Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Month: May 2020

Poem: A Gift – 12/05/20

A gift from me to you,
I dotingly extend,
the ability to treasure 
what’s within your hands.
 
The foreign heart you so clutch,
delicately,
with great trust,
which you have been entrusted to care for
with strength and deep love.
 
Who are you caressing with the clutched palms together?
I cannot tell,
perhaps it’s a secret you’ll not dare share with another.
 
Regardless, I know you’ll look after it well,
the heartbeat, the heartbeat 
so strong and positive to behold.
 
Perhaps it’s the lifeline of a relationship,
perhaps it’s the living memory of someone dear who has passed,
perhaps, maybe, this still-beating heart is the
lifeline between your spirit, body and soul.
 
Whatever the heartbeat signifies,
please know my gift to you
is the ability to care so deeply without 
being entwined to the point of no return,
though interlinked,
you are still independent.
 
And you will carry on caring for this
living organ,
almost-breathing object within your palms
and I’ll glance and smile
so proudly upon you,
 
there is nothing more 
that I can extend
at this point than
my pride and my love for you.
 
Modest though you are,
you must positively feel 
your own pride ascend,
this process is miraculous for you, too.

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

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Poem: Progression – 10/05/20

Poem: Progression – 10/05/20

A lady of goodness smiles upon me,
wishing me so well,
the nature of her desire for me to flourish
causes warmth to flush my body,
to flow through my being,
will I succeed?
Only time will be able to tell.
 
It is as though I have been granted a reprieve,
a chance to make of this time something more,
my chance to rise,
to change myself,
something I must treasure,
I must take hold of,
and allow my growth to be fostered by
my heart, my heart, my heart,
this is something I know in myself,
a journey I understand well.  
 
And no matter if the tides will turn,
if I lose control temporarily,
I shan’t allow myself to skip,
to miss a beat,
 
because health will be nurtured
and my safety restored,
all placed at ease,
any stressors,
any sufferings,
I will work through my condition,
with the help of others,
the ones who care for and love me.
 
Sometimes we need to reach out a hand,
sometimes we’ll need to grasp onto help,
but when it comes to the time
when we can do it ourselves,
me, myself, alone,
this is when the lady will return,
smiling and cheering me on.

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

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Poem: An Early Ode for Mother’s Day – 09/05/20

Poem: An Early Ode for Mother’s Day – 09/05/20

While we are separate,
our hearts are still all together.
We reach for means to communicate,
to strengthen the bonds between one another.
 
No matter the distance between us,
we know, we feel, we understand
that we are only a breath, a second away,
for those who are near and dear to us –
they are not so terribly far away.
 
We smile at each other through the pixel cameras,
we hear the hearty tone of laughter enrich the conversations,
we hear the witty banter,
the decidedly clever nattering,
of young, middle aged and old.
 
We care for those through these calls,
no matter that we cannot visit,
and if we try, we’ll see them through window panes,
smiling and waving again and again.
 
Separation is difficult,
it drains us, weighs heavily,
but it is for the better of all,
and soon, in the future,
hopefully there will be tentative good news
that a leader will be bringing.
 
But for now, allow us to keep one another in
our hearts and minds,
those bouquets of flowers glorified and bright,
delivered to cause great smiles,
Happy Mother’s Day tomorrow for all,
may all mums feel wonderful, appreciated,
no matter whether tomorrow or another date,
loved every day and every night.  
  
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by annca from Pixabay

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Poem: The Mauve Gown – 08/05/20

I need to stop
I tell myself,
I need to stop this now,
the needle pulling through the silk,
the soft material.
 
I can’t keep sewing,
creating, making,
while my heartbeat thuds and pounds,
the danger’s lurking,
my task’s undertaken,
can I truly wear this garment loud and proud?
 
To them it announces revolt,
to me it signifies freedom,
those bright mauve tatters
sewn into sheets of beautiful layers,
ever so silken.
 
