Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Author: Lauren M. Hancock

  • Poem: Anything But — An Ode – 09/07/20

    Poem: Anything But — An Ode – 09/07/20

    I'll express everything to you, dear, 
I am anything but silent.

My thoughts growl, 
grumble, then shine,
like a cross curmudgeon
who's been taken aback 
by something 
strangely pleasant,
something he'd been 
wholly unaware of.

Then, I transform into a 
rising, flowing,
ecologically-friendly bag
blustering in the breeze,

useful and able to be 
disintegrated,
but in the wind 
I unwind, 
like a kite, 
I am carefree.

I am this soaring, 
colourful plastic kite,
I was that ill-tempered now
brightened woman,

and occasionally I’ll 
surprise both you and I
with exclamations of 
unhindered laughter; 
our heaven,

the joyful giggling  
in your apartment complex 
with its walls 
so paper-thin:

at the neighbours’
tired, thumping reactions,
we spared no flowered damns
for our carefree, 
witty, raucous din.

A free form that flows,
where I will travel?
No one quite knows,

I’ll settle my roots,
a modern day view,
no longer grumbling,
nor full of air,
words wheezing out,
gassy, heated ill-views;

Is it worth constantly listening,
aloud, you once pondered,
the attention mostly
focused on you?

And you winked and
smiled cheekily, 
your heart was unprotected,
you meant no true offense,
with me you need no armour.

But, you do listen,
I am ever so pleased you do.
Your apartment sings with the
songs of my drafts,
over and o’er I reiterate them,
sharing the changes with you.

I know you
sometimes suffer,
at the hands of my
oppressively
repetitive work,

but you do this
not as your duty,
but to please this
once-airborne being 

who sought you out 
not because 
she was simply lonely,
not because of 
any selfish need,

but because she truly  
admired you 
and desires
your continued, 
charming company.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by danoliver2 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Lingering – 09/07/20

    Poem: Lingering – 09/07/20

    The silence greets me.
The questions which I have uttered are left
lingering,
their syllables carelessly thrown
to the wind.
 
It’s not a struggle to have let them go,
in fact, they’re a release,
a moment of crisis,
a catharsis,
 
and I know, I know,
that not every utterance should be
an emancipation,
but lately, most have been.
 
What is wanted, what is required? 
Being a poet, I can be selfish, if I decide,
of needs and desires
I need not necessarily deliver.
I can humour myself and my needs alone,
indulgent word fantasies like thickets grown.
 
But then, where would I be,
with no audience to breathe with,
to greet?
 
No more morning sparkles and shine,
their visits revealing notifications,
understandings that I’ve created something
that’s cast a modest net,
caused an effect.
 
Because when I link with my readers,
it’s the most wonderful feeling,
my mission has been successful,
I’ve helped them enter my realm,
 
how ever grateful am I for their presence
and careful scanning eyes,
your presence encourages me to continue
detailing my pain and paradise.  

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

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  • Poem: Making Mountains Out of Molehills? – 08/07/20

    Poem: Making Mountains Out of Molehills? – 08/07/20

    I glare at the
splotches of raw colour
in the mirror:
one, two, three,
four, more.
 
An adolescent’s
dreaded nightmare;
immense, angry, welt-like, firm.
 
They’re like curious mountains
which have arisen overnight,
swollen and painful,
because I insist on 
irritating their surface 
though I know 
it’s not right,
 
they flare, they throb
with each unsuccessful
squeeze I make,
 
who knew a war’s
been waged against me,
one I’ve unwittingly
been forced to undertake??

How to remove these
painful sites from my face,
clear my complexion
as if by magic?
 
I feel as though I might
require some form of
divine intervention,
because these mountains,
not molehills,
are certainly not budging.
 
Makeup:
foundation, concealer,
could work a treat,
but only if these
unsightly visitors sat flat
at 180 degrees.
 
If they were simple,
mere blemishes,
I could paint them
into obscurity,
 
however, this
aggressive adult acne
is really
my current reality.
 
I sit, perplexed,
wondering what to do,
it hurts when I
attempt to drain them,
the thought disgusts and
revolts me, too.
 
I have an important date
scheduled which I 
need later attend,

but I suspect I’ll be sending
my apologies
if I can’t make
the blemishes heal 
and cleanse,
fastidiously empty my pores,
leave them open once again.
 
Well, it looks as though
I’ll be staying home,
I’m not vain for 
avoiding company,
the solitude of my home is 
where it's safest,
where I can hide these
mountains raw and glistening.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.  
Image credit: Clip-Art Library

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  • Poem: Addiction – 08/07/20

    Poem: Addiction – 08/07/20

    Addiction,
it can reveal itself in 
many insidious forms:

drugs,
alcohol,
food,
another person,
even yourself.
 
It starts off small,
nothing sinister,
just a drag here, a sip there,
a few excited texts in a row,
or the journal in which
you scrawl 
endless thoughts of your own.
 
