am writing – Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Poem: Moving on Out – 30/04/21

Things may seem unwarranted,
like the Universe has delivered ‘unfair’,
and mental aches pain you from knowing
that from this place,
you’ll soon have to vacate here.

But know that while
you’ve been dealt certain undesirable cards,
feel the warmth and concern of others,
you don’t need to trip,
nor fall hard.

How to escape a circumstance
you particularly are loathe to leave?
Much rather remain, would you,
I can see, feel this,
the worry on your face,
the heartache worn on your sleeve.

Try not to yearn for something
which can no longer be,
perhaps a new beginning
is awaiting you,
maybe soon you will see.

All these material possessions
which once held great import,
toss them aside,
it’s time to lighten yourself,
and stridently move forward.

And remember when you’re feeling sad,
or particularly low,
I’ll always be here to listen,
provide kind words, support,
this you must already understand
and know.

Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose Home

April 30, 2021

Poem: Beautiful Soul – 29/04/21

Sustaining the high energy
of the beautiful vitality within thy soul,
watch as it trickles through the gaps visible
in the aura that surrounds you whole.

You are wonderful just the way you are,
the courteous, gentle being who sings slightly off-key,
it is permissible to be less than perfect,
because this is what I have to say freely:

Imperfection is beauty, as a wise woman once had said,
your perfection lies in the moments when your heart is beating –
that’s always…

You easily keep promises to yourself,
honouring what you call for,
what you beg for with a smile,
more, and more, and more…

The grimaces are gone,
they are done for, done for,
that’s what I have to say,
and treasured is everything, partially,
of what I know,
expressions of true friendship, always.

It seems that specific people will always be there
for me,
it appears that they aren’t the ones
who we expected them to be,
but I treasure the new alliances made,
I am safe to be safe, as are you.

It is safe for us to live in these bodies,
it is acceptable and right to express ourselves,
we should appreciate our splendid uniqueness,
and when the flight of our souls occurs,
we shall grasp our lives again whole.

© 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash

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April 29, 2021

Poem: At Peace – 25/04/21

I sit,
and I am at peace with myself.

My wants, my necessities, checked in at the door.
I am stronger internally, than ever before.

All I took was to shed some skin, and take in the light,
the light from an orb.

I harness that energy,
to be exuberant,
there’s nothing to waste,

butterflies, butterflies,
my kind and theirs,
their presence is an absolute,
perfect, intense.

Open doors and dangerous paths,
beckon to me,
sing to me,

come thick,
come sure,
come fast,

but I know better than to play
in the land of Inbetween,
where imagination doth soar,
and reality is but a dream.

Should I really reside in the real world?
I then ask myself.
My time upon this earth is gathering dust, dust motes,
but if this were worth a try, would I become lesser,
insignificant?

This and that is sheer nonsense.

Dreams deemed as nonsense but without them,
how would we fly?

Strength in numbers,
strength in the heart,
a chakra’s green surrounds my aura that shines forth,

its steady pulsating I own as mine,
those robust heartstrings are taut,
they are as much as yours, as much as mine,

fly butterfly, fly,
you live, you’ll live,
for but a short and splendid time.

© 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Armand Khoury on Unsplash

Lauren M. Hancock poetry and Prose home

April 25, 2021

Poem: Denounced – 01/01/21

Not right, not right, not right.
Matchmaking is more than a plight,
I shall denounce the insolence with a single breath
into the dead of night.

Who minds that only I am the one who breathes,
flames flicker by my outstretched hands,
extended sleeves,
I shall not learn what it means to flee.

I will stand strong and steadfast
without losing face,
treated unfairly,
lost the place in my race,

it’s not right to besmirch on a day such as this,
wriggle those magical fingers,
fend off those ill feels,
I shan’t bother to ache,
rather I’ll begin to heal.

© 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

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Lauren M. Hancock poetry and prose

January 1, 2021

Poem: The Vision – 29/12/20

And the proof is in the vision,
the truth is in the See,
the horizon is there to be admired,
by us, by you, by me.

We have triumphed over that which
causes us pain,
let us relish the moments,
the announcements,
one and many the same.

I think to myself often,
what has become of them?
I wonder to myself,
where is their part in my rose’s stem?

For the ability to have been supportive,
to be there for me when I needed them most is,
the proof is in the vision,
my memories,
they were there,
perhaps as one in a million,
they claimed to always care.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Chris Blonk on Unsplash

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Poem: Eight of Summer – 27/12/20

The card tells me to focus on a desire for a
more meaningful life,
to realise it’s time to move on.
Make those life-altering decisions and brighten my path,
accompanied by the sweetest songs.

