Tag: personification

  • poem: kookaburras – 07/03/21

    poem: kookaburras – 07/03/21

    Kookaburras sing their laughter, two fighting for acknowledgement, one with the other, and galahs smile with their cheeky beaded eyes winking, oh my! and the lorikeets feast on our figs, damn it! Mum wants to know WHY. Why is it they are so greedy, sitting on the boughs so precious, looking for something delicious for a bird so pretty, one two flew the coup, out the nest, and well, life is just beginning. Slowly, slowly, starstruck, one is startled and soars to hide but her presence is noted, taken, assessed and made begotten, wondering what did she do to be ignored by hand holding little buttons?

    There is the cryptic and here within are the clues, of life we must undertake many different, many hues, I am certain that there will be challenges, here now I acknowledge the twittering magpies who always stay home with their children, and knowing their loyalty, I know our pills must be taken in order for the positive side of myself to inevitably be spoken and seen.

    Bespoke I was obsessed with but I must take nature in, for what she is, I am not truly a tempestuous thing, nor the tempest, not in reality, but here, I must feel the wind, the breath, and understand I am truly blessed and my life I can renew, and once again begin.
    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.
    07/03/22
    Image by Sandid on Pixabay

  • 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: 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   

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  • 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

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  • Poem: A Retro Lamp Lives – 03/02/20

    Poem: A Retro Lamp Lives – 03/02/20

    The lamp serves its dutiful purpose
    Illumination has never been so fine
    His shade with dangling fringe and beaded bliss
    Shines through with retro colouring and rare promised times.
    I wait for him to show me more
    To illuminate the path of a worn insect or tired moth
    To bring life to the surroundings aside from his common cause
    No, wait,
    There’s nothing there,
    No daydreaming gnat, or mosquito carrying his lazy boat forth with oars.
    Inanimate, the lamp brightens,
    Blankly though, I realise,
    Nothing to show other than what’s here as token,
    No fitting state of revelation or demise.
      
    © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
    
    Photo by Rahul on Pexels.com

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  • Prose Poetry: The Pansies – 25/10/19

    Prose Poetry: The Pansies – 25/10/19

    The pansies, they glare at me. They are not charming; they glare and then squint as though trying to decipher me. Their little yellow mouths whirring away with intent, the leader speaks loudly, he doesn’t want me in their view.  

    Because here I am admiring their view. Laughing to myself as they try to makes riddles of their lives, make complex their measures when they are simply precious flowers avoiding the blights. Though they are temperamental, they are hardy, and this is why they have survived in my overgrown, sprawling garden.

    Now it’s as though they’re blowing me raspberry kisses, their yellows spreading into a widened “O” that is utterly reminiscent of those bubble gum-blowing days when as a child I would pop and pop that piece all afternoon, if not all day.

    Some pansies start to sink, they’re beginning to bow, to the true master of their garden, yes, it is I, a masterful gardener, their actual Leader, and with due respect they nod their heads, while their nominated pansy leader forcefully rises his head himself. He is too proud to bow, he is too vain to find in himself fault, and the truth of the matter is that he will never deliver his power to anyone other than himself.

    The rest of the pansies squint at me in my glowing light, humbling knowing that as the one who tends to them, they must respectfully be in a mode of both gratefulness and gracious delight.   

    © 2019 Alice Well, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.

    Photo by Lauren M. Hancock 2019 ©


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  • Story: The Jolly Little Toadstool – 10/09/19

    Story: The Jolly Little Toadstool – 10/09/19

    The Jolly Little Toastool

    Everybody loved the jolly little toadstool, for he was as jolly as could be. He lived in rough grass that surrounded him, and he was perpetually available for a spot of morning tea. Together with the blades of grass accompanying him and his other red toadstool friends nearby, they sipped the morning quaintly away, having nibbles of scones which were set out elaborately, catching to the eye. Jeff, the jolly little toadstool, was a master of all trades. In his spare time, he liked to uproot himself, and work on his opening his family’s ancient safe. Here within this closed off contraption existed something grand; he did not know exactly what it was, but his mother had smiled knowingly years prior, when he presented it with her gnarled hands.

