Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

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  • Poem: First and Foremost – Spoken Word and Text – 25/06/20

    Poem: First and Foremost – Spoken Word and Text – 25/06/20

    https://soundcloud.com/user-894707136/first-and-foremost-spoken-word-poetry-1 
    Jovial and content,
happy, playful, sweet,
a way of living has evolved
from haphazard,
crazed dreams.
 
Where I tumbled
from one scene
to another,
trying to find where I belonged,
 
acceptance, love,
were what I was seeking,
the line thrown to reach them
rigid and taut.
 
No more slapdash or faux pas moments,
lacking of personal respect or dignity,
when trying to be cool,
outgoing,
effervescently fun,
 
doesn’t the truth sometimes prove itself
so sad, that tale to read?
The invisible ink in my journal runs,
of catharsis, I’ve no longer
any need.
 
The party girl,
while wild and popular,
only appeals
in that moment,
out of context,
her vivaciousness
can overwhelm,
 
I’d rather sit quietly,
penning a soliloquy,
read a beautiful sonnet,
or appreciate a heartfelt song.

Darker tales there are to tell,
crawling amongst
soot, filth,
and grime,
 
an underlining of
their facts,
they are acknowledged,
here recognised,
if I were more civilised,
I’d toast them away
with you
with hearty glasses of rich, health-coloured wine.
 
No real compatibility determined,
so many met,
yet my personality,
heart, looks, or mind,
did not seem to fit,
 
finally, I realised
I needed to be
happy, accepting,
and loving to myself,
first and foremost,
only me.
 
With true acceptance
came an
overwhelming sense
of realisation,
 
an understanding
of how much I’d
lost myself in
the naivety,  
the flighty dreaming
of youth,
 
the one true love
I first needed was myself,
and only then
could l reach out for
the hand
of another,
this is truth,
 
to have,
to hold,
to care,
to acknowledge as a
warming, doting other,
someone who will always be there.

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

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  • Poem: Chirpy Little Bubbles – Text and Audio – 25/06/20

    Poem: Chirpy Little Bubbles – Text and Audio – 25/06/20

    Communication cruelly cut,
aren’t I a sight to see?
A trembling, blubbering,
emotional mess,
the stress is
clearly affecting me.
 
Why did you
withdraw your words,
love?

Was there 
something untoward
that I said?
 
Will you and I be apart forever?
My unintentional
offense meaning
I’ve made my bed?
 
Oh, darling,
how I will
miss you,
those cheeky,
clever thoughts
you’ve shared,
 
while I am here,
absolutely annihilated,
decimated by you,
my formerly
treasured sound,
my prize.
 
Because what I
long for most,
more than anything
in this world,

is to
capture bubbles
encasing your words,
your voice,
in shimmering iridescence,
 
and when I will
pop, pop, pop,
these little bubbles,
your charming, warming
voice will be
brought forth
only to me.

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

***Author's Note*** 
I'm sure you all know the feeling when you think you must have said something wrong because the other person stops replying. This poem can be read in either a humorous, lighthearted manner, or in a more serious tone.
    https://soundcloud.com/user-894707136/chirpy-little-bubbles-spoken-word-poem

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  • Poem: Bring Forth the Sun; Negativity is Done – 25/06/20

    Poem: Bring Forth the Sun; Negativity is Done – 25/06/20

    Cast aside this negativity,
as though with a
magic wand!
Brand new
circumstances,
the air is clear
to breathe.
 
No more choking
on carbon,
soot impeding
our ability
to exist,
 
the dark clouds
have cleared,
this magic stick
has many
mighty pleased.
 
Why the need
for such sombre
tirades,
bitter self-reflection
on and on?
 
Now, we’re seeing
the sunshine
peeking through
curious, fluffy clouds
 
which beckon us,
which beckon me,
allow the positivity
to be warming,
felt,
and to be seen.
 
Like an embrace from
a dear, lost friend,
feel the heart within
my words,
as I wish you
all the best,
 
the clouds smile,
shift and wink.
 
Negativity has
no place in
the mornings
or evenings,
 
unless there’s
a specific
point to be
made, heard,
or seen.

Dreary days have gone,
dissipated 
into nothingness,

may we be ever-thankful
the mindset has changed, 
I know for this
I feel utterly blessed. 

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Stood Up – 24/06/20

    Poem: Stood Up – 24/06/20

    I sit in the bar quietly
where I am docile,
where I often softly wept
nomadic tears of loneliness,

I long to be held,
to feel loved and alive,
not empty, bereft, and alone.
 
Desperately, I sought matches out,
for a connection that was perfect,
meant for them and I alone,
an exhilarating circumstance,
where two pairs of eyes would lock,
they'd meet,
and both our hearts would begin to fervently pound.
 
But, in this bar,
I have been expecting,
I have been awaiting your arrival,

your welcomed beeps became a cessation,
fifteen minutes after you were
meant to sidle in with a smile.
 
You promised you’d be here,
you’d been waiting so long
to meet me,

our discourse has been
passionate and intellectual,
potent and electric,

lightning stimulated my heart
each time I heard that tone,
the sound to reassure me
your interest was still there

whether by the shining sunlight
or the calming moon
upon which I would 
dream and stare.
 
