July 2020 – Page 3 – Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Poem: Alphabet Soup – 18/07/20

Within my soup is the alphabet,
jumbled senseless,
no words,
an A to a C,
to a Q, and then
U!
I look up and smile,
I’m glad you found me.
 
I chuckle to myself,
what ironic wit,
if I do say so, modestly, myself,
 
you reach your hand out,
the right, clasping your spoon,
I bat it away mischievously,
this word play you will not rule!
 
Allow us to fish out one vowel
or one consonant at a time,
gently lay their pasta forms
on the line,
and arrange and rearrange,
magnificent times,
we have puns of fun which we multiply.
 
Then all of a sudden, you shriek with delight!
C-A-N-: you proudly win the fight,
but to my left,
I quickly grab a napkin, a pen,
and scrawl,
G-A-M-E O-V-E-R:
this winner takes all!

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

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Poem: Rising Before Dawn – 17/07/20

The condensation on the window glistens
as though it begs for my finger
to trail through it,
to create snail trails minus sticky bubbles,
to drag paths only for me to view.
 
Instead, I poke, poke, poke,
through the fly screen,
blobbed dots like painterly expressions,
and I giggle once, twice, to myself,
how amused I can be,
so easily.
 
I wait for Dawn to arrive,
for morning to gently arise,
to show her colours,
maybe pink, maybe orange,
maybe blue,
what is waiting for me?
My eyes are widened,
amazed by a future view.
 
But for now, I’ll sit,
watching the darkness,
pondering,
Is this it?
Is this all it’s come down to,
an inability to dream?
 
Because suddenly, I can no longer
imagine a world rich with colour,
my ability’s been strangely drained from me,
an unhealthy pallor,
all monochrome,
where is this artist’s colour wheel now?
 
You ask me my favourite shade.
I no longer know the answer.
 
Bleak is what this situation has become,
bleak, depressive, and dire,
and I do not believe this sudden sadness
can be undone,
but I will fight,
fight to view Dawn’s rising, raging fire.

Perhaps she can cure me
of my hasty melancholy,
a healing power,
upon her very hour,
this monochromatic viewpoint may
waltz aside, after all, 
come and go, 
maybe I needn't feel any rising panic,
I secretly wonder if I can heal myself all on my own.

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

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Poem: Broken Heart Syndrome – Text and Spoken Word -17/07/20

Audio: Broken Heart Syndrome

Author's Note:
The Australian state in which I live is currently in its second stage of Stage 3 lockdown due to soaring daily cases of COVID-19 infections. Stage 4 restrictions appear to be looming. As one can imagine, the isolation and change of lifestyle is mentally taking a toll on a lot of us.

Alas! My heart is breaking,
for calm, it is calling,
for normalcy, it shrieks,
for peace, my aches do not heed.
Undone! is my control,
myself as marionette seems not to
be letting down,
Lockdown, Second Round,
is playing tricks on my mind, on all of ourselves.
Life as we know it has shattered,
we must ride out this infection,
how to combat and avoid something
so unseen and sinister?
I cry!
Tears seep from the corners of my eyes.
Will we become entirely undone
by an invisible fiend
which lurks and rides in places we can
but cannot see?

2.0 is here for us,
and we are living through it,
not knowing whom next will be affected,
the ignorant laugh and socialise en masse,
and say, Not us!
Not them, indeed?
My heart is breaking,
What have we done?
Some leave their house with symptoms,
thinking we’ll all be fine,
that this illness is not that contagious,
yet one step into the public’s eyes
and exposure is a risk,
some flaunt their 'right' to unnecessarily shop,
to browse,
some fail to properly think.
My broken heart syndrome
overwhelms me now,
everything is too much
to cope with,
isolation has its pitfalls,
left to quietly think at length inside this room,
dysfunctional is the life within my chest,
combating me is emotional stress,
in the beginning I thought I’d get through this,
I thought I knew best…
I hope things improve soon.

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

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Poem: Hibernation – 17/07/20

A calm bear,
sedated by the lulling nature of food,
excessive within his belly,
he can hide away more easily.
 
He is fattened up,
layered with furry clothing he’s
eaten and fashioned for his form,
each pair of bear-like track-pants or layered sweatshirts
are perfectly suited to him.
 
I am like this creature
but I have swallowed my words,
living off the bare minimum,
but in reality, I’ve indulged myself,
I roll around my cave
with obvious glee
because my words I am saving,
banking up,
quietly.
 
And around me, like a chain they’ve grown,
wanted links,
interwoven with themselves, their own,
I am not secured,
but I am enclosed,
though in a method I am wanting.
 
