Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

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  • Poem: A Curious Moth’s Cycle – 01/05/20

    Poem: A Curious Moth’s Cycle – 01/05/20

    The moth is drawn to the flame,
curious though tentative 
he dances,
he flits closer,
the heat scorches –
away, away!
 
Although his wing is singed
he cannot cease his wondering,
in his mind he feels he must
continue to draw closer,
nearer,
until he’s sizzling in a second,
both his wings in 
devastatingly smouldering tatters.
 
The other insects,
they mourn their inquisitive friend 
from the ground,
but what else could they have expected
from a being 
perpetually drawn to the light?
 
It was the moth’s downfall 
to be so hopeful,
to wish to be near a force so dazzling
that it would only burn out 
his own light:
 
an ending
by that impermanent deathly flicker,
the poor moth’s obliterated picture,
a life cast aside by his final fateful flight,
what more than sadness and grief 
could it have delivered?
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Andreas Lischka from Pixabay

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  • Poem: The Grumbling Instability – 30/04/20

    Poem: The Grumbling Instability – 30/04/20

    Instability,
a grumbling temperament grows,
like rolling waves crashing on suicidal rocks,
the aftermath is broken froth,
a bubbling foam of doom.
 
But there is no true destruction yet,
the cascading curling of blue
promised a cushioned fall,
one where anger and misjudgement
could press or
roll away
those points of migraines elsewhere.
 
The headaches which can coexist
when communication is unstable
can mutually present
persisting annoyance –
how to return to how the moods
once were?
 
The light-hearted livelihood,
the bright, jovial moments
which were frequently had?
 
I can see a path;
I can envisage a line of dance
in which temperamental or
agitated thoughts no longer
need to rise and flit,
 
no reactionary measures,
self-defensive songs or tunes,
just easy going,
casual conversation,
won’t the present tension ease itself soon?
 
Then there can be that wonderful chatter,
banter without being bogged down
by irritation at what was or may have
been meant,
 
alluded to,
insinuated,
perhaps it’s read into far too much –
what is desired is for discourse
to return to how it once was.
 
Then peace making is spoken of,
we lay down our arms,
our bitter, sharp, jaded words,
our underlying sarcasm,
our clipped mannerisms,
 
we relearn how to speak with softness,
with the delicacy that comes with the embrace
of well-chosen words,
we return to being kinder and remembering why
these conversations are undertaken.  
 
A stability now present,
we have combed out the tangles,
the mane of conversation is thick,
lush,
lustrous and wanted,

we discuss the darnedest of things,
shimmer with a joyful, playful mood,
and suddenly gone is the negativity
which had crept into
each other's respective mental rooms.

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

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  • Poem: It is Decidedly So – 29/04/20

    Poem: It is Decidedly So – 29/04/20

    “It is decidedly so,” her mother speaks,
she smiles with warmth in her tone.
A kind welcome
is assured,
the woman’s feelings strong, heartfelt,
well grown.

The kingdom has gathered to
witness and bless this young babe,
her cooing and calling for Mother
draw attention and affection her way.
 
While a wild gust of wind could blow this scene away,
there is hope on the horizon
for this newborn,
society’s requests have not been forgotten,
their blessings for her will be spoken.
 
They wish for her:
long life,
prosperity,
intelligence,
beauty and bravery,
 
but if these wishes for her
were not enough
a grinning godmother approaches,
her eyes lit up –
is she deranged?
Or is she delighted to speak,
moved to promise the child even more?
 
“I wish you the truest love,”
she begins,
with a slight inflection in her tone,
head cocked curiously to the side,
she glances over at the two royal thrones.
 
“Love in its truest form shall make you alive,
cause you to excitedly feel,
and the memories of a childhood will then be lost
and simply fall away.
 
Begone the memories well-constructed,
of timely family events and moments,
of kingdom comes and open loving arms,
decidedly it is so,
decidedly it is… -"
 
And the evil godmother was knocked out cleanly
with one single blow.
 
Who was the babe’s true saviour?
That somebody who temporarily removed the ability
Of Godmother’s intended curse?
The desired removal of the babe’s
future fondest memories,
to be torn from their safety
with the cruellest of feelings?

Why, it is a young boy,
could only be of three,
smiling to himself
shyly, but proudly enough
to see.
 
In his hands lie the sparkles
and twinkles of magical folk,
perhaps he is the babe’s truest love –
we must wait to see this as fact,
or as falsity,
or as truth,
with hope,
in due course.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by PawinG from Pixabay
_____________________________________________________________
A/N: I watched Malificent for the first time over the weekend and really enjoyed it. This poem is inspired by this movie.

