Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: poet

  • Poem: Inner Light – 15/02/20

    Poem: Inner Light – 15/02/20

    There is a light within
Shrouded by a sheer curtain
That burns brightly for every one of us.
 
Some are able to know of,
Acknowledge its presence,
While others are unable to determine its reality at all.
 
However, truth be told,
Within us all, this flame burns brightly,
We need not concern ourselves if it flickers from time to time,
Dangerously, or just a sway, rhythm and rhyme.
 
My flame is tender,
My flame is small and serene,
What may yours be like?
Take a closer inspection,
And see within.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by icon0.com on Pexels.com

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  • Poem: Around My Neck, Close To My Heart – 09/02/20

    Poem: Around My Neck, Close To My Heart – 09/02/20

    The gems, they are too pretty.
They mesmerise, but none gain the fervent attention of my eyes,
they yield none of the consideration that they are deserving of.
 
I search for something that is right for me,
the properties, they must match my intent,
and I spot the stone I have been yearning for yet already own,
it’s rough, unfinished, and as ginormous as a palm sized moon.
 
I know I cannot touch this one,
it is too out of my realm,
and though I earnestly ache for its lustre,
it is not a choice; I cannot make a decision to take this home.
 
Instead I select a differing pendant,
same stone, yet smooth in finish,
the lustre is decent, but not as impressive as the former,
 
I wish for the properties to bring forth certain qualities,
to aid my personal growth,
to facilitate.
 
Some may think me silly but I am believing,
and this surely must be all that matters.
But why add when I already have?
Why take away from the gift when I have been presented
a heartfelt token?
 
I chide myself for being greedy,
for wanting more,
convincing myself otherwise,
and I understand, deep within,
that it’s not right, 
I tell the woman to replace it within the display,
perhaps someone more wanting will take it home another day.
 
I have enough around my heart, my neck, their love,
from those who mean so much though they are only two 
but together and alone a force unto themselves,
they will always be here for me, as long as they and I are willing,
and I’ll carry their hearts around me like an auric breeze.
 
The memories of times we’ve had,
shared alike and known to be,
an expression of their love,
a material possession, an offering,
I’ll forever keep this with me.

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

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  • Poem: From Misery to Triumph – 01/02/20

    Poem: From Misery to Triumph – 01/02/20

    I am in a state of inertia,
even breathing is a heaving encumbering illness,
unwanted, my ribs rise, lungs bloat,
with the air that’s steadily keeping me afloat.
 
My eyelids are weighted,
leaded with invisible heavy loads
fit for adjusting and comparison,
each eye, though, is equally laden.
 
I struggle to rise from this depressive state,
it’s difficult once self-condemned,
a being needs the reassurance that of
their efforts they are worthy.
 
But I’m upon my bare stomach
and I can’t bring myself to even crawl,
nor to slide along to advance forth,
am I able to do anything at all?
 
Then I remember the words spoken to me:
try, try, and try again,
don’t give up,
the voice is echoing,
for safety I am yearning,
from this abhorrent state in which I lie
I must advance myself,
I know I must, I must.
 
Thus, with palm and palm I drag myself,
each movement is monumental in my eyes,
though small and steady,
I acquire, I acquire, I advance.
 
Eventually I look back,
how far I have come,
a little wisp of triumph from my wick
I’ve avoided smouldering myself,
from this tribulation I will rise,
this success is the beginning of a future aggregate,
of everything which will shall come to pass,
this I do surmise.

© 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: The Raspberry Crusher – 31/01/20

    Poem: The Raspberry Crusher – 31/01/20

    I taste the tartness carelessly left coating my teeth,
raspberry goodness,
sour, slimy, almost eye wincing
still ripely sweet,
 
my eyes widen,
a great surprise,
as I absorb the flavoursome layer,
my tastebuds tingle, they tango,
sweetness most certainly assured,
if we’ve detoxed from refined treats prior.
 
The naturalness of Nature’s offerings
I am yet to feel ungrateful for her juice
pressed forth into my hand,
as round raucous raspberries they sang and danced
until I gently rolled them between forefinger and thumb
crushing them,
caressing them,
sweetly, carefully.
 
