Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: literary

  • Poem: Heavy Crimson Droplets – 10/04/20

    Poem: Heavy Crimson Droplets – 10/04/20

    Teardrops fall upon me as bloated shiny beads
of purple wholesome grapes,
speaking as to whether they should aim themselves for Earth
or be aiming within somebody’s hungering mouth.
 
What fate would be most adequate were they to
satisfy and feed the famished others,
or perhaps their desires for freedom
are better suited to desperately flinging themselves
upon the pavement of my skin,
smoothly they will roll aside,
back to where they belong.
 
They are here by accident,
these living, breathing fruits,
globules of sweetness that many cannot resist,
inside the fruit bowl some of them rest their eyes
somewhat haughtily above other types
for these pieces are displaying more height, position and quality
than the lesser beings,
the lower fruits,
the more common pieces which are quietly required to remain,
unbeknownst to the grapes, these others are there as the safety weights.
 
And wouldn’t it be nice
if they were able to understand and accept wholly
that this is currently their destiny,
to silently be the front line of the war,
the flung purple bubbles of squeezed crimson,
as they designate their lives to survival, unknown sacrifice, or unspoken safety.
This situation is anything but light-hearted folly.
  
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay   

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Poem: No Matter What – 19/03/20

    Poem: No Matter What – 19/03/20

    I am rounder
but I am happy,
the streamlined silhouette once paraded
has become modest at long last.

Need I quarrel with myself?
Discuss that which displeases me?
No!
I am stronger than this,
the crumbling of that petty yet insidious disease
which will no longer triumph above all else.
 
I punished myself – ah!
Self-persecuted mind and body,
this was what it was all about.
 
But now,
I am rounder
and I am happy,
I am prone to breaking out 
into song and celebratory dance.
 
The draconian measures of self-punishment,
to be others' fancy, starring light has long gone,
I am myself,
peculiar and particular
throughout the day and night,
I am unique,
I am one.
 
I am myself 
and I am worthy,
no matter what size I have become.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by 6563351 from Pixabay

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Poem: Shrieking and Calling – 13/03/20

    Poem: Shrieking and Calling – 13/03/20

    The genius within you calls and calls,
reckoning like secretly potent anemone,
contemplating as to whether
it’s worthwhile for him to be seen,
or whether, in fact,
he should remain hidden,
and cease his calling for you day by day.
 
The exotic being within you sings,
eyes casting upon the sumptuous feast on offer,
she provides for you what you have been lacking,
that serendipity brings a sense of welcome tumult,
a feeling ongoing,
worth growing.
 
The megalomaniac within you screams,
he wants to be heard,
he demands to be seen,
and the trying notion he experiences when he grates
on your skin
with a voice as harsh as sharpened nails,
he announces,
no, he commands,
well, of your wishes,
he couldn’t give a single damn.  
 
And then the chorus of these characters rise and combine,
their voices, harsh, sweet, ideal,
in their tones I can hear their smiles,
there is nothing worth separating here
for their conjoined state offers this vibrating prize,
their voices make you tremble,
their power is unheard of,
but you can’t walk away,
doing so seems to be unspoken of.
 
So, you sit in their presence,
imagine their voices resonating in your mind,
the differing beings,
different identities,
and then it all becomes too much,
you must block them out,
squeezing shut your eyes.   
 
The silence allows your heart to swoon,
its warming words allow your truthful connection
to everything that is devout.

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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Poem: I Await – 11/03/20

    Poem: I Await – 11/03/20

    Awaiting that irrevocable touch
Upon my hair-raised skin,
I know it will be magnificent, the time for reflection,
To make myself chaste, from within.
 
Butter me up, darling,
I know the emotions too well,
Of diving, sinking,
And finding no treasure,
The tides know my desires all too well.
 
But I will leap from the depths,
I will soar with grace and humanity,
The beauty of the softened mammal,
Splashes, re-entry.
 
And gyrations of the bluest truth,
Which, occasionally could not –
Cannot –
Be handled,
Herein lies the beauty of
the wondrous world of self-reliance.
 
And although most live and yearn to find a mate,
A twin flame, a soul matching ours,
The blueprints complex, though matching in many ways,
 
The phoenixes from their burning pasts,
Rise and soar,
Reaching their own old effigies,
Amazing and looming that they are.
 
We can live as one,
Or two,
A little of both,
That soft, generous touch I long for,
Why, it seems to come from the grasp of
A myriad of stars,
A bank of overwhelming hope.

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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Poem: Ornate Wooden Box – 09/03/20

    Poem: Ornate Wooden Box – 09/03/20

    What’s in the wooden box?
An ornate engraved chest –
Does it promise me treasure?
Diamonds, jewels, gold?
It must with any luck.
 
I approach the container with trepidation,
My fingers tremble with delicious anticipation,
And the tremor which should rile me awfully
Pushes me forth:
The adrenaline is potent.
 
What will I find?
Something pleasing to the eye?
An ornate dream awaits me,
And I beg to see,
Continuing to hungrily breathe the moments in and out 
And in.
 
Each second,
Every centimetre,
My reaching hands,
My claw-like fingers,
Closer and closer until:
Revelation!
 
Inside there is nothing,
Illusory, so potent.
I tear aside all crushed expectation within.
 
The thrill was most certainly in the pursuit,
The hunting,
It was within the chase,
And I realise that what my mind,
My imagination,
Can conjure up
Is far more magical and worthwhile than
Any gold or diamond or jewel sparkling within my eyes.
 
More than anything these material possessions can prove 
At a later date,
My internal world,
The breadth of my dreaming,
This is the true gift I should accept 
As a prized possession in my life,
It is irrevocably part of my healing.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by myself.

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Poem: Pageant Girls – 07/03/20

    Poem: Pageant Girls – 07/03/20

    Barrel waves,
beautiful curls,
how they suit these pretty pairs of girls
who dance in the moment,
left to right,
right to left,
linking arms in the present,
advancing, advanced.
 
They smile widely
though little do you know,
their teeth are plastered with Vaseline,
to shine, shine, shine each little toof and teef,
to make their pearly whites evermore sweet,
each two sets of perfect rows.
 
Now in a line they twirl into one another,
taking turns,
sharing their partners,
their blonde, brunette and auburn barrel waves,
beauty in motion,
luxurious to behold.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by lorilynnoliver from Pixabay

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Poem: Flailing – 04/03/20

    Poem: Flailing – 04/03/20

    There have been many years of flailing,
my life lacking in solid intent,
and I wonder, where am I going,
am I even progressing?
Hoping for something to shoulder all the weight from my listless life.
 
It’s as though I am simply floating in a mass of water,
stagnant appears to be the tune,
the water dank,
murky,
like my lacking of good fortune.
 
I used to be so focused,
attentive and driven,
full of concentration,
dedication to my art,
my music,
my academia,
the processes.
 
Now, I am simply waiting to expire,
growing older by the second,
each tick a stretch from the previous,
to the finality of my last.
 
I wish for something solid to aim for,
something to hope for,
something which I can reach for,
to impress upon myself,
to enliven and enrich my soul.
 
But my dreams seem so far off
and lofty,
and unlikely to come to pass,
I can dream and dream
but surely someone who has become like me
will only finish last.
 
And the truth of the matter is
I am here breathing,
stealing away others’ rightful air
with my pathetic breaths which amount to little,
no,
nothing,
I am nothing anymore,
not what I used to be,                
burned away are my successes.
 
And my desire for excesses,
all ceremonial,
seem an apparent method of
ridiculous and ostentatious showing of invisible wealth.
 
Because,
while I like to sparkle and I love to shine,
the gems upon my fingers
and around my neck
are really the only things about me lately worth drawing the eye.
 
I realise my tone is morose,
that I am lacking in lustre within my words,
although lifeless and downtrodden feels commonplace
from someone who used to outrageously feel.  

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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Poem: Free Falling – 02/03/20

    Poem: Free Falling – 02/03/20

    Out of the window
where my tears fall, fall, fall,
rich and ravenous am I for the salt 
which is encompassed by all.
 
They sting my eyes, 
this liquid drawn from the depths of my despair,
the lingering victimisation of my soul,
I don’t want to become air.
 
I feel real, more alive
when the salt water of my form stings me,
it ails my orbs,
a pair once so bitter and jaded in their viewing
of a world where I’d come undone.
 
There appears nothing worth saving,
a tumultuous wind untamed,
randomised about my body,
my crazed hair,
that my face is seemingly effaced,
there is no longer anything there.
 
Perhaps the salted tears are corrosive,
they are acidic, perchance,
I linger on the thought too long,
it seems preposterous,
and I chide myself for knowing that what I am assuming
is incorrect.
 
I’m in but a daydream,
a nightmare,
a living fantasy?
 
If only I wished to no longer breathe, 
I’d take this nightmare with me,
allow it to launch off a precipice
and grow and bloat and steal
every living atom from me.
 
But then here’s the catch,
I’d have to disappear willingly,
and there is no chance of that, is there?
I can’t allow some people their dreams.

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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Poem: Little Purple Soldiers – 01/03/20

    Poem: Little Purple Soldiers – 01/03/20

    I am astounded,
heart beating wildly,
with adrenaline surging freely,
a source of income for the bravery,
a tipping palette,
the grapes scatter, you see.
 
Fruit befitting an emperor
yet here before little old me,
I am in a quandary –
what should I do with these little soldiers before me?
 
They’re glowing purple,
why, what an amazing sort to take on,
I pick one up,
taste it,
amazed,
astounded by the lusciousness,
I take another one.
 
Will my emperor mind?
How will he react knowing his shiny soldiers
are under attack?
Intrigued he might be,
that I’m saving them in my very own ceramic bowl,
perhaps I’ll claim they are for him.
 
For, this is not a battle,
this is the opposite:
a rescue, their salvation!
If it were not for me,
who knows where they would be,
scattering themselves before another,
evil, deducing,
she or he?
 
No, I am their saviour,
and now look,
my emperor enters the humid room,
where his purple glowing soldiers await him
for his taste buds and his desire.
 
The look upon his face is priceless,
anything but callous,
in fact, gracious and full of kindness,
with such gentility he plucks the closest from
a group of three,
the third of the triplet
he sucks and chews with ease.   
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Steve Buissinne from Pixabay

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Poem: Insomniac – 18/02/20

    Poem: Insomniac – 18/02/20

    The second hand ticks,
each click like the repeated trigger of a pistol,
fearful, I lie in wait,
as it speaks of how affected I will be if I remain
in this involuntary state.
 
I’ve barely slept in days,
awakening hours always the same,
middle of the morning,
the arms at those memorable angles,
I wish I could slip daintily into my dreams.
 
Instead, nightmarish awakenings
where I beg for liquid,
I am strangely thirsting,
as though the method of fighting to stay under
the surface of consciousness has drained me of all
moisture;
I am but a slice of aged parchment.
 
And upon me there are unintelligible words written,
scrawled, in fact,
speaking of that which I cannot understand,
let alone behold,
but the effort behind the scratching,
the etching seems atrociously laboured,
is this what I do in my short periods of sleep?
Where I detail myself or,
I detail the unknown controllers?
 
Because that is what it feels like,
I am a being not of my own accord,
when I lie there awaiting sleep,
I ache, anxious butterflies in my chest,
anxiety, anxiety,
there’s something there, unheard.
 
Like a pinprick in the distance, not many would register that sound,
but to understand its existence is of a severe knowing,
a recognition of something there unknown,
an insomniac’s thoughts pinned in the clouds.
 
And I lie here,
waiting, waiting quietly,
my eyes widened and my heart beating in such a state,
how long will it be before the pills take effect?
Before falsified sleep is forced upon me,
a method of a chemical dream, dream, dreaming?

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

    Return to All Posts

    Home