Lauren M. Hancock

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

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

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

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

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

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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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.

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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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