Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

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  • Poem: A Flourishing Rose – 10/06/20

    Poem: A Flourishing Rose – 10/06/20

    Creation, creation,
how could we have created a love
so pure?

Inklings of adoration,
a potential pink,
a potential blue.
 
The resonance of a
tiny being,
held within,
encased so true, 
 
a monumental revelation:
we didn’t mean for your making,
but darling, how I already adore you.
 
In my heart of hearts
I know the journey will be rough,
but I am prepared, I know myself,
our bond will be perfect,
I feel the connection already;
it is more than enough.
 
You’re growing every moment,
germinated from a seed,
flourishing into a rose,
perhaps you were quietly planned,
exceptional,
subconscious desires grown.
 
And I understand the implication
your arrival will have on
our and other’s lives,
 
a bundle of beauty,
a bundle of joy,
your face serene and sweet
and bright.
 
I will watch you grow,
lovingly attend to you
during your years,
 
our lives changed for the better,
unconditional love to bestow,
upon you this we will give.
 
Though a rose is a rose
by any other name,
I shall hold you
in my arms,
anonymous though you may be,
you will be precious all the same. 
 
You are my creation,
our pride and glory,
Rose you shall be,
by your very own name,
 
so tiny in my protective embrace,
I draw you close,
inhale your fresh scent,
 
united our lives are,
you’re the missing piece of our puzzle,
it’s so wondrous to welcome you on this day.

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

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  • Poem: The Inspiring Nature of Silence – Audio and Text – 09/06/20

    Poem: The Inspiring Nature of Silence – Audio and Text – 09/06/20

    Melodious but intrusive tunes,
notes pummelling my head,
I need serenity,
a sense of quiet,
for my thoughts to develop, to process
and later be said,
then shared.
 
The music, though in the background
it is rude, unintentionally evicts,
any chance,
any sense of imaginative words
to be brought to life,
with the distraction
they fail to exist.
 
The notes,
the rise and fall of melodies,
they are truly terrifying and deafening,
a lack of threaded thoughts, 
a barren forest of consciousness,
I traverse,
I wander blindly.
 
Though at a volume,
a decibel,
that may
calm another’s senses,
 
relax them,
muscles easing tension,
brain waves altering,
 
to me,
it is like a repetitive
noisy neighbour,
relentless,
intent on knocking for a shared and unwarranted
cup of tea,
I don’t know about others,
but my creations need silence all around me.
 
Thankfully my explanation
of this music as a distractor,
allows another to understand
that with my thoughts I am their maestro,
of them my will should command.
 
Though it may seem ironic,
that a being such as I
with a musical background
such a large part of my life,
cannot bear creating
my words with an unwanted backing,
 
this is the way I know
my best state of mind
in which to be,
 
I want the silence,
the silence,
where moments of creativity
can easily strike me.
 
The moment the intrusion is ceased,
the moment silence arrives,
what hits me?
 
A burst of inspiration,
I reach for my pen,
and hope to vividly capture the leading thoughts
in my mind,
perhaps I’ll make my own poetic music,
rhythm, metre, tone, rhyme.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by Comfreak from Pixabay
    https://soundcloud.com/user-894707136/the-inspiring-nature-of-silence-spoken-word-poetry

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  • Poem: A Scorned Beast – 07/06/20

    Poem: A Scorned Beast – 07/06/20

    Night mode –
do my wings terrify?
Does the beat of these bones and membranes
send terror, shivers down your spine?
 
I am ready for the evening,
suit of armour here for protection,
although I won’t need it,
besides,
it’s only a matter of deflection.
 
I shall reign triumph and terror
where I see fit,
your lashing anger and fury show no signs of abating,
how dare you,
with tempestuous words direct hit upon hit?
 
I am ready for you,
and those of your kind,
my wings,
with their enormous span –
do they terrify?

(28/05/20)

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

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  • Poem: A Poet’s Winter Sky – 06/06/20

    Poem: A Poet’s Winter Sky – 06/06/20

    A winter’s sky,
weather crisp,
sights so blue,
 
I sit outside by the table,
drawing my thoughts out,
they fly;
I peruse.
 
Above and around me,
they permeate in the
sharp, chilling yet
welcome frigidity,
floating like pieces of a puzzle,
of which only I am arranging.
 
A word here,
a phrase there,
then suddenly something
has become,
 
constructed,
connectivity,
my will, my hopes,
have been done.
 
And in this space
in which I quietly exist,
this realm which is
my own,
 
I lay ownership
to my creation –
the crisp air, blue sky
has brought this about,
another pattern has been woven,
tightly sewn.
 
