Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: author

  • Poem: Like Yellowed Parchment – Fiction – 21/07/20

    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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: Paradise – 21/07/20

    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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: Double-Stitched and Emphasised – 19/07/20

    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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: Critical Daze – Text and Spoken Word – 18/07/20

    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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: Alphabet Soup – 18/07/20

    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.

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: Rising Before Dawn – 17/07/20

    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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: Hibernation – 17/07/20

    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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: An Illusion – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Poem: An Illusion – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Audio: An Illusion
    My hands present as aged and weary,
my flesh paper-thin and melting 
like an image of Salvador Dali’s,
with bones like soft honeycomb,
where bees cheerfully settle in.

Their wings frantically beat
they seek nectar from the rhythm,
the rhythm,
hands slowly try itching them away,
off my skin,
away from an arm which they travel upwards,
ignoring my slow decay.

Other insects join in,
stinging mosquitoes,
beautiful butterflies
who live but three days without sin,
it’s rather unlike the diaries of old,
to go three days without intentional error
would utterly amaze.

The bees are now concerned,
combatted by the wasp
whose angry demeanour wishes to fight
my friends,
in my shin’s honeycomb land,
the buzzing, the droning,
whom will succeed at their intent?
At securing a home of marrow-less matrimony?

A fly settles on the wall of my wrist,
sardonically smiling,
he decides to join in the violent tryst
of bee upon enemy
upon melting candle-wax skin,
dream-like
or like a nightmare,
reality is falling.

In the heaviness of a veil
which draws itself away from my subconscious,
I'm once more myself,
no more strange images,
curious bees
butterflies, maddened mosquitoes,
wasps whom will not leave.

My bones are themselves again,
full and not deprived,
weariness dissipated and skin almost
pristine,
I am alive.

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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: The Din – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Poem: The Din – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Audio: The Din
    Filter the rain from the mountaintops,
where acidic droplets beat down,
an acrid taste,
a burning sensation
of skin besieged by astringent vowels.
 
This was not intended,
though this was required,  
her purging,
pairs of eager, shiny boots
step forth,
 
the small crimson soldiers attack,
an internal awakening
as hearts and minds ache,
hers will visibly crack,
it’s not only her sufferings that stun,
it’s her experiences, too.
 
Their blood lust for her mind,
they wish to invade,
pillage,
and never give back,
these blood-stained soldiers, miniature beings,
worth nothing alone,
yet together,
they could save lives, if agreeable to this.
 
Yet they press forth,
through her skin they pierce,
there’s nothing to do with permission here,
her thoughts, they appropriate themselves at their will,
care and concern are remiss.
 
Staining upon her clothing,
staining upon her skin,
her purged catharsis,
unwittingly melded,
she flails,
she falls,
to their silent din.
 
The vibrations are enough
to cause her cacophony,
she will lay here until dawn rises,
quietly still,
until it's the morning.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by 3321704 from Pixabay

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: Drainage – 12/07/20

    Poem: Drainage – 12/07/20

    Strangely exhausted,
an afternoon, heavily slept,
too much, too much,
ill memories draining,
they won’t rise delicately,
rather seep down below the mattress,
will not gently fly away.

A drainage system
below the surface
of a city, a being,
more than four times hastily gone mad,
residual pain wafting from
the wide walkway pipes,
potent,
uncleanly,
needing purification:
the sensations do not need resurfacing.

But a town mayor deems it so,
right and correct to flush this town of
mental muck
though the waterways will never
flow with pure, clean goodness,
it doesn’t hurt to try, though, does it.

Her drip,
drip draining like a cannula,
a personal IV,
feeding pain-controlling and cleansing
elements to this human city, this sleeping being,
in an instant there is a rush of 
blue then red dyed magic entering into her veins,
her memories become less aching,
less hounding,
can the system be cleansed,
and her self still remain saved?

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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud