Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Month: February 2020

  • Poem: Hermit – 09/02/20

    Poem: Hermit – 09/02/20

    I mainly live the life of a hermit,
Holed up inside my room,
Detailing my introspection.
 
There is nothing more to do
But search for that
Which has been foretold.
 
Nothing left to pursue
Ulterior motives slippery like buttery fingers of shortbread
In the cooling oven air.
 
I am once again exhausted
How did I become this way
I barely move, only lifting my fingers.
 
But surrounding me are things which
Drain me of my energy
I do not know why, but sinister, they are there.
 
I exorcise my words
Feeling the aching muscles despite napping
For hours prior
 
And my mind is heavy
A quagmire, legs sunken and trapped
In the sickening pit of gloom.
 
I reigned triumphant before over this
With an ability of light-hearted joyous effervescence
A surprise to those who had encountered me
 
The exhaustion is overwhelming,
It envelopes my body like a massive yawning.
 
I call upon the wind to gust alongside me
To rinse me of my ailment
This unknown sorcery which plunged me into pain and darkness
 
Though, the pain has gone,
Only returning is infantile irritation
I’ll absorb the shock of it
 
I stare into the mirror;
A broken reflection,
There’s nothing more to it.   

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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Poem: Around My Neck, Close To My Heart – 09/02/20

    Poem: Around My Neck, Close To My Heart – 09/02/20

    The gems, they are too pretty.
They mesmerise, but none gain the fervent attention of my eyes,
they yield none of the consideration that they are deserving of.
 
I search for something that is right for me,
the properties, they must match my intent,
and I spot the stone I have been yearning for yet already own,
it’s rough, unfinished, and as ginormous as a palm sized moon.
 
I know I cannot touch this one,
it is too out of my realm,
and though I earnestly ache for its lustre,
it is not a choice; I cannot make a decision to take this home.
 
Instead I select a differing pendant,
same stone, yet smooth in finish,
the lustre is decent, but not as impressive as the former,
 
I wish for the properties to bring forth certain qualities,
to aid my personal growth,
to facilitate.
 
Some may think me silly but I am believing,
and this surely must be all that matters.
But why add when I already have?
Why take away from the gift when I have been presented
a heartfelt token?
 
I chide myself for being greedy,
for wanting more,
convincing myself otherwise,
and I understand, deep within,
that it’s not right, 
I tell the woman to replace it within the display,
perhaps someone more wanting will take it home another day.
 
I have enough around my heart, my neck, their love,
from those who mean so much though they are only two 
but together and alone a force unto themselves,
they will always be here for me, as long as they and I are willing,
and I’ll carry their hearts around me like an auric breeze.
 
The memories of times we’ve had,
shared alike and known to be,
an expression of their love,
a material possession, an offering,
I’ll forever keep this with me.

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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Poem: Calming – 08/02/20

    Poem: Calming – 08/02/20

    Calming,
a moment of respite,
those few minutes under soothing cool water.
 
It refreshes my being,
cleanses away any impurities,
built internally,
the grime begins to sieve.
 
Relaxed,
muscles rinsed away of tension,
and the grimy black dog of yesterdays and before
has now departed,
the angels, they have descended.
 
Anointed, wiped away of blemishes,
creation has never seemed so pretty.
 
Precious I feel,
within this stream of coolness,
I’m almost whole again.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Poem: Head-Butting Fossils – 08/02/20

    Poem: Head-Butting Fossils – 08/02/20

    Fossil heads meet one another,
forehead to forehead they butt,
one is lively and spirited, wanting fun,
the other temperamental,
his indecipherable opinions he thrusts.
 
Unsure of the intent behind being told
that she’s asking stupid questions
when she hadn’t asked anything inane at all,
the male fossil focuses all energies on her,
then like a deciduous,
drops her,
leaves her all alone.
 
Confusion, but a moment and she shrugs,
it’s not her fault,
whatever set the other skull off has nothing to do with her,
if he were better behaved
he’d have explained
rather than had the gall
to speak to her like that at all.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Maddi Bazzocco on Unsplash

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Poem: Rearranged into Them – 07/02/20

    Poem: Rearranged into Them – 07/02/20

    Disembody the I from the I from the I!
Rearrange the me into them!
Tell the tales in a cheery manner,
engage them,
I will do my best, I promise.
 
There once lived a princess who was trapped in her mind.
In a tower she rose each day and night.
But this tale is not about her anguish,
it is not about her at most nor least,
this tale is about you,
You, I must please.
 
I will tell you of how I’m taking steps forward,
the right steps to take,
but all the while an exploration to the left and right,
a compass point I can neither promise nor paint.
 
But progress is being made,
I am certain, I am assured of this,
little mishaps though, occur in the thin breeze.
 
Are these signs or merely coincidences?
I think you know which way some might lean,
but I will go with common sense and call these accidental,
the breeze becomes a gust,
brings me to my knees.
 
And I see you there,
wanting, waiting,
perhaps a desire to continue listening,
but I am decidedly spent of words,
I care not to divulge my plans,
maybe they don’t even exist,
either way, I’ll cherish something within cupped hands.

