Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: literature

  • Poem: Critical Daze – Text and Spoken Word – 18/07/20

    Poem: Critical Daze – Text and Spoken Word – 18/07/20

    Audio: Critical Daze
    I’m a little unsure of this one,
this piece I have to present,
I hesitantly amble downstairs,
I know they’re resting;
both have had their daily energies well spent.
 
I know I’ve already asked and presented,
but, here I go again,
a final request
for their critique,
their feedback, 
because I’m unsure whether to publish,
to share, or retain it.
 
Upon listening carefully,
a set of eyes display concern,
furrowed brow,
pursed mouth,
a negative reaction
emitted, from lips to be learned,
shrapnel flies,
from a tongue with barbed words.
 
My words have been gravely misunderstood –
how could I have been perceived
so wrongly?
 
My intentions, my messages,
my nuances,
swept away,
in place of misinterpreted messages,
which have been incorrectly heard.
 
I turn to the other listener,
this afternoon, the piece was well received,
now with further digging,
and their expanded explanation,
I realise another negative reaction is also breathed.
 
I reel, self-defensive, in a critical daze,
I defend my words hastily,
clumsily,
I fight to show my words aren’t as they say.
 
I try to marry my feelings of slight hurt
with the knowledge that I must treasure
such honesty within my home,
that I’m not afforded mere lip service to please,

that occasional brutal truth communicated
after the fact
which may sting,
is supposed to make me realise my errors,
my unintentional mistakes,

because for them,
perhaps my words hit home,
and theirs weren’t targets I was aiming to take.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Muhammad Haseeb Muhammad Suleman from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Rising Before Dawn – 17/07/20

    Poem: Rising Before Dawn – 17/07/20

    The condensation on the window glistens
as though it begs for my finger
to trail through it,
to create snail trails minus sticky bubbles,
to drag paths only for me to view.
 
Instead, I poke, poke, poke,
through the fly screen,
blobbed dots like painterly expressions,
and I giggle once, twice, to myself,
how amused I can be,
so easily.
 
I wait for Dawn to arrive,
for morning to gently arise,
to show her colours,
maybe pink, maybe orange,
maybe blue,
what is waiting for me?
My eyes are widened,
amazed by a future view.
 
But for now, I’ll sit,
watching the darkness,
pondering,
Is this it?
Is this all it’s come down to,
an inability to dream?
 
Because suddenly, I can no longer
imagine a world rich with colour,
my ability’s been strangely drained from me,
an unhealthy pallor,
all monochrome,
where is this artist’s colour wheel now?
 
You ask me my favourite shade.
I no longer know the answer.
 
Bleak is what this situation has become,
bleak, depressive, and dire,
and I do not believe this sudden sadness
can be undone,
but I will fight,
fight to view Dawn’s rising, raging fire.

Perhaps she can cure me
of my hasty melancholy,
a healing power,
upon her very hour,
this monochromatic viewpoint may
waltz aside, after all, 
come and go, 
maybe I needn't feel any rising panic,
I secretly wonder if I can heal myself all on my own.

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

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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: The Confrontation – Fiction – Spoken Word and Text – 11/07/20

    Poem: The Confrontation – Fiction – Spoken Word and Text – 11/07/20

    Audio: The Confrontation 
    A/N: This is inspired by a poetry prompt from Cynthia Schwartzberg Edlow to describe my angriest moment (with someone whom I cherish, which I chose to reverse and fictionalise) using the words 'squall' and 'hush', and without using 'love, like, heart, mad or cry'. I ended up using some of the banned words, though. 

I squall at him,
he glares and points, and orders me to hush.
I laugh incredulously, thinking,
hush little baby, don’t you cry,
I planned on doing anything but sobbing
any lullaby.
 
I rise to the challenge,
eyes intent on staring him down,
I can emit anything I liked,
but manipulating me would the power of his crown.
 
I have known beings like him before.
those whom wrap me around,
hand and foot,
little finger to finger,
and this distaste of our connections linger
in my body;
I don’t want to generalise but how can I not?
All their faces together into his I am seeing.
 
What has stopped me from leaving?
What has caused my scorn to die down
and crush my self-worth into nothing?
I used to be this strong, amazing woman
and now:
under his dancing thumbs and fingers, I am living.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.  
Image by ArtTower 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: Addiction – 08/07/20

    Poem: Addiction – 08/07/20

    Addiction,
it can reveal itself in 
many insidious forms:

drugs,
alcohol,
food,
another person,
even yourself.
 
