Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: healing

  • poem: healing has a language – 04/04/22

    poem: healing has a language – 04/04/22

    Healing has a language,
    I whisper softly,
    airily it knows,
    of the simplicity
    and the duality
    of wondrous beauty,
    poetry and prose,
    the writers and the poets
    swing each way in kind,
    whimsical deciduous trees
    sway our way,
    whispering in turn,
    and slightly, just slightly
    out of time.

    The rhythm does not plod,
    it’s a mirror of complex minds,
    the syncopation, patterns, drives us ahead,
    out west, north, south,
    east: we fly through time,
    we develop our skills –
    it’s not just a hobby,
    this is our dream,
    to share love, passion, mythology,
    chances and pain,
    healing,
    vocal rhythms drive us to where we need,
    healing mankind.
    @laurenm.hancock
    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose.
    Image from Pixabay.

  • Prose: Cherished – 19/05/21

    Prose: Cherished – 19/05/21

    A special meaning is encompassed by me today. I could sit and weep, allow my day to decay. I could jump up and dance, a public cover-up, a farce, but I’ll do neither of these upon this sun-shining morning in May.

    Instead, I will thread myself together, sewn and stitched, with determination, insistence, for me, repair isn’t a bother. Over time, each thread has painfully entered through, needle to skin, insertion of freshly-wound cotton, much to some’s chagrin. I am whole now, no dangling pieces, after years of floundering, I’m becoming daisies and roses, blooming to see, scented, delicate petals to touch. A figure made human, adorned with hearts and trust.

    This figure’s flowerbed is smaller now, visitors and residents are fewer, but still, in delicate rows, and they’re all admired and admirable, intricate and wonderful, each petal to unfurl, their own histories to tell.

    Within this garden, in this land on the property of a safe house, we are all gathered here today, some mended from brokenness, others in the midst of sad decay. These latter we cannot help but keep company as they slowly bend their heads and weep, today is their time for demise, but in this company, kind and true, they wouldn’t have their exit any other way.

    And from the dying petals, which should be preserved while scattered, by sheets of ornate glass, their colours will join with the earth, create food, life for others. Goodbye is not always despairing when they’ve been cherished in many ways. Goodbye can be a new way of voicing a fresh beginning, from the decay arises freshness, an opportunity for new life to shine and remain.

    © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
    Photo by Nubia Navarro (nubikini) from Pexels

    Previous Post: ‘I Will Not Write About Love’ – 18/05/21

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  • Poem: Bright Stars – 07/11/20

    Poem: Bright Stars – 07/11/20

    Bright stars shine in my eyes,
    I soak them in like they’re available to take for all mine,
    to pluck at them and stow away into my hidden spaces,
    into the cracks and tears that have been left by the decisions
    that I thought wouldn’t result in this,
    where time is the only cure.

    I’ve never been here before,
    beneath this sea of sparkle that
    encompasses and revolutionises
    my mind and memories,
    I wonder what to do with them,
    should I be without them all?
    So used to company by my side and now,
    replaced by ghostly air because of my doing,
    truth in truth,
    all in all,
    an undoing.

    At least I have the stars to sparkle and shine for me,
    at least I have their light to guide me,
    perhaps I can shine brighter than them,
    after all,
    they are dying or already dead.

    I still have my glisten. It’s just hidden beneath my layers.
    Photo by Ryan Hutton on Unsplash

    © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 

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  • Poem: Into Account – 31/10/20

    Poem: Into Account – 31/10/20

    Should I take into account
    the other side,
    the viewpoint of another whom I cannot
    wholly share their tides?

    The rolling waves they experience are
    tender to see,
    to feel,
    but I cannot allow myself to be affected overnight,
    into the early morning, disrupted sleep still.

    Their thoughts are on my mind,
    subconsciously, as I try to rest,
    to prepare myself for sleep,

    and I simply want to diminish the thoughts
    overriding me,
    I need to be rid of them temporarily.

    I cannot change this,
    I cannot provide,
    I’ve made a decision,
    and though it hurts,
    it’s the wise kind,

    I now need to work on myself,
    grow,
    to progress through life,
    onward, forward,
    and make a small success of myself,
    or at least something to be proud of
    in due time.

    Could we do this together,
    side by side,
    arm in arm,
    friendship without divide?

    We are forging ahead,
    we are carving individual paths,
    allow us to see that there’s no
    unwanted decimation nor aftermath.

