Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: dream

  • Prose: Jewels of Thought – 29/05/21

    Prose: Jewels of Thought – 29/05/21

    The jewels of thought glimmer as the trove presents its offering. Sparkling, lustrous, scintillating, these contemplations are part of more than bearings of either king or queen. These are not controlled by royalty: they are presently waiting, awaiting new processes, though their method of glimmering is surprisingly passive; they lay there, waiting to be selected by us.

    The jewels, jewels of thought have one true source – a master thinker, a genius, a contemplative-conjurer, who has fashioned these offerings for everybody from spicks and specks of this and that, everything, and blocks of thoughts are honoured before selection shall be made tentatively, then bravely, then freely.

    Can we not form our own thoughts? Let intuition speak to you and myself, that gut feeling, third-eye instinct? Though, sometimes it’s comfortable to have a guider, a leader, to see.

    The wonder we feel in the moment when we receive this gift, a single, procured gift-wrapped thought, suddenly deemed so precious you don’t even want to undo the ribbon’s bow now.

    So, you sit with it, hold onto it, cherish this gilded box with a single cherished thought. You know not what it is, whether ignition, calm or cataclysmic indeed, you accept your inner self is enough – the gifted thought is unnecessary, only novelty, its newness will not outlast.

    © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
    Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

    Previous Post: ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’ – 28/05/21

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  • Prose: Celestial Beings – 30/03/21

    Prose: Celestial Beings – 30/03/21

    I wonder where we go as we sleep; I wonder where we travel within our dreams. Do we rise from our consciousness, into the cluster of the atmosphere, smiling, giggling, intertwining? I understand that some won’t dream, while others are cloaked with an ailment of not being able to see, while others are afforded the opportunity of recollection; they remember their dreams. Their moments of deep introspection. 

    Sadly though, some dream less devout, illness encompasses them, and they’d better off images be without. Their hardened hearts, their swift take, take, take, of whatever they can from the fellow man, well, why, this is their dream, and I know that it should be wiped away, vanished, completely unseen. 

    But, I want to talk about travel with celestial beings, not travel with the average, untoward man upon the Earth and down below. I wish to sing the beings’ praises, while knowing that I don’t know how to exist within the memories without saving them, although what I can do is immerse myself in their potency so greatly that the sensation at least won’t ever be forgotten. 

    Their glowing brightness, their ability to sing, sing, sing, heralding the coming of better things, and I know, I understand, I realise, that this path I am on each night, is the right one, despite the lessened waking hours, despite my inability to remain asleep, despite everything, I am able to revisit my celestial beings. 

    It does not matter that I cannot recall them in my thinking. They are there, I know it.

    © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
     

  • Poem: Morning Chatter – 29/01/21

    Poem: Morning Chatter – 29/01/21

    I’m all out of cares and concerns, 
    leave behind the airs and trials, 
    there is no haughtiness or sinister circumstances,
    view the alterations for miles.

    Those dreams which haunted the mind
    but only last night, 
    are they pointing to, 
    are they signalling signs? 
    Obscure and strange, 
    but there, in existence, to be analysed within the times?

    Truthfully, I cannot say, 
    the images were the makings of another, 
    only relayed to me the very next day, 
    broken sleep having saved, 
    in the morning, an important character, 
    the priors potent and frightening, 
    rattling, 
    yet intriguing,
    first morning light chatter.    

    © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
    Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

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  • Poem: Childish Dreams – 14/08/20

    Poem: Childish Dreams – 14/08/20

    When I was much younger,
I dreamed up a fairy tale,
in which I was treated not as an 
obedient princess
but an adamant, decisive queen,
strong-willed yet still compassionate,
rescued from my bitter loneliness, 

and accompanied by,
walked alongside through life
next to a wonderful, endearing king 
in this world which often strikes against those who
pause to dreamily admire the sky,
while busy lives hustle and bustle,
rush on by.
 
Together we would dance and dance,
and seem like forever 
we were holding hands,
our twirling,
our waltzing,
my dipping,
for me, he would eternally care.
 
Then as I grew,
reality sunk in,
a realisation I didn’t need a man to save me,
I could fall and crawl and lift myself on my own,
princess I was not,
queen neither was I,
but my world,
my decisions I owned,
I had the courage to walk it alone.
 
No matter how I longed for
love, affection,
devotion,
when I was ready,
I trusted a king may still eventually show,
 
perhaps the first would be the last,
his appearance might be a type of curious offering,
life’s rewarding,
within my heart a new fairy tale 
began emerging -

although through love, 
I did not need saving,
I needed firm self-acceptance to continue  
developing and growing.

I could stand by myself, 
all alone, 
but sometimes it is nice 
to not be on my own
and as long as equality would be present, 
reign true, 

the yearning and hoping 
for another to complete the picture,
there is nothing wrong with that, 
perhaps my dream wasn't so childish,
nor so outlandish to quietly treasure and review. 

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

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  • Poem: Beneath the Surface – 24/05/20

    Poem: Beneath the Surface – 24/05/20

    On the surface of a scarlet lake
are dreams and nightmares cast aside,
laid to waste.
None have the desire to peruse
or recollect,
the enmity of these experiences,
why, no one wants to look back.
 
The moments of the night wander in a shimmer,
upon a crystalline surface,
like oil mixed with water,
they simply do not gel well,
their animosity alive rather than
a sheen of sheer consistence.
 
