Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: literature

  • Poem: Besotted at the Bar – 14/08/20

    Poem: Besotted at the Bar – 14/08/20

    I am absolutely besotted with him,
he is charming, and manipulative, and glib.
I am wholly delighted with him,
he is worthy of being taken home to meet the family,
this would be just such a welcome, wanted dream.
I am absolutely enamoured with him
he has, with haste, pulled the wool over my eyes,
my darling, I am obsessed with him,
won’t he let me take him home with me tonight?
 
His attentive glances,
his wide smiles,
his hands, how they gently gloss over mine,
his soft-spoken introduction,
his brass, hearty laughter a welcome contradiction,
he taught me his bliss
from the flicker of his wanton tongue
which spoke shapes in vowels and oohs
that would make any woman come undone.
 
His pronunciation anything but a contrivance at the time,
he certainly got his reaction,
his sympathetic looks when I told him how complex it was
in the all the manners in which I had been broken,
his promise of how he’d fix things with the superglue from his heart,
my sweetness, how clichéd he is but how endearing is
his enthusiasm to fix this broken
women not as a project
but restore me as a work of art.
 
Perhaps I have misjudged this man who sits before me,
open and seemingly honest,
listening to my stories,
head cocked gently to the side,
a sign of listening carefully?
He clasps my right hand softly, with eyes widened,
sympathetically.
 
I cannot help feeling safer now,
that perhaps this is not manipulation but genuine care
and concern,
who he really is, there might be much more to learn,
just as I have so much to reveal
whilst we rest upon bar with elbows,
sipping our drinks and getting to know each other’s worlds,
maybe he is right for me,
let’s throw caution to the wind,
a casual visit home soon to the family,
let’s see what my loved ones have to view, assess, and tell.

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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: Elegantly Numb – 12/08/20

    Poem: Elegantly Numb – 12/08/20

    When will you realise that to be elegantly numb is not courageous
but is rather like dragging fingernails across a broken board?
I understand the need to be empty and without feeling,
but this is not something to aim for,
best be open in what one is saying,
drag forth the pain and suffering to the morning,
to be laid upon the ground to be judged in its sheer distress,
an understanding that really, being unfeeling is nothing to reach for,
you must, we must keep deeply breathing.
 
To be elegant is to be stylish, graceful, beautiful,
to be numb, without any feeling, is quite the opposite, I feel –
why aim for this?
 
Some may think that it is a purposeful venture,
that there is melody in winding with notes of brutal,
unspoken tunes to be slotted together in a row,
a personal choir, an understanding that while magic can rise forth
from between their lips,
to be numb inside,
for the creation of music of the soul,
it is counterintuitive.
 
Rise forth from the personal gloom!
Let us improve our lives as we see fit,
and by that, I mean elevating our roles
which are not living for pain and suffering –
sometimes it is inevitable,
these sorrows in life,
but it is not outside of our means to alter
our perspective.
 
While one woman may be ailing from physical suffering,
another from emotional distress –
aren’t the overall effects the same thing?
And really, understanding that the viewpoint could need altering
to envelop these women and pillow-soften them from their suffering,
it is so important to consider and see.
 
But, there is no reason to make yourself numb simply
so you cannot feel,
understand the circumstances of your life better,
analyse them, truth be told, be bold,
and know that the while the circumstances may not change,
the reaction is coming solely from you.
 
Open the structure of your heart,
allow access,
and make others feel not your distress,
but view your kindness and worth plain to see,
you’re art,
you always were,
allow your heartbeat to run and run,
and now, with feeling,
breathe.

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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: Pheasants – 12/08/20

    Poem: Pheasants – 12/08/20

    The pheasants are happier today,
    they do not quarrel or bicker,
    they simply stand upon the chicken wire,
    plump chests and pride,
    smiles shining within their beady eyes.
     
    Pheasants should not be captured like this
    but they are prized for their symbology,
    their sign of luck and fertility,
    and certainly
    they are being reared
    for men and women so greedy,
    who want to gain altered fortunes so readily.
     
