Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Month: April 2020

  • The Sliver: A Horror Poem – 11/04/20

    The Sliver: A Horror Poem – 11/04/20

    The translucence of an eye is insidious,
it narrows its eyelid to a sliver of pupil to see,
a glint of curiosity
but little remorse to view,
what could this vision present to someone like you and I?
Us, or even just you?
 
Barbaric tones,
the slashes, the slights,
the light burrows into my own orbs,
quietly, calculatingly I take on the mood
of the insidious view I’ve knowingly absorbed.
 
Unbeknownst to myself though,
from now, I am expected to travel alone,
this living, breathing eye has snatched me away from you.
 
Now I work in tandem,
my eyes with It,
alone, I am,
yet breathing its painful sooty sin,
can I not escape,
with peril can I be freed?

A combatant’s energy:
I stare into its glare,
its memories are horrific to experience and even worse to see.
 
Free me from its peril!
I want to shriek.
The maladies I’ve experienced through its blatant enormity
weigh down upon me,
they dare me to speak.
 
But, how to escape horrors so convoluted they make us entwined,
where are you when I need You?
I cry posthumously.
I live only through the Sliver’s memories,
stifling, the visions stew.
 
And it is as though we are living a dragging nightmare,
undulating waves of nauseating misery swim through
the void of energy that once carried and housed me,
I can barely breathe,
but isn’t that the point of it all?
There’s nothing left to see.    

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

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  • Poem: Heavy Crimson Droplets – 10/04/20

    Poem: Heavy Crimson Droplets – 10/04/20

    Teardrops fall upon me as bloated shiny beads
of purple wholesome grapes,
speaking as to whether they should aim themselves for Earth
or be aiming within somebody’s hungering mouth.
 
What fate would be most adequate were they to
satisfy and feed the famished others,
or perhaps their desires for freedom
are better suited to desperately flinging themselves
upon the pavement of my skin,
smoothly they will roll aside,
back to where they belong.
 
They are here by accident,
these living, breathing fruits,
globules of sweetness that many cannot resist,
inside the fruit bowl some of them rest their eyes
somewhat haughtily above other types
for these pieces are displaying more height, position and quality
than the lesser beings,
the lower fruits,
the more common pieces which are quietly required to remain,
unbeknownst to the grapes, these others are there as the safety weights.
 
And wouldn’t it be nice
if they were able to understand and accept wholly
that this is currently their destiny,
to silently be the front line of the war,
the flung purple bubbles of squeezed crimson,
as they designate their lives to survival, unknown sacrifice, or unspoken safety.
This situation is anything but light-hearted folly.
  
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay   

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  • Poem: The Animals’ Holiday – 09/04/20

    Poem: The Animals’ Holiday – 09/04/20

    The world stops,
one could hear a pin drop
though no one is present to hear its ping.
 
We are all inside,
relegated,
told to be safe
to take care,
to avoid each other as much
to save ourselves now and in the future.
 
The pin drops and in fact
something does hear it
why, it is a little fox
who has taken over his landscape once more,
without the humans,
the grass, the soil, the land
is his.
 
And the rabbits,
why, there they are,
tentatively sniffing,
their whiskers bouncing up and down
like wild antennas in a storm,
judging whether it’s safe to leave their warren,
its safety,
they finally decide, there’s much freedom to be had!
 
And the birds, the birds are startled
by the lack of human activity,
the lessening of smog,
of absence of large groups,
less cars,
and perplexed, they fly observing the scene below,
then, joyously they realise this world is becoming theirs,
more than it had ever been before,
and they swoop and squawk and soar,
tweeting and twittering with as many smiles
as their beaks can form.
 
For how does one know when a bird is smiling?
How does one know when a fox’s heart is free and calling?
How does one know when a rabbit’s frantic heart is now
calm and content?
The ability to leave his home without fear,
and explore the land without a sense of calamity impending?
 
The animals are taking over,
it is their time,
their ability to take their holiday,
while we are inside,
they live it up.

While we’re inside, they’re happily enjoying their Outside.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Gary Bendig on Unsplash
 

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  • Poem: To Pen Something Worthy On the Page – 08/04/20

    Poem: To Pen Something Worthy On the Page – 08/04/20

    I feel it’s been a while since I’ve written a quality poem,
Something to make me smile and feel pleased,
Proud of myself for something sharp and sweet,
Or lengthy but with purpose and a sense of growth and speed.
 
There was a time when I researched and read,
Many books of poetry I had immersed myself in,
Inspiration, a powerful thread,
But now, these books are silently laying,
Gathering cobwebs, it seems,
Until of them, my heart will once again be calling.
 
