Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: poem

  • Poem: Where Have You Been? – 17/04/20

    Poem: Where Have You Been? – 17/04/20

    Unknowing of where you’ve been,
where have you travelled?
Where has your mind taken you?
Is it to the edge of your despair?

Are you aching,
begging to be heard without any
actual words?
Misunderstood,
underappreciated?
Does this strike a chord?
 
Do you wish you could move on quicker
to achieve your goals
within your dreams?
Is there a hollow in you
needing to be filled?
Measurements two by two,
or maybe just a clearer view.
 
I hate to see you in distress,
you feel you hide it well,
and from the world you want to encase yourself,
a solid armour,
self-protection still,
where the wind and sound will
rush over your body and not even care,
you will find that anonymity there.
 
And huddled in the tunnel you’ll be,
against the thick of a storm which strangely frees you
from hefty concerns and worries
which drag, drag you down,
and now you’re just a molecule
or a large particle
against which beats the busy air.
 
I can sense your freedom now
in the darkness,
in the shadows of that tunnel,
some may find such a situation
claustrophobic, atrocious,
but you, dear,
are released by the air,
being pounded by winds is no trouble,
each gust dispels care upon care.

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

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  • Poem: Cotton Wool – 15/04/20

    Poem: Cotton Wool – 15/04/20

    They cotton woolled me,
padded me safe,
to ensure if I fell,
I wouldn’t crash,
bang, break.
 
To make sure that I was
protected by the softened cloud,
like a growing cumulus
I would travel here, there, about.
 
But always did I feel this
protection surrounding me,
a knowledge that when I’d fall
I could tangle among
branches of kind gum trees,
who would soothe me with their eucalyptus scent, 
calming, warming,
my panic flew –
it went.
 
And I am suspended,
here between heaven and earth,
it’s not so bad, I realise,
I’m surrounded by the now-dripping cotton wool
pungent with oil.
 
I appreciate those who thought it prudent to
wrap me like a child in a
tight woollen blanket,
because of this, 
the next stage of
my life I can be assured.
 
In fact, I’m more like a caterpillar
in my woven silk threads,
to my original protective layer
I’ve added to this,
 
Now I am layered, softly cushioned,
nothing can penetrate even if I allowed it in
because, quite frankly,
this is my time for healing.
 
As time passes, I feel my body grow strong,
none of this limp wrists and arms,
fragile ankles and weakened shins,
no, I am becoming something,
something more,
and suddenly the cotton wool and thread?
I have no need for these anymore.
 
I emerge heroically from my encasing,
an uproarious cry of triumph escapes my lips,
the trials and tribulations of long past
which the wool had patched
are strangely flung from my memory.
 
And here I stand,
stronger than ever before,
plights and disasters all untoward,
I will recall nothing of them
for I have moved forth,
a body no longer in a woollen cavity.

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

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  • Poem: When Will We Meet? – 13/04/20

    Poem: When Will We Meet? – 13/04/20

    What would the world be without the sparkle in your eyes?
The immutable knowledge that even amidst the chaos
Our love will survive,
It will withstand this weathering,
This erosion,
Upon our daily intents
Our quarrels,
Our makeups,
Taken for granted.
 
And now, realisation hits,
An understanding that we should have
Cherished those times,
Those precious moments held together.
 
The gentle opportunity of skin upon skin,
Your touch of my silken hair,
Pulling me into you with an arm closer still.
 
It is calming and saddening to know that I shall remain unprepared
For this ongoing separation,
When will this lingering loneliness end?
 
Hearts and souls around the world,
They ache,
Living through the process,
Cold and humbled by this,
 
My mind is quietened,
The ideas and knowledge of temporary loss swim,
When will we properly meet,
Where will our hearts blossom and truly see?

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

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  • Poem: I Remember the Egg Hunt – 12/04/20

    Poem: I Remember the Egg Hunt – 12/04/20

    I remember hiding eggs for my little brothers,
They were tiny and sweet and curious,
They loved the treasure hunting,
It went down a treat,
Each Easter Sunday.
 
And when they were found,
I’d hide them again,
Two, three times,
The hunting went,
And smiles all around,
Beaming,
From me to them,
The joyous moments shared,
Loving, sibling hearts together,
And then –
 
The feasting commenced,
How my brothers loved this part,
Where they could indulge,
Contented were their hearts,
 
The shiny egg foil carelessly discarded upon the ground,
Where will these chocolates be?
Will they be hidden again or never again found?
 
And quietly with great grins did the feasting go on,
So many eggs there were to count,
Now there was basically nothing left!
All but gone!
 
And the satisfaction from their sugar-filled bellies could all be seen
Upon their expressions,
Time to rest,
The sugar rush caused a tiredness that’s overwhelming.
  
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by congerdesign from Pixabay   

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  • The Sliver: A Horror Poem – 11/04/20

    The Sliver: A Horror Poem – 11/04/20

    The translucence of an eye is insidious,
it narrows its eyelid to a sliver of pupil to see,
a glint of curiosity
but little remorse to view,
what could this vision present to someone like you and I?
Us, or even just you?
 
Barbaric tones,
the slashes, the slights,
the light burrows into my own orbs,
quietly, calculatingly I take on the mood
of the insidious view I’ve knowingly absorbed.
 
Unbeknownst to myself though,
from now, I am expected to travel alone,
this living, breathing eye has snatched me away from you.
 
Now I work in tandem,
my eyes with It,
alone, I am,
yet breathing its painful sooty sin,
can I not escape,
with peril can I be freed?

A combatant’s energy:
I stare into its glare,
its memories are horrific to experience and even worse to see.
 
Free me from its peril!
I want to shriek.
The maladies I’ve experienced through its blatant enormity
weigh down upon me,
they dare me to speak.
 
But, how to escape horrors so convoluted they make us entwined,
where are you when I need You?
I cry posthumously.
I live only through the Sliver’s memories,
stifling, the visions stew.
 
And it is as though we are living a dragging nightmare,
undulating waves of nauseating misery swim through
the void of energy that once carried and housed me,
I can barely breathe,
but isn’t that the point of it all?
There’s nothing left to see.    

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Evren Ozdemir 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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  • Prose Poetry: A Tune For the Bird Who Brightens my Day – 05/04/20

    Prose Poetry: A Tune For the Bird Who Brightens my Day – 05/04/20

    Precious and sweet, in a method of glistening blue, she rises to me, she flies to my open hand, and whispers, “How are you?” My melodious being, my little birdy in special cobalt feathers, she understands what I need during my lonely waking hours. A touch of do re mi and as happy as can be, she presents some well-formed notes to me, not tentatively or wavering but with strong confidence that ensues. She wishes to ensure that my brightness returns, and shall remain, with her tuneful songs, more notes arrive and they shall grow and soften, as sweet as the scent of fresh rain.

My little, little birdy, where did you come from, and where do you go? After the moments in which you cheer my mindset so? You disappear into the wilderness, away toward the horizon, and sometimes I feel guilty when I stop for a spot of contemplation. For, what would occur, what could I do, to capture my free little bluebird all for myself, so I could have her joyous songs forever within my ears? There would be no need for her to sing to anyone else. Although, I understand that these thoughts are selfish of me, and I must reconsider how I deal with my bird in my dreams, because she surely has important tasks elsewhere of cheering others up.  

I must be kind, I must be generous, to allow my birdy to share her love and song with others in the world during their moments of distress, for there is no need to be greedy, as I know she’ll return and sing to me, even when I feel inclined to dance, side step, step, and twirl, ever so freely.

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

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  • Poem: Early Morning Disturbances – 04/03/20

    Poem: Early Morning Disturbances – 04/03/20

    The afternoon calls to me,
it begs for me to take advantage,
a swimming sensation within my mind
causes a wondering and I mentally wander:
I do not have the energy for this.
 
To explore the pathways,
to join with other beings,
to share their thoughts, feelings, and dreams,
well, this is something undulating, it seems.
 
