Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: poem

  • Poem: Perfectly Ordinary – 15/02/20

    Poem: Perfectly Ordinary – 15/02/20

    There will be times when you’re viewed as ordinary,
Nothing special about you.
Nothing that others can glimpse upon,
A spark,
A light,
They view you as nothing,
They pass you by.
 
Their eyes dart away when you meet their disengaged pair,
They don’t want to acknowledge you,
To validate your existence,
And while you shouldn’t care for how others may judge,
It hurts that tiny little bit,
They don’t know my story.
They don’t even care.
 
They view you as lowly,
They view you as beneath them,
Surely that’s why they possess that pathetic look in their eyes
That somehow proves your presence is unworthy of being in theirs.
 
I can view the fake smiles now,
The overly chirpy conversations,
Whereas once genuineness and sincerity were simply commonplace.
 
And I wonder, what has changed?
To make me be viewed lesser than what I am?
No matter how I take this,
It’s detrimental to my soul,
Because I’m a sociable being,
And being airily brushed aside for no apparent reason at all,
Seems unfair and something which may fling itself toward them,
Bite them,
Karma will come.  
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Mochammad Algi on Pexels.com

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  • Poem: The Rainbow Bower – 14/02/20

    Poem: The Rainbow Bower – 14/02/20

    Something shiny,
something bright,
she collects with her clutching fingers for an
internal sense of delight.
 
Like a bower bird yet not,
tall, gangly, lean,
her vigilant eyes dart for specific shades which will
perfect that rainbow sheen which
she’s placed upon her bedspread,
 
laid out for her eyes to sumptuously absorb their beauty,
her very own rainbow
created by her own hands,
materials found and designed.
 
She is becoming more like that bower bird
yet by the world mostly unseen,
though still one of a kind,
here she needs not fight to be heard,
a potent lustre, it gleams.
 
She doesn’t collect to impress,
to lure another into her nest,
no, these shades are purely for her,
her heart beats wildly as she blots spilled ink
in colours known only in her realm.
 
Turquoise mixed with a purple sheen,
what would you call this?
Peacock green, she labels him,
he is now part of her luscious scene.
 
And the ripe aroma of baby pink with clashing red,
what will she label that?
What will her imagination draw upon next?
 
She rolls in the hues now,
her eyes brighten and enliven with her soul,
her spirit, it soars, encapsulating the room,
while outside her window, watches the playfully observant Moon.
 
This rainbow bower has much to offer,
she has much to extend to this world
but only in the privacy of her bedroom
can she truly extend, to exhibit her colours
or collect the shades,
because outside these four walls,
if she shared her triumphant secret collection,
the world would be blinded,
temporarily yet wondrously amazed,
she prefers to remain in hiding.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by cm_dasilva from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Thick and Fast – 13/02/20

    Poem: Thick and Fast – 13/02/20

    I’ve never been so high
the view is fast and steep
there like waiting jagged daggers
they wish to pick and preen me.
 
I smile to myself,
a woman of but thrice decades,
so much to learn,
to view,
to become,
I’ve many obstacles which I have hurled myself o’er.
 
I announce my arrival into the world’s realm
where whatever the world needs me to be, I’ll become,
so too what I aspire to be from my spinning globe
I’ll make these moments mine.
 
The green and azure depths of this land and ocean
picturesque
though discussion of any further introspection
about them is left unawakened.
 
Sometimes I can neither make 
head nor tail of my expressions
though I understand later what I may have intended,
I wonder whether others view the whole subconscious meaning,
an expose of decaying, of moments expired.

And these daggers which await me,
well, aren’t they just poignant truth
that in some respects I hit the nail on the head
I successfully used that dart,
and by goodness,
a little knife dodging surely won’t be amiss,
the activity may prove simply correct,
thick and fast,
a kind of strange bliss.   

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

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  • Poem: Thrown Heart – 12/02/20

    Poem: Thrown Heart – 12/02/20

    I live with the constant threat of thunder within my heart,
a ticking timebomb,
I will be thrown, I will be thrown.
 
Waves of solidarity and tempestuous awareness
creep forth, 
yet, I do not mind;
as long as the tip is overwhelming
I will live for that view.
 
Finding myself awash with the swimming feeling
of pleasure which only exhibits itself alongside the knowledge
that I alone can see, can feel, can experience,
this arrangement.
 
By traipsing forward,
I am wreaking havoc on another being
but it’s necessary to gain experience and then
regain my independence.
 
The other’s experience may exist,
yet it is flawed,
claws cruelly set,
bared teeth in time.  
Perhaps it is is not their fault that poor luck
chases them round and round.
 
Bring the gusts and rain down!
Permit us the flattened image of
mice hastening to their expiry,
once happily scurrying.
 
Upon their squirming bodies place droplets of
scented aromas to anoint them,
reverent,
full of respect, we are for even the smallest fallen,
the scent becoming rich in your nostrils
take a deep sniff of them, I won’t mind at all

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

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  • Poem: Devil’s Straw – 11/02/20

    Poem: Devil’s Straw – 11/02/20

    I had this dream that I returned to the animal’s pen,
and our main pet was as dead as could be.
Her little babies curled and stiff,
there was no sign as to what the cause of death may be.
 
