Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

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  • Poem: Purple Girl – 27/02/20

    Poem: Purple Girl – 27/02/20

    He tells me he has seen a girl,
with vivid purple hair shining in the sun,
according to him she walked with great presence
away from him,
her face was hidden,
yet her aura shone,
with flecks of blue,
and green and gold,
if I cared to know I would look these up,
the energy, the auric balance of this being,
who captured his heart this very day.
 
He brings her up in conversation,
several times, likely unintentionally
but because he is compelled,
I remind him of the girl in rainbow garb
who I saw around my house many years prior,
like her, he would never lay eyes upon this purple haired girl again.
 
No, these are the people we view once in a lifetime,
for some reason they bless our day and our minds,
filling us with their memories,
that there is something spiritually inclined,
that far off in the distance their presence really
isn’t as far away as the colours may seem,
near us,
holding us,
are the thoughts we have,
of our desired, wholesome dreams.
 
One may state I should have been affected by
the idea she mesmerised him,
completely took his breath away,
although he did wax lyrical about this vision,
I knew that she meant something to his day.
 
I cannot permit a sense of jealously,
a sense of misery because she captured his heart,
for in the mere seconds he watched her
leave the station and head north-east,
his heart enlivened,
and she can be thanked for this,
she managed it in her departure.

In fact, I am pleased
he has had this beauty to lay his eyes upon,
not in the sense that he appreciates her wantonly,
but accepted her presence wholly and for what it is,
something exceptional,
something worthy of speaking and sharing.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

Image by SilviaP_Design from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Gateway – 27/02/20

    Poem: Gateway – 27/02/20

    I’ve come to a stark white marble gateway
where I have the choice,
presented with left or right,
which path is moral,
which path is exploratory,
which will help reach a state of divinity?
 
I pause at the crossroads,
unsure of which road to take,
because the truth of the matter is
I’m barely guided
I’m doing this on my own, it seems.
 
Each path is covered with a looming arch,
veins of tiny grey riddle the white, I discover,
and they remind me of varicose veins,
little interfering modules that stain the perfection
of the set stage.
 
I wonder to myself what would occur if I chose no path at all,
would I reach my desired goal
on my own?
Would I attain that which I seek
without the standard paths of known?
 
I decide to stray from what is before me,
I have always been known to explore,
to test the waters,
the rivers so deep,
I do not need to follow many others,
I’m already here on my own.
 
I instead backtrack,
it may look like failure,
that I have given up,
but the irony here is I’m redoing the procedures,
I am here,
I am there,
I am gone,
into the air.
 
It is now my choice where I shall place my feet
or spread my wings,
seek forth,
seek right,
seek left,
I am but a frugal queen.
 
I shall seek my king and my kind
because I know they are waiting for me,
I’ll reach them in time,
resurrect the past,
I’ll no longer become lost,
and I’ll traverse until I become wiser than I’ve ever known.
 
Then I will know the true meaning of what I seek,
what is it?
The answer is within me.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock 
Image by Jorge Guillen from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Girlish Dreams – 26/02/20

    Poem: Girlish Dreams – 26/02/20

    fairy bread and toffee apples and Barbie dolls and cupcakes
pink princess outfits and friends' prematurely planned weddings
and skipping rope
and playing-house games
 
a little girl’s dreams
so simple and easy to please
those years in primary school
where we danced on the rocks like sprites with ease
 
but then my dreams grew stormy
I became complicated
the family's black sheep
depression set in and I never really knew
how different I was
I just felt so old,
unlike anything I’d ever even known
 
a tortured soul I felt myself as
a failure in friendships
yearning for relationships
good tidings rarely seemed to be brought my way
though talented it appeared the self-aggrandising nature
of my achievements and success bore me into the ground
nailing me
pinning me
driving me
down
down
down.
 
how I rose up was anyone’s guess
histrionic and glib?
I was never these.
but I smoothed over the rough edges of my undesired life
and made myself into something more,
for if I couldn’t be accepted as I was,
then by all means, I would exemplify my strife.

