The television show blares to life. I cannot watch anymore; the irreverence is bugging me, sending my mind into strife. I watch the little lady mouth away and curl into a ball, is it all for show? No, no no.
Her dear counterpart sits by her bedside, interrupting with ease whilst she tries to compose herself tap tapping the keys. The rhythmic data of his worded snipers are dot dot dotting the area at large and then he clasps his hands together shakes his head and sighs, gives her a smile and says, “Darling, please don’t whine…” She glares at him, insidiously, fire raging within her orbs. He clasps his hands together once more, he is confused by her delirium, perhaps she is just…. bored? Is she playing a game? Is she waltzing without a name? Is she bee-drilling just the same? Oh, darling, what’s in a name? These people think they can irreverently tame, kill, main, but the truth of the matter is, she is at one with peace, she is Spirituality, she is beauty and reverence, she is Lauren Maree,. Control Save.
Tag: fiction
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fiction, please: the thirteenth hour – excerpt – 01/01/21
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Poem: Eclipsed – 30/08/20
You eclipsed yourself onto my heart, etched yourself amongst Sun and stars, a silhouette of burnished red and brown, a luminescent glow of you all around. Your pattern, your shape, my mind recalls, the beauty of your face, your expression, I’m in thrall, and I remember the smiles we shared, so many days and nights together, I am basking in the memory of your glow, ghostly light upon me thrown, alabaster shine upon us both. Hand in hand, you took me into your view, fingertips laced together, we shone, reflections of youth, and together we created an energy unseen by the lower land, eclipsing my heart as you tightly grasped my hand. What will happen, dear, when we must part? The irreconcilable moment when hand leaves hand, and hearts extract entwined valves from each other, for one must depart. I know this time will come and to it, I revolt, as I say, I wish I could stay in your presence, please don’t desert me, please remain. I cannot do this on my own, I imagine myself sadly call, I’ll gaze into your light, continue to further fall, fall further, and fall into the night. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Photo by JOSHUA COLEMAN on Unsplash
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Poem: Besotted at the Bar – 14/08/20
I am absolutely besotted with him, he is charming, and manipulative, and glib. I am wholly delighted with him, he is worthy of being taken home to meet the family, this would be just such a welcome, wanted dream. I am absolutely enamoured with him he has, with haste, pulled the wool over my eyes, my darling, I am obsessed with him, won’t he let me take him home with me tonight? His attentive glances, his wide smiles, his hands, how they gently gloss over mine, his soft-spoken introduction, his brass, hearty laughter a welcome contradiction, he taught me his bliss from the flicker of his wanton tongue which spoke shapes in vowels and oohs that would make any woman come undone. His pronunciation anything but a contrivance at the time, he certainly got his reaction, his sympathetic looks when I told him how complex it was in the all the manners in which I had been broken, his promise of how he’d fix things with the superglue from his heart, my sweetness, how clichéd he is but how endearing is his enthusiasm to fix this broken women not as a project but restore me as a work of art. Perhaps I have misjudged this man who sits before me, open and seemingly honest, listening to my stories, head cocked gently to the side, a sign of listening carefully? He clasps my right hand softly, with eyes widened, sympathetically. I cannot help feeling safer now, that perhaps this is not manipulation but genuine care and concern, who he really is, there might be much more to learn, just as I have so much to reveal whilst we rest upon bar with elbows, sipping our drinks and getting to know each other’s worlds, maybe he is right for me, let’s throw caution to the wind, a casual visit home soon to the family, let’s see what my loved ones have to view, assess, and tell. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Photo by cottonbro from Pexels
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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: Like Yellowed Parchment – Fiction – 21/07/20
