Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: art

  • Poem: Luminous – 22/07/21

    Poem: Luminous – 22/07/21

    I am brightness within eyes and
    air between wings,
    rise with me,
    moods heightened,
    how amazing salvation is.

    I have been forgiven and it was
    granted many years before,
    acceptance, realisation,
    have long been in the making,
    my life, my world,
    I now treasure, I adore.

    Acknowledgement of the
    gravity of my former situations,
    I know now how darkly luminous my fate glowed,
    insinuations,
    whilst glowering were heavy eyes
    above my form,
    their unhappy windows,
    but still they watched over me,
    for then, for future tomorrows –

    I had protection from angels,
    from generations of loved ones,
    from heaven above,
    and the benevolent calming God.

    How else could I describe my survival —
    triumphs over tribulations,
    scraped stifling walls for air,
    learned to be humble,
    in reality, I could be away from here,
    six feet under,
    or scattered in pieces,
    what a moment to comprehend,
    how one might shudder.

    I lived under calculated stares,
    by some, I suspect I was abhorred,
    raging thoughts,
    temporary damning thunder,
    they’ve forgotten with time,
    softness beneath me grows,
    a sense of quiet personal power.

    An important being to some, to many?
    Yet to others, a nameless entity,
    and now here I am,
    within the arms of comfortability,
    of safety,
    and most grateful I am,
    gracious in Life’s undertaking,
    because I know,
    I understand,
    I comprehend that my place within this world
    is something to respect,
    for I have been spared from a fate
    potentially dared and wiped,
    into nothingness I would have become,

    obliterated,
    faceless, lost,

    yet here I am,
    saved,
    like a turtledove
    I have returned to the flock.

    I am at one with them,
    I am treasured,
    I am youthful yet I am growing old,
    life is amazing once I’ve accepted it,
    truth be told:

    of its glorious moments
    there are so many forthcoming, past and current,
    of Life’s glorious abundance,
    I am sold.

    © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
    Photo by Monica Turlui from Pexels

    Previous Post: ‘Waltz’ – 20/07/21

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  • Poem: Murmur – 23/08/20

    Poem: Murmur – 23/08/20

    I murmur into the darkness,
whisper softly,
I breathe,
 
complex heart-song,
twisted tuning,
haunted melodies,
 
I open my eyes
only to see
a triptych of beauty,
 
artistic finery,
talent conjoined
with colour refined in shades only for me.
 
I murmur,
I murmur,
I murmur,
 
softly, now, see?
I traverse through my mind,
my brightness the spotlight
 
which allows me
to see the artist’s
work, one of a kind, freely.
 
Internally I heave,
and I breathe,
heavier still,
 
and I postulate that this
will be everything
that I have ever wanted,
 
needed,
been required
to ever see.

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

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  • Poem: Thrown Shades – 22/08/20

    Poem: Thrown Shades – 22/08/20

    Image by Sue Rickhuss from Pixabay
    The colours splashed, slashed onto the page,
now mirrored onto the canvas by the
painterly effect of an artist’s hand which is unafraid.

She throws the shades freely,
brightly they shine,
evoking memories from a far more potent time.
 
An enveloping of emotion carries her away
to prior circumstances,
she dances with paintbrushes until the morning,

from night into day 
she waltzes and parades with them,
carrying momentous tones and hues their way.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

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  • Poem: When Words Won’t Speak – 06/05/20

    Poem: When Words Won’t Speak – 06/05/20

    When words won’t speak, 
colours do,
vibrant splashes,
moody shadows,
emotive characters,
abstract patterns.
 
When I cannot find the right letters,
or when I simply stutter,
I bring forth emotional therapy,
brilliant shades bleeding with highlights
or slices of calming, iridescent colour. 
 
Sometimes nothing lyrical comes out, 
and I’m left with a blank, cursed page, 
or attempts of controlled cursive crossed out, 
never for anyone to view.

