Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: poem

  • Poem: A Meandering Path – 14/07/20

    Poem: A Meandering Path – 14/07/20

    Meandering,
I take a walk down
Future’s Lane,
to view what’s on offer,
what goodies can I take?
 
To pluck from the bushes,
to gather from the trees,
elegant prizes which await me,
I need not beg,
nor lower myself to my knees.
 
For my future seems rich,
not with pennies or gold,
but with strength and
well-formed experiences,
they’re settled,
they’re silver, poetry and prose,
platinum and palladium,
I need not worry about golden views.
 
For the kingdom which beckons
and calls out my name,
from Future’s path
winding path to it from which I came,
it is modest,
it is small,
but perfect for me
and my quiet heart alone.
 
I’ve plucked the fruits
from the trees,
scrambled past brambles and briars
where curious-eyed rabbits rest,
awaiting me,
but within my kingdom,
is something only which I know of its name.
 
It is Freedom,
personal freedom,
to be as I wish and I will,
 
he’s a powerful soldier,
he’s waited for years,
and now, we are linked,
acceptance all the same.
 
I’m surprised he knows
me by name,
an excited fan’s moment,
mutual admiration
as he explains,
 
“I waited many years for you,
for your heart and courage
to expand,
as the entity I am,
you need not hold
my hand,
 
but you have arrived,
you’ll understand this more
as you continue growing on your journey,
your path.”
 
I smile to myself, I have my match,
he is here presenting a viewpoint,
offering what my path can be,
his freedom, my freedom, I could firmly grasp,
 
but then I realise,
I am already free,
because I have travelled near and far,
and to this Future, and seen what I have seen.
 
Thus, I will return to the present,
with this knowledge that now, not with time,
I already possess the courage and freedom
to live my life,

with honesty, strength and courage,
no one possesses my life other than me,
I am who I am,
I am alive, I am free.

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

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  • Poem: Unhealthy: A Confession – Spoken Word and Text – 14/07/20

    Poem: Unhealthy: A Confession – Spoken Word and Text – 14/07/20

    Audio: Unhealthy
    I am appalled,
I have failed to secure or retain
a personal connection,
a fallen notion,
an untidy, needy calling.

Why does my desire to be considered,
to be seen without trigger
exist, a stifling need woven like poison ivy
around a body and mind so disheartened?

How to dispel my lofty expectations
and allow the rain
to fall upon myself,
some cleansing gratitude,
I have spoken of this before,
now again this needs to be acknowledged,
deemed as righteous self-care and to the core.

My eyelids begin to droop,
my mind has abruptly flipped its switch,
medication has settled in,
it may be time to cease this
emotional barrage,
I’m disrupted behind this blank, calm mask,
no, now is the time for my redemption,
I’ve struggled to be myself,
to not lean upon others for self-worth;
I’ve been like this for years.

Caring eternally for opinions
can be stifling and drain the life from me,
even those whom I shouldn’t care for,
shouldn’t be concerned about nor mind,
I'll secretly consider what’s on their minds,
though we may be different,
we are still from the same ilk,
members of humankind.

A collective smile,
a happy family of viewers,
then frowns and bemused looks from
some unmoved, disapproving beings,
subtle trends of purposeful silence,
I am not subtle,
I am loud, and proud, and obnoxious
or at least that’s how I portray the dramatics.

Because, this is who I am,
it is a prickly part of me,
the indelicate balance of showy
need for approval,
for acknowledgement,
with the desire to be
proud and confident and not care,
at least neediness has lessened over the years.

But what pains me most is that
I cannot stop caring,
be it due to my annoyance or curiosity,
I want to please others,
so much so that it’s unhealthy.

I could sit before a psychologist and
allow myself to be willingly
scrutinised and analysed,
but, I view no point in this,
these traits are heavily ingrained in me.

Through years and encounters of 
desperately desired equality,
having been taken for a ride
because my mind was immature,
naive,
self-esteem fragile,
I was unwitting.

Thank God I'm finally waking up.