The green in her eyes speaks of envy, of rich, potent jealousy, block upon blocks of her irises compacted – there are shades of yellow lingering. Like an aged page of a book, curled and poignant a scene, her yellow paper is delicate, ancient, unlike recalcitrant feelings which have not been heeded for years, let alone months, hours, or days. Others' aloof natures were not well received. She quietly felt the same. Why did they cruelly ignore her glimmer? Curled and precious, or shimmering and golden, the nature of her brightened tidings being that of a warm busied bee’s ability to thrive, and her envy, the unfounded jealousy, though they physically outweigh the true nature of herself, her glimmering, they cannot wholly take over the scene in which her golden shine continues peeking through, growing, delivering, because, while she may present just a tickle, just some freckles, just mere moments of daffodil yellow, her jealousy announces yet dithers, she’s preoccupied with envy's raging fire, because to her, the two are always present, come what may, still, her inner strength and outward smile will wipe aside and away her irises’ greedy greenery down to the dust, leaving only space for vibrancy and ancient words carefully printed upon pressed, preserved parchment. Her construction is now secure, building blocks designated, separated, sectorial, colours divided, dedicated, pure yellowed ecstasy, her vibrancy further brightens, a must, a requirement, it’s as if she’s been purged from head to toe, so this it's what it means to live free of negative, burgeoning thoughts, to feel well and truly alive. Of her ailments she seems cured, of her jealousy and envy she has survived, now well and truly pure, she's free to live and thrive. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Photo by Ylanite Koppens from Pexels
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Poem: Ballerina in a Box – Audio and Text – 16/07/20
“Ballerina in a Box” Flickers in her eyes like candlelit fairy lights, a pair of wings of gossamer, she breathes and heaves her magic all over, lightness is present all around. Her sparkles cover her fragile form, yet ignorant or impervious are those who refuse her sight and her magnificent airy sound, then all of a sudden, a box slams! Something hits the ground. She’s captured like a ballerina, presented in a crass jewellery box, whom dances in circles and circles all around, all day and all night and all the same. She adheres to certain requirements, the lightness, the frail form, she meets their expectant looks, but her interior melody is strong, well composed, and her heart, it has its own set of wings, too. She leaps and bounds and twirls around societal requirements more and more, she weaves dictated beauty before scrutiny as though ribbons which dance in the wind and plait themselves further together, favourite colours of pink, yellow, blue, purple, and green. But, Ballerina, dear dancer! Once born a free sprite, tied down, though maybe not, she won’t allow expectations to make her stagnant, her jewellery box to rot, she is impeded, somewhat, though if necessary, she knows how to leave, it sounds simpler than reality, more often than not. She'll simply stop spinning her pirouette, become still once more, and those observers, with their child-like wonder will soon grow bored of her; close they will her Reality’s door. Magically, she may return to a sprite, wings of glittering gossamer, free to take her flight, and flickers in her widened eyes which will dance and flare like delicate flames aided by greedy kerosene. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by Ocdesignzz from Pixabay
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Poem: An Illusion – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20
Audio: An Illusion My hands present as aged and weary, my flesh paper-thin and melting like an image of Salvador Dali’s, with bones like soft honeycomb, where bees cheerfully settle in. Their wings frantically beat they seek nectar from the rhythm, the rhythm, hands slowly try itching them away, off my skin, away from an arm which they travel upwards, ignoring my slow decay. Other insects join in, stinging mosquitoes, beautiful butterflies who live but three days without sin, it’s rather unlike the diaries of old, to go three days without intentional error would utterly amaze. The bees are now concerned, combatted by the wasp whose angry demeanour wishes to fight my friends, in my shin’s honeycomb land, the buzzing, the droning, whom will succeed at their intent? At securing a home of marrow-less matrimony? A fly settles on the wall of my wrist, sardonically smiling, he decides to join in the violent tryst of bee upon enemy upon melting candle-wax skin, dream-like or like a nightmare, reality is falling. In the heaviness of a veil which draws itself away from my subconscious, I'm once more myself, no more strange images, curious bees butterflies, maddened mosquitoes, wasps whom will not leave. My bones are themselves again, full and not deprived, weariness dissipated and skin almost pristine, I am alive. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by PollyDot from Pixabay
