Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Month: March 2020

  • Poem: Shrieking and Calling – 13/03/20

    Poem: Shrieking and Calling – 13/03/20

    The genius within you calls and calls,
reckoning like secretly potent anemone,
contemplating as to whether
it’s worthwhile for him to be seen,
or whether, in fact,
he should remain hidden,
and cease his calling for you day by day.
 
The exotic being within you sings,
eyes casting upon the sumptuous feast on offer,
she provides for you what you have been lacking,
that serendipity brings a sense of welcome tumult,
a feeling ongoing,
worth growing.
 
The megalomaniac within you screams,
he wants to be heard,
he demands to be seen,
and the trying notion he experiences when he grates
on your skin
with a voice as harsh as sharpened nails,
he announces,
no, he commands,
well, of your wishes,
he couldn’t give a single damn.  
 
And then the chorus of these characters rise and combine,
their voices, harsh, sweet, ideal,
in their tones I can hear their smiles,
there is nothing worth separating here
for their conjoined state offers this vibrating prize,
their voices make you tremble,
their power is unheard of,
but you can’t walk away,
doing so seems to be unspoken of.
 
So, you sit in their presence,
imagine their voices resonating in your mind,
the differing beings,
different identities,
and then it all becomes too much,
you must block them out,
squeezing shut your eyes.   
 
The silence allows your heart to swoon,
its warming words allow your truthful connection
to everything that is devout.

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

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  • Poem: His Arrival – 12/03/20

    Poem: His Arrival – 12/03/20

    A level of exhaustion beginning to grow,
then an unexpected expenditure of energy comes alive
as I reap what I’ve sown.
 
The quietening down of my mood,
the lessening of my agility,
strangely enhances me,
it does not hinder me.
 
I am cumbersome, but,
my mind is crystalline clear,
open and free,
 
I rise to the challenge,
whatever has crossed my path,
that which is unspoken,
unexpressed, 
I know this breath won’t be my last.
 
And in the still,
the calm of the air around me which
heaves and sighs,
like little droplets of condensation meeting
glass sheets in the sky,
I wait and I tremble
expectant for your arrival.
 
My cheeky prince,
now a loving benevolent king,
you offer me an arm and
we interlink,
the kingdom sighs with contentment as they see,
sensing the rightness of the present karmic breeze.

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

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  • Poem: I Await – 11/03/20

    Poem: I Await – 11/03/20

    Awaiting that irrevocable touch
Upon my hair-raised skin,
I know it will be magnificent, the time for reflection,
To make myself chaste, from within.
 
Butter me up, darling,
I know the emotions too well,
Of diving, sinking,
And finding no treasure,
The tides know my desires all too well.
 
But I will leap from the depths,
I will soar with grace and humanity,
The beauty of the softened mammal,
Splashes, re-entry.
 
And gyrations of the bluest truth,
Which, occasionally could not –
Cannot –
Be handled,
Herein lies the beauty of
the wondrous world of self-reliance.
 
And although most live and yearn to find a mate,
A twin flame, a soul matching ours,
The blueprints complex, though matching in many ways,
 
The phoenixes from their burning pasts,
Rise and soar,
Reaching their own old effigies,
Amazing and looming that they are.
 
We can live as one,
Or two,
A little of both,
That soft, generous touch I long for,
Why, it seems to come from the grasp of
A myriad of stars,
A bank of overwhelming hope.

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

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  • Poem: Regal and Humble – 13/03/20

    Poem: Regal and Humble – 13/03/20

    I hold my head high as I walk into the room,
my flourishing robes,
my gentle tapping embroidered slippers,
rich expensive perfume.
 
And with a turn of my head
I quietly announce:
I am here and
I am who I am.
 
Though I may be laden with jewels,
and layers of thick crushed velvet,
and dense rough furs,
I am anything but arrogant,
I am the epitome of humility,
something I have developed through experiences with others:
guiders, angels, powerful beings, and
earthly and heavenly soldiers.
 
