Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: creative writing

  • poem: running from – 05/03/22

    poem: running from – 05/03/22


    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose.

    im running from the light
    sometimes it burns it sears my retinas
    im running from the light its too good to take,
    these prophets, seers

    i don’t need their hints at fate which aren’t
    even accurate as of late
    I can determine my own cloud
    witness this
    I’ma tempt and leap all bounds

    I want to explore the darkness
    trail in shadows but still exist in light
    a dichotomy of reasons, new tomorrows
    in which I aim to take both sides with flight
    with light
    with fight

    the shadows treasure me hereon in
    they know I know what it means to sin
    but the stagnancy of these fails to pour in
    I don’t need heredity circumstance
    I have no need for falsity
    I am here and now I am visible
    low or highbrow

    I don’t care to run any longer
    the past is not worth a shard
    a victim’s mentality
    arriving on a birthday ever so early
    gravitated armour
    shaded malignancy

    I don’t need these
    I choose the light,
    It captures me.
    what am I running towards?
    the new me. Why?
    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.
    Image from Unsplash

  • poem: the crow – 02/03/22

    poem: the crow – 02/03/22

    the raven dances before my eyes he’s really quite a dream

    dark enveloping sight to be seen I want to be taken by him

    he rolls his r’s he dances, charms, his deep blue eyes engorge

    and pretty pretty provocative he flaps his wings: –

    what a dirge…

    never battle weary, never battle heavy this path is owned by him

    and him and I we touch the stars the dark moon heaves the skies

    I heard his words they’re in my heart

    but I cannot fathom the sooty, blackened art

    so unto him I cry.

    but I will dream of another man

    I have my crow he’s native bound house dwelling on sand

    he’s the perfect familiar to a darkened ‘line

    with nine lives to live but on number 10

    I guess this cat has more times to thrive

    and she, oh she, will, coupled with he, will conjoin

    entwine, divine,

    and dine upon each other’s feasts,

    their souls will know, be, hailed unto thee

    the sunset’s reds and blues don’t matter the horizon glares before our eyes

    but for a crow and for a cat and the wandering accompanying later bats

    we will divine with magic all damn night,

    we will divine with sheer and utter delight.

    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.

    Photo from Pixabay

  • poem: neighbourhoods – 03/03/22

    poem: neighbourhoods – 03/03/22

    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.

    I’ll take you on a personal path, one where love and light exist. Where the flowers blossom and grow so large we might mistake them for a place of romanticism and trysts. Where the stars will never cower in shame, where the voice within will speak truth all the same, where your eyes will widen, and childhood memories will become unfrozen, the melodies of the world will sing to me.

    I shan’t dance along by the riverbed, though dead it may appear, for underneath there is life, true life, crawling with breaths, bubbles of air. The animals are there, causing sabotage and strength and they won’t ever be tamed, not even during Lent, for their position in the world is clearly at large, big, white beautiful snow leopard, and he’s keeping you and I in perfect charge. We are allowed, no permitted, to wander the garden at large, we are allowed, no, promised to be taken upon deck, above board, of this world, heaven-sent. The charms and wonder within our scope, prisms here, envelope hope, do not chide us for having fun beneath the sun, we are special, we are wanted, and our skills shall never ever come undone, in fact, they’ll soon take hold.

    We are as unique as you and he, and she and they, beyond the breeze, each holding hope, an awareness, scope, of deep meditative breaths and dangerous calls. We are the animals who get things done, we are the children who once ran from fun, and we are the young adults who allowed our worlds to come undone, all in the name of joyousness, all in the name of immaturity, to these which we would run. We have shaped up, of course, those days are simply memories, horse, carriage, dragons, chopped, singed trees, but of course, I do not wish to envelope ourselves further, we’re already entwined and are together, together. Matter not these days, they were puffs within airy clouds, the sun hailing all around, harkening from horizon-bound. I won’t shatter in due course for I have repaired and I’m coming good, I’ve always been good even when I’ve not wanted to be so, that’’s how I escaped all those neighbourhoods.
    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.

    Photo by TheDigitalArtist from Pixabay

  • poem: still here despite it all – (repost from another platform) – 01/03/22

    poem: still here despite it all – (repost from another platform) – 01/03/22

    ~~~~~Still Here Despite it All~~~~~~
    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock
    what is it about me that this some of this world seems to abhor? Am I not immaculate enough, in and of myself, to be considered something sightly and toward? Someone worthy of being heard? Of not being ostracised, unread, too? Am I something so abhorrent that they cannot understand my illness, that this decrepit twin which attaches itself to me during delusions and paranoia and versions of heightened moods, exists, my flagrant mania? Is there no care, concern, nor empathy to be viewed, to be seen? I feel just a walking ghost, with a gust of wind who shouldn’t matter at all, I slide through loosely hung sheets, trailing my stature because to them, I’m no longer seen, and I am not whining, nor crying, nor languishing, or despairing, I am simply making a point that I feel I’m not here yet again.