Nearby stand two fishermen
with their fishing rods so pliant,
I wonder what will they capture –
if anything at all –
or is their joy mainly in the process?
 
Their lines and sinkers are slick
with the congealing of subconscious creations,
confused moments,
surreal expressions,
and here the men are,
happily, into the night,
casting their lines again and again,
no disappointment at their lack of capture,
those dreams and nightmares do evade.
 
And then suddenly there is a bite,
something below the layers,
these creations of the night,
and rise unto the air,
a water-falling shape is revealed,
cascading around a moment of precious truth.
 
The creature hooked is nothing like something
ever seen by you nor I,
an abomination,
non-descript to most,
yet something which terrifies.
 
The fisherman grins,
pleased with his prize,
he is the master of
slowly cleansing this lake
of that which is untoward,
unworthy of remaining alive.
 
I realise now his role is not to be self-sufficient,
nor to enjoy the actual process,
but to purge this lake of things which should not belong,
removing the waste of nightmares
and dreams which hold the ability
to cause a sleeper harm.
 
And into the night and morning,
for days they will remain,
the demons of the lake,
expelled one by one,
through and through,
they shan’t remain.
 
I wonder how long it will take them,
if ever they will succeed,
at making this lake fresh and transparent,
a wondrous and true beauty to be seen.
 
Oh, hark! I tell myself,
I am sure there will come a day
when the water is cleared,
and the drippings of a drain of
combined subconsciousness,
dream time of many sleepers eventually cleansed away.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by 272447 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: Never to Return – 22/01/20

    Poem: Never to Return – 22/01/20

    She ran though my dreams last night,
footsteps slightly off kilter,
her gown dragging with the airs of freshly bought freedom,
I smile to myself,
she is precious.
She is fleeing but that won’t stop them.
 
The twisted cavalry usually searches for cadavers lying on the cold morgue’s tongues,
a desire to appear as the darkened souls that they are,
but this time they are seeking the living –
it is at the request of another,
it is in their best interests she will remain untouched.
 
They finally spot her,
she is tangled with the trees,
their fiercely hungry arms catching onto the very gown
which promised her freedom.
 
I feel the tip and turn as she disorientates,
her world soars and then slams
into a hessian sack,
a perfect place for inedible green sprouting potatoes,
she is transported,
to her meeting place of judgement.
 
An almighty bellowing, I shudder during the rage,
what is going to happen to the little girl,
a woman made adolescent in her thinking,
an undeveloped level of maturity.
 
She was halted,
marred by illness,
her mind stunted during precious formative years,
so, we cannot blame her,
of life and suggestion we can only recommend.
 
Remove her! the cavalry are instructed,
bring her to my nose!
And, they do so, because they know that with this giant
his desires must never be ignored or overthrown,
and here he observes her with keen interest
as she stands, miniscule on his open palm,
shuddering and quietly whimpering, like an anxious puppy on edge,
she somehow knows she must fight to keep quiet.
 
He roughly strokes her head with a heavily ridged fingertip,
within his eyes is pleasure,
he must learn her,
then discard her,
learn every piece of her,
take advantage of the moment,
then keep her for only long enough
that others will know of her absence.
 
Then return, return,
to my fleeting dreams,
to catch upon something else,
and remain forever lost,
never to return home,
it seems.  
 
© 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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  • 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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  • Poem and Drawing: “Onward, loyal steed!” Henry the Toy Horse’s Flight – 02/08/19

    Poem and Drawing: “Onward, loyal steed!” Henry the Toy Horse’s Flight – 02/08/19

    It was one of Henry’s dreams to fly.

    “Onward and upward, loyal steed!” cried the rounded grey bat, dangling tasty cherries before the face of his best friend, Henry the Toy Horse, his plan to rise was just that.

    Henry did not have wings like the bat, but that didn’t stop his dream,

    He and Grey Bat were best friends and he wanted to rise like Grey Bat could, easily and fearlessly, just like him, Henry prayed and wished he could.

    Would the world part its textile tapestry reality and allow him to perform this flight, no matter how impossible it seemed, into the day and into the nights?

    The cherries encouraged him, oh, how they were both so sour and sticky sweet,

    With Grey Bat riding atop his back, flying upwards, he was required to rise some more with telepathic measures.

    What are telepathic measures, may you ask? It is when Henry would become linked with the mind of Grey Bat and be able to practice his activities and thoughts and special psychic powers.

    Therefore, if Grey Bat could fly, hypothetically could he, all he needed was to learn the mental weavings and knowledge available and able to be obtained so freely.

    “Come on, Henry, you can do this!” encouraged Grey Bat relentlessly. “Come on, rise up and above, make the most of this!”

    And with Henry’s head steaming, his mind trembling, an exterior of outwardly exacerbated internal thinking,

    He exhaled ever so deeply and then with some visual imagery, two feet off the ground he slowly rose, what a triumphant victory!

    Grey Bat whooped and hollered for many following days, as they rose and fell into the air as though of flying technique they knew it all, always.

    For what a great victory that was to be had, the telepathic measures proved so fresh and rad, perhaps they were the only beings in the land to use such a forthcoming measure, of pertinent knowledge to be shared.

    And fly and fly all the days and into the nights they did, for many years, then they introduced their growing families.

    All of Henry’s horsey sons and daughters were able to take flight, and how proud their Godfather Grey Bat was to see this, it was so pleasantly nice.

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

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