Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: literature

  • Poem: Friendships Among Pink Blossoms – 27/05/20

    Poem: Friendships Among Pink Blossoms – 27/05/20

    Cherry blossoms in Acacia Street,
a feast for the eyes,
a scene so replete,
petals dance while we’re healing Inside.
 
Pink petals float,
beautiful be they,
a wistful smile upon my lips
as memories fly by.
 
So many unique people met on the path,
these cobblestones,
where we sat on the park benches,
getting to know each other as time would pass by
and people come and go,
 
So many life stories learned,
moments of vulnerable truth,
they learned about me,
I learned of them, too.
 
Despite my illness, I wanted to help,
to fix their turmoil inside,
but it turned out
I needed to try to heal myself, too,
that would be incredibly wise.
 
We had staff to attend to us,
medications,
therapy too,
but by banding together,
whispered secrets,
friendships forged,
we grew stronger amidst the raging reds,
paranoid greens,
and solemn, moody blues.
 
Where are they now?
Are lives led happy and content?
Are they settled and stable?
Or are they still needing
to be held up by caring arms,
well provided,
loving support always well meant?
 
We may have resented some support,
the strict nature of it all,
but these measures were in place
to protect us,
to allow the healing of them, us, those,
from the sicknesses which plagued our minds most.
 
Gratitude may be come at differing points,
perhaps immediate or after the fact,
but know they looked after us
while we were acute,
and they’ll catch us if we tumble,
if again we fall,
until we can grow within ourselves,
becoming more resilient
and firmer with inner strength,
leading forward,
taking steps ahead
for more well lives,
the cobblestones we’ll learn to
no longer need tread,
they are hopefully part of our past lives.

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

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  • Poem: Beneath the Surface – 24/05/20

    Poem: Beneath the Surface – 24/05/20

    On the surface of a scarlet lake
are dreams and nightmares cast aside,
laid to waste.
None have the desire to peruse
or recollect,
the enmity of these experiences,
why, no one wants to look back.
 
The moments of the night wander in a shimmer,
upon a crystalline surface,
like oil mixed with water,
they simply do not gel well,
their animosity alive rather than
a sheen of sheer consistence.
 
Nearby stand two fishermen
with their fishing rods so pliant,
I wonder what will they capture –
if anything at all –
or is their joy mainly in the process?
 
Their lines and sinkers are slick
with the congealing of subconscious creations,
confused moments,
surreal expressions,
and here the men are,
happily, into the night,
casting their lines again and again,
no disappointment at their lack of capture,
those dreams and nightmares do evade.
 
And then suddenly there is a bite,
something below the layers,
these creations of the night,
and rise unto the air,
a water-falling shape is revealed,
cascading around a moment of precious truth.
 
The creature hooked is nothing like something
ever seen by you nor I,
an abomination,
non-descript to most,
yet something which terrifies.
 
The fisherman grins,
pleased with his prize,
he is the master of
slowly cleansing this lake
of that which is untoward,
unworthy of remaining alive.
 
I realise now his role is not to be self-sufficient,
nor to enjoy the actual process,
but to purge this lake of things which should not belong,
removing the waste of nightmares
and dreams which hold the ability
to cause a sleeper harm.
 
And into the night and morning,
for days they will remain,
the demons of the lake,
expelled one by one,
through and through,
they shan’t remain.
 
I wonder how long it will take them,
if ever they will succeed,
at making this lake fresh and transparent,
a wondrous and true beauty to be seen.
 
Oh, hark! I tell myself,
I am sure there will come a day
when the water is cleared,
and the drippings of a drain of
combined subconsciousness,
dream time of many sleepers eventually cleansed away.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by 272447 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: An Embrace After Tea – 23/05/20

    Poem: An Embrace After Tea – 23/05/20

    Warm sentiments expressed,
heartfelt touches extended,
the joy within almost palpable,
understanding we are blessed.
 
The other sits opposite,
a smile within their eyes,
warm glints to be absorbed,
and I wonder,
is this what I’ve been searching for in my life?
 
A nuance here and there,
in softly spoken words,
uttered in my ear,
their breath so near,
makes me relaxed
and then rigid –
what did you say, dear?
 
A betrayal revealed,
because of a calling they felt,
an untoward moment,
they beg for forgiveness for themselves.
 
Yet I am no doormat,
I do not, will not, provide those words,
the exoneration of their moral crime,
my absence is what they deserve.
 
They weep, they weep,
crocodile tears which impede correct speech,
the tangled crotchet of the situation a mess,
no matter what,
I will not yield.
 
How could you do it,
I seethe,
how could you perform this ill to me?
 
Now the other shrugs,
there is only dishonesty,
when they retract and reveal
it went no further
than an embrace after tea.

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

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  • Poem: Angels – 22/05/20

    Poem: Angels – 22/05/20

    Angels come and angels go
but they’re always watching down upon us.
 