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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Poem: A Favourite Topic – 07/02/20

    Everyone’s favourite subject is surely themselves,
they can wax lyrical, wax lyrical all day.
Pinocchio lived in a little wood maker’s cottage,
and he had so much to expound upon,
such little truth to state.
 
And grow his nose did,
upon speaking of untruths,
are we punished for occasionally convoluting our truths?
 
As we take on personas,
to press ahead with a message or idea,
some fairy tales come alive,
but some exist with the knowledge that
some memories are best held quiet and dear.
 
But what of the tales we tell of ourselves?
A little bending at the wishing well where we reach into,
to drop our unwanted mirth?
For the ailing feeling has crept away, normalcy returning,
but only partially, you see,
and it seems useless in not exploiting a sense of victimisation
that was experienced the past weeks.
 
Now gossip,
town gossip,
as they speak of themselves,
and speak of that girl, or that boy,
from across the well,
where they’ll thrown their own lucky pennies,
wishing upon coins and stars,
hoping for something else to share
with others,
all about themselves,
while with most there’s a decent element of narcissism to disarm.    

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by 250432 from Pixabay

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Poem: Hidden Beauty – 07/02/20

    Poem: Hidden Beauty – 07/02/20

    There is so much beauty within our world,
so much to garner, to pluck from our sweeping sight,
to take into our soul,
to enliven the spirit,
to entwine the experience as ours and as well told.
 
But when one internalises and despairs
and experiences this aching bug which overwhelms,
one wallows, and it cannot be easily purged,
the beauty steps back,
it recedes into the crowd.
 
And sometimes I think,
how must I gather the sparkles dancing within my eyes
when to me, they appear like dull speckles of heavy foam,
sinking, heavy with the oil of misery and despair,
it’s all a matter of perspective,
how one assumes the surrounding air.
 
So much beauty, yet some beings are trapped,
they do not choose to instead view ugliness,
their perception is cast this way,
perhaps they’ve had a bad day, hour, even week,
perhaps they’re submerged in the darkness of depression and they can’t
claw themselves up.
 
Have a heart for these who seemingly humour themselves too much,
they are not all choosing to be this dark,
they might be wishing for brighter tomorrows.
 
Some aren’t as lucky to receive this answer to their prayers,
or their begging to the fairies who are supposed to light their way,
or the Godliness above who directs and watches o’er all,
the soul, the soul, the soul will be held,
it will be treasured,
and the hidden lustre in our hearts spread with firm painterly strokes.  

There is hope among the desolate grounds.

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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Poem: Rich Blood – 06/02/20

    Poem: Rich Blood – 06/02/20

    Blood pumps through my veins,
potent, rich, disastrous,
cells which slip and slide,
speaking of a invasive nature that is hereditary.
 
The mishaps which befit my existence were
invisible to begin with,
then with coercion,
coaxing,
they came forth.

The personality changes,
the heights the lows,
the outstanding misunderstandings,
 
the delusory nature of my illness,
it startles,
the non-stop talk,
the mania,
the lack of self-control,
the coping devices.
 
But those days, hopefully,
those relapses are behind me
and all I need to maintain
is my health,
an understanding that I must be both vigilant and alert.
 
The blood pulsates through my veins,
and I wonder how difficult it will be to remain 
in the realm of wellness
or even clutching to the surface,
just as long as I don’t plummet
or fly,

but up and up and away would be nice,
I’d like that for change,
but then, I wouldn’t,
illness' propellant and subsequent crash is not a blast,
thought it might appear so
experienced that way.

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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Poem: The Language of the Birds – 06/02/20

    Poem: The Language of the Birds – 06/02/20

    Manipulative and depressed?
I’ve been assessed,
thank you to this deck of birds,
by my own hand, I’ve been able to determine,
that which the world may think of me.

Selfish and unkind is perhaps how I am perceived,
because of the manner in which I composed my words,
expounded my poetry.
Through depression, through illness and anger and tribulation,
that is what has come about.
 
I cannot dream of anything other than spurting forth what is within me,
to censor, to flag myself,
it is an indelicate picture.
 
Though, of course, some writings must be withheld,
but understand, with wellness,
my true being returns,
my flames riding the curve of my back.
 
And beneath the crescent moon which waxes and emits 
a necessity for persistence and change,
I will preen myself of any loose ends that don’t need to be there,
the challenge is not removing the flames which are unrequired,
in fact, damn it all, I’ll engulf myself,
you know this firebird will never truly expire.  

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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Poem: And Another – 05/02/20

    Poem: And Another – 05/02/20

    I feel an eye open
blink blink, blink blink!
A wary visitor, testing the waters,
whether it’s wise or not to be seen.
 
Never mind what it will see,
it is whether or not it’s safe to be open,
to allow me to view
all which I have viewed incorrectly over the years,
in fact,
I don’t think I’ve ever made proper use of it.
 
The eye blinks lazily,
like a crocodile’s orb, half plastered, it seems,
heavily lidded awaiting its true awakening,
to allow me to truly see.
 
And all the things through its sight I will gather,
I will garner so much from the once-dreary world,
I cannot begin to dream of what I’ll sense and see
because it’s finally time for me to breathe and be.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image: Pixabay.com

    Return to All Posts

    Home