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

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  • Poem: Conclusions – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Poem: Conclusions – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Audio: Conclusions
    When conclusions are reached,
my being sings a triumphant song,
we’ve set aside our differences,
placed them out to pasture,
pains thrust aside,
almost forgotten all along.
 
There’s no irritation lingering,
no passive aggressive disease,
poor judgemental words pounding,
understanding ill, reactive behaviour
for what it is.
 
And tirades and mutual disrespect
have been left crumbling
in the dust,
anger does not propel and further,
resolve is stronger,
admiration and mutual support are clearer.
 
Because what would we be
if we didn’t occasionally
stumble and fall,
there’s no need to crawl back
to one another,
we only temporarily lost our enthrall.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Ron van den Berg from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Writing to Escape – Spoken Word and Text – 12/07/20

    Poem: Writing to Escape – Spoken Word and Text – 12/07/20

    Audio: Writing to Escape
    As I sit down to write,
my muscles ease,
feet arrange neatly into place,
my fingers at the ready.
 
This is my time,
where I will shine with tendrils
of arrangements that are 
written not only for me,
but for others, too,
I don’t simply write for myself,
I have a sense of duty to them,
for from within me,
like a geyser I expel my truths.
 
Confessionals, confessionals,
my autobiographical poems,
they’re the one and the same to me,
I do not aim at whetting the appetite
however, I do wish to flood certain seas.
 
To share and to reveal is something 
deemed worthwhile,
perhaps I’ll reach many or a few,
maybe my words will resonate with them,
their circumstances conjoining with mine, also,
 
and as I sit down to write, I am focused,
I have great intention,
and I know that what I produce 
will be the best I can
arrange for myself this very night,
I need to be left alone,
quietly,
without any intervention.
 
Because interruptions,
these cause me great distress,
I’m sitting here recording,
on and on,
because at subtle turns I make verbal slips,
new recording!
I’m doing my best,

if an unsuspecting arrival were to 
rudely arrive at the door,
I’d be mortified,
I already fear being heard and
viewed as conceited,
for the words I record and record,
that speak only of me.
 
But this exploration of myself,
as I sit down to write,
no longer to edit and read,
to analyse the past, the present,
upon a platter, display the future,
and anything in between,
 
the haphazard nature of rabbit traps
and paw prints leading into them,
I guess the rabbit was not so wily,
she needed to be a little more observant.
 
This rabbit danced around those traps,
now look, she’s here, whole in whole,
to be seen.  

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

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  • Poem: Making Mountains Out of Molehills? – 08/07/20

    Poem: Making Mountains Out of Molehills? – 08/07/20

    I glare at the
splotches of raw colour
in the mirror:
one, two, three,
four, more.
 
An adolescent’s
dreaded nightmare;
immense, angry, welt-like, firm.
 
They’re like curious mountains
which have arisen overnight,
swollen and painful,
because I insist on 
irritating their surface 
though I know 
it’s not right,
 
they flare, they throb
with each unsuccessful
squeeze I make,
 
who knew a war’s
been waged against me,
one I’ve unwittingly
been forced to undertake??

How to remove these
painful sites from my face,
clear my complexion
as if by magic?
 
I feel as though I might
require some form of
divine intervention,
because these mountains,
not molehills,
are certainly not budging.
 
Makeup:
foundation, concealer,
could work a treat,
but only if these
unsightly visitors sat flat
at 180 degrees.
 
If they were simple,
mere blemishes,
I could paint them
into obscurity,
 
however, this
aggressive adult acne
is really
my current reality.
 
I sit, perplexed,
wondering what to do,
it hurts when I
attempt to drain them,
the thought disgusts and
revolts me, too.
 
I have an important date
scheduled which I 
need later attend,

but I suspect I’ll be sending
my apologies
if I can’t make
the blemishes heal 
and cleanse,
fastidiously empty my pores,
leave them open once again.
 