    It was difficult for Jeff to attempt to open this contraption, simply due to the fact he had no arms or hands to assist with the opening action. But as he was a Master of all trades, we cannot be left disappointed, and the skills he’d learned for it to be saved were thus: he nibbled upon the combination lock! His tongue was so powerful, yet he’d feel the subtle clicks. There was nothing his tongue couldn’t do with this security dial. In fact, he’d tried many combinations, however, thus far, they were not the right mix. But as he turned the dial rapidly, hastily yet with great skill, he felt each combination drew him closer to the family’s treasure. The mere action of seeking the treasure was in itself a momentous thrill.

    But there were days when he’d not be bothered with the treasure, he’d wished for something else to do. Something to express his jolliness to others, something that allowed him to share his positive point of view. In the afternoons, Jeff had a secret activity. He loved to sing along to the children’s television shows in the afternoon, for the tunes were so upbeat and uplifting. Each bouncing syllable and smile from the presenters would make his heart warm, and wish he was a wee toadstool again. Being young had presented only enjoyment for him, and these were the memories that he wished with others he could share. So, he sung along daily, after entertaining at his tea party, after the serious work of attempting to open the combination lock. This soon became the highlight of his day, and I most definitely, most certainly and assuredly would allow him to proclaim, that he wanted to be a children’s show presenter, known for his tunes and smiles each day.

    But he felt stumped. How would he gain admission into this world? It seemed that it would be difficult to even be seen for an interview online. This type of employment seemed to be the sort that would attract many beings, and sadly, he felt, that there would be judgement upon him. He had never seen a presenter who was a toadstool such as himself, they were always people or animals, not fungi’s such as himself. It might not matter to them that he was an amusing, jolly character, nice guys finish last, they do say, and perhaps the same is said for those who were laughing and charming characters. Still, he would persist, in this mindset he would not exist, the depressing thoughts that he might not be good enough were not permitted to swim in his mind. Instead, he knew what to do! With a start he uprooted and collected himself, gathered all his toadstool friends, inviting them all for a cup of morning tea, where they could be of great assistance to him.

    He spelled out the problems and allowed them to express their views.

    “Surely you’ll not be avoided because you’re a mushroom!” one friend said, aghast. “You’d be given a look in because you’re different… Differences stand out.”

    “Yeah, I agree,” another friend decreed. “Your differences, your bubbliness, your jolliness, are so worthy of this world, they must be shared.”

    “How about your singing voice? What is it like?” Jeff broke into song and started singing a lilting lullaby. With the power of voice ringing in their ears, they all slowly became lethargic and fell asleep. With astonishment, the jolly toadstool knew how he would present his case, he would sing, instead of speak!

    Hurriedly, he pulled out his spare journal, which had many pages free to write in. He composed an upbeat pop song with a children’s slant on it, which was a call to the human resources department of the television stations. He sung loud, true and proud, his melody resounded, as he recorded himself on camera, for the unknown faces to view him, and become acquainted with the likes of him.

    “That. Was. Magnificent,” proclaimed and clapped his greatest fan, his closest friend named Dan. “They couldn’t turn away the likes of you. You are certainly amazing.” Jeff blushed red, feeling the warmth take to his complexion, as he modestly waved off Dan’s words himself. He couldn’t help though, at being quite chuffed, with the accompanying applause which now resounded from his tea friends. Perhaps his differences coupled with his talent would win him a place as a children’s television presenter, and he could place the combination lock work away for a while instead.

    Days passed, weeks passed, even months, they flew, since Jeff had sent off his recording to the stations. His heart ached at the potential that this silence meant unspoken rejections, and only he could be the one who would intuitively know. He felt saddened beyond belief, that he was reduced to the combination lock work. So, instead he picked up another job to fill the day, he went to work with a head mechanic, at Bits and Bobs. He liked the work enough, it was something to make him feel useful, but he didn’t feel blessed. He wanted to entertain children with song and dance. Educate them with new concepts, teaching them brand new things. Instead he was stuck in front of and underneath cars in a garage, lit so dimly.

    He supposed at least here he could freely sing. The other beings, Bob, the owner, two rabbits and a frog, secretly laughed at the method in which Jeff worked at Bits and Bobs, because, as he didn’t possess hands, he had to feel around the vehicles and take parts off and install them with his feisty teeth, of which he of course had great command. When he felt judged, he just sung and sung away. It wasn’t his fault he was born without any hands or arms to be seen, clutch with or sway. The songs he made up helped him through the day. He was even contemplating returning to working at home, to pass the time away. At least he wouldn’t be judged there. At least his heart wouldn’t ache.

