Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

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  • Post: There is Hope – 14/04/20

    Post: There is Hope – 14/04/20

    There is hope if you look hard enough,
Among the shadows that lurk and loom,
No matter how difficult
To discern,
When our prying eyes have had enough,
We spot that glimmer,
That shimmer –

A glistening snail’s trail
Leading to that foreign place
That certainly is not home
But it calms you in a manner
Strangely stupendous
For something that is so
Different and odd to what would
Normally calm a throng.
 
And you sit there, quietly absorbing
That naked light,
A trailing of hope leading to
An outcrop, surrounding land full of shadows
Which has the power to relax you
With its scattered stars above,
An enormity, yet a closeness,
A childhood reminder of a time
That triggers something from afar.
 
And within you now a locket meets a key
And amazed you are
As your version of Pandora’s box flings open
But with a twist,
With internal, humble, resonant reassurances
You know there will be no casualties.

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

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  • Poem: I Remember the Egg Hunt – 12/04/20

    Poem: I Remember the Egg Hunt – 12/04/20

    I remember hiding eggs for my little brothers,
They were tiny and sweet and curious,
They loved the treasure hunting,
It went down a treat,
Each Easter Sunday.
 
And when they were found,
I’d hide them again,
Two, three times,
The hunting went,
And smiles all around,
Beaming,
From me to them,
The joyous moments shared,
Loving, sibling hearts together,
And then –
 
The feasting commenced,
How my brothers loved this part,
Where they could indulge,
Contented were their hearts,
 
The shiny egg foil carelessly discarded upon the ground,
Where will these chocolates be?
Will they be hidden again or never again found?
 
And quietly with great grins did the feasting go on,
So many eggs there were to count,
Now there was basically nothing left!
All but gone!
 
And the satisfaction from their sugar-filled bellies could all be seen
Upon their expressions,
Time to rest,
The sugar rush caused a tiredness that’s overwhelming.
  
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by congerdesign from Pixabay   

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  • The Sliver: A Horror Poem – 11/04/20

    The Sliver: A Horror Poem – 11/04/20

    The translucence of an eye is insidious,
it narrows its eyelid to a sliver of pupil to see,
a glint of curiosity
but little remorse to view,
what could this vision present to someone like you and I?
Us, or even just you?
 
Barbaric tones,
the slashes, the slights,
the light burrows into my own orbs,
quietly, calculatingly I take on the mood
of the insidious view I’ve knowingly absorbed.
 
Unbeknownst to myself though,
from now, I am expected to travel alone,
this living, breathing eye has snatched me away from you.
 
Now I work in tandem,
my eyes with It,
alone, I am,
yet breathing its painful sooty sin,
can I not escape,
with peril can I be freed?

A combatant’s energy:
I stare into its glare,
its memories are horrific to experience and even worse to see.
 
Free me from its peril!
I want to shriek.
The maladies I’ve experienced through its blatant enormity
weigh down upon me,
they dare me to speak.
 
But, how to escape horrors so convoluted they make us entwined,
where are you when I need You?
I cry posthumously.
I live only through the Sliver’s memories,
stifling, the visions stew.
 
And it is as though we are living a dragging nightmare,
undulating waves of nauseating misery swim through
the void of energy that once carried and housed me,
I can barely breathe,
but isn’t that the point of it all?
There’s nothing left to see.    

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

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  • Poem: Heavy Crimson Droplets – 10/04/20

    Poem: Heavy Crimson Droplets – 10/04/20

    Teardrops fall upon me as bloated shiny beads
of purple wholesome grapes,
speaking as to whether they should aim themselves for Earth
or be aiming within somebody’s hungering mouth.
 
What fate would be most adequate were they to
satisfy and feed the famished others,
or perhaps their desires for freedom
are better suited to desperately flinging themselves
upon the pavement of my skin,
smoothly they will roll aside,
back to where they belong.
 
They are here by accident,
these living, breathing fruits,
globules of sweetness that many cannot resist,
inside the fruit bowl some of them rest their eyes
somewhat haughtily above other types
for these pieces are displaying more height, position and quality
than the lesser beings,
the lower fruits,
the more common pieces which are quietly required to remain,
unbeknownst to the grapes, these others are there as the safety weights.
 
And wouldn’t it be nice
if they were able to understand and accept wholly
that this is currently their destiny,
to silently be the front line of the war,
the flung purple bubbles of squeezed crimson,
as they designate their lives to survival, unknown sacrifice, or unspoken safety.
This situation is anything but light-hearted folly.
  