I felt you may have been made for me,
at least that’s what I hoped for,
suspected,
but now you’ve disappeared off
the radar,
I text my friends -
one cruelly tells me
your absence is expected.
 
I feel lost,
I feel used,
I feel stupid,
I feel dumb,

if only you hadn’t gotten my hopes up,
these tears wouldn’t have appeared,
why did you run?
Which actions of mine were so untoward,
what about me is inherently wrong?

Like you made yourself into a magic trick,
I, too, will make these stinging tears vanish,
I'll walk away,
feigned pride in my stride,

and if you'll call,
I'll have nothing left to say,
a man like you
has no place in my life.  

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

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  • Poem: They Can Try – 23/06/20

    Poem: They Can Try – 23/06/20

    Sometimes in this life,
you’ll come across
people who want to
bring you down.
 
To place you lower
than themselves,
denigrate,
control your voice,
mute your sound.
 
They may be able
to control within
a certain realm,
where cavalry
and royalty
exist where they live,
 
but they cannot
snatch the fight from you,
your opportunity
to present your facts,
to fervently express,
to succinctly speak.
 
Perhaps you’re unaccepted in
their built-up kingdom,
but the fact of the
matter is, 
I’m not sinking,
I don’t need saving.
 
Am I a pesky person
for sharing on and on
at length,
confessions in the form of
poetry,
blunt or flowery,
sometimes thicker than timber,
facts to be saved, learned or relived?
 
Is this a crime or sin?
 
I shan’t allow
the silencing to have
any ill effect,
 
if I’m not welcome,
I’m unwelcome,
an ironic fact this is.
 
I shall carry on,
carry on,
I don’t need to
share when words
are halted by others,
I’ll accept the apparent ruse,
 
and right the wrongs
by continuing to
share as I see fit,
I have my own space
for poetic compositions and tunes.

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

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  • Poem: The Mirror: In-Between and Afar – 23/06/20

    Poem: The Mirror: In-Between and Afar – 23/06/20

    I drag out my colours,
many hues to
create a show,
 
A popularity contest?
Or a forceful appearance?
How will the audience react?
Perhaps I already know.
 
I begin to create,
build the underpainting,
of the basics
of that face,
 
that wide-eyed,
mildly shocked expression
that shows she’s 
realised something,
or that some fact has her
strangely amazed.
 
Painstakingly – no!
Haphazardly yes!
Do I slap on her colours,
her pigments,

she’s really shaping up
to be a
beautiful one, you see,
tinges of 
hot then cool colours; 
convergence.
 
Borne of chaos,
borne of haste,
her hues shimmer,
her tones scintillate,
 
they really create that
visual realm
where we are
taken on a journey –
her journey –
but where did she travel?

No one knows but me.

Because as I look in the mirror
to reference the
painterly revelation
of my personality,
its travel, 
my development
here upon this Earth,
 
I smile to myself,
for the chaos has settled,
inner beauty and outward wonder
in my life have appeared,
they have shown their faces
at last.
 
Now the shades begin
to seamlessly blend,
coagulation of tints,
colours melt,
warming trends,
 
the appreciation in this
character’s eyes
for her world
is plain for all
to see.
 
Relaxed shoulders and posture,
thankful, ever grateful,
for the ability of self-development
and the ability to finally feel
so free.
 
From a frenzied presence
to a gracious, determined being,
for life’s progression and lessons
I thank my lucky stars,

I adore how life
has allowed much growth so far,
and my eyes,
those painterly eyes,
are staring right back at me,

no longer hollow or aching,
widened or shocked
but knowing,

understanding what’s beyond for
her and myself,
in the future,
in our Afar,

our qualities, our realities,
our emotional experiences,
this is the priceless wealth
of the land of In-between,
melded, we finally are.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo: myself 
Soundcloud background music: 
Music: Memory - AShamaluevMusic. 
Music Link: https://youtu.be/5D3JTidH59g

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    Poem: Gnawing Nails – 22/06/20
    
			
    Poem: Gnawing Nails – 22/06/20
    
			
    

    




    Fingernails ache
from gnawing,
desperately famished
things are they,
 
ever-searching,
ever-hunting,
for fresh flesh
to drag into –
carefully they will
take aim.
 
These nails are not
discerning,
they take,
rip apart,
any creature that they can,
 
fury, famine,
circumstances,
alleviating hunger,
annihilating the need for Man.
 
Man used to feed
these monsters
perishable items
from the woods,
 
cuts of venison,
moose,
rabbit;
the fingernails took
what they could.
 
But now Man is
out of the picture,
attending to protests,
restrictions,
leading disrupted lives,
 
Man has no time
to humour a pair
of dirty, scroungy hands,
no, not now,
not upon this hour,
not any longer.
 
Fending for themselves,
the gory extremities
cast their digits
on the war path,
 
feeling duly pleased
with the freedom
they’re allowed,
 
there is no concern,
they are rulers of
their world.
 
In the corner of
a trench in the woods
they spot a flash
of browny-red,
 
a squirrel,
bless him,
he’s making his final bed,
 
they reach out for him,
darting forth,
blurs to be seen,
 
but when the light settles,
there is no sign of him.
 
Squirrel, Squirrel,
has escaped his fate,
how much longer will he last?
 
Disappointed fingertips,
tap, rap, tap,
underlying hunger,
growing famine,
 
only now do they long for,
yearn for the return 
of their precious, absent
Man.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay
    




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    Poem: The Thundering Waves – Spoken Word and Text – 22/06/20
    
			
    Poem: The Thundering Waves – Spoken Word and Text – 22/06/20
    
			
    

    




    

    

    




    The quiet solitude
as waves roll in,
their silent crescendos,
thundering vibrations
only I can feel within.
 
The rumbling of
their presence
marks tremulous
tumultuous moments,
fear impending,
a sense of doom
all around.
 
When did I
sign up for
this battlefield?
 
One in which
only I
can sense and
anticipate,
but with not a
shred of volume
to warn
as my heavy breaths
heave and leave.
 
The desperate notion
of reaching forth
for something
that’s invisible,
only sensed,
not heard or
or even seen.
 
The waves,
their raucous fights,
go frightfully
in my night
as I toss and turn
inherent confusion: –
impeded sight.
 
I grasp ahead,
feeling for safety,
though the nothingness
meets me,
my desire for freedom
is far too hasty.
 
I spin and spin,
vertigo in my head,
a woman in distress,
instead of feeling
calm,
well-rested,
blessed.
 
These thunderous
waves of consciousness
roll on and on,
and on,
may I please
escape from them?
 
Or be hailed by
heavy reliving of
a personal, solitary hell.
 
The vibrations chase me
in my dreams,
as yonder, yonder,
I fervently reach,
 
Will I live to tell my tales?
Will the waves crash on opposing shores?
I can only hope they’ll recede,
if not,
I’ll fend them off with
primal roars.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by Dimitris Vetsikas from Pixabay
Recording: Myself

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    Poem: Yesterday’s News – 20/06/20
    
			
    Poem: Yesterday’s News – 20/06/20
    
			
    

    




    Why would I want
yesterday’s news?
Through stale headlines
I’d peruse,
 
collecting well-learned facts,
impact flatter than a tack,
what am I to do
with yesterday’s news?
 
Just yesterday,
headlines stunned,
they proved 
others’ wrongs,

what was going on
in people’s
calm, proud, or contentious
lives,
 
but, tell me this,
my interest’s amiss,
I only have bright eyes 
for today’s worldly affairs,
you see!
 
Tired old news
has no place,
the bold, firm,
new headlines
taking shape!
 
And what to do
with saggy, bitter news?
Throw those headlines
to the wolves,
unless for them,
our curiosity
still has a use.
 
So, turn the pages of The Age
or Herald Sun,
the Sydney Morning Herald,
or perhaps
a local one,
 
absorb news of
terrible catastrophes,
learn bold statistics,
market growth,
the rise or fall of the
temperamental Dow Jones,
 
then wait until
tomorrow,
when new ink
will tell fresh tales,
 
different notes,
different tones,
fresh truths
to inform and overwhelm,
 
then, we will eagerly devour
the new words
as though we’ve never
seen such interesting detail,
why, won’t we be so informed?
So well-read, so many facts to tell?
 
By tomorrow,
today’s news will be
tired facts,
 
we’ll await
the new morning,
a mass of words
presented to greedy eyes
and hungry hands.
 
But, perhaps all facts still
retain their importance,
no matter their age or relevance,
 
maybe there’s no such thing as
“yesterday’s news”,
either then, tomorrow, or today,

some facts remain as 
important facts,
of this truth I already knew,

apparent judgements withdrawn,
null and void,
perhaps some of yesterday's news
can stay.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Pexels from Pixabay
 
    




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    Poem: The Farce – 20/06/20
    
			
    Poem: The Farce – 20/06/20
    
			
    

    




    There are days
when I feel incredibly down,
I can’t turn the corners and curves
of my mind
back up and around,
 
my stage presence is moot,
I’d like to crawl back in the pages
of my life’s former books,
and relive the wonderful stages.
 
But I cannot control myself,
my miserable entity
seems intent on being
desperately distraught and utterly contrary.
 
These pages upon which I stand,
I used to dance, flip, make cartwheels
of fun,
the best I’d ever had.
 
But now I am temperamental,
grouchy,
a modern-day grump,
have I reached a plateau?
I’ve simply had enough.
 
What is the use
in whimpering and wallowing,
so depressive these pages
surely are to read?
 
I cannot fathom
why the sudden mood change?
From a joyous high
to catastrophic dips.
 
I’d like to be happier,
cheerful like during
the days, weeks, months prior,
 
but my soul seems intent on
allowing itself to have something, unseen,
dragging it down.
 
I force my eyes to brighten,
to beam a vivid, gleaming smile,
perhaps I can seduce the crowd
into believing this farce for a while.
 
Then the mask slips,
they quickly realise who and what I am,
a woman in costume,
bearing herself,
revealing, with little success,
the best side that she can.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by 5598375 from Pixabay
    




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