Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: illustration

  • Poetry: Like A Child – 06/11/19

    Poetry: Like A Child – 06/11/19

     Sometime he’s like a child,
     he can sit there with device in hand,
     smile across his face,
     technology doing anything but going to waste. 
      
     I casually read to him my words,
     of the former verse he approves,
     not that I was hoping to continue,
     but with this sporadic melody,
     I will proceed, openly and vocally,
     I will allow the awaiting audience an open view.
      
     He sits now in contemplative silence, 
     touching the screen here and there,
     searching for something to amuse him,
     or educate him,
     without a concern, without a sense of care.
      
     Because he is like a thoughtful, learning child,
     growing with his device he becomes brighter and wiser,
     using today’s opportunities to progress, not falter,
     and here is the sense of knowledge shown:
     it will be used, inserted, among his 
     thoughtful, intellectual banter.
      
     But, like a child, 
     sometimes his words will be cast aside,
     by adults who feel they know more than him;
     there is such a great divide.
      
     Their understanding does not encompass 
     their understanding of him,
     and where he lies in reference to his former knowledge
     and where the new technology and understandings are taking him.
      
     Perhaps someday soon he’ll release something of great use,
     something accessible and necessary for a large majority
     of the world to view,

     an invention,
     a contraption,
     with his initials emblazoned on the back:-
     congratulatory words all around, 
     these will be all the world will have to say at that.

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

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  • Poem: Time’s Ticking – 05/11/19

    Poem: Time’s Ticking – 05/11/19

     Time’s ticking, my friend,
     where are you required most?
     Time’s ticking; let’s go,
     down the rabbit hole, 
     and around the bend. 
      
     Into the dark deep labyrinth 
     where we will fall among objects that have 
     quite spontaneously reappeared,
     in the darkness we will swim 
     as we twist and turn around 
     again and again.
      
     Where will this cavity take us?
     Will it lead us into truth
     and wisdom:
     a land of beautiful views?
      
     Or a world of impunctuality,  
     anger and hierarchy,
     where we are beneath every 
     visible and given sets of feet?
     Precious two by twos.
      
     Will we find a world of characters?
     Amusing, learned, wise and tough?
     Humorous and of Imagination’s making?
     Or will we simply fall helplessly into a pile 
     of awaiting dust?
      
     With this wise rabbit who always seems to be
     quite behind 
     the time,
     a pacifist but proactive also,
     if we follow him we’ll end up at the right place,
     at the right time,
     in the correct frame of mind.
      
     Because his watch is incorrectly set
     and he has performed this deliberately
     to make his appearance correct and just so,
     into the rabbit hole we will fall and fall
     and forever in imagination we will delve.

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

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  • Flash Fiction: Poison in a Land So Sweet – 01/11/19

    Flash Fiction: Poison in a Land So Sweet – 01/11/19

    I lay myself down in that quiet meadow that exists only within my mind. I rest back, against the soft, pillowy grass and I allow myself to keep. To become at one with the scene, the beautiful sunset, the sublimely coloured horizon; it is so glorious, and I know it’s only for me. I bask in the wonder, treating my eyes, my amazed orbs to swell and brighten as the light slowly changes, the atmosphere darkening, into the dusk of the afternoon. And I lay here waiting, for you to come soon. I lie in wait, for your presence, to keep me safe.

    There is nothing to fear in this landscape, for I have created it all on my own, but I wish for you, I call for you, to visit at least, or perhaps to return here and decide to call this home. A land in which you and I can exist, with love and soft-spoken dexterity, our hands, their movements, clutching each other’s, are not at all amiss. We grasp our attentive and longing outstretched hands, linking also arm in arm. But, my love, you have not come, will you ever arrive?

    My careful eyes watch for you, I know you won’t leave me alone for too long.

    But in trots an arrogant fool, one who does not belong in my precious landscaped scene, nothing to compare with you, because he is too proud, he is too haughty, yet I am confused, do I pay attention to him or ignore him completely? After all, it seems far too rude to dismiss another, even though he seems rough and overly boisterous and showy. I am not in the practice of being rude, I dislike the practice and behaviour greatly. So, I make eye contact with this buffoon, who is lauding himself throughout my delicious scene, trampling on the flowery neighbourhood, and I, close to rolling my eyes, acknowledge him if but for only a few seconds. I do not want to encourage him, to have you feeling my eyes treating you as seconds.