How I love this finality,
but the work is not yet complete,
more revision to make it so,
 
time to extract the laptop,
carefully type the words up,
will they be enough?
Will Winter smile upon me
for what I have told?
 
She has been so forthcoming
with her ability to chill and to shine,
these words, these phrases,
will she be pleased?
Will my efforts be recognised?
 
And finally, I am finished,
satisfied I am with myself,
these moments which wafted
around my mind,
no longer singular pieces
of a poet’s daily grind.
 
The former puzzle of themselves,
now held together in a certain style,
I hold the resultant product close to me:
a hard-earned prize,

and huddled in my thick jacket,
I radiate a beaming smile,
 
Winter has inspired me,
I feel her mirth,
her approval,
this joyous feeling,
I will treasure it for a bit and a while.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo my own.

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  • Poem: Am I To Blame? – 05/06/20

    Poem: Am I To Blame? – 05/06/20

    By the skin of my teeth,
the scraping of my nails,
I’m fighting for escape,
freedom from this personal hell.
 
How did I get here?
Perchance, do you think
I even know?
 
The aching and the longing,
the pain, this vivid suffering,
guttural shrieks,
I’m alone,
but not completely by myself.
 
For these dull thoughts,
their lack of rambling,
their mind-dulling medications,
 
my blurred, stunted abilities,
no longer independent,
only permitted a stupor
behind elders and staff
I am meant to be following.
 
No bright sparks,
my light,
my synapses have been capped,
 
I’m disgusted with myself,
the mental apathy,
physical lumbering 
I show and have within,
the aftermath.
 
Is it my fault?
Because I went off meds?
Seeking that glorious manic high,
to ride those ecstatic waves,
is there a suitable alibi?
 
For eventually, I plummeted,
deep despair,
I could barely swim,
coagulating sin,
what have I done,
the wreckage before me:
life’s comical misery.
 
And I wallow
in the blackest, languid part of me,
is this what they call barely living?
My mood, my pace, my life,
simply crawling?
 
The prince and princess fled in my tale,
only grimy kingdoms
are where my soul has been called,

the hollowing,
never-ending emptiness,
this gnawing depressive hell,
for the former intensity of my world
I plead and I beg and I wail.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Anemone123 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: No More Beating Around The Bush – 04/06/20

    Poem: No More Beating Around The Bush – 04/06/20

    I stride around the bush,
beating it despite what I’ve been told,
wondering will it spite me,
or capture,
vice-like will it take hold?
 
There’s no magic in avoiding
a situation,
procrastination,
this method won’t become
the wisest choice,
 
I must take the bull by its horns,
my predicament,
I should not feel compromised.
 
Oh, how these troubles only came
when I put pen to paper,
I was a fool
for believing
such words were fit for others.
 
The raucous,
the tirades,
the untoward screams,
powerful potions,
ill behaviour,
am I unworthy of clemency?
 
But I have changed for the better,
I shan’t beat around the bush,
only reveal now what’s relevant,
not tired, unwholesome truths.
 
No longer to wallow in the
quagmire of self-regret,
the outspoken words
still plain to see if at discovery
one’s adept,
 
then again,
most pages are firmly closed,
no longer open books,
I’ll only reveal certain facts
if it’s necessary for you to peruse.
 
But, I’ve moved on long ago,
it’s for the best,
because I say so,
I’m sure you’ll all agree
no one needs to revolt that way,
haphazard, spiteful words to then fro.
 
Thousands upon thousands of words,
up and away,
they shall be thrown,
and I’ll hold no ounce of bitterness or dismay,
because some history does not need to be known.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Susanne Jutzeler, suju-foto from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Lifted Restrictions – 29/05/20

    Poem: Lifted Restrictions – 29/05/20

    Freedom,
didn’t we all take it for granted?
The ability to walk with friends
in the park,
to sit on the bench with others,
or crouch by the pond feeding curious ducks.
 
Our ability to visit loved ones,
friends, family,
separated we had become.
 
The isolation felt so strange,
the family dog could only be walked
so many times,
working from home,
teaching and caring for children simultaneously,
hectic moments,
stress,
mayhem,
pressure bubbling.
 
But now it’s as though the clouds
have shifted,
sunlight shines down upon us,
warming our kind
as we open up,
lifted restrictions,
returning to somewhat normalcy,
and grateful we be
to know that our lives are
becoming what they used to be.
 
