Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Month: May 2020

  • Poem: An Historical Hourglass – 31/05/20

    Poem: An Historical Hourglass – 31/05/20

    Time spent,
time passed,
overlooking the trickling hourglass.
 
Many years have been told,
my stories of old,
projected through this object.
 
Each grain of sand
a moment,
an event, or emotion captured in time,
 
treasuring my history,
whether it be beautiful, depressive, 
riddled with angst, or shining exceptionally bright.
 
When I see these events 
or moments
slowly fall to the vessel’s section below,
 
I am reminded of
the feelings,
my recollections take hold.
 
And how I have grown
from a petulant being
to a wiser, more worldly woman,
 
I pride myself on being accepting,
compassionate,
playful, joyful, and loving.
 
Though the history
was filled with
great turmoil,
 
I can empathise with others more
because of my winding paths undertaken,
my twists and my twirls.
 
To be loving and forgiving in almost all respects,
it’s taken many years of learning –
I’m finally here,
 
I am more accepting of
what has been, what has passed,
and what might never be.
 
I possess the maturity
to no longer take umbrage
to slights or underhanded insults,
 
nor do I heavily and negatively
circumspect
or wallow in self-doubt.
 
I glance back at and into the hourglass,
though I know rumination
has its place,
 
let me allow the tales of old
to become simply historic,
in my mind, only saved.
 
There is no need to cling
to the grains of lost dunes,
I’m much happier now,
 
warbling, singing
my own tunes,
mischievous and loud.
 
Towards the future
I look forth,
the final sand grains fall,
 
into the lower portion
of the hourglass,
quietly, now settled.
 
And I guess that’s just it,
I must permit the past
to delicately drift away,
 
Lessons and strength
have been learned,
I’m fresh to face another day.

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

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  • Poem: Lifted Restrictions – 29/05/20

    Poem: Lifted Restrictions – 29/05/20

    Freedom,
didn’t we all take it for granted?
The ability to walk with friends
in the park,
to sit on the bench with others,
or crouch by the pond feeding curious ducks.
 
Our ability to visit loved ones,
friends, family,
separated we had become.
 
The isolation felt so strange,
the family dog could only be walked
so many times,
working from home,
teaching and caring for children simultaneously,
hectic moments,
stress,
mayhem,
pressure bubbling.
 
But now it’s as though the clouds
have shifted,
sunlight shines down upon us,
warming our kind
as we open up,
lifted restrictions,
returning to somewhat normalcy,
and grateful we be
to know that our lives are
becoming what they used to be.
 
Now we are thankful,
realising what we had,
and excitement and trepidation
run alongside each other,
entwined,
little patters of fingertips grasping their hands,
some worriedly claim our freedom's returning too soon,
while others yelp hooray and cause a joyous hullabaloo.
 
Allow us to enjoy our freedom,
the sunlight,
she finally came,
and not a moment too soon,
she’s present with her warming life,
now our reunions:
hearts against hearts,
embraces expressed as love is loudly proclaimed.

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

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  • Poem: Escape Room – 28/05/20

    Poem: Escape Room – 28/05/20

    Fingertips against the wall,
pressing, gouging,
wanting to get through,
but no way out.
 
I am aghast at this imprisonment –
four walls slowly caving in.
Like impending doom,
they inch in all around,
closer and closer,
it’s growing difficult to breathe.
 
Why this state of insanity?
Am I deserving of its encroachment?
My mental state,
my lack of solid coping mechanisms,
Why, how to survive,
this condition, this condition?
 
The walls now turn to nausea,
the sicker I become,
apprehensive glances of my own,
the walls’ will be done.
 
And now they smile,
they cackle,
they absorb my light –
away!
Slumped in a lonesome corner,
left quietly to decay.

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

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  • Poem: Friendships Among Pink Blossoms – 27/05/20

    Poem: Friendships Among Pink Blossoms – 27/05/20

    Cherry blossoms in Acacia Street,
a feast for the eyes,
a scene so replete,
petals dance while we’re healing Inside.
 
Pink petals float,
beautiful be they,
a wistful smile upon my lips
as memories fly by.
 
So many unique people met on the path,
these cobblestones,
where we sat on the park benches,
getting to know each other as time would pass by
and people come and go,
 
So many life stories learned,
moments of vulnerable truth,
they learned about me,
I learned of them, too.
 
Despite my illness, I wanted to help,
to fix their turmoil inside,
but it turned out
I needed to try to heal myself, too,
that would be incredibly wise.
 
We had staff to attend to us,
medications,
therapy too,
but by banding together,
whispered secrets,
friendships forged,
we grew stronger amidst the raging reds,
paranoid greens,
and solemn, moody blues.
 
Where are they now?
Are lives led happy and content?
Are they settled and stable?
Or are they still needing
to be held up by caring arms,
well provided,
loving support always well meant?
 
We may have resented some support,
the strict nature of it all,
but these measures were in place
to protect us,
to allow the healing of them, us, those,
from the sicknesses which plagued our minds most.
 
Gratitude may be come at differing points,
perhaps immediate or after the fact,
but know they looked after us
while we were acute,
and they’ll catch us if we tumble,
if again we fall,
until we can grow within ourselves,
becoming more resilient
and firmer with inner strength,
leading forward,
taking steps ahead
for more well lives,
the cobblestones we’ll learn to
no longer need tread,
they are hopefully part of our past lives.

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

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  • Poem: Beneath the Surface – 24/05/20

    Poem: Beneath the Surface – 24/05/20

    On the surface of a scarlet lake
are dreams and nightmares cast aside,
laid to waste.
None have the desire to peruse
or recollect,
the enmity of these experiences,
why, no one wants to look back.
 
The moments of the night wander in a shimmer,
upon a crystalline surface,
like oil mixed with water,
they simply do not gel well,
their animosity alive rather than
a sheen of sheer consistence.
 
Nearby stand two fishermen
with their fishing rods so pliant,
I wonder what will they capture –
if anything at all –
or is their joy mainly in the process?
 
Their lines and sinkers are slick
with the congealing of subconscious creations,
confused moments,
surreal expressions,
and here the men are,
happily, into the night,
casting their lines again and again,
no disappointment at their lack of capture,
those dreams and nightmares do evade.
 
And then suddenly there is a bite,
something below the layers,
these creations of the night,
and rise unto the air,
a water-falling shape is revealed,
cascading around a moment of precious truth.
 
The creature hooked is nothing like something
ever seen by you nor I,
an abomination,
non-descript to most,
yet something which terrifies.
 
The fisherman grins,
pleased with his prize,
he is the master of
slowly cleansing this lake
of that which is untoward,
unworthy of remaining alive.
 
I realise now his role is not to be self-sufficient,
nor to enjoy the actual process,
but to purge this lake of things which should not belong,
removing the waste of nightmares
and dreams which hold the ability
to cause a sleeper harm.
 
And into the night and morning,
for days they will remain,
the demons of the lake,
expelled one by one,
through and through,
they shan’t remain.
 
I wonder how long it will take them,
if ever they will succeed,
at making this lake fresh and transparent,
a wondrous and true beauty to be seen.
 
Oh, hark! I tell myself,
I am sure there will come a day
when the water is cleared,
and the drippings of a drain of
combined subconsciousness,
dream time of many sleepers eventually cleansed away.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by 272447 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: An Embrace After Tea – 23/05/20

    Poem: An Embrace After Tea – 23/05/20

    Warm sentiments expressed,
heartfelt touches extended,
the joy within almost palpable,
understanding we are blessed.
 
The other sits opposite,
a smile within their eyes,
warm glints to be absorbed,
and I wonder,
is this what I’ve been searching for in my life?
 
A nuance here and there,
in softly spoken words,
uttered in my ear,
their breath so near,
makes me relaxed
and then rigid –
what did you say, dear?
 
A betrayal revealed,
because of a calling they felt,
an untoward moment,
they beg for forgiveness for themselves.
 
Yet I am no doormat,
I do not, will not, provide those words,
the exoneration of their moral crime,
my absence is what they deserve.
 
They weep, they weep,
crocodile tears which impede correct speech,
the tangled crotchet of the situation a mess,
no matter what,
I will not yield.
 
How could you do it,
I seethe,
how could you perform this ill to me?
 
Now the other shrugs,
there is only dishonesty,
when they retract and reveal
it went no further
than an embrace after tea.

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

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  • Poem: Angels – 22/05/20

    Poem: Angels – 22/05/20

    Angels come and angels go
but they’re always watching down upon us.
 
They carefully observe,
they take care of us,
ever present,
although distance may be a factor.
 
Their wings caress,
though invisible they may be
to the naked human eye
they are there,
and the angels’ hearts
for us, beat freely.
 
They insist on being caregivers,
they are there in all times,
especially strife,
mothers, uncles, daughters,
those who do or have walked along
our path of life.
 
And there’s no use wondering
if and when we will see one,
just know,
rest assured,
you’ve likely already seen a few.
 
The woman down your street,
who smiles at you with such warmth
within her eyes,
your teacher who lauds your efforts in school,
motivates and attends,
making a difference in your daily life.
 
Your passed grandmother who you swear
you sometimes smell her signature perfumed scent,
that kindness in your chest when you recall the times
spent together –
weren’t they the best?
 
