Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: human condition

  • Poem: Cherished – 01/03/20

    Poem: Cherished – 01/03/20

    Who do you love, my dearest,
who is it you cherish?
Who is it that makes your skin tingle,
your veins pump wildly?
 
Who is it who feeds your desire,
causes you to grow lighter while your heart palpates,
big and small?
Enormous and bolder,
your simmering feelings,
the bubbling brewing of emotions
in the depths below.
 
These, they are your lovers,
who wait hand and foot and heart upon you,
and their minds,
their minds, darlings,
are plain to see,
they have dedicated themselves to you.
 
There is a light within their soul that trickles forth
for you to wrangle,
grasp,
capture and take hold,
the evocation of determination they have captured
for you,
is to ensure that they are eternally by your side.
 
Even in the ethereal you have love and loved ones
so cherished,
spoken or unspoken,
they like to accompany you,
even with you being unknowing.
 
But your love,
your adoration here on Earth,
they are here,
willing and waiting,
understanding that your heart
has been made heavy enough.
 
Thus, they travel alongside,
hand upon shoulder,
fingers laced in yours,
know that in life they will never leave you,
and not even in death shall some depart.
 
Their path is alongside you now,
they are precious,
they are wholesome in their intent,
to see you successful and happy,
is their goal,
and it is something irrevocably well spent.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Tú Anh from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Sensing – 16/02/20

    Poem: Sensing – 16/02/20

    Like worms in the ground we can slide through life blindly,
only sensing, never seeing what’s right before us.
And as though it’s magic, our touch and sense of smell
are heightened, guiding us through the rough,
the damp welcoming soil.
 
Like the understanding that somehow we must place
our trust in that which we cannot completely, wholly trust,
because while seeing is believing, how are touch or smell enough as
indicators to ensure that we are on the right path?
 
Perhaps we need another guider,
to lead us into the way of the righteous,
because, as the exploring worm will understand,
sometimes it can lead itself astray.
 
Picture after a fresh summer’s rain the amount of worms
capsized upon the pavement,
miles away from comfort, from the land they know,
they’re crawling, they’re wriggling,
set to cook and die in the sun.
 
Perhaps someone kind will rescue them all,
but that’s unlikely,
they led themselves there, searching for a new land so incorrect
that their demise has been promised all along.
 
But we are not entirely like these blind, hopeful beings,
we have the capacity, to intelligibly think, analyse, surmise,
and here we understand that while living blindly,
with a sense of waywardness about us
is something to commend,
it’s also a method rather risky,
and maybe something of which maybe not to contend.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Racheal Lomas on Unsplash

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  • Prose Poetry: The Fall – 22/01/20

    Prose Poetry: The Fall – 22/01/20

    When I am slighted, I can become cruel. My words spit forth with venom; I cannot help my purging. It is as though I need to get them out, in order to stop the poison taking effect upon myself, my soul, and in doing so I hurt others by means of my cathartic process. Afterwards I should feel remorseful, but, not yet, not yet, a lone raven calls, not yet, my dear, we have to await The Fall.
 
What is The Fall, you may ask? Let me explain simply, The Fall is when everything culminates and crumbles from a formidable boulder into shattered, tiny pieces, the strong once broken, forming mere pebbles settling into dust clouds, which really are unsettling. My exterior, strong and generally kind, now turned cold as of recent times, has been dismembered into gravelly limbs and such that really, didn’t need any adjustment at all. I had pooled my energies and forced myself into intensely focusing on one or two tasks alone, and in doing so, my stresses had increased tenfold. And the way I perceived being treated or mistreated really spoke volumes to my self-harassed being. I convinced myself that I was the most obvious victim.
 
So, essentially speaking, The Fall is when one falls apart. Strictly speaking, symptoms are as such, when I rock the boat slightly, testing the waters, then finding it fine, I start pressing back and forth violently, making certain I am causing a commotion, then suddenly the boat keels over and the only air pocket is the oxygen underneath the boat.
 
I must breathe into this prison,
For without breath there is no hope.  

© 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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  • Poem: From Wept Parchment to Wonder – 19/01/20

    Poem: From Wept Parchment to Wonder – 19/01/20

    I am exhausted. Tired of the crowd’s prying eyes when all
I’m doing is wallowing and huddling.
I want nothing more than 
this sharp oversensitiveness of my skin
to stop this crawling feeling,
because I can feel the touches,
the curious fingertips dragging,
on the skin of a woman made of parchment
who bears her interior just enough,
just enough to cause criticism.
 
Though, that wasn’t her,
sorry,
my intention,
and I watch my parchment weep from my arms,
my forehead,
my torso,
catching the sheets, I frantically scrawl and scrawl
before I forget the present thought processes,
I wish to save them all.
 
They are precious to me,
if inapplicable to others,
I am still allowed to self-indulge.  
 
Written words can silence me with their beautiful calligraphy
and I learn from sources beyond the nearby gumtree or nearest paperbacks,
I seek to learn from the greatest, who titillate my senses,
now raised goosebumps upon my sensitive paper-thin skin,
it no longer crawls with distastefulness but instead
it is inspired.
 
I read and read,
absorbing skillful words, and wanting nothing more than appreciation and
education from those far finer in skill than I,
poised with vocabularies resplendent and fuller than a flushed Renaissance bosom,
I shudder with appreciation
I love this feeling
it is one of great calling.
 
And inspired once more,
my exhaustion all but forgotten,
I bind myself with tight parchment bandages
and set my pen into sight.
I am ready,
I will recommence my style,
flowered by the blossoming of others' inspiration,
all it takes it that certain escape,
a wondrous trip out into the open.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

Image by Mystic Art Design from Pixabay

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