    There shouldn’t be collateral damage,
    only repairing,
    thatching,
    filling those gaps,
    because both can come out of
    something like this stronger,
    and I’d love to believe this as fact.

    © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
    Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

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  • Poem: Sharing – 14/10/20

    Poem: Sharing – 14/10/20

    What can I share with my small world?
    Perhaps kind words, understanding, empathy,
    cherished friendships and love for others,

    listening, being there,
    calming, caring,
    and throughout the process I am
    subtly growing.

    There is the understanding that I am able to
    assist others and not selfishly
    always think of myself,

    the joy in fostering happiness with others,
    perhaps it’s part of being more
    self-aware, and possessing more
    self-knowledge to be positive,
    to be present,
    always there.

    Part of the process of my journey
    in becoming a better human being
    has come with reflection and time,
    considerations of variances of life experiences,
    dark and light.

    There have been many
    positive experiences,
    so too, despairing and sadness,
    but it is with consideration,
    reflection of both negativity and positivity
    that has been,
    that I can truly
    appreciate my path and provide to others
    with my altered, developing perspectives.

    To make their hearts warm,
    to feel appreciated also,
    no longer am I swirling down,
    down, down,
    in the darkness which had engulfed me
    hellishly below,

    now,
    I am brighter, kinder, lighter,
    and I dare say, my path of spiritual growth seems
    more direct and much more calmer.

    As I increase my self-understanding,
    I can encourage joyfulness
    and cheery moments
    with kindhearted words
    to those who are in need,
    and those who too wish to engage in the sharing,
    allow me to share with you the fruits of my self-healing.

    © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
    Photo by Faye Cornish on Unsplash

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  • Poem: Shards and Confetti – 09/08/20

    Poem: Shards and Confetti – 09/08/20

    I am not a stranger to the darkness,
though I am unafraid of the light.
I am willing to crawl on broken glass,
dragging shards through my flesh
as I attempt to better myself,
fall away will the blight.
 
I can rip these fragments from my skin,
gaping wounds,
painful holes,
I am like the remnants of made confetti,
the cut-outs flung to the floor
because I am truly ready to breathe,
to inhale, exhale, be myself,
the darkness can flow aside
effluent mess into the drains,
instead replaced by purging cleansing rain,
I shed tears but they are unseen,
melding with the droplets reigned down
by a heaven or God who I am unsure even exists.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Sophie Dale on Unsplash

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  • Poem: Friendships Among Pink Blossoms – 27/05/20

    Poem: Friendships Among Pink Blossoms – 27/05/20

    Cherry blossoms in Acacia Street,
a feast for the eyes,
a scene so replete,
petals dance while we’re healing Inside.
 
Pink petals float,
beautiful be they,
a wistful smile upon my lips
as memories fly by.
 
So many unique people met on the path,
these cobblestones,
where we sat on the park benches,
getting to know each other as time would pass by
and people come and go,
 
So many life stories learned,
moments of vulnerable truth,
they learned about me,
I learned of them, too.
 
Despite my illness, I wanted to help,
to fix their turmoil inside,
but it turned out
I needed to try to heal myself, too,
that would be incredibly wise.
 
We had staff to attend to us,
medications,
therapy too,
but by banding together,
whispered secrets,
friendships forged,
we grew stronger amidst the raging reds,
paranoid greens,
and solemn, moody blues.
 
Where are they now?
Are lives led happy and content?
Are they settled and stable?
Or are they still needing
to be held up by caring arms,
well provided,
loving support always well meant?
 
We may have resented some support,
the strict nature of it all,
but these measures were in place
to protect us,
to allow the healing of them, us, those,
from the sicknesses which plagued our minds most.
 
Gratitude may be come at differing points,
perhaps immediate or after the fact,
but know they looked after us
while we were acute,
and they’ll catch us if we tumble,
if again we fall,
until we can grow within ourselves,
becoming more resilient
and firmer with inner strength,
leading forward,
taking steps ahead
for more well lives,
the cobblestones we’ll learn to
no longer need tread,
they are hopefully part of our past lives.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Hans Braxmeier from Pixabay

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  • Prose Poetry: Hospital Girl – 23/10/10

    Prose Poetry: Hospital Girl – 23/10/10

    To look at her, you’d think she was cautious, tentative, wary. Scrutinising you with eyes that have seen much more than others could dare to dream. Her being which had walked through many paths, some twisted and gnarled, others delicate and soft, but generally most with a visible barb.

