Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: literary

  • Poem: A Sleepless Night – 29/06/20

    Poem: A Sleepless Night – 29/06/20

    Exhausted,
I roll into bed,
does it roll back into me?
That’s a question for myself,
do you think it does so tenderly?
 
The doona now wraps himself around me,
presumptuous, he takes up over half the bed,
it does not matter there’s nobody laying next to me,
that space is for me to sprawl,
not for Doona to spread!
 
Electric Blanket quietly sizzles to himself,
cackling softly as he overheats and overwhelms me,
in the midst of my sweaty nightmare
that is of my imagination’s frightening making,
and the heat which he throws from beneath me.
 
My socks want to escape, one is flowing from my ankle,
the other is barely held by Big Toe,
I scramble with opposing feet to Save the Socks
from becoming redundant -
oh wait, they already are.
 
Doona has been thrown down,
useless upon the ground,
Electric Blanket is irritated his heat is no longer caressed,
What about me?
I am freezing!
There’s no point doing anything but
shuddering and trembling,
sockless, without a blanket,
it’s below zero degrees in Melbourne tonight!

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

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  • Poem: Thank You – 27/06/20

    Poem: Thank You – 27/06/20

    Sometimes I don’t feel like writing,
but something compels me
to create,
 
to dig deep beneath
the superficial,
to find something meaty,
or rich like marrow, 
a delicious read to taste.
 
Something tantalizing,
that the reader will
hunger for,
whetting the appetite,
will palatable words soar?
 
What can I create?
What can I make?
That will appeal to others
evermore?
 
It is my duty
with this pen,
to detail something
both truthful and meaningful
that cannot be ignored by them.
 
But, I can fail in this measure,
no matter the arduous
work and time
I put into a piece,
 
some works are destined to 
have little success,
some untoward qualities that
won’t beckon to thee.
 
I can’t please everyone
with my daily content,
although I will
thank you all,
those who remain,
those who decided to stay,
 
even those curious,
for a fleeting look,
I am so grateful
for your presence hereupon this day.
 
Please visit another time,
when you view the moment opportune,
to share in my thoughts,
up, up, and away.
 
I know sometimes
my words may be stale,
perhaps for you
they do not ring true,
 
but I’m only human,
with imperfections 
just like you,
and my words can
carry fault with them, too.

But I thank you for
your attention,
as I happily reflect
or share bittersweet disconnect,
 
and for allowing yourselves
to be an audience,
I am utterly thankful
that my words you continue to peruse -

I hope to see your inquisitive faces 
again very soon.

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

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  • Poem: Gnawing Nails – 22/06/20

    Poem: Gnawing Nails – 22/06/20

    Fingernails ache
from gnawing,
desperately famished
things are they,
 
ever-searching,
ever-hunting,
for fresh flesh
to drag into –
carefully they will
take aim.
 
These nails are not
discerning,
they take,
rip apart,
any creature that they can,
 
fury, famine,
circumstances,
alleviating hunger,
annihilating the need for Man.
 
Man used to feed
these monsters
perishable items
from the woods,
 
cuts of venison,
moose,
rabbit;
the fingernails took
what they could.
 
But now Man is
out of the picture,
attending to protests,
restrictions,
leading disrupted lives,
 
Man has no time
to humour a pair
of dirty, scroungy hands,
no, not now,
not upon this hour,
not any longer.
 
Fending for themselves,
the gory extremities
cast their digits
on the war path,
 
feeling duly pleased
with the freedom
they’re allowed,
 
there is no concern,
they are rulers of
their world.
 
In the corner of
a trench in the woods
they spot a flash
of browny-red,
 
a squirrel,
bless him,
he’s making his final bed,
 
they reach out for him,
darting forth,
blurs to be seen,
 
but when the light settles,
there is no sign of him.
 
Squirrel, Squirrel,
has escaped his fate,
how much longer will he last?
 
Disappointed fingertips,
tap, rap, tap,
underlying hunger,
growing famine,
 
only now do they long for,
yearn for the return 
of their precious, absent
Man.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Yesterday’s News – 20/06/20

    Poem: Yesterday’s News – 20/06/20

    Why would I want
yesterday’s news?
Through stale headlines
I’d peruse,
 
collecting well-learned facts,
impact flatter than a tack,
what am I to do
with yesterday’s news?
 
Just yesterday,
headlines stunned,
they proved 
others’ wrongs,

what was going on
in people’s
calm, proud, or contentious
lives,
 
but, tell me this,
my interest’s amiss,
I only have bright eyes 
for today’s worldly affairs,
you see!
 
Tired old news
has no place,
the bold, firm,
new headlines
taking shape!
 
