Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: poem

  • 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 Young Girl’s Whims – 16/05/20

    Poem: A Young Girl’s Whims – 16/05/20

    She walks a path undiscovered,
at least until now,
where peonies and sunflowers and daffodils
all happily and prettily grow in rows.
 
Her eyes take in the sights,
famished of beauty they had become,
but now greedily they feast upon
the beauty right before them.
 
She smiles quietly,
succinctly,
as though she holds a secret all her own,
and time having passed by so secretively,
this is the truth,
she may know something that others don’t.
 
And while she wanders past the flowers,
now onto other garden beds,
the brightness in her face
illuminates the current splendour;
this girl could brighten a room.
 
For she is strong yet soft,
brave yet cautious,
knowing but open,
wise and wondering.
 
She seeks her destiny as much as you,
aware of her surroundings
but open to that which may become,
something that could bring about harm.
 
She continues wandering,
innocently, freely,
touching the blossoms as she goes,
a glance upwards towards a kingdom
where she must return,
her dreams and fancies she throws to the clouds.
 
Oh, Mother, oh Mother, will you love these?
she murmurs,
as she gathers wistful blooms which know
they must give in,
their lives, their self-sacrifice,
beauty and all,
all for a young girl’s whims.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Larisa Koshkina 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: Progression – 10/05/20

    Poem: Progression – 10/05/20

    A lady of goodness smiles upon me,
wishing me so well,
the nature of her desire for me to flourish
causes warmth to flush my body,
to flow through my being,
will I succeed?
Only time will be able to tell.
 
It is as though I have been granted a reprieve,
a chance to make of this time something more,
my chance to rise,
to change myself,
something I must treasure,
I must take hold of,
and allow my growth to be fostered by
my heart, my heart, my heart,
this is something I know in myself,
a journey I understand well.  
 
And no matter if the tides will turn,
if I lose control temporarily,
I shan’t allow myself to skip,
to miss a beat,
 
because health will be nurtured
and my safety restored,
all placed at ease,
any stressors,
any sufferings,
I will work through my condition,
with the help of others,
the ones who care for and love me.
 
Sometimes we need to reach out a hand,
sometimes we’ll need to grasp onto help,
but when it comes to the time
when we can do it ourselves,
me, myself, alone,
this is when the lady will return,
smiling and cheering me on.

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

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  • Poem: An Early Ode for Mother’s Day – 09/05/20

    Poem: An Early Ode for Mother’s Day – 09/05/20

    While we are separate,
our hearts are still all together.
We reach for means to communicate,
to strengthen the bonds between one another.
 
No matter the distance between us,
we know, we feel, we understand
that we are only a breath, a second away,
for those who are near and dear to us –
they are not so terribly far away.
 
We smile at each other through the pixel cameras,
we hear the hearty tone of laughter enrich the conversations,
we hear the witty banter,
the decidedly clever nattering,
of young, middle aged and old.
 
We care for those through these calls,
no matter that we cannot visit,
and if we try, we’ll see them through window panes,
smiling and waving again and again.
 
Separation is difficult,
it drains us, weighs heavily,
but it is for the better of all,
and soon, in the future,
hopefully there will be tentative good news
that a leader will be bringing.
 
But for now, allow us to keep one another in
our hearts and minds,
those bouquets of flowers glorified and bright,
delivered to cause great smiles,
Happy Mother’s Day tomorrow for all,
may all mums feel wonderful, appreciated,
no matter whether tomorrow or another date,
loved every day and every night.  
  
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by annca 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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