And I will wear them with pride,
without embarrassment,
no need to hide,
my fingers,
my thumbs,
pricked many a-time,
 
They will try to tear me down,
but this is not their time,
I will rejoice,
for my hard work,
all so damned sublime.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Bruno /Germany from Pixabay

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Poem: When Words Won’t Speak – 06/05/20

Poem: When Words Won’t Speak – 06/05/20

When words won’t speak, 
colours do,
vibrant splashes,
moody shadows,
emotive characters,
abstract patterns.
 
When I cannot find the right letters,
or when I simply stutter,
I bring forth emotional therapy,
brilliant shades bleeding with highlights
or slices of calming, iridescent colour. 
 
Sometimes nothing lyrical comes out, 
and I’m left with a blank, cursed page, 
or attempts of controlled cursive crossed out, 
never for anyone to view.

Or there are other types of words, 
they ramble and demand,
intended for others to experience,
to see, 
their rawness brought about by
my hastily scrawling hand,
interpretation intentionally difficult,
I wait, I hope, I breathe. 
 
But in such a situation, I doubt myself, 
my words may prove too harsh, 
best translate them into a form of visual art,
where it’s less specific, 
less obvious what I'm trying 
to place on show.
 
Less fervent will the story be
for I can disguise the dramatics 
and roll on and along 
with the waves of emotion
'til the process of ambiguity
makes my words fit for public consumption - 
 
images filled to the brim, 
a certain crescent rising,
a personal triumph sent,
 
an explosion of hues, 
of brushstrokes,
of textures, of layers, 
that have been expelled from deep within.

I am now tentatively pleased, 
the story has been told, 
by shades and highlights, 
bright and bold, 

I have created a scene
without a single word, 
the speckles, 
the explosions, 
the colours I'll live and breathe
until I'm frail and old,
this process is a priceless passion. 

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

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Poem: Down My Spine – 02/05/20

Poem: Down My Spine – 02/05/20

Chills and shivers run down my spine,
how on earth am I meant to make
this situation mine?
 
I carefully unstitch the woven seams
that make myself me,
and exalt,
rejoice at viewing that which is
the material of my dreams.
 
I witness here,
I make my point
of sharing what I view,
 
my insides are terribly bright
and are filled with feelings,
deep, emanating emotions true. 
 
I have not always been the most vocal
at expressing my feelings and aspirations,
repressed though they were
I felt they were meant to be hushed,
 
for I was far too shy,
embarrassed,
to explain what I experienced
or what it was I wanted
or quite possibly needed.
 
Now to wrangle this situation
to expel my negative notions,
to announce to the world how I feel,
to know the freedom of
being both light and airy,
and boisterous,
a heavy feather-like nature imbued.
 
Though there is no requirement for me to split,
to divulge,
to expound,
to share my extended feelings,
 
I know if I do not
and I am dishonest with myself
what could eventuate is
the deterioration of my internal self.
 
And I cannot have this occur,
not after a true revelation of my being,
I cannot have this,
my feelings they must swell,
they must be visible,
be willingly seen,
 
then after being acknowledged,
and noted for being present,
 
fly,
fly away
they will,
completely begone,
the truest joy was in revealing their existence.   

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

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Poem: A Curious Moth’s Cycle – 01/05/20

Poem: A Curious Moth’s Cycle – 01/05/20

The moth is drawn to the flame,
curious though tentative 
he dances,
he flits closer,
the heat scorches –
away, away!
 
Although his wing is singed
he cannot cease his wondering,
in his mind he feels he must
continue to draw closer,
nearer,
until he’s sizzling in a second,
both his wings in 
devastatingly smouldering tatters.
 
The other insects,
they mourn their inquisitive friend 
from the ground,
but what else could they have expected
from a being 
perpetually drawn to the light?
 
It was the moth’s downfall 
to be so hopeful,
to wish to be near a force so dazzling
that it would only burn out 
his own light:
 
an ending
by that impermanent deathly flicker,
the poor moth’s obliterated picture,
a life cast aside by his final fateful flight,
what more than sadness and grief 
could it have delivered?
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Andreas Lischka from Pixabay

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