Well, it looks as though
I’ll be staying home,
I’m not vain for 
avoiding company,
the solitude of my home is 
where it's safest,
where I can hide these
mountains raw and glistening.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.  
Image credit: Clip-Art Library

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  • Poem: Where the Pretty Ones Live – A Romance – 07/07/20

    Poem: Where the Pretty Ones Live – A Romance – 07/07/20

    Where the pretty ones live
is where some want to be,
posed or slouched so elegantly,
chiffon dresses or satin clinging.
 
Where the pretty ones live
is where some want to 
spend some time,
gracefully sipping champagne,
for hours talking softly 
or romancing.
 
Where the pretty ones live
is where I found you,
strong yet awkward,
though slightly out of place,
 
but,
you were poised,
you were prepared,
you were honest and true,
 
and,
where the pretty ones exist
is where we forged our intent,
tenor and alto lines 
so rich and sweet,
I couldn’t conjure 
such a melody,
ours was of 
fantastical truth.

Where the strongest survive
is where we travelled to,
once floundering, 
we now clung to each another,
swept away from those beings,
left them afar,
 
and where the bravest reside,
we carried ourselves 
with great courage,
to rebuild bridges of our 
past insecurities
into palatable platforms 
which were warm,
serene, and inviting.
 
We didn’t need the 
presence of pretty ones
to make us feel complete,
we had each other,
and this was progress to be seen,
 
through many an endless ocean,
o’er many mountains,
upon winding paths and
cobblestone roads
we would traverse,
 
the pretty ones could
heave and breathe
their distaste and 
their bitterness,
upon neither of us
their jealous airs would be cast.
 
Because,
while pretty ones are
interesting in the moment,
we have advanced ourselves,
refashioned our near-empty selves 
into stoic
iron and mortar,

we are no longer 
impressionable,
weak,
overly tender,

through each other, 
we've found ourselves,
alone or together, 
we are stronger because of the other.
 
We no longer needed 
to listen to their gossip,
indulgent hissed and 
giggled tales between
champagne bubbles 
and sips of wine,

no,
no, my precious,
we have made ourselves truly whole, 
we have made ourselves divine.

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

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  • Poem: Bloated Wattle Buds – 07/07/20

    Poem: Bloated Wattle Buds – 07/07/20

    Delicate wattle buds
hanging preciously
in the air,
framed by their yawning captor
who, with great regiment
keeps them together.
 
The picturesque scene
a corner-bound
introvert’s dream,
stems forcefully
held in Captor’s cavity,
like binding a spell,
there is intention,
this method has been
carefully crafted.
 
While one may initially
joyfully glance upon this
pleasing scene,
 
the controversial feature,
by us, the pollen is not meant
to be captured;
it is meant to roam free,
 
bloated balls of yellow,
tickling masses for striped bees
and pollination,
as they were intended,
 
not for them to be wrenched away,
stolen by a gardener’s gentle need to
grasp hold of beauty in order 
for it to be specifically seen.
 
But how was
the gardener to know?
The vivid yellow
drew the pollen
to her,
 
perhaps reminded by the 
patriotic nature
of yellow and green –
“our land is girt by sea”,
 
though, she should not
be held accountable for
anything other than
introducing the pollen’s
cruel captor to the bunch,
 
a vase an unworthy adversary
for bees which require
pollen like this,
to continue their
fervent collections.
 
The presence of the
buds begins to annoy me,
what, with their false bravado
and natural cheeriness,
 
I shan’t destroy this arrangement,
but I am considering
putting it away.
 
Out of sight and out of mind,
I release unto the hidden pollen
a welcome, famished swarm.

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

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  • Poem: To Make a Difference – 05/07/20

    Poem: To Make a Difference – 05/07/20

    Wanting to make a difference,
trying to be heard,
I've spoken at length
and, I fear I've pained some 
minds,
eyes 
and ears,
still, I insisted on 
sharing more, and more, and more.
 
I’d apologise for
being fixated,
but, I am compelled, 
I want to
share my truths,

will they, have they
made a difference?
Could you relate?
Were you moved?
 