    Oh, how he prances, how he dances, before me, his masculinity screams for my attention, begs for it more and more, until I cannot help myself, I start to laugh, he’s amusing, and this encourages him some more. And then suddenly, you appear from the corner of my eye, from behind a dense bush, and your eyes scream betrayal; I cannot do anything but fumble: I wasn’t moved by him, I want to scream, I wasn’t moved at all, not a little. Yet my heart, how it now aches, at having hurt you in a manner unintended, I am filled with guilt, while the buffoon stands to attention, smiling widely, grinning with obvious pride bursting from inside. He guffaws at the problems he has advertently caused me through amusing and entertaining me with his wiles, and all the while he remains there, cocksure, boastful, pride-filled – of him I am reviled.

    I reach for you, but it is too late, you tell me I have made my choice and it is time for you to dissipate. With tears forming in my eyes, you melt back into the horizon, never again to be seen, in this fantasy of mine, you are now gone. You were my only delicate and sweetened portion. I weep for you, but this buffoon has proven his method: a rapid and obvious sabotaging poison.

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


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  • Poem: Peacocking – 31/10/19

    Poem: Peacocking – 31/10/19

    He peacocks here, he peacocks there, he struts and struts as people stare.

    His showiness is all-too-easily-seen, and it reflects where he is going and where he has been.

    This bright bird with eyes that stare into your soul, they delve inside without concern for you nor care as they take hold.

    They intensify, enveloping you,

    Making certain to assess and formulate a plan or two for you.

    There is nothing these eyes do not see,

    For they view me, they wholly see me.

    For, this bird is rather sneaky, he wishes to play a game that is not so pretty,

    A game in which he can manipulate you,

    Into believing there is more than the two of him and you.

    For, his eyes, those eyes, upon his feathers they deceive,

    Wonder not whether they are in reality or falsified as can possibly be seen,

    Because as he resumes strutting and mesmerising all that can see him,

    I wonder to myself where this illusory bird has come from,

    And when from my life he will leave.

    I do not need the deception in my life,

    Of a strutting male as I try to once again make sense of the inner chasms and strife,

    As I will know from the past, there’s no reason to feel as though I’m an outcast,

    Simply because I am different from this showy, eccentric male.

    One day I’ll shine my feathers, the true colours showing through the brown.

    It’s not easy sometimes, being overshadowed by another leading the crowd.

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


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    My New Book – Our Whimsical World

  • Prose Poetry: Shedding Intolerance – 29/10/19

    Prose Poetry: Shedding Intolerance – 29/10/19

    I’m like a brightly blazing deciduous tree except I will not weep for you. Because while my colours alternate from light greens to crisp fawns and crunchy dryness as the seasons go from bright to dark, days longer to short, at this moment I’m far less tolerant, adaptive I am not.

    Release not the inner emotions, the angst which we both feel. The grinding of stone upon pavement, the scratchy itching frustration I feel. The knowledge that I am absorbing a melody that I do not wish to be performed through me, and the strangeness and wearing down of my barely-present tolerance is surprisingly unyielding. I feel rather affected, and most certainly quite ill at ease. 

    I’d much rather be alone in these moments, and cast off my unwanted and unfeeling leaves in silence. They are not necessary. And neither is this irritation which is featuring heavily in this ongoing dramatic story.

    There’s a brief pause now, an interlude, to allow anger and the stifling feeling of unrest to build into an explosive level of intent and mistrust. Because, neither of us seems to want to admit wrongdoing, or take responsibility, or be willing to say we’re sorry. We’d rather war with our displeased silences than allow ourselves to become defeated and at a loss.

    But instead we’ll confide in one another, especially with you sharing how you truly feel. Your frustrations, your sufferings, your immense irritation; your desire for me to wholeheartedly acknowledge your communications about how you feel. It is not all about me, it is due to the surrounding world which surrounds your considered yet busy, ever-changing bubble; you voice, you vent, you scream, then you’re seemingly spent. We now link hands, and forehead to pressed forehead we gaze into one another, our eyes calming the other, the viewing of our aching souls entwined together. 

