creative writing – Page 29 – Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Poem: Edgy – 06/08/20

She’s the edgiest girl you’ll ever see.
She pricks holes through your arguments with safety pins,
rules over cool, college beauty queens,
wipes away their contrivances,
their classroom lipstick,
swipes off their need to impress,
she’s willing to pass any test,
she is a rebel with a cause,
do you know what I mean?

She is driven,
her motives are never hidden,
she fights and wars only when she feels it’s right,
she never lives under the radar,
but always,
always aims to be seen,
with her emphatic nature,
of her rightful presence, its visibility, she insists.
 
She wears riotous red/black flannelette,
she wears short skirts, never for the boys,
never for the men,
but she is here,
and she is present,
and really, she is doing life in her own style.
 
She is edgy,
cast on the fringes of apparent societal virtues,
she doesn’t care for their extraneous values, 
she isn’t concerned about whether she’s unwelcome or unwanted,
hell, she’ll stand centre stage, victorious either way!
 
Edgy, this girl is edgy,
she doesn’t need to oppose others to avoid their
incorrect condemnation,
in fact, if required, she’ll simply walk away
because of these wrong people,
she has no need to attend to them.
 
Because her presence speaks louder than
their rhetoric,
pleasant though their famous expressions be,
she knows her strength, its worth,
so potent,
their relevancy to her?
Nothing to see.
 
But when she wars with words,
she makes a wealth of their worth,
rounds and rounds,
her battalion sounds.
 
She’s sharper than you and I,
and with pointed bullets her words will fly,
of her attacks, she doesn’t need an alibi,
with pins and bullets,
her commanding words will fly.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Parker Gibbons on Unsplash

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Poem: Shades of Purple – 05/08/20

Purple is royal, regal,
it is crushed velvet pressed against my cheek,
purple is for kings and queens,
and princesses in lilac who walk among
the public, blessing them in busy streets.
 
Sashes of light purple are for
accomplishments,
university achievements,
and musical delights,
I remember earning my purple sash,
I was so proud to have worn it that night.
 
Purple is lavender, rubbed between hungry, famished fingers,
eager for that scent that bees delve into
for lunch and for their dinner,
 
purple is a passionfruit cheekily disguising its tart insides,
purple is the joy of a restaurant’s purple mascot –
children cannot wait,
so excited,
much anticipation for Party Time!
 
Purple is a soldier’s heart,
for men and women fallen in combat,
and purple is for spirituality,
in fact, purple feeds my creativity,
this hue so powerful that hearts and minds and eyes
will rise with great potency.
 
I clothe myself in purple,
though I do not wish myself to achieve nobility,
I cloak myself in this shade,
this hue,
because it feels right to do so for me.
 
These wide sleeves of velvet,
I wrap the material around me,
I cannot feel anything but bliss,
it flows through me freely.
 
I am now purple, purple, purple,
I am at one with this colour,
everything it represents,
I may be, I may not be,
but truthfully,
inside, I feel a raging fire,
 
some metaphorical power
must have sent
for me, to announce upon me this very hour.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Orlova Maria on Unsplash

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Poem: The Rocket Clock – 04/08/20