Addiction,
it’s potent,
perhaps you’ll succumb to it,
grasping blindly,
fingernails dragging,
internally snarling,
give me him/it/that/treat
need it want it
can’t be without it
 
The pen scrawls as though
it’s a mind of its own,
detailing your lover
or your self-obsession,
your catharsis,

you’re stuck, stuck, stuck,
on sharing -
won’t someone help 
break this cycle?
 
Addiction, it’s engulfed me
it’s taken o’er,
I am wallowing,

and now
and now
and now
I cannot stop
I won’t,
because I do not know how.

My addiction, all former 
afflictions cast aside, 
this was the one left to
to quietly fester and grow.

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

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  • Poem: Afterthought – A Longing – 08/07/20

    Poem: Afterthought – A Longing – 08/07/20

    Quietness,
the solitude,
I can exist,
for a while, at least,
without him.
 
Though he left
hardened punctures within me,
calibre-deep,
wounded,
gaping,
shrapnel succumbing,
 
I can still see right through me,
transparency
in my views,
aiming for blatant and softened truths,
now decidedly vulnerable,
but paralysed though,
extracting the spirit from herself,
she is often her own news.
 
She’ll exist by herself,
without him,
because his silent judgements,
provocations and admonishments
stripped her,
tore her love-worn, barren world apart.
 
There’s no fixing the damage,
but she will celebrate those wounds
for they prove she is human
easily broken,
 
and that she is not as
impenetrable as once believed
she is like him,
but not.
 
Unlike him,
she still possesses feeling,
and how this reflects,
shining upon her,
she’s real,
undeserving of being his mere afterthought.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.  
Image by Engin Akyurt from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Where the Pretty Ones Live – A Romance – 07/07/20

    Poem: Where the Pretty Ones Live – A Romance – 07/07/20

    Where the pretty ones live
is where some want to be,
posed or slouched so elegantly,
chiffon dresses or satin clinging.
 
Where the pretty ones live
is where some want to 
spend some time,
gracefully sipping champagne,
for hours talking softly 
or romancing.
 
Where the pretty ones live
is where I found you,
strong yet awkward,
though slightly out of place,
 
but,
you were poised,
you were prepared,
you were honest and true,
 
and,
where the pretty ones exist
is where we forged our intent,
tenor and alto lines 
so rich and sweet,
I couldn’t conjure 
such a melody,
ours was of 
fantastical truth.

Where the strongest survive
is where we travelled to,
once floundering, 
we now clung to each another,
swept away from those beings,
left them afar,
 
and where the bravest reside,
we carried ourselves 
with great courage,
to rebuild bridges of our 
past insecurities
into palatable platforms 
which were warm,
serene, and inviting.
 
We didn’t need the 
presence of pretty ones
to make us feel complete,
we had each other,
and this was progress to be seen,
 
through many an endless ocean,
o’er many mountains,
upon winding paths and
cobblestone roads
we would traverse,
 
the pretty ones could
heave and breathe
their distaste and 
their bitterness,
upon neither of us
their jealous airs would be cast.
 
Because,
while pretty ones are
interesting in the moment,
we have advanced ourselves,
refashioned our near-empty selves 
into stoic
iron and mortar,

we are no longer 
impressionable,
weak,
overly tender,

through each other, 
we've found ourselves,
alone or together, 
we are stronger because of the other.
 
We no longer needed 
to listen to their gossip,
indulgent hissed and 
giggled tales between
champagne bubbles 
and sips of wine,

no,
no, my precious,
we have made ourselves truly whole, 
we have made ourselves divine.

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

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  • Poem: Stop This Madness – 07/07/20

    Poem: Stop This Madness – 07/07/20

    If you’ve been asked if you’ve
a cold or a cough,
and you answer in the
negative,

then you sit down
and begin to wheeze,
what are you doing here?
Potentially putting 
others' lives at risk.

The medical receptionist,
she looks mildly irritated,
and highly concerned,
at the fact that this cough could
be an effect of that which
we are all so fearful of.

You’re making others edgy,
I know I’m sitting here anxious,
wondering whose air is
fleetingly expiring:
are your particles contagious?

We are in a pandemic,
you’ve been exposed to
screening questions,
here I sit,
upset,
because the coughing just
will not cease.
 
Other patients
begin to grumble,
I can hear the disapproval
in their tones,
 
though I cannot discern
their words clearly,
I know they’re wondering why
a tele-health appointment
wasn’t arranged,
why the offending splutterer
did not stay at home.
 
I know that we all have a right
to be seen to
when we are unwell,
but please,
won’t you abide by the rules?
 
I wish you the medical attention
you require,
but your presence
could prove a risk to us all.
 
I could sit here and
ignore the noises,
not allow them to make me
glance over
my shoulder with irritation,
 
because I care for my health,
and others too,
I wouldn’t attend the clinic
if I had a persistent cough,
and I hoped that neither would you.
 