    You wrap your arms around your now-caring and almost-barren tree, as the last leaves from my limbs fall with gentle ease. Winter is upon us, allow each to warm the other with a manner of understanding and openness to be felt and seen. For, our hearts are fiery in the heat in which they deliver and the clipped words and admonishments are lost in the airy but biting winter’s breath — this argument seems like the end of an unwanted era. Allow us to communicate more effectively, to prove true calming consideration at its best.

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


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  • “Our Whimsical World: Illustrated Stories” Debut Story Book Available Now!

    “Our Whimsical World: Illustrated Stories” Debut Story Book Available Now!

    Good afternoon, all! I’m pleased to be able to present to you Our Whimsical World: Illustrated Stories, my debut collection of illustrated short stories. I had so much fun illustrating and writing these! Each story has a lesson or moral to be learned, with the collection being divided into three separate sections according to younger, slightly older, and older readers.

    Please click the image above to read the blurb and discover a little more about my book.

    Our Whimsical World: Illustrated Stories is available as a paperback from Gumroad, and as an e-book, and audiobook, from various retailers listed below.

    I sincerely hope you enjoy the whimsical journey.

    Lauren xo

    Available as a paperback at:

    Gumroad and various Amazon sites

    Available as an eBook at:

    Amazon Kindle | Apple Books | Barnes & Noble Nook | Kobo | Scribd | !ngido | Angus & Robertson | Mondadori

    Available as an audiobook at:

    24 Symbols

    [ https://books2read.com/oww ]

  • Prose Poetry: From Strength to Strength – 28/10/19

    Prose Poetry: From Strength to Strength – 28/10/19

    There may be times where you feel as though it’s all too difficult to go on. These moments can catch us by surprise, or creep up on us, their bated breath upon our backs, stirring heat upon our shoulders. You know that Defeat is upon you; you are aware that it is there. Any moment now, it can tap our shoulders and say, in a convoluted manner, “Why don’t you give up? You’re never going to succeed anyway, anyhow or anywhere.” And here, my friends, we are presented with a choice, do we revile against these words, thrust these Moments aside, fling them to the past, and walk strong, proud and tall, elegance in our stride? Or do we allow ourselves to crumble, for in moments such as these as this seems the easiest option?

    It matters not how we take potential failures, what matters most is how we strive to make ourselves more, make ourselves better. To carry on with courage, and strength with ardour, knowing that to fail is not in itself a failure, but a learning curve. And there may be many opportunities to learn, do not feel defeated because you are faced with these chances to better yourself, because, I for one know, that many mistakes in my life were made, and I have become a better person for acknowledging the failings. In becoming a better person myself, I have succeeded. And for you, just compare your beginning, the middle, the endings, and allow yourselves to know where your story has commenced, and where the opportunity will come for it to restart. For with practice and going from strength to strength, we can achieve and triumph.

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


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  • Prose Poetry: Icy Heart – 27/10/19

    Prose Poetry: Icy Heart – 27/10/19

    Your heart, my love, has grown as solid and as cold as a block of impenetrable, unbreakable ice. I can’t imagine you remaining like this for much longer – it’s devastating in its effects, my aching heart, my saddened eyes. Because my heart, my love, is breaking, cracks and fissures quietly appearing, into pieces I become, as you sit there pleased, smiling to yourself because for you, this is punishment, admonishment that I deservedly accumulated with ease.

    But then you smile quickly – you cannot help yourself, that flash of delight that shows that you’re no longer pretending to be a harsh version of yourself, and now I realise that you were simply just playing a little game, toying with my emotions for that brief moment. Seeing how much I adore you as I crumbled before you, until you lovingly uttered my name.