And on the Rocket Clock!
our focused eyes widened.
On the Rocket Clock!
we learned to tell big-people’s time.
Around the Rocket Clock!
we smiled and shared songs,
on the Rocket Clock!
parents watched our years grow richer
as we travelled through life,
singing, clapping, playing along.
On wristwatches,
we interpreted the angles of hands,
on our wristwatches,
we practiced patience and countdowns –
(of patience I wasn’t a fan)
on the classroom clock,
we learned just five minutes until recess!
on the examination room clock
we shuddered as exam's end drew near.
Behind the gymnasium walls,
nervous, sweaty palms,
midday was the call,
arms wrapped around,
falling into an embrace,
time standing still,
relationship, a new beginning is forged,
is tentatively made.
Years pass,
and behind, in a secret room,
we watch the time count down,
dressed in gorgeous lily white,
the rest in flesh and fuchsia pink,
classy frills, lace, and thrills,
nervously an iPhone’s time is repeatedly consulted,
impending matrimony,
it’s almost time,
when two lives will become a beautiful, single flow.
On the Rocket Clock,
look, darling,
do you see the little and big hands?
That means it’s half past three,
Daddy loved to read the Rocket Clock, too.
Did I ever tell you how we met?
Oh, would you look at the time…
The rocket clock says its not time
to share that story with you,
perhaps for now, I’ll keep it as his and mine.
A stern, sterile hospital,
that sad, clinical clock,
the second hand which does not tick,
is red and goes around continuously
as though a lie that life will go on and on,
but here, life can cease prematurely,
or perhaps once we have accepted this, it will,
to know that for them to be taken by another’s ethereal hand
when our loved one is prepared,
it will occur when they are ready.
Remember when we watched the Rocket Clock?
I spin his worn golden ring around.
Remember when you counted the time down?
What a joyous sound!
Remember our years,
remember our lives,
then fall shut do his paining eyes,
my truest man,
his loss, my undoing,
the world accepts his spirit,
his is a willing sacrifice he’s bringing.
I grasp his hand fiercely,
stare at that abominable clock,
tears squeeze from my eyes,
I’ll never forget this moment,
this time,

I rub his palm against my cheek
and hysterically sob,
so proud I had called him mine.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Matheus Bertelli from Pexels

Author's note: "The Rocket Clock" references a short time-telling segment in a very popular educational Australian children's television program called "Play School". It's been showing for over fifty years.

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Poem: The Working Week – 01/08/20

Monday draaags himself in,
he doesn’t want to be here,
other Mondays wave from behind stern mugs of coffee,
they also don't wish to be here.

Sunday and Saturday had the time of their lives
the previous days,
they celebrated and socialised in a manner that really
was purely wholehearted in so many ways.
 
Tuesday comes into the scene yawning,
muttering: How can it be this early?
I mean, it seems like only yesterday when
Saturday was swaying inebriated on the roof
and loudly singing.
 
Tuesday fetches a pick-me-up 3pm Cup of Soup
and cracker,
to get through this morning was by no means
requiring a small amount of power!
 
Wednesday causes a bump as he rides in,
Hump Day he is, after all,
Midweek, midweek!
the current days call!
 
And Thursday, how delectable,
getting closer to that prized Friday,
when the end of the workweek will arrive,
and away from the office all the days will run,
with Saturday they will thrive!
 
But after much celebration,
joviality, and relaxation,
the end of Sunday draws near,
and suddenly: panic!
 
There’s a pain in the realisation
that work is looming,
they must rise,
begin their preparations,
spreadsheets amassed and lunch-making calling,
aaand back to Monday, 
with cups of strong coffee brewing.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Laura Chouette on Unsplash

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Poem: The Doctor – 01/08/20

The doctor gestures me in
towards his consulting room,
and I, I am like a tentative child
who is out of place in this foreign world.
 
For I have not seen this doctor before,
why, I cannot even recall, let alone pronounce 
his complicated name,
I had fronted to the desk claiming I had an appointment,
Who with? I cannot remember, I replied sheepishly,
somewhat embarrassed, but not with one shred of shame.
 
I am here for an assessment,
to reduce my high level of medication,
to view what can be done,
I’ve been on this strong cocktail for so long,
it can’t be good for my liver and kidneys,
let alone my precious mind which ticks me along.
 
He introduces himself,
asks various questions,
I look around the room –
professional, well-kept,
even water to quench any nervous thirst of mine.
 
But my mouth is not dry,
I answer the queries as they arrive,
though there are some questions which grate upon me
for with some specialists, I don’t like oversharing.
 
I want to keep certain things to myself,
it takes time to build up trust, you know,
how wryly amusing I find this because
with the world I could be sharing my words
and now I am hesitant to even emit my own
before this esteemed doctor.
 
This doctor, he means well,
he is professional,
every step of his method is 
well-rehearsed and natural.
 
This doctor, I am warming to him,
in fact, I’d like to return to have 
more sessions with him,
to have him as someone on my professional team to
look after me.
 
Time is up,
I didn’t even know how long we had had,
but I feel a developing rapport,
I vow to learn his name, 
to be able to recall it in my head,
because he will be important, I feel,
in the future, in my life,
I would like him to manage and analyse
certain parts of my health and mind.
 
Doctor, dear Doctor,
thank you for taking the time to see me,
I greatly appreciate your slotting me in,
I look forward to when I can see you next,
when more work upon the task at hand can begin,
to have found you, 
I feel blessed.

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

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Poem: You Can’t Be Here – 31/07/20

You can’t be here, she tells me,
her mocking voice, her stuck out tongue.
Yeah, you can’t be here! another girl joins in,
you’re not wanted here,
won’t you learn?
 
My eyes become downcast, I shuffle away,
my upper back curved, I want to shrink,
disappear,
I’ll let them have the final say.
 
I don’t know why I’m so undesirable,
this group is cruel, I only have one cause –
to be loved and accepted and appreciated for who I was,
because now, I am falling apart.
 
With each taunt, each nasty means of bringing me down,
you can’t be here, you can’t be here their words ring,
I want to wring the danger away from my heart,
the warning siren’s sound.
 
Because part of me wants to hurt,
to annihilate,
though I am not vicious,
not violently inclined,
but how nice it would be to erase their memories,
cause hurt, anger, and other feelings,
to replace their nasty words of their days.

It is as though I am unworthy,
unworthy of being within their friendship group,
and what, and why?
I simply wanted to be seen for who I am,
who I was, too.
 
These two forms of me are different,
one naïve and gullible, and the other jaded,
yet saddened and broken,
slightly hostile,
what is it I am meant to do?
 
To repair myself will take time,
and to expose myself further to them will
cause my soul to divide,
but I yearn for their acceptance, their precious time,
though it’s really worth nothing,
or at least should be worth nothing as compared to mine.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Rodolfo Quirós from Pexels

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Poem: Lovesick – 30/07/20

Lovesick…
he yearns for you,
he apparently cannot live without you.
 
Darling, can’t you tell,
won’t you comprehend,
he much he needs you?
This is not a truth which can be bent.
 
But, my sweetheart,
why does he need you?
Where is he calling from –
low, high, the hay,
but my precious, won’t you see,
that his neediness for you
reaches both night’s lapping shore 
and the brightness of your day.
 
But, of course, if he possesses this need for you,
every single moment, of every night and day,
perhaps this makes his need genuine,
and truthful,
and right,
is this not a possibility,
aren’t you swayed?
 
Do you understand that this man,
he needs you more than anything in his world?
Timely circumstances, truth be told,
your heart, extracted,
threaded,
hurled.
 
Your organ now,
he dangles it from a string,
and swings it round and around,
because, really,
he wants this game to be seen,
to show he holds concern for holding you,
whatever will these antics result in,
whatever shall they do?
 
He does not bother to extract his own heart,
to meld with the string of yours,
like a yo-yo you’re toyed with,
a sign of a desperate need,
he just wants the amusement
of love, and life, and his validity to be seen.
 
He needs you, darling,
why can you not see?
Why can't you see what he’s doing to you?
I suggest you snatch your heart from him
and willingly set yourself free.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Magdaline Nicole from Pexels

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Poem: Fumbling Fawn – 28/07/20

I am struggling to rise to my little hooves, 
I am failing to grasp hold of balance,
I am calling, calling, for this ability to visit me,
the skill to be mobile, to be free.
 
For so long, I’ve been unable to properly walk and stride,
how problematic for a soul for whom the desire to explore is so vividly alive!
Alas! I fumble, my extremities dance, not so subtle, nor nimble,
this fawn, I need my mama to guide my hooves,
my awkward legs, they wobble and tremble.
 
I tentatively rise,
she nudges my behind, permits me balance temporarily,
while I sway and sway
and then blindly fall, this time I smile
because it is between fawn and mother,
this clumsy style,
I am dancing my own moves,
and I treasure our routine for this little while.
 