Now we are thankful,
realising what we had,
and excitement and trepidation
run alongside each other,
entwined,
little patters of fingertips grasping their hands,
some worriedly claim our freedom's returning too soon,
while others yelp hooray and cause a joyous hullabaloo.
 
Allow us to enjoy our freedom,
the sunlight,
she finally came,
and not a moment too soon,
she’s present with her warming life,
now our reunions:
hearts against hearts,
embraces expressed as love is loudly proclaimed.

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

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  • Poem: Beneath the Surface – 24/05/20

    Poem: Beneath the Surface – 24/05/20

    On the surface of a scarlet lake
are dreams and nightmares cast aside,
laid to waste.
None have the desire to peruse
or recollect,
the enmity of these experiences,
why, no one wants to look back.
 
The moments of the night wander in a shimmer,
upon a crystalline surface,
like oil mixed with water,
they simply do not gel well,
their animosity alive rather than
a sheen of sheer consistence.
 
Nearby stand two fishermen
with their fishing rods so pliant,
I wonder what will they capture –
if anything at all –
or is their joy mainly in the process?
 
Their lines and sinkers are slick
with the congealing of subconscious creations,
confused moments,
surreal expressions,
and here the men are,
happily, into the night,
casting their lines again and again,
no disappointment at their lack of capture,
those dreams and nightmares do evade.
 
And then suddenly there is a bite,
something below the layers,
these creations of the night,
and rise unto the air,
a water-falling shape is revealed,
cascading around a moment of precious truth.
 
The creature hooked is nothing like something
ever seen by you nor I,
an abomination,
non-descript to most,
yet something which terrifies.
 
The fisherman grins,
pleased with his prize,
he is the master of
slowly cleansing this lake
of that which is untoward,
unworthy of remaining alive.
 
I realise now his role is not to be self-sufficient,
nor to enjoy the actual process,
but to purge this lake of things which should not belong,
removing the waste of nightmares
and dreams which hold the ability
to cause a sleeper harm.
 
And into the night and morning,
for days they will remain,
the demons of the lake,
expelled one by one,
through and through,
they shan’t remain.
 
I wonder how long it will take them,
if ever they will succeed,
at making this lake fresh and transparent,
a wondrous and true beauty to be seen.
 
Oh, hark! I tell myself,
I am sure there will come a day
when the water is cleared,
and the drippings of a drain of
combined subconsciousness,
dream time of many sleepers eventually cleansed away.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by 272447 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: An Embrace After Tea – 23/05/20

    Poem: An Embrace After Tea – 23/05/20

    Warm sentiments expressed,
heartfelt touches extended,
the joy within almost palpable,
understanding we are blessed.
 
The other sits opposite,
a smile within their eyes,
warm glints to be absorbed,
and I wonder,
is this what I’ve been searching for in my life?
 
A nuance here and there,
in softly spoken words,
uttered in my ear,
their breath so near,
makes me relaxed
and then rigid –
what did you say, dear?
 
A betrayal revealed,
because of a calling they felt,
an untoward moment,
they beg for forgiveness for themselves.
 
Yet I am no doormat,
I do not, will not, provide those words,
the exoneration of their moral crime,
my absence is what they deserve.
 
They weep, they weep,
crocodile tears which impede correct speech,
the tangled crotchet of the situation a mess,
no matter what,
I will not yield.
 
How could you do it,
I seethe,
how could you perform this ill to me?
 
Now the other shrugs,
there is only dishonesty,
when they retract and reveal
it went no further
than an embrace after tea.

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

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  • Poem: Angels – 22/05/20

    Poem: Angels – 22/05/20

    Angels come and angels go
but they’re always watching down upon us.
 
They carefully observe,
they take care of us,
ever present,
although distance may be a factor.
 
Their wings caress,
though invisible they may be
to the naked human eye
they are there,
and the angels’ hearts
for us, beat freely.
 
They insist on being caregivers,
they are there in all times,
especially strife,
mothers, uncles, daughters,
those who do or have walked along
our path of life.
 
And there’s no use wondering
if and when we will see one,
just know,
rest assured,
you’ve likely already seen a few.
 
The woman down your street,
who smiles at you with such warmth
within her eyes,
your teacher who lauds your efforts in school,
motivates and attends,
making a difference in your daily life.
 
Your passed grandmother who you swear
you sometimes smell her signature perfumed scent,
that kindness in your chest when you recall the times
spent together –
weren’t they the best?
 
Angels above and angels on land,
here to love and be guides
for all of us.
 
They pride themselves on being here,
making the most of their missions,
they are wise and knowing,
understanding what it is we need,
ensuring our lives are enriched and continually growing.

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

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