Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: literary

  • Poem: Like Yellowed Parchment – Fiction – 21/07/20

    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: Projection – 20/07/20

    Poem: Projection – 20/07/20

    You say it’s not right,
that you’ve left an untidy impression,
you didn’t need to leave that lingering taste upon her lips,
here is your apprehension. 

You say you've projected yourself far more than
you desire yourself to be viewed
but how to disentangle yourself
from this resultant unhealthy view?
Would you allow yourself the moment to succumb and settle
rather than unnecessarily stew?

Her expectations will never match mine,
but her eyes, those glistening orbs,
widened with innocence,
underlined by a smile,
she does not know what she truly wants,
who or what she deserves,
darling, you’re far too much for her,
you’ve a manic type of verve;
though she doesn’t possess any true inkling,
she doesn’t understand this is who you are.

Heed not your aching, pounding heart
and worrisome, concerned thoughts,
how you weren’t worthy of her,
how you blew this opportunity,
don’t allow this commentary to flow through you, 
your mental calamity, 
this negativity.

You are golden,
you are sunshine, 
and to me, you are sharp panic 
bottled with the fizz of determination 
which shall not pale in comparison to any 
falsified form of freedom of expression.

You are sweet annihilation mixed with the 
richest spice I’ve ever known,
project unto me:
make my world your second home.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Jonathan Borba from Pexels

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  • Poem: Good Samaritans – 16/07/20

    Poem: Good Samaritans – 16/07/20

    Who is the Good Samaritan
in your life?
 
Hiding around corners,
quiet until
you’re experiencing strife?
 
Say you feel
your heart
erratically pounding,
left armpit paining,
and you fall, broken,
gasping desperately
to your knees,
 
who is the stranger
who steps forth,
up and ahead,
begins resuscitation,
breathing life
into your hungering lungs,
to keep going that massive, 
yet weakening heart?
 
Who remains calm,
attends to you,
keeping panic from your mind,
helps you focus on 
the positive things instead,
such as the future of your life?
 
You’re a good Samaritan, too,
you’ll help out
humankind where
you can,
 
anyone in pain
or suffering,
of course, within reason,
you’ll extend a helping hand.
 
I think within
us all –
most of us –
there is the propensity,
the desire to help,
 
to ensure the ailing,
the suffering,
the despairing, saddened, or sick
are attended to,
with a sense of hope and care ongoing.
 
Empathy is within
most of us,
given the opportunity
I’m sure we’d
want to help,
 
to better another's
circumstances,
or are my thoughts far
too positive?
I do not wish to overwhelm.
 
But I hold hope
for the general populace,
their empathy,
emotional intelligence held,
whether developed 
rapidly or slowly,
 
underneath we’re all
Good-Samaritans-to-be,
even if some of you think
mine is an idealistic dream.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by Sasin Tipchai from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Exhale – Spoken Word and Text – 10/07/20

    Poem: Exhale – Spoken Word and Text – 10/07/20

    “Exhale” Audio
    Don’t hold your breath.
Exhale, allow it to be free.
Allow the endorphins to flow through
your very being.

Do not hold your breath,
there is no need;
wondering, wishing, waiting,
for something which may not be.

Live, my love, live,
please know that I have been,
in this formerly crowded world
now a stripped ghost town.

Your heart
and my heart are full,
we must breathe the freshest
air that I can drag from this
phantasmagorical land,

we may be apart and alone
and I may be without true air,
but understand,
please understand
that I will return,
I will reign triumphant,
soaring upon winged creatures’ spans.

I will exhale as I jump from the edge,
expiring as I see fit,
because sometimes, in life,
we must accept that leaving
this world is required,
I will return again,

and again,
I will be myself
in another form,
perhaps you’ll find me,
and when you do,
exhale loudly and clasp my hand
then I’ll know
we have returned.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Mystic Art Design from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Anything But — An Ode – 09/07/20

    Poem: Anything But — An Ode – 09/07/20

    I'll express everything to you, dear, 
I am anything but silent.

My thoughts growl, 
grumble, then shine,
like a cross curmudgeon
who's been taken aback 
by something 
strangely pleasant,
something he'd been 
wholly unaware of.

Then, I transform into a 
rising, flowing,
ecologically-friendly bag
blustering in the breeze,

useful and able to be 
disintegrated,
but in the wind 
I unwind, 
like a kite, 
I am carefree.

I am this soaring, 
colourful plastic kite,
I was that ill-tempered now
brightened woman,

and occasionally I’ll 
surprise both you and I
with exclamations of 
unhindered laughter; 
our heaven,

the joyful giggling  
in your apartment complex 
with its walls 
so paper-thin:

at the neighbours’
tired, thumping reactions,
we spared no flowered damns
for our carefree, 
witty, raucous din.

A free form that flows,
where I will travel?
No one quite knows,

I’ll settle my roots,
a modern day view,
no longer grumbling,
nor full of air,
words wheezing out,
gassy, heated ill-views;

Is it worth constantly listening,
aloud, you once pondered,
the attention mostly
focused on you?

And you winked and
smiled cheekily, 
your heart was unprotected,
you meant no true offense,
with me you need no armour.

But, you do listen,
I am ever so pleased you do.
Your apartment sings with the
songs of my drafts,
over and o’er I reiterate them,
sharing the changes with you.

I know you
sometimes suffer,
at the hands of my
oppressively
repetitive work,

but you do this
not as your duty,
but to please this
once-airborne being 

who sought you out 
not because 
she was simply lonely,
not because of 
any selfish need,

but because she truly  
admired you 
and desires
your continued, 
charming company.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by danoliver2 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Making Mountains Out of Molehills? – 08/07/20

    Poem: Making Mountains Out of Molehills? – 08/07/20

    I glare at the
splotches of raw colour
in the mirror:
one, two, three,
four, more.
 
An adolescent’s
dreaded nightmare;
immense, angry, welt-like, firm.
 
They’re like curious mountains
which have arisen overnight,
swollen and painful,
because I insist on 
irritating their surface 
though I know 
it’s not right,
 
they flare, they throb
with each unsuccessful
squeeze I make,
 
who knew a war’s
been waged against me,
one I’ve unwittingly
been forced to undertake??

How to remove these
painful sites from my face,
clear my complexion
as if by magic?
 
I feel as though I might
require some form of
divine intervention,
because these mountains,
not molehills,
are certainly not budging.
 
Makeup:
foundation, concealer,
could work a treat,
but only if these
unsightly visitors sat flat
at 180 degrees.
 
If they were simple,
mere blemishes,
I could paint them
into obscurity,
 
however, this
aggressive adult acne
is really
my current reality.
 
I sit, perplexed,
wondering what to do,
it hurts when I
attempt to drain them,
the thought disgusts and
revolts me, too.
 
I have an important date
scheduled which I 
need later attend,

but I suspect I’ll be sending
my apologies
if I can’t make
the blemishes heal 
and cleanse,
fastidiously empty my pores,
leave them open once again.
 
Well, it looks as though
I’ll be staying home,
I’m not vain for 
avoiding company,
the solitude of my home is 
where it's safest,
where I can hide these
mountains raw and glistening.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.  
Image credit: Clip-Art Library

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  • Poem: Butterfly Needle – 06/07/20

    Poem: Butterfly Needle – 06/07/20

    How much can I
provide of myself
before the dripping
blood ceases
then clots?
 
A silent protesting
of my vein that
I’ve given all I
can willingly give –
there comes a point
where I must stop.
 
The vein is worn,
to extract any
further would require
that butterfly needle,
that gentle implement
those kind phlebotomists
insert when wishing to
avoid me extra pain.
 
Upon insertion,
the tenseness I
did not know
existed releases,
melts away,
 
and here I am,
bleeding again,
for me, us, them,
sharing as I see fit,
as I secretly adore to,
always.
 
There can be pain
in the share,
but there is
hope,
aching admissions, too,
 
emotions detangling
like a mass of headphones
all in confusing white,
each pod
begging for an ear
because I believe
some words need to
be heard.
 