    But I will tell you this, their flowing tails,
    their glowing shades,
    their elegant necks, long legs,
    they send people into a frenzy knowing that their
    beauty is here, available,
    purchasable,
    not only enviable,
    it is trusted,
    the transaction is set, to be made well and ready.
     
    Cruel collectors, I suppose
    are really lifelong saviours,
    because they’d never harm this fortuitous bird,
    never ruin its serendipitous style,
    simply cash-sale and capture
    for the rest of its life
    the pheasants are pleased;
    their new owners will soon arrive.
     
    Anything can be better
    than living in a box of chicken wire
    rectangular sized,
    tiny in style,
    I guess they’d be grateful,
    essentially feel rather noble
    that they’d been selected
    by others who plucked them away from their places 
    within the cold stable.

    © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
    Image credit: Pixabay

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: An Early Arrival – Spoken Word and Text – 11/08/20

    Poem: An Early Arrival – Spoken Word and Text – 11/08/20

    Audio: An Early Arrival
    Death says, “You’re early!”
as I walk onto the stage.
My guillotine sharpened and ready,
media smiling while clasping notepads,
pressed pens upon page.
 
I was not expected for years,
this is what Death’s exclamation explains to me,
but I am a spectacle,
I am here for the hungry crowd,
they wish to view the macabre,
this audience is here and ready to see.
 
What hastened my arrival?
I could not tell you for sure,
even I am shocked into disbelief,
though of my end, not frightened to the core,
because I am here to promise a show for them,
I am here with the promise of a song and dance,
a strummed tune for them,
I will present until the final drop of the blade for them,
then off I will roll, and that’s the last I will reveal to them.
 
It’s hard to entertain when all I’ve been doing my whole life is just that,
not out of practice but tired of performing,
it drains me so to have to always be alert
and on show,
but the fact of the matter is,
I took this role,
and Death gestures as if to say,
“If you’re ready, off you go!”
 
I gingerly test the guillotine, pulling slowly,
allowing the blade to rise far earlier
than my life, my neck, would ever have expected
to have nestled beneath,
I try the blade, it is sharp, it is harsh, it is mean,
it is everything that is promised by a weapon from Death
who now seems so keen.
 
He is no longer shocked into submission,
he is encouraging the crowd to rise with their applauding,
and I wonder why he is so wild with their energy’s encouragement,
perhaps he wants me to go out with an enthusiastic moment.
 
But, I decide I don’t want to perform a song and a dance,
no, I don’t wish to partake in this solo show expected of me,
in fact, I have decided from this stage I wish to leave,
and quite frankly, I’m done with being this expected version of me.
 
Thus, from the stairs I clumsily descend,
scurry away with a glance over my shoulder,
apprehension in my eyes,
this is not to say of Death I am afraid,
but I wouldn’t go so far as to say I am unafraid, even brave before him either.
 
My courage simply wilted the moment I stepped off stage,
out of view from that hungry, cruel crowd,
I think I’ll stay well away from Death’s clutches,
I want to remain alive for far longer,
I don’t need to hear his grating, formidable tone,
myself, I know I have saved,
with my will and personal power.   

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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: Frustrations of Isolation – 10/08/20

    Poem: Frustrations of Isolation – 10/08/20

    How can I say this plainly, unflowery, with truth?
I’m frustrated, everything seems the same,
nothing to experience or share, no news.
 
I sit in my home and I try to create,
I use my phone also to try to connect,
but with others I feel a slackening bond,
becoming further away from one other,
is this now what it means to ‘get along’?
 
We each exist in our own little bubble,
Isolation, here are my troubles,
you cause me troublesome moments which extend
into the morning,
from evening to before dawn my problems are still lingering.
 
I am irritated and annoyed that there is nothing new to say,
that there is something unwanted about the contents of my days,
inextricable though the frustration may be,
it encompasses every wholeness of my being.
 