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay   

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  • Poem: The Animals’ Holiday – 09/04/20

    Poem: The Animals’ Holiday – 09/04/20

    The world stops,
one could hear a pin drop
though no one is present to hear its ping.
 
We are all inside,
relegated,
told to be safe
to take care,
to avoid each other as much
to save ourselves now and in the future.
 
The pin drops and in fact
something does hear it
why, it is a little fox
who has taken over his landscape once more,
without the humans,
the grass, the soil, the land
is his.
 
And the rabbits,
why, there they are,
tentatively sniffing,
their whiskers bouncing up and down
like wild antennas in a storm,
judging whether it’s safe to leave their warren,
its safety,
they finally decide, there’s much freedom to be had!
 
And the birds, the birds are startled
by the lack of human activity,
the lessening of smog,
of absence of large groups,
less cars,
and perplexed, they fly observing the scene below,
then, joyously they realise this world is becoming theirs,
more than it had ever been before,
and they swoop and squawk and soar,
tweeting and twittering with as many smiles
as their beaks can form.
 
For how does one know when a bird is smiling?
How does one know when a fox’s heart is free and calling?
How does one know when a rabbit’s frantic heart is now
calm and content?
The ability to leave his home without fear,
and explore the land without a sense of calamity impending?
 
The animals are taking over,
it is their time,
their ability to take their holiday,
while we are inside,
they live it up.

While we’re inside, they’re happily enjoying their Outside.

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

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  • Prose Poetry: It’s Your Birthday! – 07/04/20

    Prose Poetry: It’s Your Birthday! – 07/04/20

    Oh, a time for celebration! Your birthday while in isolation. There can only be us three, but that’s enough for you to see, that you are appreciated still, and you are deserving of the love you need. You are often quiet, you do not seek attention much, indeed, you are a hard worker of the household, our family, and you go about your tasks with a sense of careful meticulous duty.

But today you will allow me to hug you, to repeatedly kiss you upon the top of your head, when all other times I reach to embrace you, I am kept at arm’s length. There is something about affection that must make you squirm inside, but perhaps the fact I counted down the hours to midnight, to your birthday, showed that I care, it made you realise. Of course we love you, and of course we will always care, you are the masculine figure we always have to observe, to follow directives, to feel your care and quiet concern when it is required, when danger is near, you are the one to help pick up the pieces, you are always near.

And today is your day, let us celebrate it with a bang! Your presents gleefully given, one artistically made with a careful hand. And the others are so sweet that they could make your stomach curl, you delight in these gifts, for you rarely consume them at will. And now I spend extra time with you, when usually you are permitted your own space. I thought you liked it like this, but now, I realise, that sometimes you might enjoy my company, to have a quiet observer nearby to watch television with, perhaps here I am accepted as another.

And now it is time for cake, and we three celebrate, Mother’s been at work all day, and you are delighting in posing before the cake playfully, cheekily, unlike how you would act normally. I smile to myself, even those you are being so silly, because I know that you are enjoying yourself, this moment is one of today’s many. So, my precious Father, I hope you enjoyed your day, allow us to share in our love and appreciation for you each and every other day, always.

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

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  • Prose Poetry: A Tune For the Bird Who Brightens my Day – 05/04/20

    Prose Poetry: A Tune For the Bird Who Brightens my Day – 05/04/20

    Precious and sweet, in a method of glistening blue, she rises to me, she flies to my open hand, and whispers, “How are you?” My melodious being, my little birdy in special cobalt feathers, she understands what I need during my lonely waking hours. A touch of do re mi and as happy as can be, she presents some well-formed notes to me, not tentatively or wavering but with strong confidence that ensues. She wishes to ensure that my brightness returns, and shall remain, with her tuneful songs, more notes arrive and they shall grow and soften, as sweet as the scent of fresh rain.

My little, little birdy, where did you come from, and where do you go? After the moments in which you cheer my mindset so? You disappear into the wilderness, away toward the horizon, and sometimes I feel guilty when I stop for a spot of contemplation. For, what would occur, what could I do, to capture my free little bluebird all for myself, so I could have her joyous songs forever within my ears? There would be no need for her to sing to anyone else. Although, I understand that these thoughts are selfish of me, and I must reconsider how I deal with my bird in my dreams, because she surely has important tasks elsewhere of cheering others up.  

I must be kind, I must be generous, to allow my birdy to share her love and song with others in the world during their moments of distress, for there is no need to be greedy, as I know she’ll return and sing to me, even when I feel inclined to dance, side step, step, and twirl, ever so freely.