Then the links become daisy chains,
they’re delicate, adorable, agreeable,
some children might say the work of the fairies,
and while this once-lumbering bear will sleep,
I will always wear this fresh crown of linked daisies.
 
My load has been lightened,
I’m decorated with white and yellow,
and as I enter the bear’s quarters with spare flowers,
I tiptoe gently, ever so lightly,
I will make him king,
for while he temporarily sleeps,
when, disgruntled and hungry he will arise,
at least he'll have something pleasant to greet him.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Pexels from Pixabay

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Poem: Welcomed Home – Text and Audio – 16/07/20

I welcome the rain,
it is cleansing away
the angst which seems to be
my permanent ailment.
 
I welcome its wash,
its ability to stream away
the grime of yesterdays.
 
I invite its arrival
for I know the longer I remain
being whittled away by
little droplets
hollowing me all around,
the more worthy I will feel,
with my brave ability to hold 
my head high with a beaming smile.
 
I grow emotional,
one eye – only the right –
tears up,
it is my regretful side,
the side I led with most,
my foot which began all
ill-fated travels,
paths which I took.
 
Right before left, I’d always
say in my head,
for some reason, the phrase stuck,
right before left,
not left before right,
still rings within my mind.
 
I throw off my outer layers,
step, with left foot,
further into the pummelling rain,
it is strangely pleasant,
its attack,
I’ve tuned out;
it’s mostly dulled, numbing pain.
 
In fact, it’s rather like a
needling sensation,
or what I’d imagine it to be,
the harsh drops begin to fall on an angle,
as though wanting to wash closer
with dire haste toward me.
 
I feel my skin begin to loosen,
or is it bubbling now?
Increased pain,
it’s probably for the best I shed
this outer skin,
for I am developing within,
a physical transformation will reflect this somehow.
 
My anguish is now lacking
as I peel back sheets of my bare layer,
I am a monstrosity, but I don’t mind,
I’ll eventually heal from this indelicate picture.
 
Pieces of me upon the ground, 
pieces of me all around,
away from myself!
Now I’m pink,
fresh-skinned,
a bare-faced woman soon to be welcomed home.

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

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Poem: Good Samaritans – 16/07/20

Who is the Good Samaritan
in your life?
 
Hiding around corners,
quiet until
you’re experiencing strife?
 
Say you feel
your heart
erratically pounding,
left armpit paining,
and you fall, broken,
gasping desperately
to your knees,
 
who is the stranger
who steps forth,
up and ahead,
begins resuscitation,
breathing life
into your hungering lungs,
to keep going that massive, 
yet weakening heart?
 
Who remains calm,
attends to you,
keeping panic from your mind,
helps you focus on 
the positive things instead,
such as the future of your life?
 
You’re a good Samaritan, too,
you’ll help out
humankind where
you can,
 
anyone in pain
or suffering,
of course, within reason,
you’ll extend a helping hand.
 
I think within
us all –
most of us –
there is the propensity,
the desire to help,
 
to ensure the ailing,
the suffering,
the despairing, saddened, or sick
are attended to,
with a sense of hope and care ongoing.
 
Empathy is within
most of us,
given the opportunity
I’m sure we’d
want to help,
 
to better another's
circumstances,
or are my thoughts far
too positive?
I do not wish to overwhelm.
 
But I hold hope
for the general populace,
their empathy,
emotional intelligence held,
whether developed 
rapidly or slowly,
 
underneath we’re all
Good-Samaritans-to-be,
even if some of you think
mine is an idealistic dream.

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

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July 16, 2020

Poem: The Irritated Sleep Poem – 16/07/20

I am tired,
exhausted,
feels like I barely slept a wink.
 
I don’t know who
wakes me,
but I stumble up and down
for a thirst-quenching drink,
 
my slumber interrupted,
four am or half past two,
what can I do
to simply sleep through?
Do I need to beat my pillow to tire myself,
until my knuckles turn raw red, or black and blue?
 
I operate through days like a zombie,
lidded eyes,
confused and grumbling,
 
wanting to get through the day,
yet all I’ll do is sleep it away,
I curl on the couch
though heater’s on,
I’m still freezing,
come what may, hey?
 
My rigid form
encourages only stilted blood flow,
if I moved more, I would warm up
but I only want to curl up just so.
 
My attitude easily becomes belligerent,
my irritation arises,
I need uninterrupted sleep, just once,
goddamn it,
how can I sort this problem out right???

