Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: creative writing

  • Poetry and Prose: Queen and King – 11/10/19

    Poetry and Prose: Queen and King – 11/10/19

    There was that special moment, when you first reached for and clasped my hand. Do you remember, darling, as we sat outside on my back porch, in those “King and Queen” deck chairs? You hesitantly, tentatively asked me if this was okay, I smiled and beamed inwardly to myself – of course it was fine! I wished that you could stay.

    Worried that others would return to find you here, an unknown, holding onto my hand, I calmed myself, told myself it would be alright, that we still had some precious time. And side by side we sat, smiling to ourselves, the silence comfortable, not awkward at all, with the overwhelming feeling that you might be the right one for me, after all.

    © 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.  


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  • Poetry and Prose: Routines – 10/10/19

    Poetry and Prose: Routines – 10/10/19

    We have little routines. You have little routines. Routines as far as the eyes can see routines. Some are tiny, insey little habits, others are irritating to oneself, grating on our sense of selves if we do not perform them. Some may say a certain amount of these ingrained habits are obsessions, our preferential predilections. That if we don’t follow through with what our minds and bodies intend, we will feel catastrophic inside, a lack of feeling and control to be had. But why do we need to do these tasks? It’s not as though skipping them here and there will hurt ourselves, make of us pariahs, make us social outcasts. In fact, these routines, these niggling habits, are simply just there to control our minds, in a manner which calms them, a substitute we’d better hurriedly find.

    Because being calmed by performing strange habits can deter one from living in the commonplace world, a sanity to find within it. There is no point living in a land of delusions and grand thoughts, when no one essentially understands what you’re going on about. Those movements, those thoughts, those inherent tics, those ordered movements, verbal spouting, your jagged sense of speech. The over-cleaning of your environment, the rapid words and speech, control yourself – forgive the pun – allow the moments to be.

    Your little routines may do some good, but others, why, others in themselves are better off out of our mental neighbourhood. Because if overt sense of control calms us, what does that say about our spiritual and mental health, when we cannot allow ourselves to be free, even for a moment, just a special and quiet sense of self? There is positivity in the posterity of all when it comes to becoming calmer and relaxed, to loosening up our minds and souls, at realising that these habits do not do us justice at all.  In fact, they merely impinge and take away from our sense of self, by their wanting desire to control us and our behaviour, wherever we might go.

    Loosen the noose, and open the hatch, come down from that attic in which you were hiding yourselves in, and cast aside the antiquities of errant thoughts at that. Be pure, be wise, be true, and live for yourselves, be yourselves, don’t allow strange behaviours to continue to control you.

    © 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.  


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  • Poetry and Prose: The Disguises – 10/10/19

    Poetry and Prose: The Disguises – 10/10/19

    What can I say? I’m a chameleon — I can shape shift at will. With the right applicators, the right clothing, the right hair colour, I can alter my appearance and seemingly become someone else, a new someone. My ability to change is inherent, a desire to change who I am, to become something more, but why can’t I be completely content with who I am?

    There is no need to continually change anymore. I am accepted for who I am and how I appear, and for those who decide to speak otherwise, I’ll dismiss their words without a care. For, I have gone through so much internal suffering and physical upheaval, my alterations took a great toll on my tired body and heavy mind.

    A chameleon may be desirable to those who prefer their others as showy and changeable, but I am now an almost-contented being; only a few complaints have I, and I can work on altering these, quietly, without the flash of colours in the brimming sky in others’ perceptive eyes, their flashing, thoughtful eyes.

    © 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.  


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  • Story: The Lion Cub Who Knew He Could – 10/10/19

    Story: The Lion Cub Who Knew He Could – 10/10/19

    Lucius wasn’t like every other lion cub. While others simply wanted to roar and eat, he wanted to achieve a special dream.

    Lucius wanted to soar into the clouds, heady as could be, and reach the moon, in a space-travelling machine. He wanted to be the greatest Lion cub astronaut the world had ever seen.

    But how the others guffawed, how they cruelly laughed. “Lucius, don’t be silly, don’t be daft. You cannot achieve that!”