Angels above and angels on land,
here to love and be guides
for all of us.
 
They pride themselves on being here,
making the most of their missions,
they are wise and knowing,
understanding what it is we need,
ensuring our lives are enriched and continually growing.

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

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  • Poem: From My Pen – 20/05/20

    Poem: From My Pen – 20/05/20

    The brightness of the page,
glaring in my eyes,
a plain lined sheet,
a hopeful scene,
a winking extreme.
 
The sun shines down,
beats down its warm caress,
my pen drags along heated paper,
pen from pen to pen.
 
The etchings are made,
the heavy handedness
of my lyrics are forthcoming,
and I sit here creating,
will I write on and on?
When will the process be done?
I’m left here wondering.
 
Will I make any sense of my thoughts this afternoon?
Or will it all be a jumble,
words, metaphors, en masse,
convoluted, strange, peculiar tunes?
 
I hope to arrange these floating thoughts
into a succinct yet decidedly descriptive view,
because this glaring white
it damages my eyes,
it must be tamed,
curl by curl,
handwritten swell by swell.
 
And I know,
I know,
that sometimes words may not
be worthy enough to share,
but isn’t the process,
even if failure,
worth something?
Reveal my notebook, shall I dare?
 
To ride softly along the waves
of successful arrangements,
or descriptors that weren’t so smooth,
the opportunity to correct,
or absorb slight triumphs
are abilities which are highly toward.
 
So, I continue to remain,
paper and pen,
thoughts feeding from my mind,
my being,
nourished and saved,
and I enjoy the warm basking
that my page has accepted,
no longer does it stare back at me,
but now softly,
it has been decorated,
 
I drag my fingertips carefully over the raised letters
upon the page
from my heart through my pen,
technicalities saved.

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

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  • Prose Poetry: The Deep Azure – 18/05/20

    Prose Poetry: The Deep Azure – 18/05/20

    The bright blue twinkles before me, the waves curl and roll with such pristine splendour. I prepare myself for the swell: my tiptoes dangle above the lapping at the shore, and I smile, I smile so widely that I want more, so much more, of the cooling caress which grips my extremities like refreshing, watered diamonds. The sprinkles, the splashes, my heart it stills, it grows.
 
What did I do to deserve this amazing experience, these rocking, hilly blues? A reflection of skyward azure, wandering below, across the crystalline views. I tiptoe, step by step, into the creeping shallows, as smoothly as it breathes across the damp sand which I imprint with impressions of me, my footprints, my imprints, which disappear beneath the wetness. Sandy signs that I’ve been here are only visible for seconds, seemingly emulsified, or eaten away, into the surrounding and temporary moulds. The water trails higher, higher above my ankles, midway up my calves, then my thighs – I can feel the chill of the robust crests grabbing at them, then I dive in, head-first – the rush of coldness makes me breathless.
 
I feel at one with the shimmer, although I cannot see it, I feel the ebb and the flow, and with legs seemingly now melded together as though the tail of a mermaid, I dive deeper, exploring far below. I dare myself to open my eyes; such wonder there is down here so low: sparkling, whimsical, fantastical, a living world before my eyes unfolds. How could I have spent so much of my life on land? I ask myself, feeling numb from what is visible in this underwater world. I shake myself, take away this odd, unfamiliar feeling, and decide to explore everything, or at least as much as I can see.

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

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  • Poem: A Young Girl’s Whims – 16/05/20

    Poem: A Young Girl’s Whims – 16/05/20

    She walks a path undiscovered,
at least until now,
where peonies and sunflowers and daffodils
all happily and prettily grow in rows.
 
Her eyes take in the sights,
famished of beauty they had become,
but now greedily they feast upon
the beauty right before them.
 
She smiles quietly,
succinctly,
as though she holds a secret all her own,
and time having passed by so secretively,
this is the truth,
she may know something that others don’t.
 
And while she wanders past the flowers,
now onto other garden beds,
the brightness in her face
illuminates the current splendour;
this girl could brighten a room.
 
For she is strong yet soft,
brave yet cautious,
knowing but open,
wise and wondering.
 
She seeks her destiny as much as you,
aware of her surroundings
but open to that which may become,
something that could bring about harm.
 
She continues wandering,
innocently, freely,
touching the blossoms as she goes,
a glance upwards towards a kingdom
where she must return,
her dreams and fancies she throws to the clouds.
 
Oh, Mother, oh Mother, will you love these?
she murmurs,
as she gathers wistful blooms which know
they must give in,
their lives, their self-sacrifice,
beauty and all,
all for a young girl’s whims.

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

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