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


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    Illustration inspired by a reference photo:

    Shutterstock image: 146245403, artist: Xanya69

  • Fiction: The Arachnid Queen’s Deadly Songs – 27/10/19

    Fiction: The Arachnid Queen’s Deadly Songs – 27/10/19

    The Arachnid Queen weaves a web of delicate songs and spells, but this caster is known for causing perils in great a-many tales. While she crawls and creates, she plots the doom, of those unfortunate souls, lurking, unawares, waiting for her in the privacy of a stifling room. How she struts in toward them, turning this way and that, because while her spindly arachnid form is anything beyond compare, she doesn’t believe in being visually poignant, compliant nor aware.

    No, she prizes her spinning ability above them all, to be the black widow in the tales of those whom happen to helplessly trip and fall beneath her multitude of feet. She glances down at them acting so feebly – she will wrap them slowly, it will amuse her greatly, don’t you understand? It’s all so plain to see!

    And she’ll continue to lure them in like the easy prey, victims that they are, only known for wanting to be seduced by something that they secretly fear but cannot draw themselves any further from, neither walk nor run further, because her songs, the lyrics, they draw them in, such lilting, sweetly sung tunes, like the sirens pulling in the sailors to their deaths, she drags them in with such fine musicality, her deadly cadences are anything but folly.

    Would any rise above the Queen’s misdeeds? Would a victor arise, to avoid his encasing, future suffocating wrapping, simply because for the wrong being he had fallen with ease? Nothing is proven in this measure, they are all mesmerised — ears, hearts and minds — seduced by her warbling spells, until one rather bland evening the sign of the Jackal is cast across the skies: something important surely is about to befall them all.

    While the Queen lazily sits upon her throne, casually singing rhymes, tunes, trills, arpeggios, a hero-in-the-making spots his chance to escape to freedom of his own. A tear in his casing, close to his left hand, my, the Queen’s error in weaving here is uncomfortably astounding, and with a quiet ripping with his thumb he frees himself. But he will not yet leave – he refuses to do so, not without assisting the other captives in the saddening scene.

    And now here is the perfect opportunity; the Arachnid Queen has lulled herself to sleep, the devil in the details, why, they are already being seen, and with a few slashes here and there, the men escape to freedom, with the snoozing Queen entirely unaware. She will awaken with rage, I promise you this, it will be of complete and utter disrepair, and awaken the entirety of her captive kingdom.

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


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  • Story: A Race With Conniving Emu of the Bush – 26/10/19

    Story: A Race With Conniving Emu of the Bush – 26/10/19

    “I can’t fly? Well, I’ll be damned!” the bushy emu said to me. With a squawk and a wink he ran past me with great ease, a bush sprinter as proud as can be.

    He then returned quickly as he could.

    “What do you say to a little race?” he suggested coercively, “The winner gets to sample all the fine tastes of the Bush’s delicacies.”

    I wracked my brains for what these delicacies could be and whether they would suit my palette, but after understanding that this emu was offering up fruits and seeds, I was pleased as punch to verse this bird who carried upon his face such a cheeky permanent grin as his habit.  

    “Ready, set,” he uttered, and before saying “Go” he sprinted away from the scene, the dust billowing in my widened eyes, shocked at the audacity of this bird which had just been seen.

    Still, I began the race after fairly uttering my version of the starter’s “Go”, and ran and ran as fast as my tiny little human legs could push me forth, struggling as I had never ever known.

    But on my path, I noticed the Emu of the Bush; he had fallen down, sprained his ankle. He was flat on his toosh. I was horrified, he looked in such pain. If I were an untoward being I could have continued on with the race, being the reigning victor without any complaint.

    However, I was not of that type, I was empathetic to his plight, and from my backpack I carried everywhere, I removed my first aid kit, removed a bandage and upon his ankle it was tightly applied.

    Tentatively he stood, gingerly on his sore foot, but then with a grin, he realised he could still run with some ease. And off he trotted, ahead of me, towards the end of the race’s scene.

    I was devastated, I could barely lift my jaw from the floor, but I resumed my style of a slow human run, impeded by a sense of an ego made sore. Again, I spotted him having fallen by the side of the path but this time I wouldn’t, did not stop, and through the discussed ending of the race did I reach with a victorious laugh.

    It was only then that Emu caught up, fossicked in the brush for my prize: a large handful of small stones known as gizzard stones, which assisted emus with grinding up their meals.

    It seemed that today both of us had been taught a lesson or two.

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


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