    Their words harrowed him, despite him being a strong Lion cub in himself, he felt the trickling of tears come from the corner of his eyes, a salty wealth. They ran down his furry face and into his mouth, the salty taste a sign of defeat within themselves.

    Lucius almost felt inclined to hide away in his mother’s den, but when he skulked to its entrance, she shooed him away, “Son, take time to yourself, under your shady Acacia tree, take leave of, here and then.” But when she noticed his damp tear-stained fur, her heart melted, for her son how it ached, “What has happened, my darling, what has occurred as of late?”

    With a deep sigh he heaved himself onto the dusty ground, and began to expel his sufferings, of the cruel words of the neighbourhood bullies, in the Savannah in which they had surrounded him. How he was being mocked for his dream, even though many decidedly assumed it could not come true, and how he knew, that with the right amount of know-how, social connections and training, that his great desire to become a Lion-astronaut would almost certainly become truth.

    His mother listened carefully, her ears cocked, her eyes contemplative and bright, and said, “We shall have to do something about these bullies, and this will happen tonight.” With widened eyes, Lucius wondered at her plan, but he said nothing, because he knew that his mother was ultimately secretive when it came to any cunning plan.

    But he didn’t want to focus on revenge. He wanted to focus on achieving, being, flying, reaching the skies. He quietly left his mother’s den as she slept and wandered off into the sunset.

    What to do, what to do? he pondered. “What to do?” he wailed, “why won’t the world hear me?” Suddenly, he had an idea. He gathered his necessary supplies from the deserted camping grounds that the humans who had visited years prior, selecting basically everything; for he would find some use for them.

    He constructed a contraption – resembling as much as he could – a spaceship, with all the bells and whistles. He adorned himself with loose fabric, made a helmet from the remaining refuse of the humans, and there he was, at NASA, where he “needed his space”, he had reached the home ground.

    It was all perfectly well and good to have made his own space station, but now he needed to show others, to have the word spread, to become an internet sensation. He could lord over his bullies, show them his hard work, and wait until the next safari exploring group attended his land to allow him to be viewed and at large.

    With any hope, he would be photographed and videoed, swooned over by the crowds for being so adorable and innovative. He’d likely reach the media outlets online, and soon be seen by NASA itself, oh, what a dream.

    Some might call this plan farfetched, but Lucius was being rational, and realistic. Because, after all, the safari troupes came in basically two by two groups every month, sometimes every two weeks.

    He simply would have to wait and see.

    Lucius knew that he could. Lucius knew that he would.

    And Lucius achieved all he wanted, because:

    Now he’s the first Lion cub astronaut, at least in his neighbourhood.

    © 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.  


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  • Poetry and Prose: Fractured – 09/10/19

    Poetry and Prose: Fractured – 09/10/19

    Just because you’re fractured does not mean you’re falling apart. The pieces cracked, aged and suffering may in actual fact be a sign that you are needing to rearrange your heart, your mind, to replace into your hollows your startled, staring eyes. It doesn’t hurt to begin. There is no better moment than now to start.

    Pick the pieces up from the floor, scattered there, left to right, abstract in motion, lying there, uncaring, when in reality they are waiting for you to pick them, to hear their whispers so softly spoken. Begging you to place them back into the right spots, to recomplete the image that is softening and full of love, yet vibrant and striking also, because you, you are the truest individual. You broke at a time when your name was being called the most. The pressure smashed you into tiny pieces on the floor, but you are still here, grappling, grasping at the pieces, while you are desperately on your knees. Don’t forget that completion and contentment can come from a harrowing experience, murmuring velveteen words at your ears as you cajole the irresponsible pieces back into place.

    Fractured you might feel, fractured you may even be, but knowing that breakage is commonplace is the first step in retracing where each fragment should have been; each crack to shoulder or interlace one another until you once more regain your sense of self, and become that quiet but proud king or queen.

    © 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.


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  • Poetry and Prose: The Self: Concern, Love and Care – 08/09/19

    Poetry and Prose: The Self: Concern, Love and Care – 08/09/19

    When was the last time you focused on yourself? I mean truly, deeply, contemplatively connected with yourself? Have you dwelled upon what you deserve, about your likes and dislikes, your aspirations and hopes? About how you allow yourself to link with others, of how you graciously love, how you treat your close others? How do you feel when that stranger on the street gives you a quick smile, and a cheery “Good morning”? Does your mood and spirit lift and spring, at being worthy of being acknowledged? What does your Self say to the mornings where you don’t want to roll out of bed? Your aching head screams to stay in, please, connect with yourself instead.