It was difficult to create when I felt the pressure
To delve into many other’s styles,
Why couldn’t I write in my own style,
Without having to research?
Of course, a writer is a reader, too,
A poet reads other poets.
 
But the time had come when I grew tired of it,
I needed a break, in order to keep on going,
To continue my art,
My twisting, turning words,
But then that break became longer and longer,
Until proudly, obnoxiously, it became incredibly self-assured.
 
This Break knew that it would be ongoing,
Something without end unless I gained the motivation to,
Once more, become back in the habit,
And I will try perhaps, one of these days,
To pick up my favourite poets and read their masterpieces,
Because of two reasons:
I enjoy them, and, they will assist my understanding and feelings,
Emotions to project through my words that can taunt, tease, or please.
 
So, this poem,
Where I bemoan,
Is not so much any more of that,
I had assumed I would complain,
But,
Here are the workings of the frame,
I simply detail, detail, detail,
And my words,
My explanations,
Will hopefully,
In the future,
Become less of an excuse and frail,
I will pen something worthier onto my page.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay 

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  • Prose Poetry: It’s Your Birthday! – 07/04/20

    Prose Poetry: It’s Your Birthday! – 07/04/20

    Oh, a time for celebration! Your birthday while in isolation. There can only be us three, but that’s enough for you to see, that you are appreciated still, and you are deserving of the love you need. You are often quiet, you do not seek attention much, indeed, you are a hard worker of the household, our family, and you go about your tasks with a sense of careful meticulous duty.

But today you will allow me to hug you, to repeatedly kiss you upon the top of your head, when all other times I reach to embrace you, I am kept at arm’s length. There is something about affection that must make you squirm inside, but perhaps the fact I counted down the hours to midnight, to your birthday, showed that I care, it made you realise. Of course we love you, and of course we will always care, you are the masculine figure we always have to observe, to follow directives, to feel your care and quiet concern when it is required, when danger is near, you are the one to help pick up the pieces, you are always near.

And today is your day, let us celebrate it with a bang! Your presents gleefully given, one artistically made with a careful hand. And the others are so sweet that they could make your stomach curl, you delight in these gifts, for you rarely consume them at will. And now I spend extra time with you, when usually you are permitted your own space. I thought you liked it like this, but now, I realise, that sometimes you might enjoy my company, to have a quiet observer nearby to watch television with, perhaps here I am accepted as another.

And now it is time for cake, and we three celebrate, Mother’s been at work all day, and you are delighting in posing before the cake playfully, cheekily, unlike how you would act normally. I smile to myself, even those you are being so silly, because I know that you are enjoying yourself, this moment is one of today’s many. So, my precious Father, I hope you enjoyed your day, allow us to share in our love and appreciation for you each and every other day, always.

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

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  • Prose Poetry: A Tune For the Bird Who Brightens my Day – 05/04/20

    Prose Poetry: A Tune For the Bird Who Brightens my Day – 05/04/20

    Precious and sweet, in a method of glistening blue, she rises to me, she flies to my open hand, and whispers, “How are you?” My melodious being, my little birdy in special cobalt feathers, she understands what I need during my lonely waking hours. A touch of do re mi and as happy as can be, she presents some well-formed notes to me, not tentatively or wavering but with strong confidence that ensues. She wishes to ensure that my brightness returns, and shall remain, with her tuneful songs, more notes arrive and they shall grow and soften, as sweet as the scent of fresh rain.

My little, little birdy, where did you come from, and where do you go? After the moments in which you cheer my mindset so? You disappear into the wilderness, away toward the horizon, and sometimes I feel guilty when I stop for a spot of contemplation. For, what would occur, what could I do, to capture my free little bluebird all for myself, so I could have her joyous songs forever within my ears? There would be no need for her to sing to anyone else. Although, I understand that these thoughts are selfish of me, and I must reconsider how I deal with my bird in my dreams, because she surely has important tasks elsewhere of cheering others up.  

I must be kind, I must be generous, to allow my birdy to share her love and song with others in the world during their moments of distress, for there is no need to be greedy, as I know she’ll return and sing to me, even when I feel inclined to dance, side step, step, and twirl, ever so freely.

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

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  • Poem: Early Morning Disturbances – 04/03/20

    Poem: Early Morning Disturbances – 04/03/20

    The afternoon calls to me,
it begs for me to take advantage,
a swimming sensation within my mind
causes a wondering and I mentally wander:
I do not have the energy for this.
 