Or there are other types of words, 
they ramble and demand,
intended for others to experience,
to see, 
their rawness brought about by
my hastily scrawling hand,
interpretation intentionally difficult,
I wait, I hope, I breathe. 
 
But in such a situation, I doubt myself, 
my words may prove too harsh, 
best translate them into a form of visual art,
where it’s less specific, 
less obvious what I'm trying 
to place on show.
 
Less fervent will the story be
for I can disguise the dramatics 
and roll on and along 
with the waves of emotion
'til the process of ambiguity
makes my words fit for public consumption - 
 
images filled to the brim, 
a certain crescent rising,
a personal triumph sent,
 
an explosion of hues, 
of brushstrokes,
of textures, of layers, 
that have been expelled from deep within.

I am now tentatively pleased, 
the story has been told, 
by shades and highlights, 
bright and bold, 

I have created a scene
without a single word, 
the speckles, 
the explosions, 
the colours I'll live and breathe
until I'm frail and old,
this process is a priceless passion. 

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

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  • Poem: The Path – 23/04/20

    Poem: The Path – 23/04/20

    Weariness, Weariness,
rests upon my head,
where cobwebs and stilted cogs lay well rested
in their beds,
the machinery’s movements have ceased,
Weariness allows me to take that break,
but behind the scenes I’m still ruminating,
I simply disguise it from him.
 
Aptitude, Aptitude,
once carefully measured with closely observed time,
makes me wonder now whether the path was worth
the efforts to propel me so far,
because what am I doing here with this life?
 
I know,
I know,
that intelligence comes in many forms,
not always those tested,
skills, handiwork,  
of Aptitude, many are assured.
 
Desire, Desire,
to be something more,
to perform something else,
to rise to the challenge and advance myself,
it is not only in the mind that Desire does seek,
a change,
a triumphant case,
in which I can alternatively speak.
 
Knowledge, Knowledge,
have I sucked you bone-dry from the pages
I have to tend to?
The parched paper with its annotations and highlighted markings
grins at me,
resonate reminders of hard work and times oh-so studious.
 
Whenever I am down on myself,
I simply need to glance at my words,
my interpretations,
the violin fingerings,
the sheet music’s markings,
 
and I understand that I have worked arduously
at several crafts,
and have returned to the original craft of my own.
 
Conclusions, Conclusions
are like cadences softly spoken,
the melodious cessations of my
quiet contemplation,
I’m not performing at Life so badly,
according to my efforts
I’m trying to better myself,
there is no need to sink, sink down,
to aim a tirade toward myself,
 
I am improving,
daily,
through the efforts of no one other than myself.  

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

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  • Prose Poetry: Rocks on the Mind – 02/04/20

    Prose Poetry: Rocks on the Mind – 02/04/20

    I fashion an image within my mind, each curve, each specified colour, every line. That which makes the look complete, of the creature I shall create through my hands, my fingers, with precious time, whether messy or neat. Carefully, I sketch the shape onto the rock – this doesn’t need to be perfect, though it must still have some form. I decide that I’ve made a mistake, but, what to do? I hold no eraser, nothing to warrant taking away from the view. Besides, I can paint over the marks, no worries about that, in fact, I can just continue sketching away on my pebble, my rock, my soon-to-be-colourful artefact.
 
I am new to this art, this activity of decorating pebbles or rocks, and I am excited to create, to add my characters that I house within my mind, a differing relaxed state. They no longer have to swim or dance inside, prattling about wanting to escape, instead, they can be translated upon stone, rather than paper or page. With joy I discover different techniques online, there are so many ways and styles to create, how to make these treasures all mine? To make them perfect, with the correct processes, it is not only about painting or drawing. One must be careful in how to finish the piece, in how to seal the paint or the textas: there are varying techniques. And if I grow restless of painting large pebbles or tiny rocks, I have my terracotta pots I can decorate, why, of course!
 