    There is a timely connection between us, our soul and spirit, and we need to accept that holistically treating ourselves with gentleness and care has ultimate worth and merit. Because if we cannot look after ourselves, cherish our beautiful selves, who will look after us better? But sometimes there are times where we come undone, where we cannot look after ourselves, no matter how hard we try. Even lifting our heavy, dreary eyelids becomes too much of an action, and this is when we cry out for another human connection. Someone who is there to now look after us, with duty of care and concern, and a loving level of personal trust.

    We know these people in the world, they mean more to us than ever could be spoken of or expelled, and quietly they go about their duties as though there is nothing to them. Because that is how they are, our loved ones, they tidy the mess that everyday life or inherent suffering has brought to us. Cataclysmic whirls and hurricanes blustering and blowing in the minds of ourselves when we are sadly, not so complete. But the trying times will pass by, we will rise higher and higher until we avoid that dangling fall into the abyss, and with a joyous ringing of trumpets, we have arrived home.

    © 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.  


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  • Poetry and Prose: Shedding Her Print – 07/10/19

    Poetry and Prose: Shedding Her Print – 07/10/19

    Photo by Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well

    Unlike a leopard that will never change its spots, this girl has shed her spotted print. She has altered her life for the better, she has cast aside those undesirable traits which lurked within. She is different now, careful, yet carefree, light as a feather. Her heart and mind are filled with gladness, there is nothing to cause her to be grumbled and sour nor overly candid.

    Unlike that leopard which will forever hold its spots, she has deterred herself from behaviours that are unnecessary, unnoteworthy, and which had not aided her plight, nor changed her for the better. Now she is wholesome in goodness, rested in the night and brightened in the day. There is little she yearns for, because she has them provided for her and by her in many and most ways.

    In her world she searches for moments of true happiness, sparkles in her eyes, plucked from the skies by fingertips eager for more twinkling light, and she carries these sparks inside of her, releases them inside her billowing heart, large enough and large enough it becomes, for her world which was often torn apart.

    Now she holds so many sparkling love-bugs, brightness inside her chest, that she smiles to herself, secretively loving the fact that she has her own collection, to keep them at their best. Where she will nurture their glistening hopeful selves, reminding her to cherish everything tiny and immaculate, whether minute or precious within her world, and live with the understanding that some human leopards can shed their prints even at the worst of times.

    After all, it’s only a pattern, and a habit can be formed in so many days, how easy enough it has been to displace her negative traits, and place herself within a desirable loving stage.

    © 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.  


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  • Poetry and Prose: Symphonies of Kindness – 06/10/19

    Poetry and Prose: Symphonies of Kindness – 06/10/19

    Feel those interlacing melodies, the interwoven harmonies rise and fall, like a spectacular swarm of hungry, eager bees, starved from Autumn and Winter, waiting for the buds of Spring to appease them all. These melodic bees enter the symphony as they desire, lifting and lilting with their buzzes strictly moving from flower to flower. The pollen dirties their legs, but, they do not mind, they are not self-conscious, neither are they abashed, because they love the dirty work as much as any other insect, except these can rise far higher than any other with a set task at hand.

    And like these precious hungry bees, I speak to you, begging for nourishment. For my meal of sustenance, and for my deep-seeded hunger to be fulfilled and cause a whirlwind of taste-bud excitement and delight. Others would not feed me their love, they starved me, in fact, they took from my heartfelt feelings and left me broken and bruised, a gaping hole in my stomach and soul, from associating with people who didn’t deserve the true Me that I was offering them. Had I offered my heart to you? Did you laugh as I despaired at losing the presence of you?

    But now I can hear that buzzing, accompanying a melodious male voice, speaking of acceptance, duality, and kindness, symphonies of smiling adoration and knowingness. You have taken me into your life, made music out of the lullabies I sung to thee, and with your arm around me, we sing together now, accompanied by our symphony of precious bees. Because their pollen will fertilise the flowers, make them bloom, blossom, grow, for many hours, and with their colourful additions into the scene, you and I can travel hand in hand to places we’ve never thought to have been.

