Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

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  • Poem: Scent by the Hearth – 19/02/20

    Poem: Scent by the Hearth – 19/02/20

    I remember the scent by the hearth,
where you and I laid that night.
The sweet oil of ylang ylang permeating,
Heavenly, unique.
 
My heart, it beat wildly from your touch,
there was nothing I wanted more,
and as our feet entwined by flickering flames encased only
by metal and heated glass,
I wonder now, did you feel the same?
 
The emotions,
a sense of wild abandon,
a striking feeling between my shoulder blades,
as though I’d been sledged in the middle,
split into two,
one piece for me,
and the other for you.
 
Then with your magical touch I would conjoin once more,
become the woman that you’ve always loved and adored,
and now I understand that it can take a mere whiff of a scent to
dredge up a wanted memory,
from something, somewhere, that was encased so pretty.
 
By the hearth, my dear, is how I most remember you,
by the fire,
wild and free,
flames flickering with ease,
and I can smell that carrier oil,
which we used in its purest form,
to tide the gentlest touches into firmer movements
with dexterity
until the morn.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by judenicholson from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Cigarette Clouds and Pine Leaves – 18/02/20

    Poem: Cigarette Clouds and Pine Leaves – 18/02/20

    The surrounding scent of pine leaves invades my sensitive nostrils,
Since quitting smoking I have been able to discern more,
And my taste buds, they are rearing,
They sing for attention,
These senses,
They are heightened.
 
No more dulling from the poisons within those 
death sticks,
A retraction of the chemical clouds which 
Weighted not only my head
But also my mind,
And made light of my hip pocket
In exchange for the risk of ill health.
 
And now I know, that of this horrid habit,
I have succeeded beyond it,
Grown stronger, 
From the many years I had inhaled 
The carcinogenic compounds of danger.

I don’t pity those who continue,
But I wish they had the strength to put them down, too,
I pray for those who feel they don’t need rescue,
How much longer must they punish themselves
Before they can no longer rasp for help,
For their release?
 
Perhaps they’ll come to a realisation, too,
Just like me, I realised, I couldn’t continue,
For my own personal reasons, 
And for the sake of my health,
I came out of this struggle stronger,
Fighting,
With more willpower and determination
Than I believed I could grasp on my own.
 
The pine leaves emit their delicious odour,
I thank the heavens that I am still here to experience their scent with wonder,
With admiration and health,
Perhaps I quit before it was too late for myself.  

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

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  • Poem: Treasures of Time – 18/02/20

    Poem: Treasures of Time – 18/02/20

    I treasure them like a baby treasures his first blankie,
I hold them close and stroke them gently,
calmly, lovingly.
 
I understand that we may not
remain together always,
that soon I will be too overgrown
to walk with them in public,
that I must instead shy away from their presence and
observe them only in the dimness of my room.
 
These sparkling moments,
these memories I treasure,
will not remain with me forever,
but sooner enough I will trip with them,
I will surely falter.
 
Because while clutching onto the past
could prove a wondrous thing
an analysis of everything that occurred
may create a sense of longing,
and what I find most extraordinary is that
if I chose to live in my memories,
in my dreams,
then how could I possible live and exist in the present?
 
In the future I could not surmise of my effects caused from
a behaviour of the present,
and determining how forth I will go
is really, well, a challenge.
 
Clutching onto straws, sucking the marrow from the past,
the richness, its richness, undying, those moments are,
and I smile to myself, finally realising that we in ourselves
can be way too much to put up with, even for ourselves,
and dust to dust we will become,
our memories now disintegrated, gone, disregearded.
 
At least we tried to reign them in,
protect them all along.  
Image by Michal Jarmoluk from Pixabay
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

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  • Poem: Insomniac – 18/02/20

    Poem: Insomniac – 18/02/20

    The second hand ticks,
each click like the repeated trigger of a pistol,
fearful, I lie in wait,
as it speaks of how affected I will be if I remain
in this involuntary state.
 
I’ve barely slept in days,
awakening hours always the same,
middle of the morning,
the arms at those memorable angles,
I wish I could slip daintily into my dreams.
 
Instead, nightmarish awakenings
where I beg for liquid,
I am strangely thirsting,
as though the method of fighting to stay under
the surface of consciousness has drained me of all
moisture;
I am but a slice of aged parchment.
 
And upon me there are unintelligible words written,
scrawled, in fact,
speaking of that which I cannot understand,
let alone behold,
but the effort behind the scratching,
the etching seems atrociously laboured,
is this what I do in my short periods of sleep?
Where I detail myself or,
I detail the unknown controllers?
 
Because that is what it feels like,
I am a being not of my own accord,
when I lie there awaiting sleep,
I ache, anxious butterflies in my chest,
anxiety, anxiety,
there’s something there, unheard.
 
Like a pinprick in the distance, not many would register that sound,
but to understand its existence is of a severe knowing,
a recognition of something there unknown,
an insomniac’s thoughts pinned in the clouds.
 
And I lie here,
waiting, waiting quietly,
my eyes widened and my heart beating in such a state,
how long will it be before the pills take effect?
Before falsified sleep is forced upon me,
a method of a chemical dream, dream, dreaming?

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

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  • Poem: Perfectly Ordinary – 15/02/20

    Poem: Perfectly Ordinary – 15/02/20

    There will be times when you’re viewed as ordinary,
Nothing special about you.
Nothing that others can glimpse upon,
A spark,
A light,
They view you as nothing,
They pass you by.
 
Their eyes dart away when you meet their disengaged pair,
They don’t want to acknowledge you,
To validate your existence,
And while you shouldn’t care for how others may judge,
It hurts that tiny little bit,
They don’t know my story.
They don’t even care.
 
