Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Month: February 2020

  • Poem: Nowhere Woman – 16/02/20

    Poem: Nowhere Woman – 16/02/20

    I’ve been lost for so many years,
hidden in the recesses of the wilderness
and I don’t know which way is out.
I'm unsure of how to escape this listless, pointless path without direction,
without a propelling sense of purpose.
 
I once was utterly focused,
I wanted to be something,
make something of myself,
and now I don’t know where to turn,
to a person, to pen to paper, to God?
Is He really there for me?
 
I feel silly as I sit here and address 
the benevolent being up above,
thanking Him for that which remains,
my blessings in life,
the goodness,
through my gratitude,
but all I can manage is to bawl and bawl,
tears helplessly fall,
and I cannot, for the life of me,
stop,
I don’t want to stop.
I desire change.
 
I ache for it,
I yearn for it,
a nowhere person I’ve been,
life is stagnant,
no longer flighty,
and I surmise pieces of my puzzle can be adjusted 
one piece at a time,
but I am covered with soap suds,
my fingers slip,
I’m trying to unnecessarily cleanse while rebuilding a life.
 
How difficult must it be to isolate my innermost thoughts
when I struggle to comprehend them, let alone articulate them?
It's been suggested I search for Him up above,
to reconnect, to recreate
a bond of acceptance, gratitude, and I suppose
acceptance of His undying love,
but its been so long, how can I trust,
and place my life and sufferings into another’s open hands?
 
The tears continue to fall,
it’s ironic –
you’ll rarely see me cry.  
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Found Beauty – 15/02/20

    Poem: Found Beauty – 15/02/20

    Seek the beauty within their eyes,
Their swollen pupils are quiet
yet they speak with booming silence.
 
When you view the allure between gentle palms,
The softened skin strokes,
Muscles unwind,
A heavenly song.
 
When you find the wonder within another’s truth
When you can connect with their experiences
feel their joyous nature and with them experience anew.
 
When you don’t seek superficial beauty but
Appreciate the internal view you’ve been shown
that’s when your heart will blossom,
that’s when your heart will truly grow.

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

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  • Poem: Perfectly Ordinary – 15/02/20

    Poem: Perfectly Ordinary – 15/02/20

    There will be times when you’re viewed as ordinary,
Nothing special about you.
Nothing that others can glimpse upon,
A spark,
A light,
They view you as nothing,
They pass you by.
 
Their eyes dart away when you meet their disengaged pair,
They don’t want to acknowledge you,
To validate your existence,
And while you shouldn’t care for how others may judge,
It hurts that tiny little bit,
They don’t know my story.
They don’t even care.
 
They view you as lowly,
They view you as beneath them,
Surely that’s why they possess that pathetic look in their eyes
That somehow proves your presence is unworthy of being in theirs.
 
I can view the fake smiles now,
The overly chirpy conversations,
Whereas once genuineness and sincerity were simply commonplace.
 
And I wonder, what has changed?
To make me be viewed lesser than what I am?
No matter how I take this,
It’s detrimental to my soul,
Because I’m a sociable being,
And being airily brushed aside for no apparent reason at all,
Seems unfair and something which may fling itself toward them,
Bite them,
Karma will come.  
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Mochammad Algi on Pexels.com

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  • Poem: Inner Light – 15/02/20

    Poem: Inner Light – 15/02/20

    There is a light within
Shrouded by a sheer curtain
That burns brightly for every one of us.
 
Some are able to know of,
Acknowledge its presence,
While others are unable to determine its reality at all.
 
However, truth be told,
Within us all, this flame burns brightly,
We need not concern ourselves if it flickers from time to time,
Dangerously, or just a sway, rhythm and rhyme.
 
My flame is tender,
My flame is small and serene,
What may yours be like?
Take a closer inspection,
And see within.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by icon0.com on Pexels.com

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  • Poem: The Rainbow Bower – 14/02/20

    Poem: The Rainbow Bower – 14/02/20

    Something shiny,
something bright,
she collects with her clutching fingers for an
internal sense of delight.
 
Like a bower bird yet not,
tall, gangly, lean,
her vigilant eyes dart for specific shades which will
perfect that rainbow sheen which
she’s placed upon her bedspread,
 
laid out for her eyes to sumptuously absorb their beauty,
her very own rainbow
created by her own hands,
materials found and designed.
 
She is becoming more like that bower bird
yet by the world mostly unseen,
though still one of a kind,
here she needs not fight to be heard,
a potent lustre, it gleams.
 
She doesn’t collect to impress,
to lure another into her nest,
no, these shades are purely for her,
her heart beats wildly as she blots spilled ink
in colours known only in her realm.
 
Turquoise mixed with a purple sheen,
what would you call this?
Peacock green, she labels him,
he is now part of her luscious scene.
 
And the ripe aroma of baby pink with clashing red,
what will she label that?
What will her imagination draw upon next?
 
She rolls in the hues now,
her eyes brighten and enliven with her soul,
her spirit, it soars, encapsulating the room,
while outside her window, watches the playfully observant Moon.
 
This rainbow bower has much to offer,
she has much to extend to this world
but only in the privacy of her bedroom
can she truly extend, to exhibit her colours
or collect the shades,
because outside these four walls,
if she shared her triumphant secret collection,
the world would be blinded,
temporarily yet wondrously amazed,
she prefers to remain in hiding.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by cm_dasilva from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Thick and Fast – 13/02/20

    Poem: Thick and Fast – 13/02/20

    I’ve never been so high
the view is fast and steep
there like waiting jagged daggers
they wish to pick and preen me.
 
