Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Month: February 2022

  • poem: arisen – 28/02/22

    poem: arisen – 28/02/22

    even when I’ve not everything I need all around
    I have all I need when I’m here
    the bare minimum does not contribute to any sense of gloom
    nor quaint snipey conversations within the room
    my face doesn’t grow tired or long
    because I am here and now
    and by my side is… you.

    I know you’re tired of the same old love poems
    dedicated to you and I,
    perhaps things are about to change,
    perhaps we’ll move on, move forward,
    move forth,
    we are too good for dwelling upon the
    prior circumstance –

    we will move forward.

    no matter how long it takes,
    how many angsty bitter tunes and rhymes
    I won’t be like that today,
    at least, not this time,

    I wander our memories,
    childhood, adulthood things
    as I clean with slow ease,
    wondering what to bin, what to keep,
    what to allow as designated for others,

    and I realise how quickly time’s passed
    before my very eyes,
    and I contemplate what happened to the stars,
    the moon, oh the stars
    when my world was up in arms,
    I was angered, bitter, untidy, nasty,
    cruel to mankind,
    it wasn’t pretty,
    but it was only a spell,
    for a tiny moment in time,
    and recovery is poignant,
    it is turbulent,
    but it’s occurring,
    within hours.
    within minutes and seconds, darling.

    And those who decide to stand by me,
    as friends, as warriors, as heroes,
    times three,
    many have been here in the making
    but only three remain somehow,
    maybe more,
    but they’ve no designated doors,
    not yet, anyhow.

    I am watching and waiting for the complete revelation,
    about the words they will say and unravel
    tongues engorged like a tame good-willed Cerberus,
    I don’t know, not quite, what they can do,
    but I’m excited to see how the utterances will
    help me,
    assist me,
    my mindset, my confidence to entirely return.

    Lovingly, achingly, away from me,
    I’ve made my childhood bed, and what about you,
    dear sir?
    Shall you rise from my head?
    A memory, a mere memory?
    No, shadowy darkness and smiles,
    spirits assured.

    Now drink to us.
    Both seemingly arisen from the dead.
    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.   
    (28/2/22)
    Photo by spirit111 on Pixabay.

  • poem: which side to choose? – 27/02/22

    poem: which side to choose? – 27/02/22

    by Lauren M. Hancock

    choosing which side to take,
    it’s really not that hard,
    to rise and rise with great distinction
    or to sink and remain at large.

    there’s no shame in being positive and pretty
    with my words I will conflate them, will engorge them
    with slim and shaded shadows
    the truth has already been forged,
    lusciously, freely.

    the time I take with every piece
    I spit it out as though an undesired precious dream,
    a nightmare in fact, some have come to be
    but only in my dwindling ill-durations,
    irreverently.

    have respect for some and respect for all
    but what matters most when you’re in the presence of ghosts
    who make you laugh and cry and everything in between
    is this truth in itself
    is this really what it seems?

    more so humankind who seemed to
    prey upon me
    seemed to play with my weaker points
    reading my life
    enabled the training
    those clicks and turns all the while
    delicately, indelicately?
    there’s nothing, just an indelible style.

    I did not, do not appreciate being treated
    with operant conditioning
    I am not an animal, I am myself
    I am a woman above and underneath
    and between.

    speak not of those sickening months and years
    nor my fears, anxiety, poor Jurassic tears
    there is nothing sycophantic
    in my words right now.

    I will rise and rise
    and you’ll see –
    you’ll see how far I’ll go.

    I have the tricks I have the honesty
    I, I have the expertise
    I have the know-how,
    I have it all,
    I possess my keys,
    whether high or low-brow.
    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.
    Image from Pixabay
    (27/02/22)

  • prose poetry: the turning tides – 26/02/22

    prose poetry: the turning tides – 26/02/22

    fighting against the turning tides, the waves rise and crash upon the open shore, begging for appeasement, begging the waves for more. The fish and seashells and mermaids and mermen crawl from well beyond the shore. There’s barely anything left upon the seabed, so tumultuous it has become indeed, from tridents these waves of terror have been sent, and wreaking upon my life the charlatans and evidence of danger all around, whose going to reinstate that purple crown? That glowing iridescence that lingers above my head, once there, once gone, and once again now dead, then revived all around?

    There are starfish lingering in the bed, in the crevasses, and one large, large star within my head.
    “I am terrific,” it says, “I am here and now, won’t you reveal, won’t you remain unashamed, somehow?” I smile to myself, for this pink and yellow starfish is actually amazing to me, she’s how I see, I breathe, I be, through the very evidence that is wrought deep within me. Myself as a mermaid, no, that is not right, I need to be five pointed and note-worthy, without means of a fight. And toss and turn now, deep within my rest, I grin widely now, because I feel blessed for having entered into this scene, this amazing joy it does bring, the tides crashing upon the shore, shall I ask for more, for more, for more?

    And now these dainty little crabs dance up from beneath the sand, left way this and right way that, they don’t want to hold hands, instead a conga line they proceed, with no difficulty, of course not, please, under the sea is where they will be, under their sea indeed. The tides will evermore change but they will still irrevocably remain the same. Precious beauty and pink and blue, with danger zones nil, just a rapid wash of hues. The sun shines down brightly today, this very day, and escape, escape I shall not, come whatever may.
    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.
    Image from Pixabay
    (26/02/22)

  • poem: daggers – 25/02/22

    poem: daggers – 25/02/22

    daggers in her eyes
    she is potent with her stare
    take a needle and thread and prick that evil eye
    with precise care
    the deepest blue you did ever see
    boring into her into me
    flight takin now
    irreverently
    disrespectful they’ve brought her, me,
    down to our knees

    bruises form
    it’s a part of our love
    delicate delicate pink gangly bird
    won’t you realise
    they don’t want you to go
    because it’s better off remaining
    in the syncing of our clarified minds
    the twins the twins
    what’s left of them
    decimated before they were even alive

    but this is the way it should be
    this is the way the
    countering of my feels
    I don’t have the right to procreate
    said she
    I don’t have the right to bring another
    into the world
    not with our lingering malignancy
    mental health disease

    I live in this haze of what’s right and
    what is wrong
    loaded bullet, baby,
    do not ever face that gun
    neither shine it on a spotlight
    you are not a martyr from kingdom come
    stop crying, what’s in your mouth,
    disgusting,
    let us come undone.
    (25/02/22).
    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.
    Image from Pixabay

  • poem: to bloom – 24/02/22

    poem: to bloom – 24/02/22

    Image from Pixabay

    To bloom within means not unravelling oneself, not pulling apart the petals, but securing them to one’s own mooring, so she can be seen for who she truly is, and was and still is. Underneath all, she is full of goodness, despite the anger, the sadness, she has her own manner of charms. She has much love and charisma, but flowing over before the negative ascension and dramatic type of karma.

    Please do not misconstrue the shades which line her face, the complexion yellowing, a life and lives once gone, seemingly gone to waste, no, focus instead upon the glory within her saddened eyes, the glimmer of blue hope and the way her orbs take in the electric scope as she struggles with mental health and achieving a disguise. There were so many underhanded comments among her visit an other world, when wishing for a life with more ease.

    Reading and assessing her times, the pages lie quietly there with scribblings, handwritten notes, colour-coded, unknown is the manner in which she knows how to speak. Chaos be the matter, and chaos was at large. Largely within her mind, but certainly around her. around

    But she will be permitted to Heaven’s door one day, and asked not to leave but to continue to fight all affray, so yes, you are correct, she has not bloomed yet again again today, yesterday, nor directly this and another forthcoming day, but by goodness is she learning to co-exist and reconnect, and given the complex circumstances of her illness, that’s a mighty lot to achieve and say, she just sometimes needs to Vent.

    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.
    Image from Pixabay

  • Artwork: light and shade – 24/02/22

    Artwork: light and shade – 24/02/22

    Original artwork by myself (c) 2022 Lauren. Hancock. All rights reserved.
  • recollections: part 1 – a quick explanation – 23/02/22

    recollections: part 1 – a quick explanation – 23/02/22


    Image from Pixabay,

    Recollections Part 1 – A Quick Explanation 

There are moments in which I live to dream with caution. I know not the best of them, but damn well am I sure of some of them. When my heart will pound with the deepest tributes known to thee, the swinging songs, the flowing throngs trailing behind reverently, gowns so laced, so beautifully. 

I do know the truth here, that love will conquer all, these brides, these goddesses, will surely ascend to their throne, for the men or women within their lives have come here, arrived, with a certainty to tell, there is no agenda in the limelight, and there’s a potency with such well-meaning time. 

Because while I’m resting, my heart is flighty, dancing, petering on the edge of passing, reminiscing, outlasting, and there is naught to subsist on bar the truth, whole truth, nothing but the truth, I will force a smile at thee, passe be the tirades that have singed some’s lives from my lips. 

For being unwell was a terrible curse, it altered me again and again, a nasty little curse, a doppelgänger so unkind, so mean, so hiss-worthy, so plentifully toxic upon the wrong scene. There’s something about someone who looks in part, or whole, to be altogether, to mentally have it here, yet inside, falling under such stormy personal weather, when inside resides a shaky, untoward, fearful anxiety-driven body and mind, while on the surface, is the anger of undesired humankind. 

I neither make excuses nor make the point to hide – entirely – but these are some of my scriptures, and of your opinions, you decide. 

© 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.
  • Artwork: bubbles – 23/02/22

    Artwork: bubbles – 23/02/22

    Original artwork by myself. (c) 2022. Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

  • poem: lovers – 22/02/22

    poem: lovers – 22/02/22


    pathways and journeyman 
    women and lovers come along, stay by their sides
    they are stoic, they are calmers, 
    they wear quiet forms of armour, 
    protected by the ones they love, 
    their swords, their shields are made more potent, 
    because fighting evil and chasms and voids can be dark work
    all done in a night and days,
    without a form of talk. 

    Focus not upon the irreverent, 
    the naysayers, the belligerents, 
    and instead become entranced with beauty, 
    melody and love, 
    there is power within, if you see the beauty of a dove
    released from closed hands, with the most delicate of ease, 
    lovingly, lovingly, lives attended, 
    we, the couple will dream, 
    and now with our army of light and love, 
    we will make new pathways, 
    shining a light upon the cause. 

    there is nothing, Nothing, that can’t be stated for the truth, 
    I am there for this moment, I am here for the proof, 
    and I will become enchanted with the whistles, 
    the chirps among the trees. 
    O’ hark, a galah, oh hark, a kookaburra, 
    and hark, a morning magpie, and her lover, 
    and baby together. 

    The bent head of a dying rose that’s really just sleeping, 
    prune her not, 
    her scent so forbidden, only those worthy will sense her
    but never she censor her true remaining thoughts. 
    She has already done so by ivy wrapped around her base, 
    the shrapnel hidden tightly around her waist, 
    the armour tickling her jaw-defined face. 
    And a prince will lean in and breathe in the scent of her, 
    never forgotten, never to forget, that moment when these two
    had met. 

    © Copyright 2022. Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.  
    Image from Pixabay
  • prosody: sunshine – 22/02/22

    prosody: sunshine – 22/02/22

    During these times we need sunshine, love, affirmations and more, for the sun to shine through the dreary clouds. To bring forth the brightness within thee, to allow the circumstances to slowly ease. There is in a knowing in what comes forth, what will come next, dare I breathe, exhale, set a task? There is something glorious in again coming to know myself, because, when we take on our souls’ travesties and refill it with love, we can rejuvenate the world. Matter not the errors of the past, or the irreverent goals which we surely achieved at a half mast. Matter not do these conformities, these desires, the way I unwound myself with ease. Delicately, I broke myself over and over again, as a means, as means, to achieve my end. And then together I tried to make myself be. I grabbed the pieces, the shards of me. The broken mirror, the tainted glass. The errors of this world are half-cast shades of pink and blue, perhaps purple and green, or orange and white, tiger tales to be seen, sheer delight. And what say you to remain on guard, forever analysing this precious, beautiful world? I know not of these things, not anymore, for I am beginning to relax, become less anxiety driven, and becoming myself at long last Trust, it’s potent potion, is beginning as a spell to be cast. 
© Copyright 2022. Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.