Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Month: January 2020

  • Poem: The Wispy Nature of Oversleep – 09/01/20

    Poem: The Wispy Nature of Oversleep – 09/01/20

     Sleep pervades my being,
 invades every cell within me,
 I am awash with the heaviness of lulling eyelids but 
 I am not dreaming, 
 I feel utterly dreary. 
  
 A seascape of consciousness which dampens,
 I see through eyes with cloudy vision, a certain hazing,
 then the fog begins to lift, 
 it was only a matter of time, 
 before I became clear,
 I’ll make this morning mine. 
  
 Though, 
 the remnants of last night’s wispy cotton wool 
 which protected me from haunting nightmares and 
 pointed corners and sharp turns
 it follows me, it drags behind, wraps around, 
 I cannot help but smile. 
  
 She is like my little shadow, a white fluffy helper,
 to bear the brunt of whatever is thrown behind 
 my back or front,
 whether knives or slashing words of vengeance, 
 I am not alone,
 I have her.
  
 She catches me when I fall, 
 purposefully reaching for something to 
 entangle herself with, 
 and I am reminded that sleep isn’t so bad, 
 I should be grateful to have had any at all.
  
 When sleep will linger another morning, I will 
 count myself thankful —
 I have a secondary presence, 
 to be encased by softness and protection of careful eyes
 is precious
 like a provided wedding dress, I here clutch the 
 trailing white garment close,
 I hold her near and dear.
  
 And now it is time for the moment of matrimony,
 I didn’t sign up for this,
 though, by goodness I’ll give it a shot,
 I take my step into the unknown,
 an awakening has occurred,
 a union has come to pass:
 all I’ve done is marry an open morning and 
 allowed myself to wake up. 
   
 © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
 All images signed “LMH” 
 are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock 
 and all rights reserved.

Image by Tien Vu from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Bebsis – 09/01/20

    Poem: Bebsis – 09/01/20

     my bebsis —
 what can I say about her?
  
 nothing more than the enormity of 
 everything which I would readily articulate,
 with such gratitude I would spout clouds of 
 perfumed sentiment that would bury us both 
 and playfully we would cast aside the damp 
 to find the merriment,
 the celebration behind our conjoining, 
 as sisters we are one,
 as sisters, we are the same.  
  
 our state of being,
 adoptive as we made ourselves from 
 a faraway source,
 we have been through so much,
 on our own and together,
 
 we are here and there for each other.
  
 a differing reflection but an interior which
 mirrors mine 
 even when I flash a different shade, 
 she carries me in careful moments,
 she smooths away the yearning and 
 indecisiveness of my day.
  
 we are more than adequate when separate but 
 whole when woven, and weaving our words,
 we can exist on our own, 
 though I’d rather be knitted together,
 a little amigurumi penguin and a pensive raven 
 in this make-believe land of ours. 
  
 she is the rationale, 
 I am the fiery child, 
 she is my guarder, at times,
 oft does she carry the light,
 she attends and brightens my shadow.
  
 walking similar paths before even having met,
 our trails melded with the firm blows we felt from 
 hearing similar tales.
 each punch was a sign in our eyes, our mouths,
 a truthful force felt, with immediacy I knew:
 this girl was meant to be in my life.
  
 © 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: Perturbed – 08/01/20

    Poem: Perturbed – 08/01/20

     The door perturbs me,
 it is my return into your life,
 you do not wish for any longer than a 
 few moments with me,
 but it’s a dead-end maze and the only way forward 
 is to you.
  
 My stomach drops with the dread which comes only 
 with my despair,
 I know the notion of being tied down to me is 
 unworthy of your review.
  
 I exist in a narrow corridor, 
 behind me was the path to this mess,
 like a surgeon attending to a clogged artery, 
 that beholder rushed me forth,
 choked muck oozing me into an open area which, 
 though mildly comforting than the last,
 is nothing which I want to re-explore,
 why must I resurrect the past?
  
 I know you wait, with cunning charm and 
 self-serving bravado, 
 there to smile upon me from behind that door,
 your smugness is disgusting, I cannot bear it, 
 the take-take-take action with my needs wholly ignored. 
  
 The emotional heaving I felt as I once 
 ached for your love,
 is now as dead to me as the nail hammered into an 
 obituary of your feigned feelings,
 your absent ability to treat me with respect,
 plain to see upon this door.
  
 Though, never was I truly yours,
 I received naught of truthful respect, 
 you were a farce, with our means of untidy connection,
 a bartering system in which I was the fool –
 the deck of cards always favoured you. 