Within the straw-filled pen also was the demented form of a
devil-plagued horned being,
it was frightening in itself,
the eyes, his eyes, were red and malformed,
as though anger diffused from them.
 
I could not touch the bodies,
I had to ask my male companion to do so,
he picked them up awkwardly,
all within one raised hand so as though to avoid
further contamination or some such.
 
My precious little babies,
lying there in the pen like unwanted things,
preyed upon by the creature with grotesque horns,
I could not save them,
I did not know,
how could I be expected to be there for every second,
every minute,
that passed by their lives,
kept them in tow?
 
And now I wonder where they will lay,
where my companion will place their hardened, curled tail forms,
And now I see, I understand the meaning,
of a devil truly plaguing and causing the deaths of all around him.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by WikiImages from Pixabay
 

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  • Poem: Goodbye, Anger – 10/02/20

    Poem: Goodbye, Anger – 10/02/20

    I’m depleted of it.
Instead, replaced is a feeling of desolation within my being,
a rolling stone headed for the bottom of a hill
to crash into nothingness with no witnesses.
 
Alone is how I feel,
empty of the ideal chase which I sought to counsel myself
in order to become a better person,
to develop into something amazing,
someone who will strike others positively upon meeting.
 
I want that aura that speaks to whomever is in contact with me and it,
a feeling bursting with affection and timely truth,
I want so much more, but I cannot articulate it,
I understand that to reveal all would be foolish.
 
But I have not withheld much during my angry moments, 
my words which slashed and divided,
into pretty little ugly pieces that just weren’t meant for
existence
I’ll tell you,
I want to create something out of bliss.
 
The time for angst and anger has passed, I do believe,
they have had their trial by jury,
and they have been committed to the ward for lifetime insanity,
No?
Perhaps they’ll return again in due course,
but for now I will immerse myself in the scents of lavender and ylang-ylang,
A curious mixture but one which permits further healing.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

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  • Poem: Calming – 08/02/20

    Poem: Calming – 08/02/20

    Calming,
a moment of respite,
those few minutes under soothing cool water.
 
It refreshes my being,
cleanses away any impurities,
built internally,
the grime begins to sieve.
 
Relaxed,
muscles rinsed away of tension,
and the grimy black dog of yesterdays and before
has now departed,
the angels, they have descended.
 
Anointed, wiped away of blemishes,
creation has never seemed so pretty.
 
Precious I feel,
within this stream of coolness,
I’m almost whole again.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Head-Butting Fossils – 08/02/20

    Poem: Head-Butting Fossils – 08/02/20

    Fossil heads meet one another,
forehead to forehead they butt,
one is lively and spirited, wanting fun,
the other temperamental,
his indecipherable opinions he thrusts.
 
Unsure of the intent behind being told
that she’s asking stupid questions
when she hadn’t asked anything inane at all,
the male fossil focuses all energies on her,
then like a deciduous,
drops her,
leaves her all alone.
 
Confusion, but a moment and she shrugs,
it’s not her fault,
whatever set the other skull off has nothing to do with her,
if he were better behaved
he’d have explained
rather than had the gall
to speak to her like that at all.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Maddi Bazzocco on Unsplash

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  • Poem: Rearranged into Them – 07/02/20

    Poem: Rearranged into Them – 07/02/20

    Disembody the I from the I from the I!
Rearrange the me into them!
Tell the tales in a cheery manner,
engage them,
I will do my best, I promise.
 
There once lived a princess who was trapped in her mind.
In a tower she rose each day and night.
But this tale is not about her anguish,
it is not about her at most nor least,
this tale is about you,
You, I must please.
 
I will tell you of how I’m taking steps forward,
the right steps to take,
but all the while an exploration to the left and right,
a compass point I can neither promise nor paint.
 
But progress is being made,
I am certain, I am assured of this,
little mishaps though, occur in the thin breeze.
 
Are these signs or merely coincidences?
I think you know which way some might lean,
but I will go with common sense and call these accidental,
the breeze becomes a gust,
brings me to my knees.
 
And I see you there,
wanting, waiting,
perhaps a desire to continue listening,
but I am decidedly spent of words,
I care not to divulge my plans,
maybe they don’t even exist,
either way, I’ll cherish something within cupped hands.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels.com

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  • Poem: A Favourite Topic – 07/02/20

    Everyone’s favourite subject is surely themselves,
they can wax lyrical, wax lyrical all day.
Pinocchio lived in a little wood maker’s cottage,
and he had so much to expound upon,
such little truth to state.
 
And grow his nose did,
upon speaking of untruths,
are we punished for occasionally convoluting our truths?
 
As we take on personas,
to press ahead with a message or idea,
some fairy tales come alive,
but some exist with the knowledge that
some memories are best held quiet and dear.
 
But what of the tales we tell of ourselves?
A little bending at the wishing well where we reach into,
to drop our unwanted mirth?
For the ailing feeling has crept away, normalcy returning,
but only partially, you see,
and it seems useless in not exploiting a sense of victimisation
that was experienced the past weeks.
 
Now gossip,
town gossip,
as they speak of themselves,
and speak of that girl, or that boy,
from across the well,
where they’ll thrown their own lucky pennies,
wishing upon coins and stars,
hoping for something else to share
with others,
all about themselves,
while with most there’s a decent element of narcissism to disarm.    

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by 250432 from Pixabay

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