When I ride my horse,
each finger sparkles,
the light refracting,
there’s no need to turn the tables,
nor force my image onto others.
 
For when I enter a room,
I do so dignified,
and now I rouse from an afternoon dream,
was I a high priestess or an emperor’s wife?
 
I cannot tell my once-designated role
as the feeling of regression has never come to pass,
never a flashback in my mind,
so instead I sit quietly,
meditate, try to avoid falling asleep,
although if I do so,
I know my rest will be luxurious with
thoughts and rested muscles
as warm and pliable
as wholesome honey.

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

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  • Poem: Ornate Wooden Box – 09/03/20

    Poem: Ornate Wooden Box – 09/03/20

    What’s in the wooden box?
An ornate engraved chest –
Does it promise me treasure?
Diamonds, jewels, gold?
It must with any luck.
 
I approach the container with trepidation,
My fingers tremble with delicious anticipation,
And the tremor which should rile me awfully
Pushes me forth:
The adrenaline is potent.
 
What will I find?
Something pleasing to the eye?
An ornate dream awaits me,
And I beg to see,
Continuing to hungrily breathe the moments in and out 
And in.
 
Each second,
Every centimetre,
My reaching hands,
My claw-like fingers,
Closer and closer until:
Revelation!
 
Inside there is nothing,
Illusory, so potent.
I tear aside all crushed expectation within.
 
The thrill was most certainly in the pursuit,
The hunting,
It was within the chase,
And I realise that what my mind,
My imagination,
Can conjure up
Is far more magical and worthwhile than
Any gold or diamond or jewel sparkling within my eyes.
 
More than anything these material possessions can prove 
At a later date,
My internal world,
The breadth of my dreaming,
This is the true gift I should accept 
As a prized possession in my life,
It is irrevocably part of my healing.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by myself.

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  • Poem: Pageant Girls – 07/03/20

    Poem: Pageant Girls – 07/03/20

    Barrel waves,
beautiful curls,
how they suit these pretty pairs of girls
who dance in the moment,
left to right,
right to left,
linking arms in the present,
advancing, advanced.
 
They smile widely
though little do you know,
their teeth are plastered with Vaseline,
to shine, shine, shine each little toof and teef,
to make their pearly whites evermore sweet,
each two sets of perfect rows.
 
Now in a line they twirl into one another,
taking turns,
sharing their partners,
their blonde, brunette and auburn barrel waves,
beauty in motion,
luxurious to behold.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by lorilynnoliver from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Overlooked – 06/03/20

    Poem: Overlooked – 06/03/20

    We so often overlook those who should be
treasured in our lives,
those stoic, and brave, and loving,
and loyal,
who are there for us to lean upon,
exclusive and selective,
they’ve been chosen and choose to be 
continually here for us.
 
Yet our hearts pull away,
they are failing in many measures,
to look after the meaning,
the extended love,
we have no gratitude for some of our beings.
 
Whether we are horrid, cruel or unkind,
for whatever reason,
there is this created divide,
and daughters and mothers,
sons and fathers,
cousins and uncles,
and brothers and sisters,
lovers and best friends,
the allegiances becoming visibly divisible,
the divides unlikely to aid the other
whom is extending their hand or arm to the another.
 
And how their stomachs twist and turn at understanding
their love has been thrust forth and away
into a circumstantial day where their 
emotions and concern
are withering, forgotten,
lost,
by the foibles of the intended receiver,

and there are moments where one of the parties 
simply wishes to crack,
due to the bitter betrayal cast with 
little thought by the receiver,
and sadness, depression will set in,
perhaps it’ll take months to repair the trust
and break down those walls.
 
So easily we can pass over
but so easily we can be passed over ourselves,
if only we opened our hearts to true love and comfort,
we’d understand those close to us in our lives,
even further,
they hold only the best intentions for ourselves.
 