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

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  • Poem: Early Morning Disturbances – 04/03/20

    Poem: Early Morning Disturbances – 04/03/20

    The afternoon calls to me,
it begs for me to take advantage,
a swimming sensation within my mind
causes a wondering and I mentally wander:
I do not have the energy for this.
 
To explore the pathways,
to join with other beings,
to share their thoughts, feelings, and dreams,
well, this is something undulating, it seems.
 
Instead, I wish to lay down in my bed,
rest my weary head that’s arisen since two thirty a.m.,
and laid half alert, half asleep,
pacing back and forth,
up and down the stairs,
waiting for the morning,
when I can end the time when that 
restlessness replaced my wanted dreaming.
 
I must replenish,
I must coerce this Afternoon who wishes to 
bid me hither soon,
to engage me in some activities that are beneficial to me,
who says that they are beneficial? I want to squawk,
I want to scream.
 
Instead, I peel open my newly made bed,
feel the crispness of the lining sheets surrounding my body,
feel the plumpness of my fluffed pillows 
billowed around my head,
and I close my eyes,
feeling the softness ensue as the doona 
weighs upon me with comfort
that I haven’t known for ever so long.  
 
This haven I have created,
this haven I have made,
I am thankful for it,
the opportunity to rest comfortably without interruption,
because in the darkness of the early morning,
I will be hastened from my sleep,
my eyes, bleary, open,
and again, it’ll be two thirty.
 
The couch is no solace for someone who wishes to swim in dreams,
I must be in my current bedded comfort tonight,
I tell myself that in order to have 
calm before mayhem or disturbances
from my short sleeping delights
I must rest and relax into an early, quiet night.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Glen McCallum on Unsplash

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  • Prose Poetry: The Beckoning Seascape – 01/04/20

    Prose Poetry: The Beckoning Seascape – 01/04/20

    I wonder what it would be to live like in the sea, surrounded by clown fish and anemones, and smiling jellyfish that could sting as they please. Floating past little krill and tiny bright fish, I consider what my role would be in this charming, pristine, cobalt, irreverent water. I rise up and down, parading before no one, yet swollen, the swells, around me, the waves recede, their special charisma is innumerable, anything but singular simplicity.
 
I carry on with my journey – I notice my mermaid’s tail – so beautiful and sparkling, each seascape coloured scale, and I understand that I am here in a manner of being so-very blessed, my countenance shows my solemnity and gratitude that am present, here, watching the ecosystem seemingly perform for me.
 
But, the truth is, that this world will keep on turning with or without my presence, I am here but as a visitor whom the Sea has invited with ambivalence, seemingly uncaring of whether I am here nor there, because she knows, and I know, that while I am watching the sharks parade with ominous delight, taking in the sea coral so bright which pushes away the pain it could cause another who didn’t understand its potential, and the larger fish, whose species I do not know, yet who capture my eyes and imagination that I cannot stop but stare and be enthralled. 

No, I thank this Sea for willing me, for beckoning me in her own way. To envision that which she has to offer, the sanctity of herself open for inspection, just for me, just one set of eyes, that are not prying but are filled with ardour, accompanied by a heart which is so very amazed.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by PublicDomainPictures from Pixabay    

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  • Poem: Sticky Gems – 31/03/20

    Poem: Sticky Gems – 31/03/20

    I jolt awake,
back into the night,
where I wearily breathe and pad around the kitchen and hallways 
without any sense of brightness or light.
 
Sleepily, I guzzle liquids,
after all, I crave them,
strangely,
must it be due to the medication once forcefully fed to me?
 
I press myself to stay awake but 
the effort is too much, 
I crawl back into bed,
there’s a soft rustling,
a half-asleep groaning,
oh dear, my insomnia
has awakened him.
 
I cannot help my medical condition,
it is appearing to rear its ugly head,
the precipitation of an outburst of my other condition,
my positive yet negative malady?
 
I shut my eyes,
I tell myself it’s only for a moment,
then roused all of a sudden:
where am I?
It feels as though another continent.
 
Desperately, I call out for Mother,
my pleas are like sticky gems from the oceans and earth,
waiting to be accepted and acknowledged,
recognised perhaps, but not until the end of process.
 
I call and call
but I cannot find her,
perhaps she’s around the corner,
giggling with a close friend,
why, what mirth with that other,
 
And my father is watching protectively to the side,
making certain nothing untoward happens,
because in one fell swoop the world can change,
this I’ve sadly discovered.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Aline Ponce from Pixabay

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