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

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  • Poem: The Hummingbird – 25/02/20

    Poem: The Hummingbird – 25/02/20

    The hummingbird buzzes quietly,
She is home at last,
Without the combative competitive bees
Whispering in her ears
Deafening her as closer and closer they come
Because she is set to feed and sudden aggression
Comes over her
As she desires the delicious dining within the precious feeder
She needs
She requires
She must collect
She must consume
And these hissing whispering busy bees
Insist on playing in her outside room
Where she is meant to work
Never abstain
But be precise and retrieve
Her life is antisocial
But she must work around others
To achieve that which she yearns for
The truth
Her feed
Her sweetness
Dripping beak.    

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

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  • Poem: Geraniums – 24/02/20

    Poem: Geraniums – 24/02/20

    I glance at the geraniums,
It seems they glance sideways at me.
Some are happy, bubbly, cheery,
And others, they carry a known disease,
Of negativity among the cheer,
The mirth,
The banter,
The geraniums are not completely innocent,
No, some were willing to barter.
 
Some have exchanged their good looks for power,
The ability to glare and stare at us while we
Glance back and forth with horror,
At having come upon the enemies of the majority of these beauties,
Who have gone through struggles to rise above their
Common duties,
These beautiful flowers are not all cast in the light
Of wonder,
Because some made a willing trade,
Their morals and appearance have gone under.
 
Why would a flower trade for power?
What could a flower possibly do?
I do not know,
You do not know,
Perhaps the mystery here lies in the shrivelled petals
And leaves which are dying,
Silently begging to be pruned.
 
I suppose the deception coupled with the power that
A geranium has traded their beauty for
Could be simply this,
A rising,
A surging,
An engulfing whiteness,
An ability to make a viewer come completely undone.
 
The geraniums smile and smile away
And there are only a few within the bunch which
Could ruin our day.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by S. Hermann & F. Richter from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Those Few Hours – 22/02/20

    Poem: Those Few Hours – 22/02/20

    If only for a few hours,
I felt stable,
grounded,
calmed.
 
I could attribute it to absolutely nothing,
or I could attribute to it to something new.
 
Either way, there is significance in the repose I experience,
a chance from the unquiet,
the river that no longer runs untamed,
the stream that moves with whispered breaths,
gentle hums upon the page.
 
I am now not highly strung, irritated by the smallest stressor,
taking everything so seriously,
or allowing poor behaviour of others run free
in a manner ill and dour.
 
I do not permit others to speak to me as though I am nothing,
I forcefully admonish, without the wild anger flung about,
designation now of freedom.
 
I am a cheerful totalitarian today,
nothing will wear me down,
I am neither negatively affected by poor, misjudged humour,
offensive, though it may be.
 
My addition in my life, I’ll carefully hush the words to you,
may be creating a fictious approach, a solution,
or perhaps something real from me to you.
 
Either way,
I am cured of the results of insensitive speech which had become,
my amulet,
my strength,
my assessment of the moment,
I can clasp it in my wanting hands.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Melissa Askew on Unsplash

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  • Poem: I loved her from the moment she put pen to paper – 21/02/20

    Poem: I loved her from the moment she put pen to paper – 21/02/20

    I loved her from the moment she put pen to paper.
Her heartfelt poetry just sang and sang,
like a robin whose eggs have presently been laid,
a proud woman she is,
I loved her from the moment she put pen to paper.
 
She sought the times when her heart
ached, flowed, and ebbed,
she wrote and wrote of how her integrity had been exploited and foolishly spent,
her tales of young and old and precious emotions set in stone,
she quietly wonders to herself: will I ever be known?
I love her regardless, for the words she pens and owns.
 
Strike not the elements which assist her upon her path,
relish not the pain and suffering which she’ll detail as it
dwells, not departs,
and understand that she exposes beyond her flesh,
her raw insides,
her twisted bone, meat and sinew,
realise that she does this all
so she’s not required to live behind a guise.
 