They view you as lowly,
They view you as beneath them,
Surely that’s why they possess that pathetic look in their eyes
That somehow proves your presence is unworthy of being in theirs.
 
I can view the fake smiles now,
The overly chirpy conversations,
Whereas once genuineness and sincerity were simply commonplace.
 
And I wonder, what has changed?
To make me be viewed lesser than what I am?
No matter how I take this,
It’s detrimental to my soul,
Because I’m a sociable being,
And being airily brushed aside for no apparent reason at all,
Seems unfair and something which may fling itself toward them,
Bite them,
Karma will come.  
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Mochammad Algi on Pexels.com

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  • Poem: Inner Light – 15/02/20

    Poem: Inner Light – 15/02/20

    There is a light within
Shrouded by a sheer curtain
That burns brightly for every one of us.
 
Some are able to know of,
Acknowledge its presence,
While others are unable to determine its reality at all.
 
However, truth be told,
Within us all, this flame burns brightly,
We need not concern ourselves if it flickers from time to time,
Dangerously, or just a sway, rhythm and rhyme.
 
My flame is tender,
My flame is small and serene,
What may yours be like?
Take a closer inspection,
And see within.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by icon0.com on Pexels.com

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  • Poem: The Rainbow Bower – 14/02/20

    Poem: The Rainbow Bower – 14/02/20

    Something shiny,
something bright,
she collects with her clutching fingers for an
internal sense of delight.
 
Like a bower bird yet not,
tall, gangly, lean,
her vigilant eyes dart for specific shades which will
perfect that rainbow sheen which
she’s placed upon her bedspread,
 
laid out for her eyes to sumptuously absorb their beauty,
her very own rainbow
created by her own hands,
materials found and designed.
 
She is becoming more like that bower bird
yet by the world mostly unseen,
though still one of a kind,
here she needs not fight to be heard,
a potent lustre, it gleams.
 
She doesn’t collect to impress,
to lure another into her nest,
no, these shades are purely for her,
her heart beats wildly as she blots spilled ink
in colours known only in her realm.
 
Turquoise mixed with a purple sheen,
what would you call this?
Peacock green, she labels him,
he is now part of her luscious scene.
 
And the ripe aroma of baby pink with clashing red,
what will she label that?
What will her imagination draw upon next?
 
She rolls in the hues now,
her eyes brighten and enliven with her soul,
her spirit, it soars, encapsulating the room,
while outside her window, watches the playfully observant Moon.
 
This rainbow bower has much to offer,
she has much to extend to this world
but only in the privacy of her bedroom
can she truly extend, to exhibit her colours
or collect the shades,
because outside these four walls,
if she shared her triumphant secret collection,
the world would be blinded,
temporarily yet wondrously amazed,
she prefers to remain in hiding.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by cm_dasilva from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Thick and Fast – 13/02/20

    Poem: Thick and Fast – 13/02/20

    I’ve never been so high
the view is fast and steep
there like waiting jagged daggers
they wish to pick and preen me.
 
I smile to myself,
a woman of but thrice decades,
so much to learn,
to view,
to become,
I’ve many obstacles which I have hurled myself o’er.
 
I announce my arrival into the world’s realm
where whatever the world needs me to be, I’ll become,
so too what I aspire to be from my spinning globe
I’ll make these moments mine.
 
The green and azure depths of this land and ocean
picturesque
though discussion of any further introspection
about them is left unawakened.
 
Sometimes I can neither make 
head nor tail of my expressions
though I understand later what I may have intended,
I wonder whether others view the whole subconscious meaning,
an expose of decaying, of moments expired.

And these daggers which await me,
well, aren’t they just poignant truth
that in some respects I hit the nail on the head
I successfully used that dart,
and by goodness,
a little knife dodging surely won’t be amiss,
the activity may prove simply correct,
thick and fast,
a kind of strange bliss.   

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

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  • Poem: Devil’s Straw – 11/02/20

    Poem: Devil’s Straw – 11/02/20

    I had this dream that I returned to the animal’s pen,
and our main pet was as dead as could be.
Her little babies curled and stiff,
there was no sign as to what the cause of death may be.
 
Within the straw-filled pen also was the demented form of a
devil-plagued horned being,
it was frightening in itself,
the eyes, his eyes, were red and malformed,
as though anger diffused from them.
 
I could not touch the bodies,
I had to ask my male companion to do so,
he picked them up awkwardly,
all within one raised hand so as though to avoid
further contamination or some such.
 
My precious little babies,
lying there in the pen like unwanted things,
preyed upon by the creature with grotesque horns,
I could not save them,
I did not know,
how could I be expected to be there for every second,
every minute,
that passed by their lives,
kept them in tow?
 
And now I wonder where they will lay,
where my companion will place their hardened, curled tail forms,
And now I see, I understand the meaning,
of a devil truly plaguing and causing the deaths of all around him.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by WikiImages from Pixabay
 

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  • Poem: Head-Butting Fossils – 08/02/20

    Poem: Head-Butting Fossils – 08/02/20

    Fossil heads meet one another,
forehead to forehead they butt,
one is lively and spirited, wanting fun,
the other temperamental,
his indecipherable opinions he thrusts.
 
Unsure of the intent behind being told
that she’s asking stupid questions
when she hadn’t asked anything inane at all,
the male fossil focuses all energies on her,
then like a deciduous,
drops her,
leaves her all alone.
 
Confusion, but a moment and she shrugs,
it’s not her fault,
whatever set the other skull off has nothing to do with her,
if he were better behaved
he’d have explained
rather than had the gall
to speak to her like that at all.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Maddi Bazzocco on Unsplash

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