Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

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  • Poem: “P.S. I’m still here” – 31/01/20

    Poem: “P.S. I’m still here” – 31/01/20

    P.S. postscript,
in little hummingbird whispers,
I’m still here.
 
Advantageous circumstances finally presenting themselves
from Heaven’s open hand,
her palm which begs me to take from her,
 
I deserve these now.
 
P.S., she whispers, in airy breath,
you’ve ached enough,
no longer will you suffer,

I am here to prove you worthy and kind,
your tears of tumult disguised in the once-silent study
where tattered and worn your stoic self became

now, those tears dry, crystallising, salty.
 
P.S. I whisper
tentatively
I am here

Like those words don’t belong,
I am still here, I repeat,
enunciated, strong.
 
I will remain fighting.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Poem: A Little Crescendo – 30/01/20

    Poem: A Little Crescendo – 30/01/20

    Sometimes I need to realise that the wind
simply needs to unwind
to leave his breath upon the windowsill
and tangle within the trees.
The branches and he will create a mischievous dance
a mild form of light-hearted sorcery
as the magic weaves its language
strange capitulations together;
they succumb to each other
the swooning moments
it seems he’ll never leave.
 
I’m here watching o’er these two
it’s amazing to see,
precious to view because I know 
there is little fight left between this pair
they secretly cherish one another
they breathe through
air to wood
wood to air.
 
Sometimes the wind needs to cherish something
other than itself
blustering around something other than me
although I miss his presence
I know he’ll return when he deems it rightly so,
he’ll take his leave,
come back to me.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Poem: Marry Him – 28/01/20

    Poem: Marry Him – 28/01/20

    Will I ever find a place,
a home to rest my weary fingers and shuttered eyes,
my fingertips so tired from tap-tapping
emulsifying my emotions,
please don’t pry,
please, don’t.
 
I am so ragged,
wretched be my soul these past days, 
and I ache for somewhere to rest and be content,
paper smeared with pains of yesterdays.
 
I am tired, bone-tired, my muscles ache too, and the
inked crimson cavalries chant
Reign over thee, Reign over thee
they’ll take my energies most willingly.
 
I try not to let past events
get to me, 
to enter my dried-out soul that will ignite
with the slightest of sparks,
 
Beyond the moon is where my eyes are cast,
hoping to avoid inevitable decimation that seems
far too close
and far too soon.
 
When the firebomb hits,
set off by my innocent little soul’s notepaper,
I will dive with the rest of them
for cover and safety,
 
but my wordsmiths and bards,
where else we be if we didn’t already bear
ourselves wholly?
 
The paper in my soul takes on shades of aggressive red,
now blackness, the depth of my plaintive despair.
Some corners though, are hopeful blue,
and mangrove yellow in certain parts to be viewed.

This is but a fork in the road,
I will marry him, marry him,
marry who?
I have wedded the quill,
he is kind and reassuring,
and he doesn’t talk back,
he’s perpetually with me,
marry me, marry me,
I once begged,
we will make a life of our own,
he colours me all over, you see.     

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Poem: A Nightmare – 26/01/20

    Poem: A Nightmare – 26/01/20

    In the darkness, I can feel the heaving,
the staggered breath of something unearthly,
with rounded edges that pulsate eerily upon my fingertips,
da doom, da doom.

I envelope myself around this living catastrophe,
it’s begging to be tamed,
assumed,
taken over,
approached with the lushness of virginal buds of spring,
I can carry us under, and over,
and away.
 
Who explicitly states we must be separate — fools!
No allowance to be entwined together until the light of day?
Ne’er will their permission
come,
be saved,
in the trying periods when mess gets in our way,
shoved aside,
then hands and feet we crawl,
dragging through the thick soupy darkness,
only to again meet this being,
Thing,
it seethes at me,
I simply cannot allow myself to take it in.
 