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  • Poem: Jagged Picture – 27/04/20

    Poem: Jagged Picture – 27/04/20

    Rivulets of broken seams,
the crackling of irritation heaves and gleams,
beneath a thin surface
a heated secret boils
it festers,
does she wish to be anything other
than what and how her impatient heart can muster?
 
There’s no calm in the desert creek
where parched tongues refused to get along
the sandpaper-like exterior
cat-like,
gingerly, one could prime this picture.
 
But to see this image fall apart,
though long-awaited were those positive dreams,
it is clear that irritation is what
the present promotes,
an ultimatum,
a damned unspoken destruction,
meant to be cataclysmic?
To eventually come undone?
 
The fate lies,
awaiting,
quietly, coercive,
need the ending be spoken of
in bittersweet tunes?
 
A sing-song chorus of
maddening annulment,
shattered pieces,
laid there in their raw glory to view.
 
Are these pieces able to be
pieced together again?
as of yet,
unknown,
the picture’s something still
jaggedly beautiful to behold.

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

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  • Poem: Crystal Gazing – 24/04/20

    Poem: Crystal Gazing – 24/04/20

    I gaze into the crystal ball,
eager fortunes and fierce dreams to find,
the smoky scene is quartered,
into sections the interpretations are spread,
their great divide.
 
There is something special about these areas
that makes one tingle and shake,
the magical moments of being able to envision
another’s hopeful future,
though occasional destitution features,
their saddening fates.
 
The vibrations of the visions,
they tell me to absorb them,
then move along, along,
there is no point in lingering past my welcome,
the spirit world assures me of this,
to remain longer would be inherently,
entirely wrong.
 
The spirits’ fleeting presence seeps
into and around
the crystal ball’s view,
telling me to reveal?
No, to withhold,
at most,
I understand this is the correct thing to do.
 
May the querant’s hopes be as receptive as
naked skin upon electrified flesh,
a certain truth he wonders,
or when she says,
“Fortune teller,
tell me old, 
share my fate determined ever
softly or bold.”
 
But, I cannot,
even if I am paid for the service,
a true teller obscures,
does not specifically state one way or another,
and all in due course.
 
Instead I smile and dote upon their
accompanying card reading,
positive traits,
and unwind-unwind,
they don’t need to continue
their obsession as to what their fortune might be,
unworthy of pursuing,
little point in trying to find.  

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

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  • Poem: Serendipity – 21/04/20

    Poem: Serendipity – 21/04/20

    Serendipity flows like loose ivy
along the plains,
like a parched riverbed 
it snakes here and there,
selectively it makes its journey,
though from discrimination it refrains.
 
Like the green vine it emulates,
it has the power to choose
those and that which it comes
in contact with,
poison ivy,
malignancy or benign,
it has the potential to
crush, divide.
 
I watch its path
as it winds along the way so right,
righteous is the mood,
Serendipity is here for all of us,
I wonder to myself if I could somehow catch her
or whether, in fact, she’s better left untamed,
is this what she wants?
Should her freedom be saved?
 
For she is fortuitous,
she always means well,
for those she comes before
she most certainly knows how to
lay down their path,
pull the cards –
so to speak –
share the details,
the ivy of prosperity,
the serendipity of hope.
 
Who knows what is waiting,
before, left, right,
all around us?
There are certainly many tales of young and old to be told.
 
And now she draws these from you,
extracting,
then providing your altered nectar of experience,
the breadth of stories learned from you,
your very being,
as the sweetness of life
which you and her feast upon,
giving both sustenance,
her providing the sticky, hopeful webbing,
the sweet, milky goodness
to go on,
living and breathing.
 
The talented trailing of ivy continues,
she is fortuitous,
she is bright,
quietly praying for your sterling, lucky independence,
all you see is rainbow,
then she provides you amazing flashes of potent white.

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

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  • Poem: Loved – 18/04/20

    Poem: Loved – 18/04/20

    Their presence lingers,
I am eternally grateful for the guidance
that only Love can provide,
there is little more to be understood
that needs no wishes to be further sanctified.
 
Because their devotion is pure,
warmer and lovelier as time goes on,
and I am appreciative of everything that has been performed,
which has ever been done.
 
For, I am now the thankful being
grown into the mould,
who has matured in the depths beyond
left behind
from the blind ignorance of Youth,
which came with the temperamental haughtiness
of someone unknowing of truly what they had.
 
I understand my luck,
my lottery win in this world,
to have such wonderful people in my life
while others suffer,
are maltreated, 
are unloved, or even
abandoned.
 