Sometimes the blood
coagulates
on its own accord,
the flow will cease,
no need to be dismayed,
I inform myself,
 
there’s plenty of opportunity
to scrape that clot away,
it does not need
to be heeded,
felt,
acknowledged,
or seen.
 
And I’ll share as
much personal experience
as I can,
the butterfly needle
now redundant,
give me that thicker gauge,
so I can make a better exit,
 
Dramatic, you say?
Not at all,
I’m just being me.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by Анна Куликова from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Heartbeat to Heartbeat – 5/07/20

    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

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  • Poem: ‘Coffee-less’ – 04/07/20

    Poem: ‘Coffee-less’ – 04/07/20

    Have you ever been so crabby because
you’ve been without your coffee?
Don’t deny it,
I know you know what I’m talking about.
 
Nothing will do as a substitute,
the black tea,
holistic herbal concoctions,
coffee, coffee,
the strong caffeine hit,
 
it’s what I am needing,
it’s what my soul hounds for, 
this substance I am seeking,
desperately begging for.
 
Don’t tell me that I’m petty,
that I’m a pseudo-addict,
I need this to function properly,
can’t you hear my futile cries,
cannot you view my need?
 
I know there are others just like me,
put your hands up,
express your empathy,
 
let us join together
and perhaps you can
provide me a large pot
of steaming liquid so dark.
 
I’ll mix in creamer and sugar
with such flamboyance,
my heart full of splendour,
the first sip is what I’ve been dreaming of,
that which my heart has been
aching to be delivered.
 
And this sip finally rolls onto my tongue,
scalding my taste buds,
running down my throat,
such a welcome sensation:
I love coffee the most.
 
I survive on it,
I thrive off it,
it doesn’t wire me anymore,
it’s pure functionality,
I need it to be,
please allow me to push aside
your humble cup of tea.
 
And now my kitchen is stocked up,
beans, grind and instant, 
whichever mood I’ll be in,
and with wonder and amazement
I’ll take in this spectacular substance,
 
and survive all day long
with a smile across my dial,
I must drink and drink and drink,
to satisfy my high tolerance.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by Myriam Zilles from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Too Much Time – 02/07/20

    Poem: Too Much Time – 02/07/20

    I’ve too much time on my hands.
For some, this would be paradise,
but for me, it’s a continual, 
rising obsession of poetry
and revisions filling my mind.
 
I can spend hours and hours 
retouching a word,
retouching another phrase, 
here and there,

rephrasing this and rewording that,
the stresses of syllables 
hold great power,
I am aware.
 
Too much time is dangerous,
I work arduously and arduously
even if my words may be 
ill received,
 
I strive for perfection,
the utmost that I can,
though I need to recognise my work
isn’t the centre of everything,
it is not all-encompassing.
 
But, for me, it’s a driving obsession,
the need to write, correct, 
edit and rephrase, 
to ‘right the wrongs’,
as they say,

my words, they have 
too much time
to be altered,
at night, I lay stagnant yet wide awake.
 
My phrases cannot sit and marinate
in their juices of potent honesty,
because, I won’t allow this:
changes and niggling, 
internal suggestions
are currently what compel me.
 
So, what to do with 
this obsession?
This drive for perfection, 
or as close to it?

The need to present the best I can,
that’s healthy,
but this method I’m experiencing 
is causing an unpleasant reaction.
 
I could close the computer down,
walk away for days or hours,
but I’m far too attached;
I’m stuck,

to write continually 
is my life now,
it has become that 
part of me where upon
the gap in my heart 
has been sewn.

The stitching, the patching,
of that broken, 
missing piece,
is now where 
bushels of words and truth
are overgrown,

and my words, 
in your mind, 
I will speak –
I’ll find it difficult if I were 
to ever let go.
 
Too much time has its setbacks,
I’ll shut my notebook, 
close the computer down,
when will I learn to 
slow my mind down?     

When will I learn to 
leave my words alone?

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

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