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

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Poem: Ballerina in a Box – Audio and Text – 16/07/20

“Ballerina in a Box”

Flickers in her eyes
like candlelit fairy lights,
a pair of wings of gossamer,
she breathes and heaves her magic all over,
lightness is present all around.
 
Her sparkles cover her fragile form,
yet ignorant or impervious are those
who refuse her sight
and her magnificent airy sound,
then all of a sudden, a box slams!

Something hits the ground.
 
She’s captured
like a ballerina,
presented in a crass jewellery box,
whom dances in circles and circles all around,
all day and all night and all the same.
 
She adheres to certain requirements,
the lightness,
the frail form, she meets their expectant looks,
but her interior melody is strong,
well composed,
and her heart, it has its own set of wings, too.
 
She leaps and bounds and twirls
around societal requirements
more and more,
she weaves dictated beauty before scrutiny 
as though ribbons which dance in the wind and 
plait themselves further together,
favourite colours of pink, yellow, blue, purple, and green.
 
But, Ballerina, dear dancer! 
Once born a free sprite,
tied down, though maybe not,
she won’t allow expectations
to make her stagnant,
her jewellery box to rot,
she is impeded, somewhat,
though if necessary,
she knows how to leave,
it sounds simpler than reality,
more often than not.
 
She'll simply stop spinning her pirouette,
become still once more,
and those observers,
with their child-like wonder
will soon grow bored of her;
close they will her Reality’s door.
 
Magically, she may return to a sprite,
wings of glittering gossamer,
free to take her flight,
and flickers in her widened eyes
which will dance and flare like delicate flames
aided by greedy kerosene.

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

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Poem: A Meandering Path – 14/07/20

Meandering,
I take a walk down
Future’s Lane,
to view what’s on offer,
what goodies can I take?
 
To pluck from the bushes,
to gather from the trees,
elegant prizes which await me,
I need not beg,
nor lower myself to my knees.
 
For my future seems rich,
not with pennies or gold,
but with strength and
well-formed experiences,
they’re settled,
they’re silver, poetry and prose,
platinum and palladium,
I need not worry about golden views.
 
For the kingdom which beckons
and calls out my name,
from Future’s path
winding path to it from which I came,
it is modest,
it is small,
but perfect for me
and my quiet heart alone.
 
I’ve plucked the fruits
from the trees,
scrambled past brambles and briars
where curious-eyed rabbits rest,
awaiting me,
but within my kingdom,
is something only which I know of its name.
 
It is Freedom,
personal freedom,
to be as I wish and I will,
 
he’s a powerful soldier,
he’s waited for years,
and now, we are linked,
acceptance all the same.
 
I’m surprised he knows
me by name,
an excited fan’s moment,
mutual admiration
as he explains,
 
“I waited many years for you,
for your heart and courage
to expand,
as the entity I am,
you need not hold
my hand,
 
but you have arrived,
you’ll understand this more
as you continue growing on your journey,
your path.”
 
I smile to myself, I have my match,
he is here presenting a viewpoint,
offering what my path can be,
his freedom, my freedom, I could firmly grasp,
 
but then I realise,
I am already free,
because I have travelled near and far,
and to this Future, and seen what I have seen.
 
Thus, I will return to the present,
with this knowledge that now, not with time,
I already possess the courage and freedom
to live my life,

with honesty, strength and courage,
no one possesses my life other than me,
I am who I am,
I am alive, I am free.

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

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Some Candid Thoughts – 14/07/20

I was told: no one wants to hear about your problems. No one is interested in them. They’re not problems, I wanted to explain, they’re reflections, ruminations, story-telling. Is anyone bothered by the tales I share? I’m sharing hoping for relatablity. For the ability to connect, to cause a feeling, or emotion, within the person who’s reading.
 
I don’t mean to perturb, though sometimes my shares will shock. That’s not my main intent. I am concerned by their statements. Because, if it is true that people don’t want to read, why do I have readers return to read my words, the numbers may have fallen but of my release, I am still hanging on.
 
I am grateful for each single word you read, which you digest. If you can’t make it all the way through, I understand, some topics may not be for you. But I appreciate that you are here as part of a type of therapy, the sharing allows an offloading feeling, the heaviness of a topic shared between others lightens the load.
 
I’m not a woman constantly filled with turmoil, a walking accident, a travelling mistake. I suffer and thrive from many things that you do, too. We could be one and the same, for all I know.
 
We may not be so different after all. Thank you for your comments and encouragement on my posts, also. They really do mean a lot, and make me feel as though I’m on the right path with my writing.

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