    Our armour has been displaced upon the ground; unwanted, unnecessary, and now unknown. Because, in you, my love has been found.

    © 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.


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  • Poem: The Ribbon-Twirling Dancing Dolly – 06/10/19

    Poem: The Ribbon-Twirling Dancing Dolly – 06/10/19

     She joyously twirls bright ribbons yet feels dead inside,
     With a knowledge that what was once there, 
     Fresh-faced, bright, youthful, still alive,
     Is now broken, irreparable,
     Scattered in pieces upon the stage,
     An urban pavement,
     Nothing to show for the destruction,
     No sense of inner pride or holding her head up high.
      
     Her dolly-brightness is a façade
     The light and shade a humorous method
     At relaying that inside she is still ignited
     Still burning with life;
     One only has to look at her lack of brightened eyes
     To take in this scene with a sense of absent mirth.
      
     Oh, how she could have reached the heights
     Become more than she had ever been
     How she could have flown into the hemisphere
     Succeeding and achieving at building a life
     Of her own.
      
     But here she is
     Dead as a doornail because of the path that she chose,
     To vacuously entertain and be admired rather than use her mind, 
     To exercise the chemistry of her intelligent brain

     For a while she was simply an amusement
     A joke
     Something mocked behind open hands 
    Just something to be viewed in passing
    upon the set stage.

     But with time, hopefully she’ll rectify her life
     Breathe in once more
     And live a great freedom, a life
     Without recollection of that strife.
      
     Because dollies are meant to play
     Entertain their owners 
     Give them joy for hours upon days
     And seemingly there is nothing wrong
     With amusing another
     When it is performed with great respect of oneself
     And with an allowance of renewed life and vigour.
      
     Thus, with her self-justification and self-talk
     She feels less dead inside now,
     Her stitched-shut eyes now become visible once more,
     Brightened with the knowledge 
     that her presence is again wanted
     She is popular,
     Not cast aside onto the floor. 
      
     A renewed sense of popularity,
     A chance to regain a zest for life,
     To provide them with who she was meant to be -
     Now,
     She throws down her ribbons
     Which kept her bound and down.

     Altered, affected and no longer ill at ease
     She strives for something more,
     Something less vapid,
     A role in life where she could be
     Acknowledged as being more than what she’d been designed for,
    Her eyes are finally open enough to see.

    © 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.


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  • Poem: A Mirror of Blossoming Colours – 05/10/19

    Poem: A Mirror of Blossoming Colours – 05/10/19

     Stardust, starlight and blossom so bright,
     A mention of colours I see tonight
     Be they bold, subdued, or delicate, or brutal,
     I see them;
     Internally, I can feel them. 
      
     It is as though each colour has an emotion, 
     I assign a meaning to each shade, each hue,
     Only I absorb their meanings, 
     I can hear them,
     Can they feel my appreciation, too? 
      
     Like a beautiful tropical bloom in my sight,
     The combinations become heightened 
     As my emotions grow in power,
     There is nothing beyond my colours, 
     but an ephemeral fog which will last and obscure us 
     for a little while longer. 
      
     But the shades, oh, the shades, 
     How they make me feel such tender turmoil,
     Their assigned meanings remind me of
     The yearning years
     Where I was delicate and life was anything but simple.
      
     Where I ached for someone to truly notice my colours
     The uniqueness that my vibrancy displayed,
     How I wasted many years chasing other shades
     Not suited to me,
     Monochromatic in shade. 
      
     I thought they were right,
     I thought they would complement me,
     But my hues were too flamboyant and different,
     I wasn’t accepted -
     Always viewed as something other than wanted
     Usually indifferently, 
     An undesirable, unpopular oddity. 
      
     But now I can bloom with brilliance
     Just like this summoned flower before me
     In fact, it is as though it is my mirror
     Reflecting myself back at me.
      
     I no longer need to hide away,
     I can blossom and shine without doubt
     Without feeling afraid,
     The absence of approval is easy enough to do without,
     And my true self I do not need to disguise or hide away.

    © 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.


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