So quieten down our passive animosity
and maybe they'll accept that sometimes 
some are unwilling to be reached,
perhaps in time our barriers will open,
the gates parting ways
and permission to let another inside our hearts and minds
will be accepted,
these moments will be everything,
this is when truthful emotions will be well received.  
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by 733215 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Holding Charge – 05/03/20

    Poem: Holding Charge – 05/03/20

    Will I hold charge? I wonder. 
Will electricity pass through me and back out to them?
I contemplate how my mind will handle the surging volts,
Will it crumble or will it take the brunt?
 
Perhaps they do not know precisely what they are doing,
How to discover whether the procedure is a success?
A general turn around in mood, I’m expected to about-face,

I’d like to thwack someone out cold, 
he or she who approved this cruelest decision,
But hey,
Doing so would warrant more charging,
And the thoughts of this hardens my face.
 
I’m out of control,
My moods have escalated,
Neither the nurses nor doctors can control me,
Plan A for me: out cold,
Electrocute,
See how she is later that morning.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by 024-657-834 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Flailing – 04/03/20

    Poem: Flailing – 04/03/20

    There have been many years of flailing,
my life lacking in solid intent,
and I wonder, where am I going,
am I even progressing?
Hoping for something to shoulder all the weight from my listless life.
 
It’s as though I am simply floating in a mass of water,
stagnant appears to be the tune,
the water dank,
murky,
like my lacking of good fortune.
 
I used to be so focused,
attentive and driven,
full of concentration,
dedication to my art,
my music,
my academia,
the processes.
 
Now, I am simply waiting to expire,
growing older by the second,
each tick a stretch from the previous,
to the finality of my last.
 
I wish for something solid to aim for,
something to hope for,
something which I can reach for,
to impress upon myself,
to enliven and enrich my soul.
 
But my dreams seem so far off
and lofty,
and unlikely to come to pass,
I can dream and dream
but surely someone who has become like me
will only finish last.
 
And the truth of the matter is
I am here breathing,
stealing away others’ rightful air
with my pathetic breaths which amount to little,
no,
nothing,
I am nothing anymore,
not what I used to be,                
burned away are my successes.
 
And my desire for excesses,
all ceremonial,
seem an apparent method of
ridiculous and ostentatious showing of invisible wealth.
 
Because,
while I like to sparkle and I love to shine,
the gems upon my fingers
and around my neck
are really the only things about me lately worth drawing the eye.
 
I realise my tone is morose,
that I am lacking in lustre within my words,
although lifeless and downtrodden feels commonplace
from someone who used to outrageously feel.  

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

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  • Prose Poetry: A Land of the Free – 02/03/20

    Prose Poetry: A Land of the Free – 02/03/20

    I fly off, toward a land of the free, where I can soar with my wingspan so wide not even dragons could watch without envy. Their narrowed eyes and aching hearts would speak of something so paining and green that neither head nor heart could be altered, though to be seen with these beasts would be a dream.
 
I am a spectacular bird of the skies, my feathers six feet long, yay high, and of a particular, peculiar colour, tan dipped with white and rose, I am seen throughout the skies daily, my presence is always known.
 
I am on a journey to the land of the free where I will land and find myself among other birds of prey who do not want to capture any more, to kill life. Where we are all equal, soaring, travelling across the craggy and green ground, where we meld with one another, sociable, never disastrously cruel or unkind.
 
The dragons pass me overhead, their keen red beady eyes are searching the ground for me, but instead I rise above them, flourish by flourish of my wings the wind around me grows, and I smile unto them, caw-cawing, as my species is known to express, in a manner so bold.
 
The dragons realise I am not a threat, in fact, I am here to escape their prosperous land, where animals such as rats and mice – my favourite – were available ongoing. There was no competition to capture such meals and it was never left to chance. They simply scurried before me, as though begging to be taken, but now, I am in the land of the free, where no lives will be taken.
 
This includes mine. I wave off the dragons, and smiling, they rise into the sky, leaving myself and my others to decide what to do with our now guilt-free lives.

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

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