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Poem: The Confrontation – Fiction – Spoken Word and Text – 11/07/20
Audio: The Confrontation A/N: This is inspired by a poetry prompt from Cynthia Schwartzberg Edlow to describe my angriest moment (with someone whom I cherish, which I chose to reverse and fictionalise) using the words 'squall' and 'hush', and without using 'love, like, heart, mad or cry'. I ended up using some of the banned words, though. I squall at him, he glares and points, and orders me to hush. I laugh incredulously, thinking, hush little baby, don’t you cry, I planned on doing anything but sobbing any lullaby. I rise to the challenge, eyes intent on staring him down, I can emit anything I liked, but manipulating me would the power of his crown. I have known beings like him before. those whom wrap me around, hand and foot, little finger to finger, and this distaste of our connections linger in my body; I don’t want to generalise but how can I not? All their faces together into his I am seeing. What has stopped me from leaving? What has caused my scorn to die down and crush my self-worth into nothing? I used to be this strong, amazing woman and now: under his dancing thumbs and fingers, I am living. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by ArtTower from Pixabay
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Poem: Where the Pretty Ones Live – A Romance – 07/07/20
Where the pretty ones live is where some want to be, posed or slouched so elegantly, chiffon dresses or satin clinging. Where the pretty ones live is where some want to spend some time, gracefully sipping champagne, for hours talking softly or romancing. Where the pretty ones live is where I found you, strong yet awkward, though slightly out of place
,but, you were poised, you were prepared, you were honest and true, and, where the pretty ones exist is where we forged our intent, tenor and alto lines so rich and sweet, I couldn’t conjure such a melody, ours was of fantastical truth. Where the strongest survive is where we travelled to, once floundering, we now clung to each another, swept away from those beings, left them afar, and where the bravest reside, we carried ourselves with great courage, to rebuild bridges of our past insecurities into palatable platforms which were warm, serene, and inviting. We didn’t need the presence of pretty ones to make us feel complete, we had each other, and this was progress to be seen, through many an endless ocean, o’er many mountains, upon winding paths and cobblestone roads we would traverse, the pretty ones could heave and breathe their distaste and their bitterness, upon neither of us their jealous airs would be cast. Because, while pretty ones are interesting in the moment, we have advanced ourselves, refashioned our near-empty selves into stoic iron and mortar, we are no longer impressionable, weak, overly tender, through each other, we've found ourselves, alone or together, we are stronger because of the other. We no longer needed to listen to their gossip, indulgent hissed and giggled tales between champagne bubbles and sips of wine, no, no, my precious, we have made ourselves truly whole, we have made ourselves divine. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by Khusen Rustamov from PixabayYouTube Poem videos: Lauren M. Hancock Poetry
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Poem: Heartbeat to Heartbeat – 5/07/20
Like the sound of rolling thunder on the distant hills, my heartbeats clamber to be heard, (to be heard), received and acknowledged by you, at your breezy window sill. Your hand reaches out to grab the distant beats, the uniquely peculiar patterning that pounds, and pounds and pounds, from my sill to yours, a distant utterance which begs to be translated: what does it call for? When transformed, will my percussive pattern affect your strong and courageous, masculine disposition, into quietly affected, weeping eyes? This vulnerable beating is all for you. How harrowed I once was without you, without this link, how now when I look back my life seemed utterly empty and terrifying, I was morose, broken, somewhat together but alone, and now that we are here, window sill to window sill, glancing into the darkness wondering at the other, you’ve brought me back to life, and I can send you my heartfelt rhythmic dictations, my life force representing my dreams, my quietly built courage. I want to receive your beats, to capture your fervour, perhaps one day we will meet face-to-face, and I’ll embrace you, my surprisingly welcome saviour. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by Comfreak from Pixabay
YouTube Poem videos: Lauren M. Hancock Poetry
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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