Because Mama and I, she has not much time,
she must set off to forage, to collect for the needs of hers and mine,
she will leave me alone all day
while I manage my practice of walking,
try as I may,

perhaps she’ll not return in time,
perhaps she’ll never return at all,
how can I consider this?
My heart breaks,
my stomach plummets, it falls.
 
But for now, we dance,
she smiles, nudges me left then right,
steps upon my hooves to steady me,
as though a gentle holding of hands,
 
I am one of her truest loves;
Papa is busy leading the herd.
She knows she must leave me again for some time,
she promises to return later,
she nudges my cheek,
licks this warm nose of mine.
 
Oh, how I wish more of our time could
be spent all together,
Mama, Papa,
fawn/baby, mother, and father,
but it is not meant to be so,
we each have our set roles,
and I most certainly will take this challenge,
I will become nimble and learn not to fall.
 
It is essential to stand with my own sets of legs,
because one day, oh God, please don’t say when,
Mama and Papa may suddenly be required to go
and perhaps they shan’t return again,
it's a truth I do not want known.    

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

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Poem: Unspoken Reasons – 26/07/20

Don’t tell me why.
Don’t avoid the how.
Reveal the when.
Tell me now.
 
I must hear it.
I’m telling you,
you must breathe it,
speak your whole truth.
 
I beg of you:
Why did you leave?
Each time I saw you,
afterwards, silence lingering.
 
A hollow yawning,
gaping in my chest,
my repeated pain like
parading bull ants,
nipping, biting –
you were never my best.
 
Sticks and stones,
your omissions broke my bones,
I’m a fragile girl beneath it all,
 
my bravado and shine,
wipe them away,
so much emotional investment,
mere wasted time.

User and abuser, 
you never made me yours,
though for you, parts of me self-sacrificed,
my yearning the cause,
 
then,
without an utterance:
your tepid goodbye,
re-connection to be made months down the line.
  
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Lucas Pezeta from Pexels

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Poem: “Autobiographile” – Text and Spoken Word – 24/07/20

“Autobiographile” audio

I have experienced this before and triumphed. 
I have ridden the tempestuous waves and reigned freely.
I have arisen from the waking dead and become full of life,
now an ability to see, to breathe.
I have lived, and I have learned,
and this is what I wish to be seen.
 
Personally, I’ve taken chances, I’ve danced around the point on many occasions,
I’ve felt exalted and indulged in certain forms of delectation, 
those which cut the edge, which sharpened minds,
but which drained a soul, caused a family’s divide.
 
I am lucky to be unconditionally loved,
I was always forgiven.
 
No matter the paths I took, I sought, I willingly wandered down,
because my curiosity definitely killed the cat and allowed certain truths
to be explored and owned,
I didn’t decide to perform such missions as a means of breaking others,
it was simply my choice,
selfish decisions, that reflected upon a family unit, 
brothers, mother, father, others.
 
I know their love for me is ever-lasting, ever-supportive,
ever-growing,
they are there for me,
to watch me grow, as I stem the pain from my soul,
and to exuberantly join in to celebrate my rises, 
and encourage me to soar from my falls.
 
Their support means so much, 
I'm so lucky to have them in my life,
everlasting is their love, their joy,
for me they'll never cease their mission, 
their encouragement, their fight.
 
No matter whether I’m being positively critiqued,
or with crushing honesty,
appealed to to sound less selfish, or self-centred,
even when it wasn’t my intent, 
I know they’re meaning to help me,
to disallow my work from seeming egocentric, 
but Family!
my work is central, it is about me,
that is my style, I’m an autobiographile, a new term I’ve coined for me.
 
And now I smile, because things are going on their way,
I write, create, edit, release every day,
I feel my efforts are appreciated by others, as well as myself.
The simple joy of learning and loving and embracing the art of poetry,
it makes me tingle and shiver,
this is the genre, the art form for me,
nothing else.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Karolina Grabowska from Pexels

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