To explore the pathways,
to join with other beings,
to share their thoughts, feelings, and dreams,
well, this is something undulating, it seems.
 
Instead, I wish to lay down in my bed,
rest my weary head that’s arisen since two thirty a.m.,
and laid half alert, half asleep,
pacing back and forth,
up and down the stairs,
waiting for the morning,
when I can end the time when that 
restlessness replaced my wanted dreaming.
 
I must replenish,
I must coerce this Afternoon who wishes to 
bid me hither soon,
to engage me in some activities that are beneficial to me,
who says that they are beneficial? I want to squawk,
I want to scream.
 
Instead, I peel open my newly made bed,
feel the crispness of the lining sheets surrounding my body,
feel the plumpness of my fluffed pillows 
billowed around my head,
and I close my eyes,
feeling the softness ensue as the doona 
weighs upon me with comfort
that I haven’t known for ever so long.  
 
This haven I have created,
this haven I have made,
I am thankful for it,
the opportunity to rest comfortably without interruption,
because in the darkness of the early morning,
I will be hastened from my sleep,
my eyes, bleary, open,
and again, it’ll be two thirty.
 
The couch is no solace for someone who wishes to swim in dreams,
I must be in my current bedded comfort tonight,
I tell myself that in order to have 
calm before mayhem or disturbances
from my short sleeping delights
I must rest and relax into an early, quiet night.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Glen McCallum on Unsplash

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  • Prose Poetry: Rocks on the Mind – 02/04/20

    Prose Poetry: Rocks on the Mind – 02/04/20

    I fashion an image within my mind, each curve, each specified colour, every line. That which makes the look complete, of the creature I shall create through my hands, my fingers, with precious time, whether messy or neat. Carefully, I sketch the shape onto the rock – this doesn’t need to be perfect, though it must still have some form. I decide that I’ve made a mistake, but, what to do? I hold no eraser, nothing to warrant taking away from the view. Besides, I can paint over the marks, no worries about that, in fact, I can just continue sketching away on my pebble, my rock, my soon-to-be-colourful artefact.
 
I am new to this art, this activity of decorating pebbles or rocks, and I am excited to create, to add my characters that I house within my mind, a differing relaxed state. They no longer have to swim or dance inside, prattling about wanting to escape, instead, they can be translated upon stone, rather than paper or page. With joy I discover different techniques online, there are so many ways and styles to create, how to make these treasures all mine? To make them perfect, with the correct processes, it is not only about painting or drawing. One must be careful in how to finish the piece, in how to seal the paint or the textas: there are varying techniques. And if I grow restless of painting large pebbles or tiny rocks, I have my terracotta pots I can decorate, why, of course!
 
And here I am detailing my new form of creating art, because I wish to share the happiness and excitement I feel when I create something in the medium – it really appeals to my heart. And when the dangers of leaving our houses are all over, I shall have the opportunity to hide some of my creations to cause a smile and leap of joy perhaps from another! Until then, I shall create for myself, and friends and family, and bring them some bliss from observing something amusing or cute just from me.  
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image: photo and painted rock by myself.
Instagram: @alicewellart

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  • Prose Poetry: The Beckoning Seascape – 01/04/20

    Prose Poetry: The Beckoning Seascape – 01/04/20

    I wonder what it would be to live like in the sea, surrounded by clown fish and anemones, and smiling jellyfish that could sting as they please. Floating past little krill and tiny bright fish, I consider what my role would be in this charming, pristine, cobalt, irreverent water. I rise up and down, parading before no one, yet swollen, the swells, around me, the waves recede, their special charisma is innumerable, anything but singular simplicity.
 
I carry on with my journey – I notice my mermaid’s tail – so beautiful and sparkling, each seascape coloured scale, and I understand that I am here in a manner of being so-very blessed, my countenance shows my solemnity and gratitude that am present, here, watching the ecosystem seemingly perform for me.
 
But, the truth is, that this world will keep on turning with or without my presence, I am here but as a visitor whom the Sea has invited with ambivalence, seemingly uncaring of whether I am here nor there, because she knows, and I know, that while I am watching the sharks parade with ominous delight, taking in the sea coral so bright which pushes away the pain it could cause another who didn’t understand its potential, and the larger fish, whose species I do not know, yet who capture my eyes and imagination that I cannot stop but stare and be enthralled. 

No, I thank this Sea for willing me, for beckoning me in her own way. To envision that which she has to offer, the sanctity of herself open for inspection, just for me, just one set of eyes, that are not prying but are filled with ardour, accompanied by a heart which is so very amazed.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by PublicDomainPictures from Pixabay    

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