 I'm sure your fork-tongued lies were always well meant. 
  
 My heart was too desperate, lonesome and open 
 to tease out the deception in your promises,
 your assurances,
 so, every once in a while, I’d come crawling back 
 and stupidly repeat the same choreography, 
 hoping for a different ending for this pining process.

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

 Photo by Octopus soul on Pexels.com

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  • Poem: The Wildflower Gatherer – 08/01/20

    Poem: The Wildflower Gatherer – 08/01/20

     she hunts for the perfect blossoms
 and odds and ends, she has uses for them
 those with strangely mottled leaves or browned petals, 
 a quick clip, rip, 
 now wondrous.
  
 lilies are her favourite, but roses?
 just magnificent, 
 in her front garden which she lovingly tends,
 she has built up a fortress of scents and shades
 that stuns the senses.
  
 I watch her from the front doorway, as she bends and plucks
 and snips and adds,
 immersed in a task she adores,
 suddenly, a subtraction: 
 one bloom falls. 
  
 discarded by the wayside, 
 that one shall perish. 
 I giggle to myself at his misfortune. 
 I can’t help it.  
 
 © 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: Myself

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  • Poem: At Least I’m Happy – 07/01/20

    Poem: At Least I’m Happy – 07/01/20

     At least I’m happy, she sings, 
 as she pokes out her tongue, 
 blows a raspberry in his face.
  
 Ewww, girl germs!
 His body flexes back as if he’s a reincarnation of a 
 yogi or Gumby,
 flexible to an amazing degree
 simply because of a little bit of spittle,
 it is but a harmless raspberry.
  
 You never wanted me 
 The accusation
 
 But now, you will see:
 I stand proud and true
 I don’t curl with agony
 I didn’t shatter with your hurtful unfeeling
  
 The boy lunges toward the woman,
 lording over and talking down 
 I gave you all you were worth
  
 and in unison:
 I guess you weren’t worthy enough. 
  
 © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
 All images signed “LMH” 
 are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock 
 and all rights reserved.  

 Photo by Siavash Ghanbari on Unsplash

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  • Poem: At Least I’m Happy – 07/01/20

    Poem: At Least I’m Happy – 07/01/20

     At least I’m happy, she sings, 
 as she pokes out her tongue, 
 blows a raspberry in his face.
  
 Ewww, girl germs!
 His body flexes back as if he’s a reincarnation of a 
 yogi or Gumby,
 flexible to an amazing degree
 simply because of a little bit of spittle,
 it is but a harmless raspberry.
  
 You never wanted me 
 The accusation
 
 But now, you will see:
 I stand proud and true
 I don’t curl with agony
 I didn’t shatter with your hurtful unfeeling
  
 The boy lunges toward the woman,
 lording over and talking down 
 I gave you all you were worth
  
 and in unison:
 I guess you weren’t worthy enough. 
  
 © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
 All images signed “LMH” 
 are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock 
 and all rights reserved.  

 Photo by Siavash Ghanbari on Unsplash

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  • Poem: At Least for Now – 06/01/20

    Poem: At Least for Now – 06/01/20

     At least for now the sun will always rise,
 I’ll always wake with sleep playfully clouding my eyes,
 I’ll always have that secure home to live in,
 and perhaps a second space where I can truly be me. 
  
 At least for now my heart is tickled and pleased
 at least, for now, I don’t ache anymore,
 begging upon my knees,
 I don’t require their attentions, 
 most certainly this assertion is true, 
 because now, I know my world is no longer 
 stormy grey, black and blue.
  
 Hued in colours of brightness,
 frequent moments of wry humour and 
 definitely always something to retort, 
 light-heartedly I’ll try to share certain adventures
 while framing others as truthfully serious.
  
 But, I know,
 at least for now I need to lighten up my words,
 an assumed requirement to be brightened to be heard.
  
 A tendency of leaning toward the serious,
 there’s a chilling factor in 
 recounting tales from years prior
 or, if I were to take another avenue,
 I could feed one scene upon scene, 
 leaving one wanting no more,
 the manner is blemished,
 somewhat unclean. 
  
 At least for now, the sun is shining
 there is no need to compare the “at least for now’s”
 and where I had been lacking,
 because I know that at least for a while 
 I will continue to breathe
 in and out,
 I’ll exhale and recall the letters of 
 my past nightmares and dreams.   
  