I hear their words and actions speak,
“I love you”
time and time again,
the provision of special food on the table,
their kind, empathetic words,
the joyous asking of how my day was,
and I know,
I know,
that one day this will come to an end,
but, by God, I am here,
acknowledging, grateful,
for everything I have.
 
My love for you will never cease,
do you understand?
My voice trembles, tears threaten to flow,
I am finally showing true emotion,
poignant and exact.

My special ones,
who know who they are,
please understand my truths and here,
accept them for all that they are:-
you do the same with all that I am,
together we love,
united we stand.

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

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  • Poem: Where Have You Been? – 17/04/20

    Poem: Where Have You Been? – 17/04/20

    Unknowing of where you’ve been,
where have you travelled?
Where has your mind taken you?
Is it to the edge of your despair?

Are you aching,
begging to be heard without any
actual words?
Misunderstood,
underappreciated?
Does this strike a chord?
 
Do you wish you could move on quicker
to achieve your goals
within your dreams?
Is there a hollow in you
needing to be filled?
Measurements two by two,
or maybe just a clearer view.
 
I hate to see you in distress,
you feel you hide it well,
and from the world you want to encase yourself,
a solid armour,
self-protection still,
where the wind and sound will
rush over your body and not even care,
you will find that anonymity there.
 
And huddled in the tunnel you’ll be,
against the thick of a storm which strangely frees you
from hefty concerns and worries
which drag, drag you down,
and now you’re just a molecule
or a large particle
against which beats the busy air.
 
I can sense your freedom now
in the darkness,
in the shadows of that tunnel,
some may find such a situation
claustrophobic, atrocious,
but you, dear,
are released by the air,
being pounded by winds is no trouble,
each gust dispels care upon care.

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

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  • Poem: A Gentle Reminder – 16/04/20

    Poem: A Gentle Reminder – 16/04/20

    Bulging eyes like those of a mute man’s persuasion,
an idiomatic world wreaking destruction
with its occupants not any worse or well off than the land they stand upon,
Ingot! Ingot!
Who told me you’re the one?
 
I never put on the shield of makeup without
first assessing the importance,
painting, changing,
it’s all required,
the heart is still at large.
 
The loathing,
self-loathing,
more insignificant
yet still there as a slight,
it stings,
its pain it will seemingly never repair.
 
And there is the sharp spike,
a prick in my heart
the poison,
fuel injection,
electric explosion,
my eyes they take in all
that swimmingly the pain receptors cannot.

A gelatinous feeling now overwhelms my flesh,
the unformed nature jiggles and sighs,
the athleticism is gone from those
once fit, toned calves and thighs,
my muscles ache almost as much as my heart,
of the present they quietly speak.

A butterfly comes to visit the tip of my nose
and suddenly in a flash 
I’m reminded to exist in the present,
to create my own formulation of self-acceptance and hope,
and nothing less or more in between,
nothing else withstanding.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by David Englund from Pixabay 
Image by Larisa Koshkina from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Cotton Wool – 15/04/20

    Poem: Cotton Wool – 15/04/20

    They cotton woolled me,
padded me safe,
to ensure if I fell,
I wouldn’t crash,
bang, break.
 
To make sure that I was
protected by the softened cloud,
like a growing cumulus
I would travel here, there, about.
 
But always did I feel this
protection surrounding me,
a knowledge that when I’d fall
I could tangle among
branches of kind gum trees,
who would soothe me with their eucalyptus scent, 
calming, warming,
my panic flew –
it went.
 
And I am suspended,
here between heaven and earth,
it’s not so bad, I realise,
I’m surrounded by the now-dripping cotton wool
pungent with oil.
 
I appreciate those who thought it prudent to
wrap me like a child in a
tight woollen blanket,
because of this, 
the next stage of
my life I can be assured.
 
In fact, I’m more like a caterpillar
in my woven silk threads,
to my original protective layer
I’ve added to this,
 
Now I am layered, softly cushioned,
nothing can penetrate even if I allowed it in
because, quite frankly,
this is my time for healing.
 
As time passes, I feel my body grow strong,
none of this limp wrists and arms,
fragile ankles and weakened shins,
no, I am becoming something,
something more,
and suddenly the cotton wool and thread?
I have no need for these anymore.
 
I emerge heroically from my encasing,
an uproarious cry of triumph escapes my lips,
the trials and tribulations of long past
which the wool had patched
are strangely flung from my memory.
 
And here I stand,
stronger than ever before,
plights and disasters all untoward,
I will recall nothing of them
for I have moved forth,
a body no longer in a woollen cavity.

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

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