness
the futility
because of your betrayal of he who holds himself with required pride to lead many.
 
Wailing from the adolescents,
who believed they would be perpetually protected
for their days ongoing
but really, their future suffering is merely karmic retribution,
for speaking poorly about a loyal male who’s been
present for the entirety of their lives,
though, his true intention is not to banish,
not to abandon,
but to teach a lesson,
before their permitted return to their rightful stations.
 
Human buffalo are like any other herd,
there’s bickering and discussion,
sniping, but love also,
adoration, acceptance,
emotions warm and not untoward.
 
Perhaps they even secretly embrace and snuggle,
it wouldn’t surprise me, buffalo are fuzzy enough,
to want to share their struggles and heartfelt forgiveness,
a human buffalo in its own urban wilderness.
 
And after some nights and days alone,
the teens are welcomed back into the herd,
soft weeping into hair of fine gold,
spinning tales of how being alone was so trying and difficult.  
 
Their tears turn them into wise women,
they became learned through the experience,
sheer fright from being in a pair,
no warmth,
no safety,
only belligerently spat words of suffering and plain blank stares,
they learned, they learned,
to adhere and accept.
 
They lead the pack with him,
a wise male buffalo lead by two young women,
with an understanding that strength is required to contend with  
unseen issues, problems, and incorrect suggestions.  
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Poem: Beacon of Hope – 25/01/20

    Poem: Beacon of Hope – 25/01/20

    A lighthouse up on the horizon signals
impending hope,
as a monument it shows that perhaps
Home is nearby.
 
Whose home, though?
Anyone’s, can be my guess,
mattering most is not whose ownership,
but the act of rescue by another,
of housing us,
encapsulation,
we’ll be welcomed after times of distress.
 
No need for self-destruction,
for surging waves of emotion to take o’er,
our boat will be held until its safe docking,
salvation is before our eyes.

And as we thank the strangers who pull us in,
their eyes wild with haste and pressure to correctly
drag our boat ashore
 
I silently thank the lighthouse
for shining unto us,
delivering exactly what was required during those moments,
to light our way and make explicit our terror to those
who happened to be within sight
of heaven’s raging crescendos.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Poem: Swing Me So – 25/01/20

    Poem: Swing Me So – 25/01/20

    Sublime is this scene from so very high,
I cannot believe this is happening to me,
to be captured within such power of Nature
it is arresting,
it is amazing.
 
With her brewing potency, such rage beneath the sky's surface
and a stock standard collection
of sheer memories with others who have already left,
a breathy fresh emotion replaces it, and I know
that in this form, its majority of 
accompanying thoughts need to be
seized and trained,
in a method tried and adapted,
from the losses 
I will heal, I will heal.
There is the sense of replacement and regeneration
within the rise and fall.
 
Swing me so, dearest,
push me over the edge,
in a whirling of your intent allowing me to
rise higher
and preposterously fall,
I’ll gather the safe billowing air by my sides,
they'll pad my re-entry into the clouds.

I feel emptier without supportive comrades by my side,
but Nature reminds me that she is here,
and some will return in good time.
 
I dismount the swing shakily,
the exhilaration was such a sweet potent rush,
and with a smile, I stumble on, 
my initial steps like a forest fawn,
unsure of where to place them.     
  
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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