Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: poem

  • Poem: The Heavy Bass – 18/01/20

    Poem: The Heavy Bass – 18/01/20

    I feel the beat within my veins,
Vibrations, thrown off syncopation,
They pull me from edge to edge,
Paper thin and treacherous they betray the solid beats,
An insistence of one-two-three-four,
Heavy pounding, bass throbbing.
 
Then, the lyrics,
Divine,
Singing of being unbreakable,
Is that what we are?
Are we made of such strength that 
none can step forth and shatter us  
into insignificant pieces?
Of course, that’s how some of us are,
Of course: that’s how we are wired.
 
I admire the dance I envision in my mind's eye,
The mass of revellers lost in moments of trance,
Smiles wide, grins spread, arms up to the flashing show of lights,
Taking in the stream of pure bliss and excitability,
Just a spin around and around and around
Ecstatic at living and breathing life as they dream freely.  
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

Image by 453169 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: A Morning Song – 18/01/20

    Poem: A Morning Song – 18/01/20

    I am inspired by experience, 
because that’s the richness that I have,
using my moments as potent fuel,
a propellant, on the fire of dry bracken and chopped wood.
Steady cracking ensues,
and I can feel the force of heat throwing me back.
 
Sometimes, some may feel burned
by the stinging insults aimed toward another,
or my apparent self-indulgence or lack of personal insight
that is fanning the growing fire.  
 
I understand that sometimes my words may also 
feel like a vice,
squashing you, contorting you into 
tinier and smaller pieces,
such discomfort to glean from assessing certain wordings,
you may wish to readily escape.
 
But I am enriched by the fire within my soul,
and though I rarely detail positive moments,
I can assure you I am a happy, bright bubbly girl,
just a poet who has leanings toward 
darker and distressing tones and subjects,
I bear viewable insults and assessments 
with acceptance and mild relevance.

For none can take me down  
if I care little for cruel or harsh critique,
I will sing my songs,
no matter their potency,
my hand will not waver,
and my voice, it will carry on,
I’ll continue to speak.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

Image by Dikky Oesin from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Underneath the Bridge – 17/01/20

    Poem: Underneath the Bridge – 17/01/20

    Underneath a bridge is where we huddle
during fine misted mornings that swell
with particles of fresh oxygen and unlisted chemicals,
the conglomerate joins in a state of irony,
of helpful and harmful.
 
They are united as one with drawbacks and expulsions,
in and out,
the clouded fog permeates and breathes,
enveloping our heads in a manner so delightful we cannot help but grin.
 
The scent of grape and a slight hint of cherry 
cheerily singes the nostrils,
the plume of unknown contents really poisons, it does.
But we will be safe from the atrocities,
it is healthier, you see,
as we puff, puff, puff, underneath the bridge 
in our workplace yard.
 
They may not be able to see us,
but the dragon plumes are enough of a firm indicator.
 
And then, sudden deaths came,
detailed in the news and in the paper.
The trend to use these devices claimed an epidemic,
all because we wanted a safer and more fashionable 
cloud of flavoured poison.

If only we knew, the damage to many could have been avoided,
mutterings and wailing of "I didn't know", 
as devices are flung aside or onto the pavement. 
Our haze evaporates into the air,
it’s time to get back to work.    
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

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  • Poem: Passing Judgements – 17/01/20

    Poem: Passing Judgements – 17/01/20

    It is easy enough to pass judgement over something 
as nonspecific as a cloud,
Oh, there, can you see it? I hear you squeal so loud.
It’s like a clock without a face, without an actual dial!
You peal into giggles at the notion,
delighted you are, so well.

You smile widely to yourself, 
without knowing you’ve passed judgement
on something as important as 
a passing puff of Heaven’s breathiness
as she opens her heart and soul to something that is detailed in curves,
not words,
you are amazed by the configuration that wells and swells.
 
Sweetheart, will you take a look at this?
I present you with a picture book,
it’s your favourite, remember, 
the one Auntie sent from New Orleans?
With the mouse that can’t be squashed by 
the left hand of a violin’s caressed neck,
he must remain living, 
and explore all his adventures with 
a great and fervent need while dodging Death.
 
Why is he so smelly? you ask, holding your nostrils, 
as though there is a great pong.
Sweetheart! I exclaim, aghast. 
Why would you think like that, to do so is very wrong!
There are no signs within this picture book that show his scent is untoward, and I request your explanation: 
why is it that you assumed his scent was?
 
