Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

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  • Poem: Pageant Girls – 07/03/20

    Poem: Pageant Girls – 07/03/20

    Barrel waves,
beautiful curls,
how they suit these pretty pairs of girls
who dance in the moment,
left to right,
right to left,
linking arms in the present,
advancing, advanced.
 
They smile widely
though little do you know,
their teeth are plastered with Vaseline,
to shine, shine, shine each little toof and teef,
to make their pearly whites evermore sweet,
each two sets of perfect rows.
 
Now in a line they twirl into one another,
taking turns,
sharing their partners,
their blonde, brunette and auburn barrel waves,
beauty in motion,
luxurious to behold.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by lorilynnoliver from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Holding Charge – 05/03/20

    Poem: Holding Charge – 05/03/20

    Will I hold charge? I wonder. 
Will electricity pass through me and back out to them?
I contemplate how my mind will handle the surging volts,
Will it crumble or will it take the brunt?
 
Perhaps they do not know precisely what they are doing,
How to discover whether the procedure is a success?
A general turn around in mood, I’m expected to about-face,

I’d like to thwack someone out cold, 
he or she who approved this cruelest decision,
But hey,
Doing so would warrant more charging,
And the thoughts of this hardens my face.
 
I’m out of control,
My moods have escalated,
Neither the nurses nor doctors can control me,
Plan A for me: out cold,
Electrocute,
See how she is later that morning.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by 024-657-834 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Flailing – 04/03/20

    Poem: Flailing – 04/03/20

    There have been many years of flailing,
my life lacking in solid intent,
and I wonder, where am I going,
am I even progressing?
Hoping for something to shoulder all the weight from my listless life.
 
It’s as though I am simply floating in a mass of water,
stagnant appears to be the tune,
the water dank,
murky,
like my lacking of good fortune.
 
I used to be so focused,
attentive and driven,
full of concentration,
dedication to my art,
my music,
my academia,
the processes.
 
Now, I am simply waiting to expire,
growing older by the second,
each tick a stretch from the previous,
to the finality of my last.
 
I wish for something solid to aim for,
something to hope for,
something which I can reach for,
to impress upon myself,
to enliven and enrich my soul.
 
But my dreams seem so far off
and lofty,
and unlikely to come to pass,
I can dream and dream
but surely someone who has become like me
will only finish last.
 
And the truth of the matter is
I am here breathing,
stealing away others’ rightful air
with my pathetic breaths which amount to little,
no,
nothing,
I am nothing anymore,
not what I used to be,                
burned away are my successes.
 
And my desire for excesses,
all ceremonial,
seem an apparent method of
ridiculous and ostentatious showing of invisible wealth.
 
Because,
while I like to sparkle and I love to shine,
the gems upon my fingers
and around my neck
are really the only things about me lately worth drawing the eye.
 
I realise my tone is morose,
that I am lacking in lustre within my words,
although lifeless and downtrodden feels commonplace
from someone who used to outrageously feel.  

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

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  • Prose Poetry: A Land of the Free – 02/03/20

    Prose Poetry: A Land of the Free – 02/03/20

    I fly off, toward a land of the free, where I can soar with my wingspan so wide not even dragons could watch without envy. Their narrowed eyes and aching hearts would speak of something so paining and green that neither head nor heart could be altered, though to be seen with these beasts would be a dream.
 
I am a spectacular bird of the skies, my feathers six feet long, yay high, and of a particular, peculiar colour, tan dipped with white and rose, I am seen throughout the skies daily, my presence is always known.
 
I am on a journey to the land of the free where I will land and find myself among other birds of prey who do not want to capture any more, to kill life. Where we are all equal, soaring, travelling across the craggy and green ground, where we meld with one another, sociable, never disastrously cruel or unkind.
 
The dragons pass me overhead, their keen red beady eyes are searching the ground for me, but instead I rise above them, flourish by flourish of my wings the wind around me grows, and I smile unto them, caw-cawing, as my species is known to express, in a manner so bold.
 
The dragons realise I am not a threat, in fact, I am here to escape their prosperous land, where animals such as rats and mice – my favourite – were available ongoing. There was no competition to capture such meals and it was never left to chance. They simply scurried before me, as though begging to be taken, but now, I am in the land of the free, where no lives will be taken.
 
This includes mine. I wave off the dragons, and smiling, they rise into the sky, leaving myself and my others to decide what to do with our now guilt-free lives.

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

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  • Poem: Free Falling – 02/03/20

    Poem: Free Falling – 02/03/20

    Out of the window
where my tears fall, fall, fall,
rich and ravenous am I for the salt 
which is encompassed by all.
 
They sting my eyes, 
this liquid drawn from the depths of my despair,
the lingering victimisation of my soul,
I don’t want to become air.
 
I feel real, more alive
when the salt water of my form stings me,
it ails my orbs,
a pair once so bitter and jaded in their viewing
of a world where I’d come undone.
 
There appears nothing worth saving,
a tumultuous wind untamed,
randomised about my body,
my crazed hair,
that my face is seemingly effaced,
there is no longer anything there.
 
Perhaps the salted tears are corrosive,
they are acidic, perchance,
I linger on the thought too long,
it seems preposterous,
and I chide myself for knowing that what I am assuming
is incorrect.
 
I’m in but a daydream,
a nightmare,
a living fantasy?
 
If only I wished to no longer breathe, 
I’d take this nightmare with me,
allow it to launch off a precipice
and grow and bloat and steal
every living atom from me.
 
But then here’s the catch,
I’d have to disappear willingly,
and there is no chance of that, is there?
I can’t allow some people their dreams.

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

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  • Poem: Cherished – 01/03/20

    Poem: Cherished – 01/03/20

    Who do you love, my dearest,
who is it you cherish?
Who is it that makes your skin tingle,
your veins pump wildly?
 