I know I need to
pull back,
drag drawstrings on the
crazed kite that’s
whipped so free,
decrease the momentum,
I need to drag, drag,
drag,
my words straight back to me.
 
To corner them in
a box,
a private site for
me alone,
until I can assess
what should be shared,
not haphazardly at you thrown.
 
Sometimes I share so
I feel less alone,
knowing that others
are sharing my
experiences, too,
 
makes me feel like
my varied path with its mistakes
and pains
may have more of a learning curve to 
ride and view.
 
I cannot help that
I’ve overloaded,
but when I look back
on my words,
 
I’m pleased that I’ve
shared, 
that I've opened up,
perhaps to you,
and to others,
this has drawn us closer.
 
Understanding to be allowed,
interwoven,
ne’er to be undone,
these moments, experiences,
truths of mine,
recollected and digested
together.

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

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  • Poem: A Regretful Birdie – 05/07/20

    Poem: A Regretful Birdie – 05/07/20

    I’ve been a little bit out of sorts,
my home here has been,
shall I say,
unsettled?
 
Like a bird fiercely destroying her
carefully-made nest,
I’ve been somewhat selfish,
and uncaring.
 
I’ve pecked and I’ve pecked
to force the hand of certain truths,
I’ve dragged apart a
consistent image,
 
to reveal holes,  
jagged self-awareness,
revelations which
refuse to soothe,
 
this birdie attacked
her woven home,
but repair is not
so far off.
 
Forgive me,
I beseech thee,  
I didn’t mean
to tear this apart.
 
My once-comforting realm is
now littered with
unwholesome,
harsh-trilled tunes,
 
this little birdie deeply
expresses her regret,
I shall set about repairing the damage
for me, for us, for them, for you,
 
so setting foot here is
less confronting,
enabling our ability to relax,
to easily breathe,
 
I just want to share
and interact,
present the freedom, not constriction,
of thoughtfully crafted poetry.

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

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  • Poem: Expressions In My Painted Corner – 04/07/20

    Poem: Expressions In My Painted Corner – 04/07/20

    I’ve painted myself into a corner,
with heavy shades
of red and black,
crimson for the
heartache,
darkness for the emptiness 
after the fact.
 
When I lost access to 
my chaotic world,
a paradise I shouldn't 
have cherished,
I felt broken, 
no recourse,
misunderstood, 
essentially alone:

Whom could I waltz through life with now?
Whom was left to cast my 
charming smiles upon, 
to share my lofty views 
in excited tones?

When he or she or another one left,
and those other important ones, too,
it seemed as if I’d lost 
my everything,
but now, at these
warped memories
I wonder: who on earth were you?
 
They had little lasting impact
on my life,
simply passers-by
who only meant
themselves well,
their sudden absences without alibis,
their silences spoke their truths,
I am now completely underwhelmed.
 
Selfish needs later attended to
after some uncomfortable, 
hastily arranged dates - 

their halfhearted, 
lackluster attention cast over
foamed four dollar coffees -
'wise investments':
I was viewed as a stock market who
should pay dividends later that day.

I proved so desperately hopeful 
for positive connections, 
genuine interactions, 
yet my lonely eagerness,
was perceived as a targeted weakness, 
I would later bend, shatter, 
and break.

Some chanced manipulation 
to slyly extract from me  
without my whole realisation or knowing,

because I was sitting there 
smiling,
consenting,
hopefully waiting,
my obvious yearning 
for acceptance
continually, perpetually growing,
like hungering, destructive flames,
they consumed me. 
 
Made pliable,
easily melded,
I allowed my 
resolve and will
to be bent,
to be repeatedly stung red-raw 
as though by a heated iron poker's end, 
to be tarnished,
and for what?

Absolutely nothing,
my efforts and emotions all ill spent.

Yet another 
redundant contact
to be eventually blocked or 
erased from view,
naivety and gullibility stole 
the best of my younger years, 
this is an essential, festering truth.

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

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