I smile to myself,
a woman of but thrice decades,
so much to learn,
to view,
to become,
I’ve many obstacles which I have hurled myself o’er.
 
I announce my arrival into the world’s realm
where whatever the world needs me to be, I’ll become,
so too what I aspire to be from my spinning globe
I’ll make these moments mine.
 
The green and azure depths of this land and ocean
picturesque
though discussion of any further introspection
about them is left unawakened.
 
Sometimes I can neither make 
head nor tail of my expressions
though I understand later what I may have intended,
I wonder whether others view the whole subconscious meaning,
an expose of decaying, of moments expired.

And these daggers which await me,
well, aren’t they just poignant truth
that in some respects I hit the nail on the head
I successfully used that dart,
and by goodness,
a little knife dodging surely won’t be amiss,
the activity may prove simply correct,
thick and fast,
a kind of strange bliss.   

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

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  • Poem: Thrown Heart – 12/02/20

    Poem: Thrown Heart – 12/02/20

    I live with the constant threat of thunder within my heart,
a ticking timebomb,
I will be thrown, I will be thrown.
 
Waves of solidarity and tempestuous awareness
creep forth, 
yet, I do not mind;
as long as the tip is overwhelming
I will live for that view.
 
Finding myself awash with the swimming feeling
of pleasure which only exhibits itself alongside the knowledge
that I alone can see, can feel, can experience,
this arrangement.
 
By traipsing forward,
I am wreaking havoc on another being
but it’s necessary to gain experience and then
regain my independence.
 
The other’s experience may exist,
yet it is flawed,
claws cruelly set,
bared teeth in time.  
Perhaps it is is not their fault that poor luck
chases them round and round.
 
Bring the gusts and rain down!
Permit us the flattened image of
mice hastening to their expiry,
once happily scurrying.
 
Upon their squirming bodies place droplets of
scented aromas to anoint them,
reverent,
full of respect, we are for even the smallest fallen,
the scent becoming rich in your nostrils
take a deep sniff of them, I won’t mind at all

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

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  • Poem: Peripheral – 11/02/20

    Poem: Peripheral – 11/02/20

    Peripheral.
An untidy, outside view casting the unseen realms into my being.
I breathe them in,
gulping, drinking all I see with the colours which seem so worthy
of being absorbed,
I know their feeling.
 
I can be vaguely promised something more than a glance,
should I, with great enthusiasm, seek to swing my sight forthcoming
to see if focused I really can gather more
than peripheral sight has to offer,
because when unfocused sight occurs is when we
view and dream that which is not readily seen.
And amazed I will be,
astounded whereupon my mind finally casts to the sights
that I yearn for,
to be presented with.
Peripheral carries more meaning. 
 
There is nothing more trying that being unable to succeed
but, with ardour, I will try some more,
to view something, anything, that I can build upon
with strong ascent.
 
I will rise, my abilities to pursue that which I hope to observe,
but not only observe but to recognise and submit,
this is my dream coat,
my dream.   

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

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  • Poem: Devil’s Straw – 11/02/20

    Poem: Devil’s Straw – 11/02/20

    I had this dream that I returned to the animal’s pen,
and our main pet was as dead as could be.
Her little babies curled and stiff,
there was no sign as to what the cause of death may be.
 
Within the straw-filled pen also was the demented form of a
devil-plagued horned being,
it was frightening in itself,
the eyes, his eyes, were red and malformed,
as though anger diffused from them.
 
I could not touch the bodies,
I had to ask my male companion to do so,
he picked them up awkwardly,
all within one raised hand so as though to avoid
further contamination or some such.
 
My precious little babies,
lying there in the pen like unwanted things,
preyed upon by the creature with grotesque horns,
I could not save them,
I did not know,
how could I be expected to be there for every second,
every minute,
that passed by their lives,
kept them in tow?
 
And now I wonder where they will lay,
where my companion will place their hardened, curled tail forms,
And now I see, I understand the meaning,
of a devil truly plaguing and causing the deaths of all around him.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by WikiImages from Pixabay
 

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  • Poem: Goodbye, Anger – 10/02/20

    Poem: Goodbye, Anger – 10/02/20

    I’m depleted of it.
Instead, replaced is a feeling of desolation within my being,
a rolling stone headed for the bottom of a hill
to crash into nothingness with no witnesses.
 
Alone is how I feel,
empty of the ideal chase which I sought to counsel myself
in order to become a better person,
to develop into something amazing,
someone who will strike others positively upon meeting.
 
I want that aura that speaks to whomever is in contact with me and it,
a feeling bursting with affection and timely truth,
I want so much more, but I cannot articulate it,
I understand that to reveal all would be foolish.
 
But I have not withheld much during my angry moments, 
my words which slashed and divided,
into pretty little ugly pieces that just weren’t meant for
existence
I’ll tell you,
I want to create something out of bliss.
 
The time for angst and anger has passed, I do believe,
they have had their trial by jury,
and they have been committed to the ward for lifetime insanity,
No?
Perhaps they’ll return again in due course,
but for now I will immerse myself in the scents of lavender and ylang-ylang,
A curious mixture but one which permits further healing.

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

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