It is because he is brown 
and his fur looks very dirty, you explain, 
tenuto on the d, like deh… deh… deh…
smelly, dirty little mouse, pong!
You start laughing as you say these words freely.

And now I see how easy it is for you to make an assumption,
based on a simple interpretation 
that opens up doors of certain inappropriateness,
but for you, sweetheart, you are not wrong in the slightest,
for you have expressed your thoughts and yourself in a manner that suits you the finest.  
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Languidness – 16/01/20

    Poem: Languidness – 16/01/20

     Languid, my arm flops and hangs from the mattress,
 I am but a mere weakened being 
 suffering my body’s wretched heat.
  
 My toes wriggle, it’s the most exercise 
 I’m able to perform,
 I am exhausted, and I’ve barely woken up.
  
 What is this ill health surrounding my body?
 a yellowing at the edges of an ancient book,
 curling me into an apostrophe, 
 into bedlam my innards are rearranging,
 my health it needs cleansing.
  
 I sleep for hours at a time,
 on and off, 
 the clock ticks with a decisive inertia 
 I cough and cough,
 but my lungs are still bloated and unclean.
  
 The pages turn into smithereens
 which I am made to breathe,
 the tainted yet immediately literary air 
 is now within my airways
 and is exploring my bloodstream.
  
 I smile to myself,
 languid though I am, 
 I reach for pen and paper
 scrawl for hours – 
 the ink is dragged along the modern parchment
 by my excitable left hand. 

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
 All images signed “LMH” 
 are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock 
 and all rights reserved.

 Photo by twinsfisch on Unsplash

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  • Poem: The Silent Sea – 16/01/20

    Poem: The Silent Sea – 16/01/20

    Sometimes my mind is like a silent sea
and I’m carefully wading, 
trespassing on little homes and crevasses,
minute creatures existing, fearful that 
my bumbling toes may enter their havens 
and crush them unwittingly.
 
I am not a murderer,
I take heed of all that is around me,
even the swimming thoughts 
that cloud this shallow pool of my mind,
I bathe in them;
I allow them to soak in.
 
Suddenly my puckered twinkling toes are 
as creased as the digits of the venerable,
and smiling, I play with the ridges,
wondering at how I became so bloated on the silent thoughts
that while mute, still speak to me.
 
Because, I know, 
I understand that within my silent seascape,
there is a path, though hidden,
which leads me back to the dunes.
 
I can wade as long as I like, peeking into the water,
splashing like teardrops my sparkling eyes
as I take in the shimmering surface of the sea.
 
Did I mention my sea is calm?
There are no crashing waves,
only thoughts, thoughts, mulling,
contemplative, arresting, heart-wrenching,
thoughts, thoughts, all the same.
 
I suddenly realise I don’t wish to escape,
to my pilgrim land of the dunes which will only
forsake me in the end, 
drying me out as though parchment in the rich summer’s heat,
the humidity stifling,
I’d rather remain with my feet twiddling in the sea.
 
Perhaps I can remain here forever,
I could live on, hoping for the shallow 
to become awash as the deep,
I could happily reside here,
as long as She doesn’t continue to bloat 
the tips of my extremities.  
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

Image by brisch27 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Outrageous, Woman – 15/01/20

    Poem: Outrageous, Woman – 15/01/20

    I am outrageously emotional,
perhaps it is the time of your menses, you suggest.
Insensitive little man,
you will not remain long with that attitude of rude assumption.
 
You pride yourself on tinkering with words which speak dully,
with a hollowness that persists,
your xylophone of musicality is anything but lyrical or sweet.
 
Instead the notes slot themselves into an irregular line,
jutting out here and there,
no adherence as to how I’d like to be spoken to,
your line of cacophony has no subtly or care.
 
And as I wonder how it is you’ve survived life for so long,
with an attitude of ignorant bliss,
I come to the conclusion that
it does not really matter,
the fact is:
you exist.

And there are others like you,
insensitive, brutish cads
who’ve not learned to treat a leading lady with due respect,
for every woman is of this role,
and once their women are gone,
they’ll realise what they’ve lost,
how amazing the women were that they had,
clearly they never deserved them at all.
  
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

Image by Vitabello from Pixabay

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  • Poem: A Beautiful Scene – 15/01/20

    Poem: A Beautiful Scene – 15/01/20

    I force myself through the grandly carved, imposing doors,
permitting myself internally, proudly, I am inside.
Had I been willingly welcomed in, I'd have not
insisted on this erroneous entrance.