The juice stains
it drips close to my white dress
I bound aside but
alas!
 
A crimson tear,
captured within the fabric for all of time,
a reminder,
of fruity bloodshed,
I lick my hands,
grin from ear to ear.

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

Photo credit: MasterTux from Pixabay

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  • Poem: A Little Crescendo – 30/01/20

    Poem: A Little Crescendo – 30/01/20

    Sometimes I need to realise that the wind
simply needs to unwind
to leave his breath upon the windowsill
and tangle within the trees.
The branches and he will create a mischievous dance
a mild form of light-hearted sorcery
as the magic weaves its language
strange capitulations together;
they succumb to each other
the swooning moments
it seems he’ll never leave.
 
I’m here watching o’er these two
it’s amazing to see,
precious to view because I know 
there is little fight left between this pair
they secretly cherish one another
they breathe through
air to wood
wood to air.
 
Sometimes the wind needs to cherish something
other than itself
blustering around something other than me
although I miss his presence
I know he’ll return when he deems it rightly so,
he’ll take his leave,
come back to me.
 
© 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: Siesta – 24/01/20

    Poem: Siesta – 24/01/20

    Afternoon siesta,
weather moody, growling, sweet,
curl into covers, tucked in,
slowly drifting off,
as common though as beautiful as
the morning mist.
 
Muscles so relaxed they might ooze off bones
tender and supple,
anonymity in the dreamy fields,
a fervent chase begins,
of your placating love, still worthy.

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

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  • Poem: Labour of Life – 23/01/20

    Poem: Labour of Life – 23/01/20

    rigid
too stiff, too tight,
too inflexible,
is that life’s intention?
 
a formal suit, paired with a starched white collar,
perfectly suitable for a living fool,
breathing superiority and dominance
 
but here:
 
a softer gown, lavender blue,
fit for a lady
an arm to caress and know of,
to hold.
 
dare the suit be worn with little thought?
portray an image of undertaking and undertaken
all at once?
 
speaking of a world dragging down the masked
who fight to keep flagrant pretence alive while hooded?
 
or will the lady soften the scene,
with her flowing georgette dress,
and perfection set against its tight seams?
 
stiff or gentle, who will bless?
rigid or supple, who will you choose?
roles in life to assign and defy
accompanied by a decision possibly divine.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock

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  • Poem: The Yew Tree – 21/01/20

    Poem: The Yew Tree – 21/01/20

     A distinguished yew tree silently stands before me, 
 speaking of regeneration and rebirth 
 and all that is everlasting, 
 within my heart it resides, 
 while monumental, it is a temporary fixture, 
 nonetheless an awe-inspiring picture.
  
 Who planted this reminder for me, to never give up? 
 A sign that, during times of impassioned illness and 
 ill choices there is still hope?
 The yew promises me time will continue on, 
 and there will always be that turning point known as Hope. 
  
 My mind aches at the thought of beings once in my world,
 who, in their dilapidated state could not draw themselves 
 away from the saddening muck that stills their lives,
 some remain happy to exist in their quagmire,
 they feel their current situation is something to treasure.
  
 There is no sign of a yew for them to never give up, 
 any hope for advancement has sadly been pinned down.
 Talk of hopes and dreams is dismissively cast aside, 
 too difficult, too unattainable, unmanageable,
 by their own reasoning.
  
 I want to show them my yew.
 I wish to inspire them, too.
  
 Had I remained sunken in my mud pit,
 I may have drowned like the rest of them,
 a reflection into an ability of an awful mentality,
 dark times, though infrequent, featured, 
 clouded heavily. 
  
 Now, my tree becomes a home for my thoughts,
 within its leaves and branches I bury my phrases, 
 my toiled words, my loose metaphors,
 because maybe at a later point,
 they’ll come in handy,
 or at least perhaps they’ll remain as personal pictures, 
 destined to become tidy and used mindfully.   
  