I cannot bring myself to bother anyone further,
I simply exist in my own little bubble,
I am trying to recover,
from life, and its cruel intentions,
what is it I must, we must, experience then?
 
I do not know,
but it will not do,
it does not do,
does not make me smile or wish to
stay for a little while,
in fact, from this world it makes me wish to up and leave.
 
To leave behind the mess of boredom,
the starched white collars of lonesome,
the inability to converse when with others I just
wanted to be myself.

Perhaps we'll find a solution,
perhaps I'll feel improving interaction,
but for now I feel this 'lonesome', 
and nothing else for me appears to be calling.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Milada Vigerova on Unsplash

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: Extraction – 09/08/20

    Poem: Extraction – 09/08/20

    I tell the man that he is tyrannical,
he can take his rubbish home with him tonight.
 
I tell the man he is delusional,
he won’t get anything from me this, nor any other night.
 
I tell the man he is dreaming,
how far does he expect to get with this attitude in life?
 
I tell the man I am magical,
I don’t need his nightly strife.
 
I fly away on brightened wings,
feathers soar,
no clippings,
there has never been an owner to determine how I move,
whether I can rise,
what I can do.
 
I am a winged woman in charge of my life,
I am a soaring phoenix who will pay no 
attention to a rude man’s fabricated strife,
because if that man had taken a knife to my edgings,
I promise you, darlings,
he would no longer be the one calling.
 
I tell myself that I am not ready-made,
I am uniquely here and now,
my journey to arrive here, though convoluted,
would shock and amaze,
I understand that while I rise and soar
I am impervious to the dangers that lurk in human form on the ground.
 
Fallen beings, so they’re called,
and devilish spirits, whose callous lives will unfold,
before my very eyes I spot them, in a group,
in their gloom,
and this is what I screech as I descend,
this is what I do.
 
Behold my substance!
I cry from afar,
behold my potent nature,
I’ve developed myself, I express with my shrieks and roars,
and when my heated wings of my blazing form
shift and shine and shine and move,
I wriggle in a manner that wholly flatters my form,
and their eyes, those sets of eyes are now enthralled,
transfixed, their gazes are proof.
 
What say you to a dance?
I offer one of the women then one man,
what say you to a challenge?
First – the woman – nods readily,
the other pales in comparison.
 
She attempts to move her body but she does so
clumsily, clunky, violently,
it wholly seems a joke,
I try to keep a straight face,
and encourage,
to extract some form of hope.
 
Now my turn,
I say,
as I shimmy, shimmy, flurry
my fiery form and wings either side,
each way,
 
I now engulf them all,
send their damned souls back to hell,
because if not,
they’d remain and likely harm somebody else.
 
I cannot have them on my conscience,
but their extraction is something which I must never tell,
their rightful banishment, little to no substance,
this sordid tale which shall never be revealed.

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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: Shards and Confetti – 09/08/20

    Poem: Shards and Confetti – 09/08/20

    I am not a stranger to the darkness,
though I am unafraid of the light.
I am willing to crawl on broken glass,
dragging shards through my flesh
as I attempt to better myself,
fall away will the blight.
 
I can rip these fragments from my skin,
gaping wounds,
painful holes,
I am like the remnants of made confetti,
the cut-outs flung to the floor
because I am truly ready to breathe,
to inhale, exhale, be myself,
the darkness can flow aside
effluent mess into the drains,
instead replaced by purging cleansing rain,
I shed tears but they are unseen,
melding with the droplets reigned down
by a heaven or God who I am unsure even exists.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Sophie Dale on Unsplash

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: Cheap Talk – 08/08/20

    Poem: Cheap Talk – 08/08/20

    We talk about each other as though we’re okay, but we are not, I’ve barely slept in days,
I can feel the stretching within, the rot.

This pains me because while you rest, plain to see,
mind no longer ailing, but further proof that there is substantial evidence that crosses boundaries,
from victim to the actual scene,
what actually can be seen from the viewpoint of the abuser,
the amuser, the difference, what is there?
 
