Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Month: February 2020

  • Poem: I loved her from the moment she put pen to paper – 21/02/20

    Poem: I loved her from the moment she put pen to paper – 21/02/20

    I loved her from the moment she put pen to paper.
Her heartfelt poetry just sang and sang,
like a robin whose eggs have presently been laid,
a proud woman she is,
I loved her from the moment she put pen to paper.
 
She sought the times when her heart
ached, flowed, and ebbed,
she wrote and wrote of how her integrity had been exploited and foolishly spent,
her tales of young and old and precious emotions set in stone,
she quietly wonders to herself: will I ever be known?
I love her regardless, for the words she pens and owns.
 
Strike not the elements which assist her upon her path,
relish not the pain and suffering which she’ll detail as it
dwells, not departs,
and understand that she exposes beyond her flesh,
her raw insides,
her twisted bone, meat and sinew,
realise that she does this all
so she’s not required to live behind a guise.
 
I love her eternally for how she soars with and alongside her words,
peddles her emotions back and then forth,
makes them breathe with intent and love,
adoring her as she adores her world,
no matter how stiffly or difficult it can be at times
for it to turn.
 
World, spin upon your axis, so she can continue to thrive,
release her from her demons,
to detail the purging, exorcising, from her life!
Allow her to remain fiery yet soft,
tender and loved,
outspoken and muted,
all contradictions imbued.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Sparkles in the Skies – 21/02/20

    Poem: Sparkles in the Skies – 21/02/20

    I feel as though I’m being peeled,
exposed to the situation at hand.
Is it deception?
Was it an error?
A method to expose, tease, and apprehend?
 
I dislike lies, but perchance was she deceived in her own time,
this little lady to the left?
She wears sparkles upon her left hand;
her life’s a pantomime.
 
To the right of her, she offers a hand to those
within the room,
take care, gentlemen, she is indefatigable,
she’ll waltz all night,
dancing prettily,
flowery steps of thrice floating in the starlit skies.
 
Her sparkles, they light their path,
her and a lucky man,
the sizzling couple,
they’re entwined and they wouldn’t have it any other way.
                                                                           
But then she offers her glistening to another girl,
one slumped in the corner, in the shadows,
to brighten her way, and lighten the load of her heart,
do these lights need to be genuine to command her enlivening intent?
Do they need to sparkle in a manner that screams lavish,
without nonsense?
 
The truth is that whichever sparkles are offered
to this poor girl, 
tucked away in her own folds of darkness,
should be humbly appreciated, accepted and loved,
never mind the illusory dancer,
she is creating her own sense of candour and honour
through providing steadily, 
yet seemingly inconsequentially to a needy other.
   
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by cocoparisienne from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Unease – 20/02/20

    Poem: Unease – 20/02/20

    The feeling I get when attending is one of great unease.
I have not been here for long, but my heart pitter-patters,
fluttering in the breeze.
 
Why am I so nervous?
I used to attend and be present many, many times,
a feeling of stupendous awakening?
I’m unsure of this,
though I’ll be brave and allow myself to stay,
I must try.
 
What worries me are certain memories,
but surely, they will not return,
quietness is now overwhelming,
there is only me at the helm,
for I am the one steering the course of my ship,
and if I’m tired, I’ll lend the movements to another,
closer to me,
perhaps a type of kin,
then, he or she, will look after the helm,
and allow me to soar, higher than the fear I feel within.
 
There’s nothing to fear when I can hold myself near,
hold myself together,
or allow the movements of another.
I can allow a being to help me be fixed piece by piece,
because this feeling of unease will soon no longer be with me.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Eternal Happiness on Pexels.com

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  • Poem: Drifting – 19/02/20

    Poem: Drifting – 19/02/20

    I float above the surface,
Like a piece of driftwood, an otter, a daring platypus,
I rise to the challenge,
God, you know I’m here listening for you like I should.
 
I’ve risen to the moment,
Where I can drift along the water,
Towards the shore,
Certain in myself that this path I’m undertaking
Is finally the right one,
And it’ll be eternal,
Not blunted or short.
 
I will seek the advice of the angels within my life,
The living beings,
Brought forth to assist me,
They have gathered around my dying body many a time
And arisen I have become, always been,
Perhaps I have been blessed by someone divine.
 