    But it shouldn’t matter for this is my own path, forging ahead is the pathway to choose, I choose to continue, I desire to be seen, to be heard, and if I can’t, if I’m such a joke then why is it that when those whom I love hear my creations, my poems, my words, they are impressed, surely I’m not being humoured by all, that their words are to me a version of being blessed? No, this cannot be the case with all. I do not believe it to be as such, I know I can in thrall.

    I can make my mark, in my main world I already have, and if this is how I’m met elsewhere, with hostility and dangerous eyes, and allusions, and insinuations which are mean and cruel and unkind, well, dears, I will still continue on my path, it’s not even a fight. It’s a means of reckoning with myself, telling, assuring myself that I am worthy of freedom, expression, and here, those foes, once-friends, there is nothing more important here, nothing more, if anything, than this I will put on the pulse. I was ill. I should not have to make amends. Feel my heartbeat, I am still here, breathing and living, and I will not allow others to dictate my fall. I can do that all by myself, and through experience I have learned to soar so well.

    01/03/22
    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.
    (c) 2022 my own photo

  • post: i will be – 01/03/22

    post: i will be – 01/03/22

    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock

    I will be the boisterous me
    I will grin and bear the dreams
    I will heal and steal that light
    the sun of the Son of the Sun
    I will rise when the prisms sparkle rainbow sheens
    I will be fortuitous
    and reach for desired dreams
    I will call and call for items like sticky pearls
    because they satiate my need for nourishment
    be and end all.

    I won’t fold beneath pressure
    I will contemplate and begin to once again know my other
    my shadow self I will tame and feed her charisma
    my Peter-Pan syndrome
    my rainbow sprite self won’t go under

    I will live with an inner dream
    childhood fantasies of writing and creating art and music
    are everything, as they seemed
    I will not complain nor will I whine
    because within is my great divine
    and I will reach it, reach her,
    the moment I speak I will become of her

    Let the laymen understand me
    and even let the complex mock me
    I won’t heed their warnings
    their shooting signs
    because this is my life
    and I’ll direct it just fine.

    Whittle down the edges of a
    childhood book with worn pages
    and travel with me
    travel, become,
    love is what keeps us together,
    and we shan’t come undone.
    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.   
    Photo from Pixabay
    01/03/22

  • poem: perform – 28/02/22

    poem: perform – 28/02/22


    by Lauren M. Hancock
     
    I wanna dance the night away
    away from the tirades and smiles and the drains
    from the bastards and the potions and the trees that won’t
    bend to them
    the portentous little rascals who think they have the best of them.

    I won’t dance in the ocean, no, no,
    I won’t dance in the lukewarm sea,
    I won’t float in the bubbles where the fish might surface
    without mermen
    I won’t dance in the ocean
    I won’t toil, succumb to the lot of them.

    What I will do is this,
    I’ll prance to Schumann and Liszt
    and Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninov
    Prokofiev and Dvorak,
    and then Mozart and Handel will grasp my heart
    with the lot of them
    I will perform Bruch and Lalo
    and beg, no, beg, for future, golden tomorrows.

    My violin, its fingerboard, blacker than the devil’s sin
    demons alive within, won’t you reign them in?
    And listen to my talent, reinstated through
    tyrannous hard work,
    I’ll make it, I’ll make it,
    you’ll see, this body will perform.
    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.
    Image from Pixabay  

  • poem: which side to choose? – 27/02/22

    poem: which side to choose? – 27/02/22

    by Lauren M. Hancock

    choosing which side to take,
    it’s really not that hard,
    to rise and rise with great distinction
    or to sink and remain at large.

    there’s no shame in being positive and pretty
    with my words I will conflate them, will engorge them
    with slim and shaded shadows
    the truth has already been forged,
    lusciously, freely.

    the time I take with every piece
    I spit it out as though an undesired precious dream,
    a nightmare in fact, some have come to be
    but only in my dwindling ill-durations,
    irreverently.

    have respect for some and respect for all
    but what matters most when you’re in the presence of ghosts
    who make you laugh and cry and everything in between
    is this truth in itself
    is this really what it seems?

    more so humankind who seemed to
    prey upon me
    seemed to play with my weaker points
    reading my life
    enabled the training
    those clicks and turns all the while
    delicately, indelicately?
    there’s nothing, just an indelible style.

    I did not, do not appreciate being treated
    with operant conditioning
    I am not an animal, I am myself
    I am a woman above and underneath
    and between.

    speak not of those sickening months and years
    nor my fears, anxiety, poor Jurassic tears
    there is nothing sycophantic
    in my words right now.

    I will rise and rise
    and you’ll see –
    you’ll see how far I’ll go.