It starts off small,
nothing sinister,
just a drag here, a sip there,
a few excited texts in a row,
or the journal in which
you scrawl 
endless thoughts of your own.
 
Addiction,
it’s potent,
perhaps you’ll succumb to it,
grasping blindly,
fingernails dragging,
internally snarling,
give me him/it/that/treat
need it want it
can’t be without it
 
The pen scrawls as though
it’s a mind of its own,
detailing your lover
or your self-obsession,
your catharsis,

you’re stuck, stuck, stuck,
on sharing -
won’t someone help 
break this cycle?
 
Addiction, it’s engulfed me
it’s taken o’er,
I am wallowing,

and now
and now
and now
I cannot stop
I won’t,
because I do not know how.

My addiction, all former 
afflictions cast aside, 
this was the one left to
to quietly fester and grow.

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

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  • Poem: Stop This Madness – 07/07/20

    Poem: Stop This Madness – 07/07/20

    If you’ve been asked if you’ve
a cold or a cough,
and you answer in the
negative,

then you sit down
and begin to wheeze,
what are you doing here?
Potentially putting 
others' lives at risk.

The medical receptionist,
she looks mildly irritated,
and highly concerned,
at the fact that this cough could
be an effect of that which
we are all so fearful of.

You’re making others edgy,
I know I’m sitting here anxious,
wondering whose air is
fleetingly expiring:
are your particles contagious?

We are in a pandemic,
you’ve been exposed to
screening questions,
here I sit,
upset,
because the coughing just
will not cease.
 
Other patients
begin to grumble,
I can hear the disapproval
in their tones,
 
though I cannot discern
their words clearly,
I know they’re wondering why
a tele-health appointment
wasn’t arranged,
why the offending splutterer
did not stay at home.
 
I know that we all have a right
to be seen to
when we are unwell,
but please,
won’t you abide by the rules?
 
I wish you the medical attention
you require,
but your presence
could prove a risk to us all.
 
I could sit here and
ignore the noises,
not allow them to make me
glance over
my shoulder with irritation,
 
because I care for my health,
and others too,
I wouldn’t attend the clinic
if I had a persistent cough,
and I hoped that neither would you.
 
Please stay safe,
and allow others to remain so, too.

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

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  • Poem: Truth Within the Marrow – 07/07/20

    Poem: Truth Within the Marrow – 07/07/20

    Occasionally, I struggle to find the words
to speak,
to correctly express
my sincerity,
 
because sincere is how I wholly desire
to be viewed,
and I don’t wish for any
unfair prejudice or judgement.
 
I simply wish for
the right combination,
the winning ordering that shows
everything in part
or in whole,
that which I deem as important to know,
 
because,
little use would there be
in frightening myself into insincerity,
falsified expressions and pandering a-plenty,
 
disingenuousness and bent truths are not
how I’ve been raised,
not how I’ve been brought up to be.
 
Sometimes, I am too honest
and obvious for
my own good,
 
I can frighten or perturb
even those close to me,
with revelations,
with words they’ve never
seen nor heard,
 
they’d previously not have
considered them to be part of
my reality or path.
 
A close friend
recently listened
to my
recorded words,
 
which detailed several
mental health episodes,
my path, my mindset
was so unwell,
 
and here appeared shock,
stilted confusion,
quiet concern,
 
perhaps of my candour
and thought processes
he felt mildly aghast,
of the true extent of my illness
he had become more learned.
 
Unaware these prior thoughts
were what I had experienced,
for him, they must have
truly terrified.
 
I know for me,
at the time of their awakening,
some frightened the life
from me, too.  
 
But, I have this bone
within me
which I do not
want to pick,
 
in fact, it should be
lovingly stroked,
even strummed,
gently caressed,
 
because it assists
me with the melodies
of which I live, breathe and speak,
be they lilting,
or melancholy extended elegies.
 
The truth within my marrow,
it is rich and it is potent,
I will embrace it,
I will suck it clean,
 
I have allowed the taste 
to permeate my being,
and I will allow the honesty 
to embroil,
to envelope,
to overtake me.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image credit: Clipart Library.com - Wishbone   

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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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