I have always been saved,
From the damage of my hand or by others’ wicked ways,
And I thank you, dear Father,
Because of your divine intervention,
Seamless and true,
Without sight of stitch nor glue,
You, are the correct path,
I must herald myself unto.
 
With my guides and my angels
Perhaps I’ll find the right avenues to take,
To this blessed acceptance and awakening
And acknowledgement,
The three A’s,
Cast aside is the need for attention,
I’m now happily quiet within myself,
I need not their eyes staring or voices blatant calling,
I’ve been through that long ago.
 
But this decision I have made,
I have not made it lightly,
And I trust,
I do trust,
That I will traverse the journey wholly.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Jana from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Scent by the Hearth – 19/02/20

    Poem: Scent by the Hearth – 19/02/20

    I remember the scent by the hearth,
where you and I laid that night.
The sweet oil of ylang ylang permeating,
Heavenly, unique.
 
My heart, it beat wildly from your touch,
there was nothing I wanted more,
and as our feet entwined by flickering flames encased only
by metal and heated glass,
I wonder now, did you feel the same?
 
The emotions,
a sense of wild abandon,
a striking feeling between my shoulder blades,
as though I’d been sledged in the middle,
split into two,
one piece for me,
and the other for you.
 
Then with your magical touch I would conjoin once more,
become the woman that you’ve always loved and adored,
and now I understand that it can take a mere whiff of a scent to
dredge up a wanted memory,
from something, somewhere, that was encased so pretty.
 
By the hearth, my dear, is how I most remember you,
by the fire,
wild and free,
flames flickering with ease,
and I can smell that carrier oil,
which we used in its purest form,
to tide the gentlest touches into firmer movements
with dexterity
until the morn.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by judenicholson from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Cigarette Clouds and Pine Leaves – 18/02/20

    Poem: Cigarette Clouds and Pine Leaves – 18/02/20

    The surrounding scent of pine leaves invades my sensitive nostrils,
Since quitting smoking I have been able to discern more,
And my taste buds, they are rearing,
They sing for attention,
These senses,
They are heightened.
 
No more dulling from the poisons within those 
death sticks,
A retraction of the chemical clouds which 
Weighted not only my head
But also my mind,
And made light of my hip pocket
In exchange for the risk of ill health.
 
And now I know, that of this horrid habit,
I have succeeded beyond it,
Grown stronger, 
From the many years I had inhaled 
The carcinogenic compounds of danger.

I don’t pity those who continue,
But I wish they had the strength to put them down, too,
I pray for those who feel they don’t need rescue,
How much longer must they punish themselves
Before they can no longer rasp for help,
For their release?
 
Perhaps they’ll come to a realisation, too,
Just like me, I realised, I couldn’t continue,
For my own personal reasons, 
And for the sake of my health,
I came out of this struggle stronger,
Fighting,
With more willpower and determination
Than I believed I could grasp on my own.
 
The pine leaves emit their delicious odour,
I thank the heavens that I am still here to experience their scent with wonder,
With admiration and health,
Perhaps I quit before it was too late for myself.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Treasures of Time – 18/02/20

    Poem: Treasures of Time – 18/02/20

    I treasure them like a baby treasures his first blankie,
I hold them close and stroke them gently,
calmly, lovingly.
 
I understand that we may not
remain together always,
that soon I will be too overgrown
to walk with them in public,
that I must instead shy away from their presence and
observe them only in the dimness of my room.
 
These sparkling moments,
these memories I treasure,
will not remain with me forever,
but sooner enough I will trip with them,
I will surely falter.
 
Because while clutching onto the past
could prove a wondrous thing
an analysis of everything that occurred
may create a sense of longing,
and what I find most extraordinary is that
if I chose to live in my memories,
in my dreams,
then how could I possible live and exist in the present?
 
In the future I could not surmise of my effects caused from
a behaviour of the present,
and determining how forth I will go
is really, well, a challenge.
 
Clutching onto straws, sucking the marrow from the past,
the richness, its richness, undying, those moments are,
and I smile to myself, finally realising that we in ourselves
can be way too much to put up with, even for ourselves,
and dust to dust we will become,
our memories now disintegrated, gone, disregearded.
 
At least we tried to reign them in,
protect them all along.  
Image by Michal Jarmoluk from Pixabay
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

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  • Poem: Insomniac – 18/02/20

    Poem: Insomniac – 18/02/20

    The second hand ticks,
each click like the repeated trigger of a pistol,
fearful, I lie in wait,
as it speaks of how affected I will be if I remain
in this involuntary state.
 
I’ve barely slept in days,
awakening hours always the same,
middle of the morning,
the arms at those memorable angles,
I wish I could slip daintily into my dreams.
 
Instead, nightmarish awakenings
where I beg for liquid,
I am strangely thirsting,
as though the method of fighting to stay under
the surface of consciousness has drained me of all
moisture;
I am but a slice of aged parchment.
 
And upon me there are unintelligible words written,
scrawled, in fact,
speaking of that which I cannot understand,
let alone behold,
but the effort behind the scratching,
the etching seems atrociously laboured,
is this what I do in my short periods of sleep?
Where I detail myself or,
I detail the unknown controllers?
 
Because that is what it feels like,
I am a being not of my own accord,
when I lie there awaiting sleep,
I ache, anxious butterflies in my chest,
anxiety, anxiety,
there’s something there, unheard.
 
Like a pinprick in the distance, not many would register that sound,
but to understand its existence is of a severe knowing,
a recognition of something there unknown,
an insomniac’s thoughts pinned in the clouds.
 
And I lie here,
waiting, waiting quietly,
my eyes widened and my heart beating in such a state,
how long will it be before the pills take effect?
Before falsified sleep is forced upon me,
a method of a chemical dream, dream, dreaming?

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

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  • Poetry: Stability – 17/02/20

    Poetry: Stability – 17/02/20

    I once had a metaphorical finger waggled in front of my face: “I know what you want.”
“Stability,” I blurted out.
 
I needed to feel settled, I needed to feel wanted, I needed to feel, well, loved. I had been on a trek through life trying to find the right one – is there even such a thing for me? I’d occasionally wonder.
 
But the truth of the matter is, I was yearning, desperately hoping that the one who asked me was the right one. It was not meant to be. Details are frivolous, yet the feelings behind them are not.
 
I knew that I needed to firstly love myself, but how could I be expected to do so when every part of me screamed that I wasn’t good enough? I had my head in the clouds, peeking through to the sun, and still, the damage to my eyes in the glare was done.
 
I was imperfectly perfect, as well are, as we all are designed to be. Nothing personal, but we can counter ourselves in the wind or the air, or upon the land, or in fire, or within the sea, all we need is a slight understanding of the word ‘Me’, and what it encompasses.
 
It speaks of everything that we are, within two simple letters, capitalised, not, Meeeee, I can yawn the vowels out wide, like a yowling cat, a mama I’m still to find.
 
My search would continue on, the search for myself swept to the side, and in every new face I met, there was a lack of recognition, a mirroring that wasn’t present in the eyes before me in which I was searching.
 
Maybe one day, this stability would come. Maybe the next day, or the day after that, my desire would come to fruition, and  become whole and known.  
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Andreas Breitling from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Sensing – 16/02/20

    Poem: Sensing – 16/02/20

    Like worms in the ground we can slide through life blindly,
only sensing, never seeing what’s right before us.
And as though it’s magic, our touch and sense of smell
are heightened, guiding us through the rough,
the damp welcoming soil.
 
Like the understanding that somehow we must place
our trust in that which we cannot completely, wholly trust,
because while seeing is believing, how are touch or smell enough as
indicators to ensure that we are on the right path?
 
Perhaps we need another guider,
to lead us into the way of the righteous,
because, as the exploring worm will understand,
sometimes it can lead itself astray.
 
Picture after a fresh summer’s rain the amount of worms
capsized upon the pavement,
miles away from comfort, from the land they know,
they’re crawling, they’re wriggling,
set to cook and die in the sun.
 
Perhaps someone kind will rescue them all,
but that’s unlikely,
they led themselves there, searching for a new land so incorrect
that their demise has been promised all along.
 
But we are not entirely like these blind, hopeful beings,
we have the capacity, to intelligibly think, analyse, surmise,
and here we understand that while living blindly,
with a sense of waywardness about us
is something to commend,
it’s also a method rather risky,
and maybe something of which maybe not to contend.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Racheal Lomas on Unsplash

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