 © 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 Ilona Ilyés from Pixabay

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  • Poem: From Wept Parchment to Wonder – 19/01/20

    Poem: From Wept Parchment to Wonder – 19/01/20

    I am exhausted. Tired of the crowd’s prying eyes when all
I’m doing is wallowing and huddling.
I want nothing more than 
this sharp oversensitiveness of my skin
to stop this crawling feeling,
because I can feel the touches,
the curious fingertips dragging,
on the skin of a woman made of parchment
who bears her interior just enough,
just enough to cause criticism.
 
Though, that wasn’t her,
sorry,
my intention,
and I watch my parchment weep from my arms,
my forehead,
my torso,
catching the sheets, I frantically scrawl and scrawl
before I forget the present thought processes,
I wish to save them all.
 
They are precious to me,
if inapplicable to others,
I am still allowed to self-indulge.  
 
Written words can silence me with their beautiful calligraphy
and I learn from sources beyond the nearby gumtree or nearest paperbacks,
I seek to learn from the greatest, who titillate my senses,
now raised goosebumps upon my sensitive paper-thin skin,
it no longer crawls with distastefulness but instead
it is inspired.
 
I read and read,
absorbing skillful words, and wanting nothing more than appreciation and
education from those far finer in skill than I,
poised with vocabularies resplendent and fuller than a flushed Renaissance bosom,
I shudder with appreciation
I love this feeling
it is one of great calling.
 
And inspired once more,
my exhaustion all but forgotten,
I bind myself with tight parchment bandages
and set my pen into sight.
I am ready,
I will recommence my style,
flowered by the blossoming of others' inspiration,
all it takes it that certain escape,
a wondrous trip out into the open.
 
© 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 Mystic Art Design from Pixabay

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  • Poem: A Loyal Sun, a Faithful Man – 19/01/20

    Poem: A Loyal Sun, a Faithful Man – 19/01/20

    Hey, let us not be so hasty,
let us not be so rash.
Instead, let us flow with the sun and the wind 
entwined as one,
woven with thrice strands,
a plaiting of joyous warmth, breeze, and cheer 
neatly entangled by a pair of deft, invisible hands.    
 
I admire the sun for the effort she makes each day,
no matter how low or despondent she may feel,
she always rises for us,
no matter anything, she won’t allow the world to weigh her down.
 
Nothing troublesome seems to cross her path,
or get in her way,
she is never dismayed, at least not visibly
but into confused darkness we may be thrust 
when considering what lies in the heart of another
when we don't know precisely what causes their pain, joy, ecstasy, or sorrow.
 
The sun always brings a burning intensity,
if we were to bring ourselves 
close enough to the fair maiden,
we too could experience her true potential of expression
though, she insists on brightening the way for her king,
she selects the path of righteousness; she promotes his healthy well-being.
 
Sun shines her cordiality onto the path which is set
for a man of great mystery, 
perhaps of deep melancholy
but someone definitely dusted with
the makings of luminescent mastery,
make way now, it is evening, it's time to introduce 
the Man of the Moon.
 
She and he share the same skies during the light of day, but at night,
his lost lover is nowhere to be seen, she has upped and away.
His misery at being permitted nary a moment with her,
only observing Sun during the clouded skies from afar,
a teasing of his heart which 
miserably plucks at guitar strings,
breaking the strums into dismayed delayed arpeggios 
rather than solid ringing chords.
 
Heartbroken, the Man of the Moon waits for her all night,
glowing hopefully, yearning, silently begging
for her to rise and turn her wondrous face his way,
but then the night winds to an end,
erasing any fervent hope, now an empty lull in his heart,
he will reposition himself where he now belongs,
and soon, Sun returns to the blue skies,
just out of reach from her admiring love.
 
Let us not be so hasty, I repeat in a whisper,
let us explore the beauty of this day and morning, 
again with wild abandon,
because while time now seems so slow
it is succinct in its fleeting moments and is amazingly precious,
don’t allow these days to pass us by,
I want to remember our times 
when our hearts were as broad
as Sun's grinning orange-quartered mouth,
filled with the tartness of freshly squeezed juice 
and the vitality of our youth.

The sun smiles down upon us and gives me 
a mischievous wink as though she wholeheartedly agrees.    
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

Image by Tarishart from Pixabay

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