    Her mind, having been through so much, broken down, split and medicated, behaviour watched by those in authority as though circling hawks, observing in a manner that noted every hour how she was travelling, her mindset and behaviour positive, light, or becoming worsened, so dark, increased internal suffering.

    Oftentimes she was out of control, this was why she was there, in that world she couldn’t leave without being signed out of, couldn’t easily visit her comforting home. Where ‘Leave’ was something dreamed of, yearned for, an hour or two here or there to spend in her warm loving environment, then dismayed she’d be returned to the unit with the rest of the others, who themselves were suffering from differing mental health matters and in differing manners.

    So, while she observes you observing her, she is reminded of the way in which she was observed carefully, with eyes roaming around the ward, or from the nurses’ Fishbowl. Where they could hide somewhat, from behind the glass, watching her as she went about her daily business, her feigned sense of existence, trying to get better as fast as she could.

    Socialising with the other patients could only hold her attention for so long, before she became desperate to leave the ward, she just wanted to go home. How she was there for many weeks, sometimes months at times, she couldn’t bear to drag herself from the squeaky hospital bed, she wanted to hide, despair, just be discharged, she didn’t belong there.  

    And then came the admissions when each second morning she’d be wheeled out, in her hospital bed through the main ward, sent on a trip upstairs to visit a specific doctor, for a buzzing and a convulsing, in an attempt to make her mind whole and somewhat better. It was because the medication wasn’t working. It was a last-option intervention, medically speaking.

    And while she became better with time, in the sense of being able to function in society, there were always times when her mental health became worse, and back into the hospital she would be, that familiar unwanted scene. Stability for her only lasted a year or two, and she was never truly living, because she was forever too close to the edge. Of shallow goals and dreams, she would be constantly dreaming. Reaching out for these caused her health to decline rapidly.

    But these recollections matter not now, because she is no longer Hospital Girl, she is the one who has succeeded at her true life’s dreams, written in her school yearbook as a little girl. As a twelve-year-old dreamer, she had written of her desires, and here she was, having achieved those two goals that she had wanted her life to deliver.

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


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  • Poem: Crashing Waves – 03/10/19

    Poem: Crashing Waves – 03/10/19

     The waves hurl themselves onto the rocky shore
     As though on a suicide mission
     I wonder what it would be like to feel those jagged edges biting me
     Protruding through the breaking waves
     Their strangled sounds strangely comfort me.
      
     I dare to reach forth
     One step at a time
     A momentous awakening has come about this healing time.
      
     And like how I come to the sand for serenity and to show respect,
     myself, I blossom inside
     feeling and breathing good health.

     the racing thoughts in my mind
     the strange understandings still in place
     will eventually be wiped away
     replaced with thoughts more socially acceptable and commonplace.
      
     But I will not lose my vigour nor my ardour 
     Learning more of discovery, healing and self-respect
     The waves continue to crash
     My eyes divert from the scene as they capture human movement
     Ah, there he is: 
     I almost thought he wouldn’t make it.

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


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  • Story: The Secret Mozzie Healer – 02/09/19

    Story: The Secret Mozzie Healer – 02/09/19

    “She slurped blood here, she sourced blood from there, she took advantage of healing their injuries with great concern and care.”

    McBuzzy McBuzz’s role in life was as a brave fighter pilot, she would attack the enemy with rapidity and due diligence. When she was not reigning bullets and bombs down upon the deserving rouge nations, she was honoured to transport her fellow servicemen and women. However, she was addicted to the metallic taste of blood, the iron platelets slipping down her throat, it made her want to gleefully rub her stomach, and find others to drain from. When she was in mid-air, she’d often place the jet on autopilot, so she could visit and speak with the injured soldiers, to see if she could benefit. Some would be asleep, some would be moaning with great pain, their injuries were healing, not quickly enough though, they needed more love and attention. McBuzzy McBuzz was able to feel their pain, empathise with them, and understand what they wanted and in return what she could gain, and in a transfer so very easy, she sucked the pain dry from their blood, a secret tactic that she had learned when she was just a little wee insect bub.

    When she performed this action, often the soldiers’ eyes would widen, upright, stiffen, they would sit, their wings now glimmering and golden. “By goodness, what have you done?” they would asked, astounded, looking around with great numbness. “I feel perfectly fine now, and you only drained me of blood as I know it!” McBuzzy felt utterly pleased, a smile coming to her face, a crafty expression that, if it were to be witnessed, would not have gone to waste, because her actions allowed her to gain and the others to lose, and wasn’t this a perfect thing for them to experience and for others to view? It just so happened that McBuzzy would then return to the cockpit, to guide the jet down towards the runway, to deliver the cured servicemen to be used again in the trenches and pits.

    Because this was the real reason why she had been raised to have this talent, her wartime family knew that it would come in handy, to have her cure men and women who might otherwise be of no further use to the military, during dangerous world events. If one could make right the injuries sustained, over and over, why, it was as though these soldiers and their skills were being healed again to be used in the battlefield seemingly forever. Then the country would never run out of its manpower, for there would always be McBuzzy the fighter pilot and secret healer to make certain that their soldiers were in tip top shape to continue fighting for the country’s rights, but what would happen if McBuzzy was in trouble, who would heal or save her?

    There was no use in accommodating or entertaining such a thought, because this mozzie was able to look after herself. She could remove blood from any being, and never receive a negative transmission or a disease, not a thing. She also had the skill of purifying all received blood, it was like if one were given a murky solution, and they could separate the water from the mud. McBuzzy was such a top secret government individual that she needed to be on the lookout often, to protect herself the most, because she knew that due to her skill set, if others found out they might make use of her, take her away, suddenly kidnap: and put her to ill use.

    However, aside from the government officials and herself, no one knew of her skill at all, let alone little, let alone the most. Even the soldiers who she cured couldn’t remember the procedure, for as soon as she left the interior of the jet, she emitted a natural gas that wiped the memories from their minds, no longer would they be saved. But there were beginning to be whispers, rumblings, of a certain talented mosquito, who resided in the war-torn countries as a pilot, and soon the bounty hunters were beginning their tracking, their know-hows.

    The soldiers in the plane today didn’t look like the usual characters. Some had keen looks in their eyes, some were nervously darting around, some highly fidgeting. They didn’t have the war-torn expressions paining in their eyeballs, the way that the other, front line soldiers did, this group of soldiers seemed odd, as though they hadn’t experienced any negative war activity. They simply appeared either eager or nervous, for someone, or something. McBuzzy couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but she knew something was amiss.

    She approached the most nervous looking soldier and asked if he wanted to feel calm.

    “Yes… y…yes, of course,” he stammered, barely able to look her in her eyes,  let alone being comfortable with her touching his shaking arm.

    “Allow me to rid yourself of your illness, of it I will suck you dry,” she whispered, and she plunged her feeder into his jugular vein, where there would be the most blood flow. He suddenly snapped to, he felt overwhelmingly awake, so refreshed he was amazed! Her talent, her skill, were something certainly to be captured and saved.

    “How, what, why?” he asked, needing to understand what had just occurred.

    “Never you mind,” she said with a smile, and moved onto the other male mosquitoes in the herd. She cured all five members, they were dutifully pleased, at how clever she was with blood-letting, and her ability to allow them to be free, of the minutia, of the delicateness of illnesses that they didn’t even believe they’d had, and now that they had received her treatment, they didn’t feel like taking her away for their rogue nations, to be analysed, stripped of her talent, and cast away without a care. Besides, she presently emitted her signature gassy scent, and there went their memories of the moments, that was that.

    The plane full of bounty hunters presently forgot all about their mission.

    McBuzzy slowly gained a huge following, online and in real life, because gradually, slowly but surely, she had allowed the healed others to continue on without having their memories wiped. She felt it was somehow important that they knew that she would be taking credit for the procedures she had performed and how she’d made their lives better as they would soon understand and know it. Because if she healed everyone the world over and they didn’t know who was behind it, wasn’t that slightly pointless, too selflessly altruistic? She also wanted to share her techniques with others, so she started a healing school, where she went through the biology of what her body was capable of, what it had been taught to do. There she taught adaptable techniques of how other mosquitoes could source blood while saving ill fated members of the world, it was incredibly holistic yet medical too.

    Soon, there were mosquitoes everywhere, sucking the world dry all over, yet the point of this, the wisdom of the matter, was that they were saving others, not simply satiating their thirst for blood, they worked together. And with the cure being made obvious now, there was no need for warring, for fighting, for capturing other countries for their resources or wealth, no more need to fight for world power, domination, and such, when everyone could coexist peacefully together. It was amazing how from one little mozzie that peace could begin, occur in a special manner, a wondrous style, for her as a great being, and of McBuzzy McBuzz she would be known of as the world’s greatest healer, of her name they would all righteously sing.

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


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