Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: poet

  • 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: 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: 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: 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: The Wispy Nature of Oversleep – 09/01/20

    Poem: The Wispy Nature of Oversleep – 09/01/20

     Sleep pervades my being,
 invades every cell within me,
 I am awash with the heaviness of lulling eyelids but 
 I am not dreaming, 
 I feel utterly dreary. 
  
 A seascape of consciousness which dampens,
 I see through eyes with cloudy vision, a certain hazing,
 then the fog begins to lift, 
 it was only a matter of time, 
 before I became clear,
 I’ll make this morning mine. 
  
 Though, 
 the remnants of last night’s wispy cotton wool 
 which protected me from haunting nightmares and 
 pointed corners and sharp turns
 it follows me, it drags behind, wraps around, 
 I cannot help but smile. 
  
 She is like my little shadow, a white fluffy helper,
 to bear the brunt of whatever is thrown behind 
 my back or front,
 whether knives or slashing words of vengeance, 
 I am not alone,
 I have her.
  
 She catches me when I fall, 
 purposefully reaching for something to 
 entangle herself with, 
 and I am reminded that sleep isn’t so bad, 
 I should be grateful to have had any at all.
  
 When sleep will linger another morning, I will 
 count myself thankful —
 I have a secondary presence, 
 to be encased by softness and protection of careful eyes
 is precious
 like a provided wedding dress, I here clutch the 
 trailing white garment close,
 I hold her near and dear.
  
 And now it is time for the moment of matrimony,
 I didn’t sign up for this,
 though, by goodness I’ll give it a shot,
 I take my step into the unknown,
 an awakening has occurred,
 a union has come to pass:
 all I’ve done is marry an open morning and 
 allowed myself to wake up. 
   
 © 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 Tien Vu from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Bebsis – 09/01/20

    Poem: Bebsis – 09/01/20

     my bebsis —
 what can I say about her?
  
 nothing more than the enormity of 
 everything which I would readily articulate,
 with such gratitude I would spout clouds of 
 perfumed sentiment that would bury us both 
 and playfully we would cast aside the damp 
 to find the merriment,
 the celebration behind our conjoining, 
 as sisters we are one,
 as sisters, we are the same.  
  
 our state of being,
 adoptive as we made ourselves from 
 a faraway source,
 we have been through so much,
 on our own and together,
 
 we are here and there for each other.
  
 a differing reflection but an interior which
 mirrors mine 
 even when I flash a different shade, 
 she carries me in careful moments,
 she smooths away the yearning and 
 indecisiveness of my day.
  
 we are more than adequate when separate but 
 whole when woven, and weaving our words,
 we can exist on our own, 
 though I’d rather be knitted together,
 a little amigurumi penguin and a pensive raven 
 in this make-believe land of ours. 
  
 she is the rationale, 
 I am the fiery child, 
 she is my guarder, at times,
 oft does she carry the light,
 she attends and brightens my shadow.
  
 walking similar paths before even having met,
 our trails melded with the firm blows we felt from 
 hearing similar tales.
 each punch was a sign in our eyes, our mouths,
 a truthful force felt, with immediacy I knew:
 this girl was meant to be in my life.
  
 © 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 Wildflower Gatherer – 08/01/20

    Poem: The Wildflower Gatherer – 08/01/20

     she hunts for the perfect blossoms
 and odds and ends, she has uses for them
 those with strangely mottled leaves or browned petals, 
 a quick clip, rip, 
 now wondrous.
  
 lilies are her favourite, but roses?
 just magnificent, 
 in her front garden which she lovingly tends,
 she has built up a fortress of scents and shades
 that stuns the senses.
  
 I watch her from the front doorway, as she bends and plucks
 and snips and adds,
 immersed in a task she adores,
 suddenly, a subtraction: 
 one bloom falls. 
  
 discarded by the wayside, 
 that one shall perish. 
 I giggle to myself at his misfortune. 
 I can’t help it.  
 
 © 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: Myself

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  • Poem: Together in the Next Life – 27/12/19

    Poem: Together in the Next Life – 27/12/19

     Helpless waves of injustice wash over me
 as though I am present in the front line
 of the battlefield
  
 where I am made to press forth,
 my life on the line,
 my squad leader thinks nothing of my sacrifice.
  
 As I hurl my body forward 
 into the hail of bullets,
 shrapnel pins my left leg down,
 I am in agony.
  
 My sister in solidarity knees beside me,
 cradles my head tenderly,
 whispering that I’ll be just fine,
 if I continue speaking.
  
 As the mayhem washes all around me,
 brothers and sisters they fall 
 with frightening regularity
 and it is with sadness and a deep pang
 that I feel the life flowing out of me.
  
 In the danger of the moment
 my sister cannot stay but she chooses
 to lay her life on the line
 for me,
 for our friendship,
  
 Bullets continue to hail down,
 like acid rain
 they corrosively reign upon her and I. 
  
 And her, my dearest, 
 who will never let me go,
 together forever,
 our lives will end as we know. 
  
 But while the battle rages around us,
 wave by wave the lines of soldiers
 are forced onto their paths,
  
 my sister and I,
 our love will eternally last. 
  
 © 2019 Lauren M. Hancock 
also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.

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