In awe, I look around and above,
the high ceilings are dotted with colourful scene upon scene
of love, adoration, and protective eyes,
creating a sense of warm welcome and
bright enumerated pride.
  
Faces belonging to chubby infants and an elegant, finely boned woman feature,
her knowing expressions painted, captured for all of time.
With posh, high cheekbones and cheerfully blushed cherubim
who she’ll sing to, dote on, and playfully pinch,
they observe me as I explore your inner chasm,
your being,
your eyes, they barely blink.
 
It is amazing, this open space surrounding me, 
within you, there is no clutter like within myself,
no gathered items taken and stored
from an age prior that their usefulness is now deemed defunct.
 
There are no earthly possessions to release,
all that speaks is masterful artwork depicting
how you protected me from afar,
with your blessings and a heart filled with prayer,
gratefully I thank you, kissing my fingers,
and press them against the wall.
 
There is no pigment here, only earth, barren to view,
but it is cold and it is calming,
I am hushed, lulled into silence by
the complexity and simplicity of you.
 
With grace and devotion, I begin to quietly retreat
from my initial impudent entry into your world,
into the messiness of my interior,
I glance around, and wistfully exhale,
this, I do not wish to forget.
 
And with a final gaze above,
I beg myself to retain the images,
with a sense of pious godliness, I cower respectfully,
say a few quiet words,
and leave.   
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Poem: Darling, Am I Too Much? – 14/01/20

    Poem: Darling, Am I Too Much? – 14/01/20

    My darling,
is it too much that I speak?
Are my vowels out of turn, yowling into paining ear drums?
My articulated consonants taut at the edge of profanity,
is it too much, too much,
too much so, that I speak?
 
Best I jot thoughts down then, with an infernal rage,
cast them aside,
or scribbled or scrawled out of existence,
or ripped to shreds, like a tiger
I know how to decimate,
it has been bred within me,
I know my claws will take.
 
My filter barely sits at the base of my spine,
where, like at the hands of a maniacal chiropractor,
I’ve been manipulated after much time,
and the emotions, they shoot up with
an impermanence that I cannot bear to control,
the scars left behind by the bubbling brew of sharply bit dialogue
promises and lies
enrage me more,
stitch me up further,
I vow to you:
I will no longer suffer.
 
I will talk out of turn,
I will continue to voice truthful opinions,
my internal wefts, no matter how light or sooty they present,
I will curl my fingernails into my palm just to feel the pain,
to remember who I am,
to wake up,
to be on par with who I’m trying to be,
who I am.
 
My darling,
I am so sorry that I spoke out of turn,
permit me to begrudge myself of any relevance,
I wasn’t entirely aware that such a timely shift had occurred.
 
Perhaps you will hear me as a voice,
when you lay your head down to rest,
wishing to dream of a land of perfection and love and
forward momentum,
when I know convoluted nightmares are the trappings
behind eyes that failed to prize the signs of my moving forward
and making my life more adapted to my dreams.
 
I’m not sorry at all,
because I was cut off at the seams.  
  
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Privy – 14/01/20

    Poem: Privy – 14/01/20

    Are you privy to the facts which surround? Those which carefully guard the keyhole,
preventing curious spiders with their sticky traps of webbing to dance over the edges,
these facts smile at you, begging you forth, beckoning
with a laced fingertip, a hardened nail with something underneath, between the skin.
 
Who says you are permitted into the locket without a key?
Allow us to joust until the victor takes all the spoils,
every secret, every hope, every downfall, every dream,
unwound as though on a raised pianola roll,
a tune gaily played; a song that makes you feel free.
 
Don’t forget that song is predetermined,
no room for human error,
each note is there without phrasing, without emotion, without thought,
dictated by an invisible maker to our eyes,
at the repetition, I insert the key into the hole.
 
With amazement you look around, 
inside there is not much room,
some spaces only fit for a mouse, others for a boa constrictor, but I wouldn’t
own something so loud and obnoxious.
Carefully you sift through the remnants of the past,
like sand, the grains get lost between your toes and soles,
but you do not mind,
you are engrossed with the locket that houses many intricacies,
and sneakily I close the door, and lock you inside my heart,
you are all mine; all secrets safe with me.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

Image by GLady from Pixabay

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