 © 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: Pins and Pulp – 06/01/20

    Poem: Pins and Pulp – 06/01/20

     I have not been outside in days,
 huddled down in my cocoon I have encased myself 
 with stinging words and florid phrases,
 distinctive patterns to my ears,
 though perhaps not to others.
  
 Alone, I sing of times of freedom, absolution, and success,
 upon reflection, these moments were 
 anything but what I felt,
 I operated without thought
 compelled by blind impulse.
  
 I travel through my memories,
 each milestone like multiple pins spearing my 
 fragile, pulpy skin,
 these lumpy layers wrapped around my form 
 trying to keep the embarrassment in.
  
 It is easy enough to pluck the obliging weapons
 to watch the paper fall clean away
 and I am bone and sinew and muscle,
 each vein carries a pulse and a motto 
 where one must squint in order to readily discern.
 
 go forth go forth
 one repeats, red and richly
  
 never look back
 you’ll meet your match
 forget the past 
 other veins bleed.
  
 Hastily I grab the loose sheets to wrap myself anew,
 a mummy living before your very eyes,
 while bloodied, I heal enough 
 to reveal subtle poignant truths.

 But there is a filter which needs to be retained,
 a breathing apparatus which saves while one's submerged -
 for some revelations can only go one way.
 
 I decide I'm fixed enough,
 at least for now, I will rest,
 there's nothing left which I would like to say. 
  
 © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
 All images signed “LMH” 
 are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock 
 and all rights reserved. 

 Image credit: Eva Sandoval
 mixkit.co/@evasandoval

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  • Poem: Stained Glass Girl – 05/01/20

    Poem: Stained Glass Girl – 05/01/20

     She’s like a stained glass window,
 bright, shiny, but broken, 
 into little pieces she was ground down
 before you even heard her harrowed breathing.
  
 The rosé of slapped cheeks burning brightly,
 eyelids blued in a manner unnatural and eerie, 
 the yellowing of a bruise now barely speaking, 
 a smile wider than it needs to be, 
 it’s almost farcical to see.
  
 Contentedness still swims in her eyes,
 for she has fled the situation 
 where the pain, sorrow and angst
 can't be wiped away with a “sorry” 
 that’ll ever be enough.
  
 Those emotional beatings, 
 the diminishing,
 the put downs,
 she’ll forge herself into a newer, 
 brighter, more whole self:
 a stained glass window of a distinctively unified picture.  
 © 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 Hasty Exit – 05/01/20

    Poem: A Hasty Exit – 05/01/20

     
 There is the crashing of a chair’s lost footing 
 prior to your return,
 you don’t hear the commotion, 
 you have simply left to relieve yourself of ailments 
 known as niggling thoughts.
  
 Everything, as always, had been going swimmingly,
 until you reached for her hand, 
 pressed it to your face with longing.
  
 You fondled something in your shirt pocket 
 hidden beneath your blazer,
 that single sign of eternity
 that you want no other.
  
 You retrieve it along with your gargantuan, 
 fumbled words lodged in your throat,
 there is no surprise in her eyes,
 only an expression of mild confusion 
 to match your blind hope.  
 
 She is your choice so why does she seem to squirm?
 Why her acquiescence to your wish 
 as she permits your gift?
 Does she fathom the great meaning for her and yourself,
 your lives together,
 all that is in store?
  
 Ecstatic, the restaurant breathes and applauds as a whole,
 grinning, you hold her left hand up to show her finger
 as though a prize or trophy she is yours,
 willingly,
 by her choice, she agreed to be yours. 
  
 Then she silently sat before you,
 poking and stabbing her lettuce leaves, 
 Darling, you enquire, is there something bothering you?
 She shakes her head and smiles, 
 reassurance all around that everything is perfect,
 with a curt nod, you need some time to think. 
  
 An escape route to the bathroom, 
 where your confused thoughts can be observed rationally.
  
 You knew you couldn’t hide there forever, 
 thus,
 you stride out confidently, 
 as though nothing is a bother. 
 To your great surprise and absolute horror, 
 she is nowhere to be seen,
 the ring laying dejectedly and rejected upon the table. 
  
 She never explained herself, 
 never took your calls,
 or answered your knocks at the door.
  
 In fact, she seemingly vanished,
 no trace of her to be found in this quiet town. 
  
 It is as though she was only satisfied for the moment,
 perhaps hoping for something and someone better,
 around the corner she was wishing, 
 not realising she’d be forced into this corner 
 and tied down by you as her less than significant other.   
  
 © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
 All images signed “LMH” 
 are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock

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