And what to do
with saggy, bitter news?
Throw those headlines
to the wolves,
unless for them,
our curiosity
still has a use.
 
So, turn the pages of The Age
or Herald Sun,
the Sydney Morning Herald,
or perhaps
a local one,
 
absorb news of
terrible catastrophes,
learn bold statistics,
market growth,
the rise or fall of the
temperamental Dow Jones,
 
then wait until
tomorrow,
when new ink
will tell fresh tales,
 
different notes,
different tones,
fresh truths
to inform and overwhelm,
 
then, we will eagerly devour
the new words
as though we’ve never
seen such interesting detail,
why, won’t we be so informed?
So well-read, so many facts to tell?
 
By tomorrow,
today’s news will be
tired facts,
 
we’ll await
the new morning,
a mass of words
presented to greedy eyes
and hungry hands.
 
But, perhaps all facts still
retain their importance,
no matter their age or relevance,
 
maybe there’s no such thing as
“yesterday’s news”,
either then, tomorrow, or today,

some facts remain as 
important facts,
of this truth I already knew,

apparent judgements withdrawn,
null and void,
perhaps some of yesterday's news
can stay.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Pexels from Pixabay
 

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  • Poem: The Farce – 20/06/20

    Poem: The Farce – 20/06/20

    There are days
when I feel incredibly down,
I can’t turn the corners and curves
of my mind
back up and around,
 
my stage presence is moot,
I’d like to crawl back in the pages
of my life’s former books,
and relive the wonderful stages.
 
But I cannot control myself,
my miserable entity
seems intent on being
desperately distraught and utterly contrary.
 
These pages upon which I stand,
I used to dance, flip, make cartwheels
of fun,
the best I’d ever had.
 
But now I am temperamental,
grouchy,
a modern-day grump,
have I reached a plateau?
I’ve simply had enough.
 
What is the use
in whimpering and wallowing,
so depressive these pages
surely are to read?
 
I cannot fathom
why the sudden mood change?
From a joyous high
to catastrophic dips.
 
I’d like to be happier,
cheerful like during
the days, weeks, months prior,
 
but my soul seems intent on
allowing itself to have something, unseen,
dragging it down.
 
I force my eyes to brighten,
to beam a vivid, gleaming smile,
perhaps I can seduce the crowd
into believing this farce for a while.
 
Then the mask slips,
they quickly realise who and what I am,
a woman in costume,
bearing herself,
revealing, with little success,
the best side that she can.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by 5598375 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Releasing A Grudge – 19/06/20

    Poem: Releasing A Grudge – 19/06/20

    It’s petty, I know,
to hold a grudge,
not letting go,
clinging to ill feelings of something,
 
a wrongdoing,
an incorrect action,
a misdeed,
 
but if I won’t let go,
aren’t I the only one suffering?
 
While the perpetrator
walks, scot-free,
happily the other way,
 
nothing dragging down
their conscience,
they have no
sense of guilt,
 
why,
what could I expect
they’d have to say?
 
It’s irrelevant, and silly, and stupid
to expect remorse,
when the only person
who really needs to breathe
and let go,
with a calm exhalation
is myself.
 
Free I shall be
of any niggling irritation,
free of internal annoyance,

when we stop expecting
something from others,
that’s when we regain
our sense of personal power.
 
No more holding onto these grudges,
what’s the use in priming these patterns
within the cage of my mind?
 
Inside I must reach forth,
practice forgiveness,
some actions will lighten the load,
make me feel that much more
brought to life,
the lessons learned of old.

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

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  • Poem: When She Comes Undone – Spoken Word and Text – 18/06/20

    Poem: When She Comes Undone – Spoken Word and Text – 18/06/20

    She’s had enough.
Life, with its cruel measures, 
she’s defeated,
broken,
dare say surpassed
feeling rough, 

her thoughts may not terrify,
but they will reveal
salted, open wounds.

What is the point
in detailing mediocre thoughts,
some things which,
in the moment,
seemed thoughtful,
and loving,
caring, or clever,

but of these qualities,
her thoughts are apparently not.

Instead she’s left
with a soupy rendition
of a mirroring of
words that seem to
fail to impress,
 
for herself, she cannot bear to even
re-read them,
unworthy they are to share.

Just a joke,
self-doubt overwhelms,
such a malignant disease
it is,

she wallows,
bitter in the circumstances,
she solemnly nurses her hot cup of tea.

The sponge,
its creative cells within her,
that assisted her cushioned absorption
of her many internal tunes
is now blackened
with thick sludge,
her ideas stagnant,
left to rot while they remain disused.