There are too many possibilities to trial, you see,
too much future aggravation at stake.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Poem: A Herd of Human Water Buffalo – 26/01/20

    Poem: A Herd of Human Water Buffalo – 26/01/20

    I watch a herd of human water buffalo go by,
within my vision, their grunting asides and laboured movements sway and swing
one way, and to the other.
The leader is coolly cautious;
he does not need to show any fear,
he is the preferred leader of the pack,
he wants to project a pretence,
that being gruff and strong are characteristics to savour,
these traits are none to fear.
They propel the herd forward,
ahead is the direction they belong.  
 
Then in the back, a hissing,
some whispering from lips of babes,
Why are we here
Why is he so arrogant,
Why are we made to be upon his haughty page?
 
He cannot believe this backstabbing;
he immediately knows what to say.
 
Off with you,
begone,
find your own protection at night where your heads lay.
If you can find a leader with half the courage and care of myself
you’d be very satisfied girls,
but my being is deemed unworthy of your wishes to stay.
Now succumb to the unnatural emptiness,
the lonesomeness
the futility
because of your betrayal of he who holds himself with required pride to lead many.
 
Wailing from the adolescents,
who believed they would be perpetually protected
for their days ongoing
but really, their future suffering is merely karmic retribution,
for speaking poorly about a loyal male who’s been
present for the entirety of their lives,
though, his true intention is not to banish,
not to abandon,
but to teach a lesson,
before their permitted return to their rightful stations.
 
Human buffalo are like any other herd,
there’s bickering and discussion,
sniping, but love also,
adoration, acceptance,
emotions warm and not untoward.
 
Perhaps they even secretly embrace and snuggle,
it wouldn’t surprise me, buffalo are fuzzy enough,
to want to share their struggles and heartfelt forgiveness,
a human buffalo in its own urban wilderness.
 
And after some nights and days alone,
the teens are welcomed back into the herd,
soft weeping into hair of fine gold,
spinning tales of how being alone was so trying and difficult.  
 
Their tears turn them into wise women,
they became learned through the experience,
sheer fright from being in a pair,
no warmth,
no safety,
only belligerently spat words of suffering and plain blank stares,
they learned, they learned,
to adhere and accept.
 
They lead the pack with him,
a wise male buffalo lead by two young women,
with an understanding that strength is required to contend with  
unseen issues, problems, and incorrect suggestions.  
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Poem: Beacon of Hope – 25/01/20

    Poem: Beacon of Hope – 25/01/20

    A lighthouse up on the horizon signals
impending hope,
as a monument it shows that perhaps
Home is nearby.
 
Whose home, though?
Anyone’s, can be my guess,
mattering most is not whose ownership,
but the act of rescue by another,
of housing us,
encapsulation,
we’ll be welcomed after times of distress.
 
No need for self-destruction,
for surging waves of emotion to take o’er,
our boat will be held until its safe docking,
salvation is before our eyes.

And as we thank the strangers who pull us in,
their eyes wild with haste and pressure to correctly
drag our boat ashore
 
I silently thank the lighthouse
for shining unto us,
delivering exactly what was required during those moments,
to light our way and make explicit our terror to those
who happened to be within sight
of heaven’s raging crescendos.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Poem: Siesta – 24/01/20

    Poem: Siesta – 24/01/20

    Afternoon siesta,
weather moody, growling, sweet,
curl into covers, tucked in,
slowly drifting off,
as common though as beautiful as
the morning mist.
 