I love her eternally for how she soars with and alongside her words,
peddles her emotions back and then forth,
makes them breathe with intent and love,
adoring her as she adores her world,
no matter how stiffly or difficult it can be at times
for it to turn.
 
World, spin upon your axis, so she can continue to thrive,
release her from her demons,
to detail the purging, exorcising, from her life!
Allow her to remain fiery yet soft,
tender and loved,
outspoken and muted,
all contradictions imbued.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Sparkles in the Skies – 21/02/20

    Poem: Sparkles in the Skies – 21/02/20

    I feel as though I’m being peeled,
exposed to the situation at hand.
Is it deception?
Was it an error?
A method to expose, tease, and apprehend?
 
I dislike lies, but perchance was she deceived in her own time,
this little lady to the left?
She wears sparkles upon her left hand;
her life’s a pantomime.
 
To the right of her, she offers a hand to those
within the room,
take care, gentlemen, she is indefatigable,
she’ll waltz all night,
dancing prettily,
flowery steps of thrice floating in the starlit skies.
 
Her sparkles, they light their path,
her and a lucky man,
the sizzling couple,
they’re entwined and they wouldn’t have it any other way.
                                                                           
But then she offers her glistening to another girl,
one slumped in the corner, in the shadows,
to brighten her way, and lighten the load of her heart,
do these lights need to be genuine to command her enlivening intent?
Do they need to sparkle in a manner that screams lavish,
without nonsense?
 
The truth is that whichever sparkles are offered
to this poor girl, 
tucked away in her own folds of darkness,
should be humbly appreciated, accepted and loved,
never mind the illusory dancer,
she is creating her own sense of candour and honour
through providing steadily, 
yet seemingly inconsequentially to a needy other.
   
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by cocoparisienne from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Unease – 20/02/20

    Poem: Unease – 20/02/20

    The feeling I get when attending is one of great unease.
I have not been here for long, but my heart pitter-patters,
fluttering in the breeze.
 
Why am I so nervous?
I used to attend and be present many, many times,
a feeling of stupendous awakening?
I’m unsure of this,
though I’ll be brave and allow myself to stay,
I must try.
 
What worries me are certain memories,
but surely, they will not return,
quietness is now overwhelming,
there is only me at the helm,
for I am the one steering the course of my ship,
and if I’m tired, I’ll lend the movements to another,
closer to me,
perhaps a type of kin,
then, he or she, will look after the helm,
and allow me to soar, higher than the fear I feel within.
 
There’s nothing to fear when I can hold myself near,
hold myself together,
or allow the movements of another.
I can allow a being to help me be fixed piece by piece,
because this feeling of unease will soon no longer be with me.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Eternal Happiness on Pexels.com

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  • Poem: Drifting – 19/02/20

    Poem: Drifting – 19/02/20

    I float above the surface,
Like a piece of driftwood, an otter, a daring platypus,
I rise to the challenge,
God, you know I’m here listening for you like I should.
 
I’ve risen to the moment,
Where I can drift along the water,
Towards the shore,
Certain in myself that this path I’m undertaking
Is finally the right one,
And it’ll be eternal,
Not blunted or short.
 
I will seek the advice of the angels within my life,
The living beings,
Brought forth to assist me,
They have gathered around my dying body many a time
And arisen I have become, always been,
Perhaps I have been blessed by someone divine.
 
I have always been saved,
From the damage of my hand or by others’ wicked ways,
And I thank you, dear Father,
Because of your divine intervention,
Seamless and true,
Without sight of stitch nor glue,
You, are the correct path,
I must herald myself unto.
 
With my guides and my angels
Perhaps I’ll find the right avenues to take,
To this blessed acceptance and awakening
And acknowledgement,
The three A’s,
Cast aside is the need for attention,
I’m now happily quiet within myself,
I need not their eyes staring or voices blatant calling,
I’ve been through that long ago.
 
But this decision I have made,
I have not made it lightly,
And I trust,
I do trust,
That I will traverse the journey wholly.

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

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