Instead, I wish to lay down in my bed,
rest my weary head that’s arisen since two thirty a.m.,
and laid half alert, half asleep,
pacing back and forth,
up and down the stairs,
waiting for the morning,
when I can end the time when that 
restlessness replaced my wanted dreaming.
 
I must replenish,
I must coerce this Afternoon who wishes to 
bid me hither soon,
to engage me in some activities that are beneficial to me,
who says that they are beneficial? I want to squawk,
I want to scream.
 
Instead, I peel open my newly made bed,
feel the crispness of the lining sheets surrounding my body,
feel the plumpness of my fluffed pillows 
billowed around my head,
and I close my eyes,
feeling the softness ensue as the doona 
weighs upon me with comfort
that I haven’t known for ever so long.  
 
This haven I have created,
this haven I have made,
I am thankful for it,
the opportunity to rest comfortably without interruption,
because in the darkness of the early morning,
I will be hastened from my sleep,
my eyes, bleary, open,
and again, it’ll be two thirty.
 
The couch is no solace for someone who wishes to swim in dreams,
I must be in my current bedded comfort tonight,
I tell myself that in order to have 
calm before mayhem or disturbances
from my short sleeping delights
I must rest and relax into an early, quiet night.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Glen McCallum on Unsplash

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  • Prose Poetry: The Beckoning Seascape – 01/04/20

    Prose Poetry: The Beckoning Seascape – 01/04/20

    I wonder what it would be to live like in the sea, surrounded by clown fish and anemones, and smiling jellyfish that could sting as they please. Floating past little krill and tiny bright fish, I consider what my role would be in this charming, pristine, cobalt, irreverent water. I rise up and down, parading before no one, yet swollen, the swells, around me, the waves recede, their special charisma is innumerable, anything but singular simplicity.
 
I carry on with my journey – I notice my mermaid’s tail – so beautiful and sparkling, each seascape coloured scale, and I understand that I am here in a manner of being so-very blessed, my countenance shows my solemnity and gratitude that am present, here, watching the ecosystem seemingly perform for me.
 
But, the truth is, that this world will keep on turning with or without my presence, I am here but as a visitor whom the Sea has invited with ambivalence, seemingly uncaring of whether I am here nor there, because she knows, and I know, that while I am watching the sharks parade with ominous delight, taking in the sea coral so bright which pushes away the pain it could cause another who didn’t understand its potential, and the larger fish, whose species I do not know, yet who capture my eyes and imagination that I cannot stop but stare and be enthralled. 

No, I thank this Sea for willing me, for beckoning me in her own way. To envision that which she has to offer, the sanctity of herself open for inspection, just for me, just one set of eyes, that are not prying but are filled with ardour, accompanied by a heart which is so very amazed.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by PublicDomainPictures from Pixabay    

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  • Poem: Sticky Gems – 31/03/20

    Poem: Sticky Gems – 31/03/20

    I jolt awake,
back into the night,
where I wearily breathe and pad around the kitchen and hallways 
without any sense of brightness or light.
 
Sleepily, I guzzle liquids,
after all, I crave them,
strangely,
must it be due to the medication once forcefully fed to me?
 
I press myself to stay awake but 
the effort is too much, 
I crawl back into bed,
there’s a soft rustling,
a half-asleep groaning,
oh dear, my insomnia
has awakened him.
 
I cannot help my medical condition,
it is appearing to rear its ugly head,
the precipitation of an outburst of my other condition,
my positive yet negative malady?
 
I shut my eyes,
I tell myself it’s only for a moment,
then roused all of a sudden:
where am I?
It feels as though another continent.
 
Desperately, I call out for Mother,
my pleas are like sticky gems from the oceans and earth,
waiting to be accepted and acknowledged,
recognised perhaps, but not until the end of process.
 
I call and call
but I cannot find her,
perhaps she’s around the corner,
giggling with a close friend,
why, what mirth with that other,
 
And my father is watching protectively to the side,
making certain nothing untoward happens,
because in one fell swoop the world can change,
this I’ve sadly discovered.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Aline Ponce from Pixabay

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