Muscles so relaxed they might ooze off bones
tender and supple,
anonymity in the dreamy fields,
a fervent chase begins,
of your placating love, still worthy.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock

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  • Poem: Labour of Life – 23/01/20

    Poem: Labour of Life – 23/01/20

    rigid
too stiff, too tight,
too inflexible,
is that life’s intention?
 
a formal suit, paired with a starched white collar,
perfectly suitable for a living fool,
breathing superiority and dominance
 
but here:
 
a softer gown, lavender blue,
fit for a lady
an arm to caress and know of,
to hold.
 
dare the suit be worn with little thought?
portray an image of undertaking and undertaken
all at once?
 
speaking of a world dragging down the masked
who fight to keep flagrant pretence alive while hooded?
 
or will the lady soften the scene,
with her flowing georgette dress,
and perfection set against its tight seams?
 
stiff or gentle, who will bless?
rigid or supple, who will you choose?
roles in life to assign and defy
accompanied by a decision possibly divine.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock

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  • Poem: An Arresting Freedom – 23/01/20

    Poem: An Arresting Freedom – 23/01/20

    Teeming with truth is the garden pond beneath me,
little goldfishes and ginormous catfish sharing the same muck,
and breathing the same strangling air.
There is no poisoning permitted within their world,
no time for man-made deaths,
perilously cold, creations of old.

They have this amazing ability of not bumping into one another,
as though they understand the nature of truth-transportation,
within their minds, within their scales,
there lay the makings of something frantic yet strangely calming.
 
I unwind myself and my stress around the edges here,
simply speaking, as naked as marked by my worldly arrival,
I bear the tidings of youth and the addled nature of age,
paperweights upon my important documentation,
leafing through the pitfalls and milestones,
such a young age I was when it began,
much mental anguish to have unravelled.   
 
These documents are meant to reflect the truth
but they speak of others’ interpretations,
naught of my own cacophony and musings,
I am wound and wound by their looping,
their incoherent inked ramblings,
their medical terminology to describe
how I am presenting.
Nonsense! I am not a category three or five anything.
 
I am more like a butterfly in that storm,
where I gracefully flit to flit to dream to dream,
and explore the deft nature of mental health
and their well-versed world,
explanation upon explanation
of what I am,
what illness I have become
because, that’s just it,
labels weigh down, they laden.
 
A butterfly finds little comfort in human inscribed notes and details,
instead, she takes delight in soaring, higher and higher,
taking that particular note with her, and then,
with a release of her limbs,
the letter flutters down, further, and further,
until no one knows where it went.   
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Prose: Perseverance, a Reflection – 22/01/20

    Prose: Perseverance, a Reflection – 22/01/20

    I urge myself to persevere. It is the only possible route to take. Of course, wallowing and huddling in bed is an option, but it’s not one I would readily like to select. One can only indulge in so much melancholy and shutting oneself off from the world until enough is enough. It’s time to get up, get out, speak loudly, with sumptuous sounds and absorb all that life is offering. And once out of bed, dressed and ready to exit my home – alone, mind you, I am rarely alone – and I take the first step outside that I’ve made in days. I’ve been holed up inside the house writing poem upon frustrated poem, with vicious words and synergies, and little positive to say.
 
But now, outside, the wind rushes around my face and my body, whipping my shoulder length hair that’s been begging for a cut for weeks, perhaps even months. I take in the sumptuous feeling, it’s as though I’m in the eye of the storm and I am the axis around which everything of this wind’s rich tone colours are centring. I throw my arms outward with abandon — who knew such a feeling was awaiting me? The power of Nature’s amazing force, right here before, behind, all around me. And I feel as though I’m being cleansed, vacuumed away of the negativity, the solid space that wreaked my interior for the last durations, times which I cannot take back. Only can I learn from them.

Playful now becomes the mood, and I laughingly pronounce an rrr, rrr, rrr, to try my voice again. My imagination presents me a playful slick seal begging to be rubbed on his belly or his back, his whiskers tickling my cheeks as, in my mind, I give him a big kiss upon his face. He does not turn away, he pokes out his tongue instead, and joins in with the Rrrrrrr’s of being pleased in the moment, and finally I realise I’ve done it, with this wind, with this amazingly fresh gusting breeze, with my odd imagination, I am cleansed and revitalised once more, no need for aggressive expressions, no need, anymore.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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