Who is she
to pull herself out
from this torture,
this slow drowning in
grudge, sludge and grime,
of phrases and turns which
really aren’t that bold?

Will she return to her true self 
with time?

She once believed herself
to be an enigma,
misterioso, a chameleon,
alter herself at will,

now she is just herself,
hollowed and despairing,
thoughts no longer
flitting amongst the trees,

rather she’s dragging herself
by her hands,
crawling painfully on
chaffed knees.

She guesses this is what
living means today,
on this day,
at least for her,

salted wounds,
depression,
its lingering gloom,
has long ago set in.    

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Jerzy Górecki from Pixabay 
Audio: Myself.

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  • [Satirical] Poem: “Smile!” – Audio and Text – 17/06/20

    [Satirical] Poem: “Smile!” – Audio and Text – 17/06/20

    “Smile!” they tell me,
“Cheer up, it’s not so bad.”
I smile sardonically,
retort facetiously,
wriggle an erect finger
from my hand.
 
I hate being told
what to do,
why can’t they
mind their own business?

Did I ask for their opinions
out of the blue?
Did they believe their words
would be cherished?
 
In the bar,
I attend to my clothing,
rearranging my hair,
my image,
the crowd jeers, “Princess!”
Like an indignant bird,
I fluff out my plumage.
 
I understand there
are times
when we must receive
instruction,
 
but when I’m being told
to smile or
have cheer
by complete strangers,
now that
is in its own rude stratosphere,
I need not their intervention.
 
Why some people think it’s appropriate
to use “Smile!” as an opening line
is beyond me,
cannot they formulate
a better approach
in their own time?
 
A resting b***h face
I must surely have,
that pouted or deadly bored expression,
 
I don’t mean to be
unapproachable though,
look further than my far off,
superficial expressions.
 
I could be the nicest person
you’ll ever meet,
but if you approach,
instructing me to “Smile!”
be prepared for a verbose fight.
 
What if I don’t want to smile?
But rather ruminate in that instance?
Understand this, Stranger,
your instruction does not
endear yourself to me,
in fact,
it is an irritation,
an offensive, belligerent bother.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by PublicDomainPictures from Pixabay
Music: "Sneaky Snitch" by Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com)
Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/

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  • Poem: Withdrawal – 17/06/20

    Poem: Withdrawal – 17/06/20

    Withdrawal,
withdrawal,
from these precious sticks
of doom,
 
the blatant causes
of various cancers,
and other deadly conditions
they deliver.
 
With their absence,
I feel the drag,
their lacking of
spiking chemicals,
their irrevocable power,
 
there’s still poison in
my bloodstream,
will it be strong enough
to patch the physical yearnings?

Will grinding teeth,
picked fingernails
be viable distractions for me?
 
The burning inhalation,
the absorption,
quick brain chemical memory,
stimulation,
 
I feed off the desire,
cessation was such a challenge, you see,
 
having fallen from the path,
diverged from it,
a temporary misstep or lethal
stomp away for good?

We'll see.
 
A tentative toe upon the righteous
path of health,
clean scent,
unstained fingernails,

perhaps the danger of cancer,
I have danced around again,
perchance will I succeed at
finally being rid of them?   

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

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  • Poem: He Inhales My Essence – Spoken Word and Text – 16/06/20

    Poem: He Inhales My Essence – Spoken Word and Text – 16/06/20

    He inhales my essence
as I sleep,
as I dream,
through clouded mirages I wander,
through open loving scenes.
 
A pillowy path
weaves around
my dreamy garden,
poetic words dangle
from the bushes;
I greedily grab at them.
 
Unaware as he
breathes me in,
taking in my dreamscape,
certain fantasies,
 
poignant moments,
of a potential future
and moments of late
which we hold dear and near.
 
In a lane in which
I weave, stitch and rhyme,
picturesque scenes,
no need for disguise,
 
plain to see,
completely on show,
I’m not scared
but I am modest;
I care for his thoughts,
of mine he knows them well.
 
I am an open book
to him when I sleep,
no need to draw back
my subconscious drapery,
 
my scent reveals all,
beautiful imagery from me,
he doesn’t need to open
his eyes,
through me he can dream.
 
And as he
draws his face
closer to mine,
my gentle expression changes,
I can sense him,
I murmur as I lay and realise,
 
contented in each other,
we both inhale, exhale,
breathing in each other’s magic.
 
The stillness,
our shared air,
the quiet contemplation,
for these moments I do cherish,
I hold great care.
 
We are a pair built upon
soft contemplation,
a firm loving foundation,
entwined, are we,
our very own united nation.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Photo by Davids Kokainis on Unsplash

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