Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Month: July 2020

  • Poem: Soaring Wings – 23/07/20

    Poem: Soaring Wings – 23/07/20

    We spread our wings each time we share,
we spread ourselves feather-tip to feather-tip,
we open ourselves up,
we tweet, we sing, with soaring pitches, we dare.
 
We allow insight into our hearts and minds,
our light that’s dimmed we make bright,
to smile unto another’s confused face,
and make them feel utterly compelled by our world,
to be wildly amazed.
 
To permit an understanding
without verbose explanation,
a few words here and there,
sprinkled, like grated dark chocolate,
the taste of the experience is subtle yet permeates,
if an expression, perhaps it’d glare,
though never with hate.
 
And the ability to while away their time with descriptions
that don’t care to leave another's eyes confined,
well, this is true artistry, this is spoken truth,
our wings soar, they will always fly upon the wind,
we will gently rise and of this world expound and find,
we will transform,
as literary dragons, we will roar.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Josch13 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Promoting a Positive Image – 22/07/20

    Poem: Promoting a Positive Image – 22/07/20

    To promote a positive image of oneself
is to reach into the garden where the ivy breathes and grows,
where she winds around herself, occasionally tickling
the life from her,
and plucking a length of her stems and leaves,
to crown yourself with her woven dreams.
 
She is not poisonous, this ivy,
no, your image you promote is not unhealthy,
no, you try to think of yourself quite highly, but,
you recognise when you need to be brought down to earth.
 
You twirl her trailing lengths anxiously,
as though one would loose tendrils of falling hair,
weaving, weaving, creating shapes with her,
because ivy is malleable, like you.
 
You can morph into many things,
you can morph into expressing qualities which project
yourself as vibrant truth,
not always sad, anguishing, or depressive,
no matter that occasionally that’s how you’ve been,
but now joyous and happy,
an ivy trail’s winding dream,
you promote your sense of well-being to all
because that’s how you wish to be seen.
 
Past regrets may surface,
they may arise within the dirt, the rot, the dust,
as a means of demonstrating that, yes, you are
at fault for some things, once the root cause of pain
of suffering for some,
 
but we are not always perfect,
we cannot pretend to be,
some decide to sweep the past under the rug,
but no, not me.
 
I speak my truths,
I own them,
then once revealed, described,
I move on from them,
then go on demonstrating my purposeful view,
to be kind, courteous, myself,
allowing my words to flow through and through.
 
My crown of ivy is beaming green,
so rich and vibrant is she,
she heralds my crowning of a land
in which I project what is good,
what will reflect positively,
though sometimes negatively upon me.
 
Because, life comes in polar opposites,
one cannot take the good without the bad,
presenting our downfalls along with positivity
will reveal our true nature,
our true displayed hand.  

And this is the point,
for I've been crowned by my ivy as queen,
I live in a land in which daily I make my travels,
gathering the past, the present, 
and the future, too, 
into my hands to be seen, 

I aim to project myself positively,
even when I'm discussing moments of negativity,
and I must reiterate that I do so with
no heavy heart, 
a feeling of overexertion is not here,
it is entirely lacking. 

I hope to express with ease.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Mystic Art Design from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Her Regretful Young Self – 22/07/20

    Poem: Her Regretful Young Self – 22/07/20

    What idiocy she possesses,
she slaps her arm, her face,
she is her own abuser,
let her disallow her hand’s ability to falter.
 
For she deserves to be punished,
before and after the fact,
she knows what she has done is wrong,
but strangely she displays the minimal amount of regret.
 
She understands she must reveal more of her guilt
because she’s betrayed the trust of another,
but she is young, defensive, and full of bravado,
and she sits, falsely unaffected,
while she imagines he weeps tears of sorrow.
 
She couldn’t help what occurred,
it simply happened, it was truthfully that way,
sticks and stones,
broken bones,
she slaps herself awake.
 
She is trying to make herself feel,
she is attempting to make his pain more real,
so she registers it within her skin,
and within the numb heart in her chest
that’s erratically beating away still.  
  
She felt so much for this man,
and now, here she is,
disconnected,
as though looking through an hourglass
at trapped moments in time
which mattered most,
which have presently fallen by.
 
Their time together has expired,
and it’s all because of her,
his broken soul,
previously affected,
completely lost faith in her.
 
And she could apologise over and over,
and it wouldn’t make a single difference,
sometimes words seem cheap.
She wouldn’t want to watch him fall further into a heap.
 
The truth is, she felt lost within their dying love,
perhaps the event was a subconscious means of reaching out,
above and beyond,
a moment to destroy what was lost, no longer found.
 
They used to be magic,
or at least, she felt once they were fire,
but their conjoining depressions brought them deep sorrow,
perpetuating them further under.
 
On one night, this younger version of herself
innocently sought different company,
two friendships which could brighten her,
make her soul feel less weary,
send sparkles shivering throughout her mind and body,
because being around her friend and this other person,
his platonic company,
made her feel so amazing.
 
Yet, she was testing dangerous waters,
growing heavily inebriated,
she trod into the darkness of the night,
and then she, as her young, idiotic self,
ruined everything that she and her saddened other
had created over the course of many weeks of whispered nights.
 
She sits and reflects, recalls the
despairing, hopeless expression upon his face
when she revealed to him what happened,
how she was so sorry; of its occurrence she did not mean it.
 
He slowly melted away into obscurity then,
into the wall, in the patchy white paint,
because, his pasty pallor spoke volumes,
he was ill at hearing this,
at knowing he would now have to be alone,
in this world he had grown to hate.
 
She felt his pain.
she felt his sorrow.
she wished it upon him not a second longer,
to not last even till tomorrow,
he didn’t deserve this,
an amazing young man,
why did she do this,
so selfish,
she just wanted an escape,
momentarily,
no, it was never all planned.   

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by cottonbro from Pexels
  • Prose Poetry: Divulging This – 21/07/20

    Prose Poetry: Divulging This – 21/07/20

    I don’t think it’s pertinent to share all. I don’t believe it is wise to give everything away; this is something I need to inherently grasp and know. Because throwing precious hurt and gnarled knots of hardened truth, for revelation’s sake, for honesty, for letting go, and giving it all away, it no longer always seems the right thing to do. But, I am who I am, and I will continue providing my hopes, my pain, my anguish, my joys to the wind, in the hopes that when these whisper, the conjoining of their pitches and hisses, perhaps I’ll truly understand how I was meant to be, to have lived a life free of err and sin, without selfish exploration and untidy needs. And try to understand: who would I have been if I had achieved these?

I will tell you this, I’ll continue to share, and these moments and opportunities seem always there; they will stoically sit, before me, before us all, because I’ve already jigged a jig, flamboyantly swept my form, sung my ballads, cast my hurt in the direction of the audience’s rows. The shrill, the unseemly, the affected, the melodies, strewn before you painfully, sometimes pitifully, I bare myself to you, my soul is on show. I’ve given and I’ve shared, and though I felt better for it, perhaps it’s not actually wise, is it, to divulge every single piece of it…

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

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  • Poem: Like Yellowed Parchment – Fiction – 21/07/20

    Poem: Like Yellowed Parchment – Fiction – 21/07/20

    The green in her eyes speaks of envy,
of rich, potent jealousy,
block upon blocks of her irises compacted –
there are shades of yellow lingering.
 
Like an aged page of a book,
curled and poignant a scene,
her yellow paper is delicate,
ancient, unlike recalcitrant feelings
which have not been heeded for years,
let alone months, hours, or days.
Others' aloof natures were not well received.
She quietly felt the same.
 
Why did they cruelly ignore her glimmer?
Curled and precious,
or shimmering and golden,
the nature of her brightened tidings being that
of a warm busied bee’s ability to thrive,
 
and her envy, the unfounded jealousy,
though they physically outweigh the true nature of herself,
her glimmering,
they cannot wholly take over the scene in which her
golden shine continues peeking through, 
growing,
delivering,
 
because, while she may present just a tickle,
just some freckles,
just mere moments
of daffodil yellow,
 
her jealousy announces yet dithers,
she’s preoccupied with envy's raging fire,
because to her, the two are always present, 
come what may,
still, her inner strength and outward smile
will wipe aside and away
her irises’ greedy greenery down to the dust,
leaving only space for vibrancy
and ancient words
carefully printed upon pressed, preserved parchment.

Her construction is now secure,
building blocks designated,
separated, sectorial,
colours divided,
dedicated,

pure yellowed ecstasy,
her vibrancy further brightens,
a must, a requirement,
it’s as if she’s been purged from head to toe,
so this it's what it means to live free of
negative, burgeoning thoughts,
to feel well and truly alive.

Of her ailments she seems cured,
of her jealousy and envy she has survived, 
now well and truly pure,
she's free to live and thrive.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Ylanite Koppens from Pexels

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  • Poem: Paradise – 21/07/20

    Poem: Paradise – 21/07/20

    Paradise, paradise,
it’s where seekers go to roam,
to find themselves away from the lost, the broken,
seeking something personal, true gold.
 
Paradise is where they visit,
to take turns riding in gondolas bobbing up and down,
upon canals of flowing freedom,
no longer lost, but found.
 
Paradise is where lurks the hopeful,
the tentatively shy, quiet, reserved,
the wallflower, the fly upon the wall,
watching, observing, knowing that to speak,
to spread his wings, would be dire,
it would be… unseemly.
 
Because, to reveal his true positioning,
in this land of paradise,
where hearts and minds are entwined, not separate,
not one ruling another, but working
in cohesion,
together,
 
this observer would do well to remember his
information-gathering is his ticket to personal understanding,
by realising how others work in relation to him,
he could most certainly gain a type of cohesive knowing.
 
Because paradise, paradise, while it may not be for everyone,
for every self,
it is here, it is present,
it is available to take, to be caressed,
to be held,
 
those who have travelled much of a journey to reach
this utopia of theirs, whichever form it may take,
they live, and they live, and they live
through it,
with it,
understanding,
growing because of it,
they'll emerge as pristine as a complex butterfly,
except they will live far longer.
 
But, there is no real necessity to show off such transformations,
why, to do so in this paradise may seem rude and immodest,
those present instead quietly exalt, and then go on
their own way,
while their subtle celebrations of personal growth and mental wealth
may mean the world to them,
they know they needn't advertise everything to the world, always.
 
So, in paradise,
we visit this land which sings,
lulls us into a land of security and pleasure,
and never haunts us of lost memories,
this place speaks to us,
speaks to us all,
and in our enthralled state,
we continue wishing, living,
longer and longer,
within this perfect world,
it’s what they all claimed it would be.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Frans Van Heerden from Pexels

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  • Poem: Projection – 20/07/20

    Poem: Projection – 20/07/20

    You say it’s not right,
that you’ve left an untidy impression,
you didn’t need to leave that lingering taste upon her lips,
here is your apprehension. 

You say you've projected yourself far more than
you desire yourself to be viewed
but how to disentangle yourself
from this resultant unhealthy view?
Would you allow yourself the moment to succumb and settle
rather than unnecessarily stew?

Her expectations will never match mine,
but her eyes, those glistening orbs,
widened with innocence,
underlined by a smile,
she does not know what she truly wants,
who or what she deserves,
darling, you’re far too much for her,
you’ve a manic type of verve;
though she doesn’t possess any true inkling,
she doesn’t understand this is who you are.

Heed not your aching, pounding heart
and worrisome, concerned thoughts,
how you weren’t worthy of her,
how you blew this opportunity,
don’t allow this commentary to flow through you, 
your mental calamity, 
this negativity.

You are golden,
you are sunshine, 
and to me, you are sharp panic 
bottled with the fizz of determination 
which shall not pale in comparison to any 
falsified form of freedom of expression.

You are sweet annihilation mixed with the 
richest spice I’ve ever known,
project unto me:
make my world your second home.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Jonathan Borba from Pexels

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  • Poem: A Faulty Memory – 19/07/20

    Poem: A Faulty Memory – 19/07/20

    How to explain away an error when my intention was not cruel?
How to apologise when my memory’s retention simply wasn’t running so smooth?
How to insist I didn’t mean any offence when the point made was that I just didn’t understand?
Honest and truthful, and by my own, not another’s devices,
I feel one true lacking of mine has been brought to hand.

I want to explain away the memory slip,
that simply because I didn’t understand,
that because I did not recall,
doesn’t mean that I don't appreciate 
his work and this witty man,

that with my mind constantly being plagued by
doubts and critical thoughts of myself,
and wondering whether I am right 
within this written world,
that sometimes my own insecurities can 
override my capacity to remember
every word written by someone other than me.
 
I can’t always remember what I had on my toast in the morning,
I can’t quite remember whether I left the light on in
my second room in the evening,
I can’t seem to recall exactly how a
certain name is pronounced,
often let alone what it was,
I need to clarify some facts,
their ordering, with another,
because sometimes others recall specific facts better.
 
I may be on the ball with most things,
I may recall turns of phrases,
or another’s habits or their privately revealed feelings,
I may remember which spices to put into your tea,
but please understand,
sometimes there are too many facts to remember for me.
 
I didn’t mean any offence, 
and I hope none has been taken,
that truthfully your words were fact,
a wry throw-away expression,

I thank you for a lack of admonishment, any upset, or lamentation,
because I think, to you,
I am known for being kind and wanting the best for you,
and I’d not purposefully forget something if I knew
it would make pain dire,

all in all, I want it to be known 
that a memory slip was just that,
it was not purposeful, it was not called for,
I just forgot.
Please understand that.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Kyaw Tun on Unsplash

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  • Poem: Double-Stitched and Emphasised – 19/07/20

    Poem: Double-Stitched and Emphasised – 19/07/20

    I rise and reach my crescendo,
my voice tickles the highest echelons of available pitch,
wavering,
delicate,
now a subtle shriek,
melodious though, it is.
 
I sing for them, I sing for me,
a-top the plenary hideaway where I quietly go
to express myself,
to note all thoughts down,
my pen, my ink,
it drags from left to right,
of my thoughts the device is well learned.
 
And the wavering,
the tumultuous calling is only heard by those attuned
to higher pitches,
special people who understand my supersonic cries,
those who have been subjected to my pain and joy
will understand both the rise and the strife.
 
I start to warble now,
with a warm, rich vibrato,
much like an F# on a violin’s D string,
it leads, it leads,
wants to lead to the tonic G,
and settle there we must,
we have modulated together,
created a melody purely for us.
 
They’ve listened carefully and graciously,
and with kind, generous natures,
I feel utterly thankful,
I can create a tune again,
this time somewhat altered,
but the story still remains,
the thread of experience
a sewn line,
double stitched and emphasised.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Devi J from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Critical Daze – Text and Spoken Word – 18/07/20

    Poem: Critical Daze – Text and Spoken Word – 18/07/20

    Audio: Critical Daze
    I’m a little unsure of this one,
this piece I have to present,
I hesitantly amble downstairs,
I know they’re resting;
both have had their daily energies well spent.
 
I know I’ve already asked and presented,
but, here I go again,
a final request
for their critique,
their feedback, 
because I’m unsure whether to publish,
to share, or retain it.
 
Upon listening carefully,
a set of eyes display concern,
furrowed brow,
pursed mouth,
a negative reaction
emitted, from lips to be learned,
shrapnel flies,
from a tongue with barbed words.
 
My words have been gravely misunderstood –
how could I have been perceived
so wrongly?
 
My intentions, my messages,
my nuances,
swept away,
in place of misinterpreted messages,
which have been incorrectly heard.
 
I turn to the other listener,
this afternoon, the piece was well received,
now with further digging,
and their expanded explanation,
I realise another negative reaction is also breathed.
 
I reel, self-defensive, in a critical daze,
I defend my words hastily,
clumsily,
I fight to show my words aren’t as they say.
 
I try to marry my feelings of slight hurt
with the knowledge that I must treasure
such honesty within my home,
that I’m not afforded mere lip service to please,

that occasional brutal truth communicated
after the fact
which may sting,
is supposed to make me realise my errors,
my unintentional mistakes,

because for them,
perhaps my words hit home,
and theirs weren’t targets I was aiming to take.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Muhammad Haseeb Muhammad Suleman from Pixabay

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