Who is it who feeds your desire,
causes you to grow lighter while your heart palpates,
big and small?
Enormous and bolder,
your simmering feelings,
the bubbling brewing of emotions
in the depths below.
 
These, they are your lovers,
who wait hand and foot and heart upon you,
and their minds,
their minds, darlings,
are plain to see,
they have dedicated themselves to you.
 
There is a light within their soul that trickles forth
for you to wrangle,
grasp,
capture and take hold,
the evocation of determination they have captured
for you,
is to ensure that they are eternally by your side.
 
Even in the ethereal you have love and loved ones
so cherished,
spoken or unspoken,
they like to accompany you,
even with you being unknowing.
 
But your love,
your adoration here on Earth,
they are here,
willing and waiting,
understanding that your heart
has been made heavy enough.
 
Thus, they travel alongside,
hand upon shoulder,
fingers laced in yours,
know that in life they will never leave you,
and not even in death shall some depart.
 
Their path is alongside you now,
they are precious,
they are wholesome in their intent,
to see you successful and happy,
is their goal,
and it is something irrevocably well spent.

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

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  • Poem: Little Purple Soldiers – 01/03/20

    Poem: Little Purple Soldiers – 01/03/20

    I am astounded,
heart beating wildly,
with adrenaline surging freely,
a source of income for the bravery,
a tipping palette,
the grapes scatter, you see.
 
Fruit befitting an emperor
yet here before little old me,
I am in a quandary –
what should I do with these little soldiers before me?
 
They’re glowing purple,
why, what an amazing sort to take on,
I pick one up,
taste it,
amazed,
astounded by the lusciousness,
I take another one.
 
Will my emperor mind?
How will he react knowing his shiny soldiers
are under attack?
Intrigued he might be,
that I’m saving them in my very own ceramic bowl,
perhaps I’ll claim they are for him.
 
For, this is not a battle,
this is the opposite:
a rescue, their salvation!
If it were not for me,
who knows where they would be,
scattering themselves before another,
evil, deducing,
she or he?
 
No, I am their saviour,
and now look,
my emperor enters the humid room,
where his purple glowing soldiers await him
for his taste buds and his desire.
 
The look upon his face is priceless,
anything but callous,
in fact, gracious and full of kindness,
with such gentility he plucks the closest from
a group of three,
the third of the triplet
he sucks and chews with ease.   
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Steve Buissinne from Pixabay

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  • Poem: New Morning – 29/02/20

    Poem: New Morning – 29/02/20

    It is a new morning,
Nothing has dared stirring,
Not even the motes of dust in the corner,
The silhouette of the boogie man made of laundry,
All is calm and reposed,
The way I like it,
A city of sleep,
Muck between the eyelids,
Snoozing town,
A new morning for me,
But for everyone else,
Quiet, relaxation,
Disarmed
And ultimately free.
Slowly I awaken my muscles,
My limbs,
My well rested bones,
It is time to rise,
To begin the day as it should be detailed of,
How it should be told,
And carefully I stretch,
Making certain not to disrupt the sleepy spiderweb
In the corner above me,
I smile to myself,
This day will be everything my dreams have
Promised them to be.
One leg into the other,
Pants on,
Shirt on,
Shoes laced and tied,
I yawn loudly,
I displace those dust motes now,
It’s time for them to also rise.
And I sing to myself,
Then hum happily,
As I go about my morning tasks
Knowing the rest of the rested world
Is slowly waking up with me.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Leo_65 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Everyone May Be Busy – 28/02/20

    Poem: Everyone May Be Busy – 28/02/20

    Sometimes I enjoy being on my own,
Meditating on my thoughts,
Or lack thereof.
The feeling of openness which can be brought forth by
Simple introversion,
Viewing what is within.
 
While I could be content with such a mode,
Often I yearn for the compatibility of others,
My close friends,
My living champions,
Those who were always there to hold my hand
During illness,
During pain,
During loss and strife.
 
The meaningless banter is not so meaningless at all,
For through the eyes of an outsider,
My bond with others may seem thin,
Weak,
Something which can underwhelm,
 
But they don’t see beyond the front of our projected image
In fact, they see nothing at all,
Because what is occurring beneath the surface
Is like duck’s feet whirring –
From the surface,
The effort you cannot tell. 
 
Everyone may be busy,
And I’ll be bereft with my intent,
That understanding I must cope by myself,
To allow these hours to pass by,
Tick, tock, slowly spent,

But when I’m in the glory of the light of my loved ones,
We shine, shine, shine,
No one is busy anymore,
Except with one another,
We’ll grow and laugh
And shine some more,
This is our time.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by fancycrave1 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: The Others – 28/02/20

    Poem: The Others – 28/02/20

    The others watch me lazily,
yet with intent,
from their quiet area of silent judgement,
it is as though I am being assessed for living
and breathing,
such a scoundrel I am,
I must turn the tables,
to impress!
 
Yet why bother
when these individuals are perpetually displeased?
There seems little point in exacerbating the situation
with a further moment that would actually come across as amazing,
divide the divide!
 
Indifferently though, they blink,
what is the generational gap between us three?
nay I bother now for assessment and
tidings which are built upon comeuppance,
because I’ll sell you this: --
the image is quite diseased,
and its feelings explore me from within,
it wants to attack with ease.
 
The virus enters my system,
wreaking, ravaging,
I am now one of them,
how I wish to breathe freely
without a chest full of bricks,
and now I understand the truest meaning
of a vice-like grasp and grip,
I’ll tell you this:
my spirit will go on,
despite the others’ who belligerently sit there,
stroke their chins,
and sip special tea with posh leafed airs.  
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

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