    I have the tricks I have the honesty
    I, I have the expertise
    I have the know-how,
    I have it all,
    I possess my keys,
    whether high or low-brow.
    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.
    Image from Pixabay
    (27/02/22)

  • poem: lovers – 22/02/22

    poem: lovers – 22/02/22


    pathways and journeyman 
    women and lovers come along, stay by their sides
    they are stoic, they are calmers, 
    they wear quiet forms of armour, 
    protected by the ones they love, 
    their swords, their shields are made more potent, 
    because fighting evil and chasms and voids can be dark work
    all done in a night and days,
    without a form of talk. 

    Focus not upon the irreverent, 
    the naysayers, the belligerents, 
    and instead become entranced with beauty, 
    melody and love, 
    there is power within, if you see the beauty of a dove
    released from closed hands, with the most delicate of ease, 
    lovingly, lovingly, lives attended, 
    we, the couple will dream, 
    and now with our army of light and love, 
    we will make new pathways, 
    shining a light upon the cause. 

    there is nothing, Nothing, that can’t be stated for the truth, 
    I am there for this moment, I am here for the proof, 
    and I will become enchanted with the whistles, 
    the chirps among the trees. 
    O’ hark, a galah, oh hark, a kookaburra, 
    and hark, a morning magpie, and her lover, 
    and baby together. 

    The bent head of a dying rose that’s really just sleeping, 
    prune her not, 
    her scent so forbidden, only those worthy will sense her
    but never she censor her true remaining thoughts. 
    She has already done so by ivy wrapped around her base, 
    the shrapnel hidden tightly around her waist, 
    the armour tickling her jaw-defined face. 
    And a prince will lean in and breathe in the scent of her, 
    never forgotten, never to forget, that moment when these two
    had met. 

    © Copyright 2022. Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.  
    Image from Pixabay
  • Poem: a winding tale 15/02/22

    Poem: a winding tale 15/02/22

    The wolfpack has appeared

    theyre kind and proud and true

    guiding me with circumstance andn power to see me through

    they howl and bay at the growing moon 

    theyre arisen so self assured

    but teach me, nein, I’ll teach them naught,

    we have

    skills to rise and trot.

    like ponies there are rearings 

    on a carousel there are reckonings

    interjections please, 

    dont irritate with ease, 

    with lightening speed I’ll fly through the breeze.

    their manes they are growing glowing 

    with eyes as fierce as fire

    who knows what perturbs them hour upon hour

    and unknowing is the fact of these –

    she will dance and dance within 

    like sprite’s hearts and wings will fly indeed

    and then to a microchosm a cell she will relate

    an embryo created within a darling that will come too late

    she’s paining in the abdomen or perhaps paining in the shield

    what’s more is not less a determiner for the future future trysts

    lay down within that field… 

    I shall not be open with every single thought

    no longer sharing every devilish or angelic words signed or taught

    and melodies I have created within my very own head

    these are spellings I create for myself 

    and they will rest just as I rest within bed

    I may go on at length 

    I may throw in metaphorical nouse 

    but I’m damned sure as proud that I could avoid the tidings of that day

    and here’s the point 

    let’s reach it – cut loose

    no longer hovering there in the breeze

    the mob have gone in distaste

    no more nooses 

    as of late. 


    (c) Copyright 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.

    Original artwork by myself.

  • Poem: the constant common denominator – 08/02/2022

    Poem: the constant common denominator – 08/02/2022

    It feels so natural to speak the truth

    Embedded with Constance to see me through

    Upon the tips of my tongue

    A hullabaloo

    And an irrevocable meaning, melding

    Of heartfelt growling too.

    They’re, we’re indestructible, I know,

    View the airiness within me as my two delicates rose

    I need not have not

    Want for material things because the truth is

    My spirit is soaring.

    No matter what you say or do

    You cannot take me from the stars

    From the skies

    The sighs and I quickly taste that bitter pill

    Of poison

    For some refuse me heavens door

    No matter how hard I rap or knock

    I cannot get in …

    Frantic cries for Doc!

    The paid spread the mayhem

    LOST

    I calm myself

    It’s only motes

    Or dust

    My being is travelling

    Astral through the sky

    Whisper I sleep prettily and dream of

    Wonderful butterflies

    Shush as they encompass me

    Their light winged air begging me to stare at

    Their wondrous dramatic colours of sweet rich hues

    Nothing like where upon the earth,

    We are hunted for training

    For sailing for achievements

    For ENTERTAINMENT and more

    I am no more a sheep for fleece as steak is to hunger

    I refuse to be your sacrifice any longer r

    Before those guilty of harbouring powers from me for so many years

    Stuff you and your sister and your job cause your beard, because hey,

    I kinda like your beard. 🙂

    Returning in all seriousness, don’t cease my ability to soar, I don’t NEED you now, all I needs myself is my mind, my wits and the ability to laugh at funny situations.

    Because laughter shared is happiness gained, my love. Did you not know that?

    I like you more or less. 🙂

    (C) copyright 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.