    One day, as Jeff was surfing the internet with his voice-activated computer, he was retrieving his emails, and decided to check the junk folder. To his amazement, what did he see but five emails of acceptance from all five television stations of which he’d applied! He couldn’t believe his eyes, how on earth had his email re-categorised them? They were dated for various times sent in the last three months precisely. It appeared he had the pick of whichever station he desired; they were all so pleased to have heard from him! They loved his song, the fact that it appealed to children and a larger audience, and the fact that he was a toadstool with no limbs was actually quite interesting to them. The most excited email he responded to immediately, telling his computer exactly what he wanted to respond to it. He apologised for the great delay between the producer sending it – for the producer had been so impressed he bypassed the human resources man – because he had only presently read it. He arranged for a potential day that he could come in to meet him, and with immense jolliness he sent his email off, to be read the next day.

    “I’d like next Tuesday off work, please,” he requested from the owner of Bits and Bobs.

    “No can do, there are no days off,” he replied with a smirk. “Unless you want your whole life off work.” Jeff gritted his teeth. This interview meant the world to him. He knew he couldn’t disclose it though, that would ruin the chances of having this backup job to return to. Then in a flighty breath, he realised he’d had enough. Of the mocking from the other workers, and now this, from arrogant Bob.
    “Stuff your job,” he said, and packed up with his teeth all his tools. Stalking away from the ogling, wide-eyed workers, he knew he should have left this job sooner.

    “Don’t care crawl back, you worthless toadstool. There’s nothing more you can do!” Bob called out. Jeff shook his head feeling saddened. What an uncouth boss he had turned out to be. Jeff was better off without.

    The interview was a roaring success. He impressed the producer and owner, blew them away with his joyfulness and manner that was so infectious. He was hired on the spot, and he can be viewed each afternoon, with his co-host Angela, they teach and sing to children before the evening news. Each moment they sing in unison or harmony, their eyes sparkle, their hearts flow together, they knew they are making a difference with their work, they adore working with one another. They know their opportunity to teach the young is special and they are most grateful for their roles. Here Jeff the toadstool is accepted for who is he, not frowned upon for what he is lacking, for what he cannot do. Because, he is finally a Master of laughter and learning, of singing and dancing, and this means the entire world to him.

    © Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.


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  • Story: Naughty Little Eraser – 03/09/19

    Story: Naughty Little Eraser – 03/09/19

    Naughty little Eraser, wiping away Pencil’s truths, she thought that she could get away with it, now view what dear Innocent Pencil can do! She’ll wreak revenge with the swiftest of skill, the irony at repeatedly poking at soft Eraser with another pencil is not lost upon us, the most agile of throws and pokes Pencil has at her will to fulfil. For, all those notes she wrote, those truths which she’d unfurl, detail, unfold, nasty little Eraser thought it clever to make them more invisible, completely untold. And all those words of wept sorrow, dreams of the future, proper tomorrows, were essentially lost, and now, Pencil was taking control. She’d not allow this other to win this scene, to flee away with her erasing skills intact, no, this was a certain fact she did not wish to see. Instead, she hoped that Eraser would walk away unable to rub away another’s words ever again, she would be broken into little rubbery pieces, feeling less wholesome and more powerless instead. This was how Pencil felt when she discovered her Journal completely rubbed out, simply due to Eraser’s jealousy, at the fact that she paired with Journal rather than Eraser when they all first met.

    And throw and poke and poke and throw did Pencil to the little defenseless Eraser, wishing that she could punish her, make her feel emotional pain and such, then Pencil suddenly realised her method of revenge was one of madness, and she was being physically crueler than Eraser had been emotionally, and this method of attack should now be unheard of, ceased in itself instead, never again to be practiced nor seen. But she could not stop, she was compelled, to continue on attacking, her anger would not be quelled, it was rising as she recalled all of her precious wiped away words, their phrasings now never again to be read of or heard. Her masterpieces of daily entries, disintegrated, compelled by Eraser’s former chagrin, her winding words, her sonnets, her soliloquies, were gone, gone, gone, blown away with pieces of rubbed eraser in the wind.

    And now there was a little pile of mess, tiny erasers in blocks of two and three, grouped in saddening heaps, plain for the world to see. Pencil grinned with notable satisfaction, at her ability to perform this process, because even though Eraser was in pieces, she wasn’t completely harmed, she was still living. Because when one separates an eraser into differing sections, they simply rejuvenate and become another eraser person, so essentially Pencil had helped their cause, though really, they were far too small to make any difference in others’ important written words.

    © 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.


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