They carefully observe,
they take care of us,
ever present,
although distance may be a factor.
 
Their wings caress,
though invisible they may be
to the naked human eye
they are there,
and the angels’ hearts
for us, beat freely.
 
They insist on being caregivers,
they are there in all times,
especially strife,
mothers, uncles, daughters,
those who do or have walked along
our path of life.
 
And there’s no use wondering
if and when we will see one,
just know,
rest assured,
you’ve likely already seen a few.
 
The woman down your street,
who smiles at you with such warmth
within her eyes,
your teacher who lauds your efforts in school,
motivates and attends,
making a difference in your daily life.
 
Your passed grandmother who you swear
you sometimes smell her signature perfumed scent,
that kindness in your chest when you recall the times
spent together –
weren’t they the best?
 
Angels above and angels on land,
here to love and be guides
for all of us.
 
They pride themselves on being here,
making the most of their missions,
they are wise and knowing,
understanding what it is we need,
ensuring our lives are enriched and continually growing.

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

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  • Poem: A Gift – 12/05/20

    A gift from me to you,
I dotingly extend,
the ability to treasure 
what’s within your hands.
 
The foreign heart you so clutch,
delicately,
with great trust,
which you have been entrusted to care for
with strength and deep love.
 
Who are you caressing with the clutched palms together?
I cannot tell,
perhaps it’s a secret you’ll not dare share with another.
 
Regardless, I know you’ll look after it well,
the heartbeat, the heartbeat 
so strong and positive to behold.
 
Perhaps it’s the lifeline of a relationship,
perhaps it’s the living memory of someone dear who has passed,
perhaps, maybe, this still-beating heart is the
lifeline between your spirit, body and soul.
 
Whatever the heartbeat signifies,
please know my gift to you
is the ability to care so deeply without 
being entwined to the point of no return,
though interlinked,
you are still independent.
 
And you will carry on caring for this
living organ,
almost-breathing object within your palms
and I’ll glance and smile
so proudly upon you,
 
there is nothing more 
that I can extend
at this point than
my pride and my love for you.
 
Modest though you are,
you must positively feel 
your own pride ascend,
this process is miraculous for you, too.

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

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  • Poem: When Words Won’t Speak – 06/05/20

    Poem: When Words Won’t Speak – 06/05/20

    When words won’t speak, 
colours do,
vibrant splashes,
moody shadows,
emotive characters,
abstract patterns.
 
When I cannot find the right letters,
or when I simply stutter,
I bring forth emotional therapy,
brilliant shades bleeding with highlights
or slices of calming, iridescent colour. 
 
Sometimes nothing lyrical comes out, 
and I’m left with a blank, cursed page, 
or attempts of controlled cursive crossed out, 
never for anyone to view.

Or there are other types of words, 
they ramble and demand,
intended for others to experience,
to see, 
their rawness brought about by
my hastily scrawling hand,
interpretation intentionally difficult,
I wait, I hope, I breathe. 
 
But in such a situation, I doubt myself, 
my words may prove too harsh, 
best translate them into a form of visual art,
where it’s less specific, 
less obvious what I'm trying 
to place on show.
 
Less fervent will the story be
for I can disguise the dramatics 
and roll on and along 
with the waves of emotion
'til the process of ambiguity
makes my words fit for public consumption - 
 
images filled to the brim, 
a certain crescent rising,
a personal triumph sent,
 
an explosion of hues, 
of brushstrokes,
of textures, of layers, 
that have been expelled from deep within.

I am now tentatively pleased, 
the story has been told, 
by shades and highlights, 
bright and bold, 

I have created a scene
without a single word, 
the speckles, 
the explosions, 
the colours I'll live and breathe
until I'm frail and old,
this process is a priceless passion. 

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

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  • Poem: A Curious Moth’s Cycle – 01/05/20

    Poem: A Curious Moth’s Cycle – 01/05/20

    The moth is drawn to the flame,
curious though tentative 
he dances,
he flits closer,
the heat scorches –
away, away!
 
Although his wing is singed
he cannot cease his wondering,
in his mind he feels he must
continue to draw closer,
nearer,
until he’s sizzling in a second,
both his wings in 
devastatingly smouldering tatters.
 
The other insects,
they mourn their inquisitive friend 
from the ground,
but what else could they have expected
from a being 
perpetually drawn to the light?
 
It was the moth’s downfall 
to be so hopeful,
to wish to be near a force so dazzling
that it would only burn out 
his own light:
 
an ending
by that impermanent deathly flicker,
the poor moth’s obliterated picture,
a life cast aside by his final fateful flight,
what more than sadness and grief 
could it have delivered?
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Andreas Lischka from Pixabay

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  • Poem: The Grumbling Instability – 30/04/20

    Poem: The Grumbling Instability – 30/04/20

    Instability,
a grumbling temperament grows,
like rolling waves crashing on suicidal rocks,
the aftermath is broken froth,
a bubbling foam of doom.
 