Hand in hand, will I be?
Or strident on my own,
wearing that purely metaphorical crown?
Dangling with jewels of prosperity and wisdom,
I will cherish this land,
the land I explore as a future kingdom.

I will walk the path of righteousness,
never allowing for feelings of umbrage or
tales of my misfortune,
I am learning from past mistakes,
and those even of today,
people aren’t necessarily who or what they promise.

And this is fine,
it’s purposeful to know the truth
that sometimes hopes and honour have
decidedly flown the coop.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo taken by me, card from “Fairy Tarot Cards”,
by Doreen Virtue and Radleigh Valentine,
illustrated by Howard David Johnson.

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Poem: Without Pressure – 26/12/20

There is no longer any pressure,
self-produced,
to create nor feel,
no rushing to the chopping block
where I must reveal my innards,
to show something real.

Instead, I can gently rest,
not be concerned with
the haste, my imposed rush,
because it is time to take
some time out for myself,
I’ve been tired
and don’t I know it.

Constantly dragging things,
items up from me
is like fishing in the darkness,
I know what’s there,
there are secrets lurking
but I don’t know entirely
where, when, or what I will find.

The funny thing is this is
not even required of me –
I’m the one pushing,
to delve, so much so, that
the word ‘I’ is irritating even me.

Changes could be made
but I’m stuck,
hindered by this not so fail-safe practice,
it’s not tried and true,
and it’s tiring, true?
I need to step back and
alter my practice.

Of course, confessionals
have their place,
I acknowledge a share
has great potency,
but not on and on and on
and on and on,
even I sometimes want
to leave.

So, I’ll torment no further,
or at least I will try,
to avoid ailing with my pen,
words stabbing in ears and eyes,
and relax,
step back,
and just take a breath,

sometimes life is actually light-hearted,
had I not thought about sharing and presenting that?

(Early July 2020)

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Quang Nguyen vinh from Pixabay

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Poem: The Silence – 26/12/20

The crisp morning air enlivens my mood,
there’s little need to be sulking,
little need to brood.

For this wondrous day has been created
for me,
not temporarily, but permanently,
from an off mood,
I must up and flee.

Do not allow others to determine my
state of mind,
do not permit them to make me feel
lesser than other members of humankind,

know that I am wise and smart and true,
and I will feel elevated in this moment,
my heart won’t be affected —
I won’t allow it to.

Because the truth is,
these people come and go,
they flit in and out of one’s life,
like bees would visiting where nectar grows,
and the saddening moments will rise away
into fluff,
that’s more than enough,
dearest,
your silence is more than enough.

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

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Poem: Gentle Flower Petal – 11/10/20

Gentle flower petal,
how beautifully you twirl,
within the lake
amidst my reflection
that stares back,
showing something that’s
strangely unlike me,
not precisely the same,
but still heart strings are tugged,
emotions swirl.

Pink petal, pink petal,
how fragrant you must
have been
before you were immersed in this
seemingly picture-perfect scene.

And within this not-so-mirror image
which stares and stares right back,
I wonder to myself,
what is lacking?
And when will it come back
to my hands?

Perfect petal, you swim
as though you’re gently
treading water,
peacefully bobbing above
the waterline,
no flow to drag you under.

And as you enter my reflection
how you feel immersed
in the warmth that engulfs you,
so precious in this land you are.

You’re in uncharted territory,
you’re unknowing of the world in
which you’re floating,
even I cannot fathom my
true reflection
because I do not know
every turn,
every nook and cranny’s exploration.

But petals can get lost
down these winding paths,
there’s blockages,
scar tissue in the grooves
from life’s aftermath

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Poem: Hoarder – 08/10/20

He hoards not objects,
not physical implements
but emotions,
he caresses them,
they express their feelings
heard and meant.

He greedily
takes these from others,
swipe, snatch, grab,
one hand carries the contents of
another’s heavy heart,
another carries pain and loathing
in the other hand
which seems it shan’t ever depart.

Into a precious round
glass bowl he places
extracted stolen feelings
watching them swirl;
it gives him a mildly pleased feeling

as though he’s appeased
his internal sufferings
by borrowing –
that’s what he calls it –
emotions which he will supervise
until the morning.

Because he only needs
access to these
for a night and a day,
it is his means of survival,
his nutritional content,
shall we say?

He feeds off other’s expressions
because truly, he cannot
forgive nor accept his own transgressions.

He needs to heal himself
with the emotions of others
as though patchwork sewn,
slapped on,
to disguise the
holes within his cloudy aura.

He is tainted by prior actions,
and he repairs himself
temporarily with that
which is stolen,
it’s enough to please him
until the coming of morning.

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