Please stay safe,
and allow others to remain so, too.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Photo by Glen Carrie on Unsplash

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  • Poem: Truth Within the Marrow – 07/07/20

    Poem: Truth Within the Marrow – 07/07/20

    Occasionally, I struggle to find the words
to speak,
to correctly express
my sincerity,
 
because sincere is how I wholly desire
to be viewed,
and I don’t wish for any
unfair prejudice or judgement.
 
I simply wish for
the right combination,
the winning ordering that shows
everything in part
or in whole,
that which I deem as important to know,
 
because,
little use would there be
in frightening myself into insincerity,
falsified expressions and pandering a-plenty,
 
disingenuousness and bent truths are not
how I’ve been raised,
not how I’ve been brought up to be.
 
Sometimes, I am too honest
and obvious for
my own good,
 
I can frighten or perturb
even those close to me,
with revelations,
with words they’ve never
seen nor heard,
 
they’d previously not have
considered them to be part of
my reality or path.
 
A close friend
recently listened
to my
recorded words,
 
which detailed several
mental health episodes,
my path, my mindset
was so unwell,
 
and here appeared shock,
stilted confusion,
quiet concern,
 
perhaps of my candour
and thought processes
he felt mildly aghast,
of the true extent of my illness
he had become more learned.
 
Unaware these prior thoughts
were what I had experienced,
for him, they must have
truly terrified.
 
I know for me,
at the time of their awakening,
some frightened the life
from me, too.  
 
But, I have this bone
within me
which I do not
want to pick,
 
in fact, it should be
lovingly stroked,
even strummed,
gently caressed,
 
because it assists
me with the melodies
of which I live, breathe and speak,
be they lilting,
or melancholy extended elegies.
 
The truth within my marrow,
it is rich and it is potent,
I will embrace it,
I will suck it clean,
 
I have allowed the taste 
to permeate my being,
and I will allow the honesty 
to embroil,
to envelope,
to overtake me.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image credit: Clipart Library.com - Wishbone   

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  • Poem: Bloated Wattle Buds – 07/07/20

    Poem: Bloated Wattle Buds – 07/07/20

    Delicate wattle buds
hanging preciously
in the air,
framed by their yawning captor
who, with great regiment
keeps them together.
 
The picturesque scene
a corner-bound
introvert’s dream,
stems forcefully
held in Captor’s cavity,
like binding a spell,
there is intention,
this method has been
carefully crafted.
 
While one may initially
joyfully glance upon this
pleasing scene,
 
the controversial feature,
by us, the pollen is not meant
to be captured;
it is meant to roam free,
 
bloated balls of yellow,
tickling masses for striped bees
and pollination,
as they were intended,
 
not for them to be wrenched away,
stolen by a gardener’s gentle need to
grasp hold of beauty in order 
for it to be specifically seen.
 
But how was
the gardener to know?
The vivid yellow
drew the pollen
to her,
 
perhaps reminded by the 
patriotic nature
of yellow and green –
“our land is girt by sea”,
 
though, she should not
be held accountable for
anything other than
introducing the pollen’s
cruel captor to the bunch,
 
a vase an unworthy adversary
for bees which require
pollen like this,
to continue their
fervent collections.
 
The presence of the
buds begins to annoy me,
what, with their false bravado
and natural cheeriness,
 
I shan’t destroy this arrangement,
but I am considering
putting it away.
 
Out of sight and out of mind,
I release unto the hidden pollen
a welcome, famished swarm.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image credit: Myself

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  • Poem: Butterfly Needle – 06/07/20

    Poem: Butterfly Needle – 06/07/20

    How much can I
provide of myself
before the dripping
blood ceases
then clots?
 
A silent protesting
of my vein that
I’ve given all I
can willingly give –
there comes a point
where I must stop.
 
The vein is worn,
to extract any
further would require
that butterfly needle,
that gentle implement
those kind phlebotomists
insert when wishing to
avoid me extra pain.
 
Upon insertion,
the tenseness I
did not know
existed releases,
melts away,
 
and here I am,
bleeding again,
for me, us, them,
sharing as I see fit,
as I secretly adore to,
always.
 
There can be pain
in the share,
but there is
hope,
aching admissions, too,
 
emotions detangling
like a mass of headphones
all in confusing white,
each pod
begging for an ear
because I believe
some words need to
be heard.
 
Sometimes the blood
coagulates
on its own accord,
the flow will cease,
no need to be dismayed,
I inform myself,
 
there’s plenty of opportunity
to scrape that clot away,
it does not need
to be heeded,
felt,
acknowledged,
or seen.
 
And I’ll share as
much personal experience
as I can,
the butterfly needle
now redundant,
give me that thicker gauge,
so I can make a better exit,
 
Dramatic, you say?
Not at all,
I’m just being me.

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

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