But there is no true destruction yet,
the cascading curling of blue
promised a cushioned fall,
one where anger and misjudgement
could press or
roll away
those points of migraines elsewhere.
 
The headaches which can coexist
when communication is unstable
can mutually present
persisting annoyance –
how to return to how the moods
once were?
 
The light-hearted livelihood,
the bright, jovial moments
which were frequently had?
 
I can see a path;
I can envisage a line of dance
in which temperamental or
agitated thoughts no longer
need to rise and flit,
 
no reactionary measures,
self-defensive songs or tunes,
just easy going,
casual conversation,
won’t the present tension ease itself soon?
 
Then there can be that wonderful chatter,
banter without being bogged down
by irritation at what was or may have
been meant,
 
alluded to,
insinuated,
perhaps it’s read into far too much –
what is desired is for discourse
to return to how it once was.
 
Then peace making is spoken of,
we lay down our arms,
our bitter, sharp, jaded words,
our underlying sarcasm,
our clipped mannerisms,
 
we relearn how to speak with softness,
with the delicacy that comes with the embrace
of well-chosen words,
we return to being kinder and remembering why
these conversations are undertaken.  
 
A stability now present,
we have combed out the tangles,
the mane of conversation is thick,
lush,
lustrous and wanted,

we discuss the darnedest of things,
shimmer with a joyful, playful mood,
and suddenly gone is the negativity
which had crept into
each other's respective mental rooms.

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

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  • Poem: It is Decidedly So – 29/04/20

    Poem: It is Decidedly So – 29/04/20

    “It is decidedly so,” her mother speaks,
she smiles with warmth in her tone.
A kind welcome
is assured,
the woman’s feelings strong, heartfelt,
well grown.

The kingdom has gathered to
witness and bless this young babe,
her cooing and calling for Mother
draw attention and affection her way.
 
While a wild gust of wind could blow this scene away,
there is hope on the horizon
for this newborn,
society’s requests have not been forgotten,
their blessings for her will be spoken.
 
They wish for her:
long life,
prosperity,
intelligence,
beauty and bravery,
 
but if these wishes for her
were not enough
a grinning godmother approaches,
her eyes lit up –
is she deranged?
Or is she delighted to speak,
moved to promise the child even more?
 
“I wish you the truest love,”
she begins,
with a slight inflection in her tone,
head cocked curiously to the side,
she glances over at the two royal thrones.
 
“Love in its truest form shall make you alive,
cause you to excitedly feel,
and the memories of a childhood will then be lost
and simply fall away.
 
Begone the memories well-constructed,
of timely family events and moments,
of kingdom comes and open loving arms,
decidedly it is so,
decidedly it is… -"
 
And the evil godmother was knocked out cleanly
with one single blow.
 
Who was the babe’s true saviour?
That somebody who temporarily removed the ability
Of Godmother’s intended curse?
The desired removal of the babe’s
future fondest memories,
to be torn from their safety
with the cruellest of feelings?

Why, it is a young boy,
could only be of three,
smiling to himself
shyly, but proudly enough
to see.
 
In his hands lie the sparkles
and twinkles of magical folk,
perhaps he is the babe’s truest love –
we must wait to see this as fact,
or as falsity,
or as truth,
with hope,
in due course.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by PawinG from Pixabay
_____________________________________________________________
A/N: I watched Malificent for the first time over the weekend and really enjoyed it. This poem is inspired by this movie.

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  • Poem: Coldness – 26/04/20

    Poem: Coldness – 26/04/20

    the air is icy,
precipitation,
crackles,
I am amazed by the ongoing
incoherence of the
patterns of snowflake icicles.
 
harder becomes the dark night air
with every accumulated breath,
they gather,
layer,
through them I soon
cannot stare.
 
the walls surrounding me
are now thicker than an Eskimo’s igloo,
the protection is not hindered
because all that can destroy it
are heat and brute force towards it,
both things readily unavailable.
 
I stare upwards,
my eyes glazing over the shining surface,
I want to slide my bare hands across the walls
but cold burns do not
appeal to me,
 
instead I huddle my knees to my chest,
internalising the heat that I have left,
powering through,
I need a thermometer to catch
the correct reading,

but I will be fine for the time being,
this frigid air my lung sacs are suckling,
they’re managing,
they are managing.
 
beware, beware,
the negative further drops,
gusts of wind blow through the cavity’s entrance,
my matted, unkempt hair,
a frostbitten decorated mop.
 
it’s far safer indoors than
it is outside in that deep blizzard,
breathe in,
breathe out,
at least inhaling the
warmer huddled air 
is marginally easier.

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

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