And here I am detailing my new form of creating art, because I wish to share the happiness and excitement I feel when I create something in the medium – it really appeals to my heart. And when the dangers of leaving our houses are all over, I shall have the opportunity to hide some of my creations to cause a smile and leap of joy perhaps from another! Until then, I shall create for myself, and friends and family, and bring them some bliss from observing something amusing or cute just from me.  
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image: photo and painted rock by myself.
Instagram: @alicewellart

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  • Poem: Salted Iridescence – 18/03/20

    Poem: Salted Iridescence – 18/03/20

    The taste of salt upon your skin,
the glistening iridescence
as I feel your glow within,
the sun shining through your being
as though warming my very soul,
like the heated taste of winter when
you and I were eternally enthralled.
 
I can feel the gurgling of growing gumption
from within your soaring spirit,
rising from the former desolation within,
and I know,
you know,
that we will remain entwined,
as long as we stay heart-to-heart,
forever in need of each other’s fair wine.
 
Our necessity to be close to one another
has the sharp addictive taste of that salt
that I once tasted on your skin,
and if I were to magnify this need
I would understand that it comes from
a state of savoury and lack of sweetness,
a desire to cause that salivary moment,
to keep it stirring,
 
And while I knead into the skin of the
effervescent sparkle that you bring,
I know,
honey, you know,
that we were always meant to be.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock (including illustration). All rights reserved.

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  • Poem: From Misery to Triumph – 01/02/20

    Poem: From Misery to Triumph – 01/02/20

    I am in a state of inertia,
even breathing is a heaving encumbering illness,
unwanted, my ribs rise, lungs bloat,
with the air that’s steadily keeping me afloat.
 
My eyelids are weighted,
leaded with invisible heavy loads
fit for adjusting and comparison,
each eye, though, is equally laden.
 
I struggle to rise from this depressive state,
it’s difficult once self-condemned,
a being needs the reassurance that of
their efforts they are worthy.
 
But I’m upon my bare stomach
and I can’t bring myself to even crawl,
nor to slide along to advance forth,
am I able to do anything at all?
 
Then I remember the words spoken to me:
try, try, and try again,
don’t give up,
the voice is echoing,
for safety I am yearning,
from this abhorrent state in which I lie
I must advance myself,
I know I must, I must.
 
Thus, with palm and palm I drag myself,
each movement is monumental in my eyes,
though small and steady,
I acquire, I acquire, I advance.
 
Eventually I look back,
how far I have come,
a little wisp of triumph from my wick
I’ve avoided smouldering myself,
from this tribulation I will rise,
this success is the beginning of a future aggregate,
of everything which will shall come to pass,
this I do surmise.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Poem: “P.S. I’m still here” – 31/01/20

    Poem: “P.S. I’m still here” – 31/01/20

    P.S. postscript,
in little hummingbird whispers,
I’m still here.
 
Advantageous circumstances finally presenting themselves
from Heaven’s open hand,
her palm which begs me to take from her,
 
I deserve these now.
 
P.S., she whispers, in airy breath,
you’ve ached enough,
no longer will you suffer,

I am here to prove you worthy and kind,
your tears of tumult disguised in the once-silent study
where tattered and worn your stoic self became

now, those tears dry, crystallising, salty.
 
P.S. I whisper
tentatively
I am here

Like those words don’t belong,
I am still here, I repeat,
enunciated, strong.
 
I will remain fighting.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Poem: A Little Crescendo – 30/01/20

    Poem: A Little Crescendo – 30/01/20

    Sometimes I need to realise that the wind
simply needs to unwind
to leave his breath upon the windowsill
and tangle within the trees.
The branches and he will create a mischievous dance
a mild form of light-hearted sorcery
as the magic weaves its language
strange capitulations together;
they succumb to each other
the swooning moments
it seems he’ll never leave.
 
I’m here watching o’er these two
it’s amazing to see,
precious to view because I know 
there is little fight left between this pair
they secretly cherish one another
they breathe through
air to wood
wood to air.
 
Sometimes the wind needs to cherish something
other than itself
blustering around something other than me
although I miss his presence
I know he’ll return when he deems it rightly so,
he’ll take his leave,
come back to me.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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