I think we need to go think.
 
I do not feel the ability to shy away from reality is one of safety,
in fact, from this safety I recoil,
I don’t wish for anything to do with it.
I can stand alone, stand on my own two feet,
walk away or to or from my own throne,
and this, this, my love, is substantial,
because I’ve finally learned to conquer loneliness!
 
The broken state in which all of us must have been,
the tacky wet cloak which stifled our ability to easily breathe,
I wonder, oh, I wonder, what’s waiting for me? 
What on the horizon is there:
plain and obvious to see?

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Ben White on Unsplash

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: Looking to Brighter Days – 07/08/20

    Poem: Looking to Brighter Days – 07/08/20

    I tell myself to be positive,
there’s no reason in the world that hope for human life
should cave in.
 
I tell myself to see the positive side of things,
that there is not pain and suffering everywhere I turn,
my heart shouldn’t flat-line:
the highs and lows of existence, 
the pitch should still sing with a subtle twang and slight whine.
 
While I think of those unknown, unnamed others
who have suffered from disaster,
those whom have passed, while loved ones grieve,
lament their family members, friends, close others,
I will recognise their plight,

and I tell myself I must be positive for others,
perhaps if I can bring a single person a smile
this day,
I have created and shared a little light.
 
While things may seem uncertain, maybe everything
will turn out okay,
I see that being open and ready
to receive the daily bad news
makes us stronger each day,
 
and to accept that while things aren’t set to improve just yet,
others have, or are experiencing similar or are suffering far worse,
and we must collectively fight with our inner strength
which makes battling these challenges so right, 
our quest to dispel this unseen danger every day and inky night.  
 
To be positive in a world that’s in a state of disaster,
it is wise and it is perfect to do so because it provides
us the hope that we need to keep on going,
positivity and optimism will never go astray,
they’re traits we should intentionally master.
 
While events and numbers may stare us plainly and cruelly
in the face,
I know I can absorb the news and tell myself,
it will get better, it’ll take time,
there are measures in place,
we must have faith.
 
And faith is what we really must grasp,
hold it above our heads graciously,
or clasp it to our chests,
and pray for deliverance from this evil seed
which has implanted itself into the fabric of each of our lives,
we will make it through this,
we simply needed to make some slight adjustments and sacrifice.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Holger Link on Unsplash

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: Edgy – 06/08/20

    Poem: Edgy – 06/08/20

    She’s the edgiest girl you’ll ever see.
She pricks holes through your arguments with safety pins,
rules over cool, college beauty queens,
wipes away their contrivances,
their classroom lipstick,
swipes off their need to impress,
she’s willing to pass any test,
she is a rebel with a cause,
do you know what I mean?

She is driven,
her motives are never hidden,
she fights and wars only when she feels it’s right,
she never lives under the radar,
but always,
always aims to be seen,
with her emphatic nature,
of her rightful presence, its visibility, she insists.
 
She wears riotous red/black flannelette,
she wears short skirts, never for the boys,
never for the men,
but she is here,
and she is present,
and really, she is doing life in her own style.
 
She is edgy,
cast on the fringes of apparent societal virtues,
she doesn’t care for their extraneous values, 
she isn’t concerned about whether she’s unwelcome or unwanted,
hell, she’ll stand centre stage, victorious either way!
 
Edgy, this girl is edgy,
she doesn’t need to oppose others to avoid their
incorrect condemnation,
in fact, if required, she’ll simply walk away
because of these wrong people,
she has no need to attend to them.
 
Because her presence speaks louder than
their rhetoric,
pleasant though their famous expressions be,
she knows her strength, its worth,
so potent,
their relevancy to her?
Nothing to see.
 
But when she wars with words,
she makes a wealth of their worth,
rounds and rounds,
her battalion sounds.
 
She’s sharper than you and I,
and with pointed bullets her words will fly,
of her attacks, she doesn’t need an alibi,
with pins and bullets,
her commanding words will fly.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Parker Gibbons on Unsplash

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud