Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: poet

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Thank you all so much for visiting my site, reading my words, and for your continued support throughout my time here at WordPress. I really appreciate that you have followed, read my blog and regularly visit. It truly means the world to me!
  • Poem: Exhale – Spoken Word and Text – 10/07/20

    Poem: Exhale – Spoken Word and Text – 10/07/20

    “Exhale” Audio
    Don’t hold your breath.
Exhale, allow it to be free.
Allow the endorphins to flow through
your very being.

Do not hold your breath,
there is no need;
wondering, wishing, waiting,
for something which may not be.

Live, my love, live,
please know that I have been,
in this formerly crowded world
now a stripped ghost town.

Your heart
and my heart are full,
we must breathe the freshest
air that I can drag from this
phantasmagorical land,

we may be apart and alone
and I may be without true air,
but understand,
please understand
that I will return,
I will reign triumphant,
soaring upon winged creatures’ spans.

I will exhale as I jump from the edge,
expiring as I see fit,
because sometimes, in life,
we must accept that leaving
this world is required,
I will return again,

and again,
I will be myself
in another form,
perhaps you’ll find me,
and when you do,
exhale loudly and clasp my hand
then I’ll know
we have returned.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Mystic Art Design from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Heartbeat to Heartbeat – 5/07/20

    Poem: Heartbeat to Heartbeat – 5/07/20

    Like the sound of rolling thunder
on the distant hills,
my heartbeats clamber to be heard,
(to be heard),
received and acknowledged by you,
at your breezy window sill.
  
Your hand reaches out
to grab the distant beats,
the uniquely peculiar patterning
that pounds, and pounds
and pounds,
 
from my sill to yours,
a distant utterance
which begs to be translated:
what does it call for?

When transformed,
will my percussive pattern affect
your strong and courageous, 
masculine disposition,
into quietly affected, weeping eyes?
This vulnerable beating is all for you.
 
How harrowed I once was 
without you,
without this link,
how now when I look back
my life seemed utterly empty
and terrifying,

I was morose,
broken,
somewhat together but alone,
 
and now that we are here,
window sill to window sill,
glancing into the darkness
wondering at the other,

you’ve brought me back to life,
and I can send you my
heartfelt rhythmic dictations,
my life force 
representing my dreams,
my quietly built courage.
 
I want to receive your beats,
to capture your fervour,
perhaps one day we will
meet face-to-face,
and I’ll embrace you,
my surprisingly welcome saviour.

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

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  • Poem: Something Dear and Personal – Spoken Word and Text – 19/06/20

    Poem: Something Dear and Personal – Spoken Word and Text – 19/06/20

    “Something Dear and Personal” – Spoken by myself.
    If something
deeply personal
is what you
want to read,
 
by all means
settle in,
grab hot cocoa,
or steaming cup 
of tea.
 
What can I share?
What will I reveal?
Grab desperately 
from my past?
 
Drag forth
contentious,
gossip-worthy,
or scintillating news?
 
Will I or won’t I?
That’s what you need to ask.
 
Is it really necessary,
am I required to 
put on a show?
 
A song and dance 
of history
of what I can recall,
detailing what you may 
want or need
to know?
 
Why, no. 
No, no.
 
There is no need for a show.
 
But if there were, 
would
it be:
 
Tumultuous,
bittersweet,
even provocative?
My goodness, no!
Please! 
I am all subtleties,

watch me as I respectfully curtsy,
a dainty pirouette and now
we’re back on topic,
will I let the revelations
flow with ease?
 
Because I can test
your patience by slowly,
painstakingly, 
dragging out
the rocks and pearls 
of the past,
 
but what would be 
the point?
It is better to 
look forward,
 
the Past’s ship
has sailed,
hoorah! 
To the future
we are delivered at last.
 
Stories of old
may have their place
in a certain context, 
but for me,
they rule no realm,
 
in my world,
they have no
victorious reign,
no power can the Past itself proclaim.
 
Moving forward,
I’m looking abroad,
no furtive glances behind.

Will you look at me?
I’ve advanced myself:
 
my goodness,
oh, Lord! 
No firm facts here delivered,
lips tightly sealed
protecting a personal, precious prize.

The past shall remain a closed book,
it's what I've realised and decided,
no need to ride those monstrous waves,
the future, 
to me, 
looks perfect.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

Image: by myself. 
Background music: Documentary Background Music by AShamaluevMusic: 
https://youtu.be/il9HGo4hPjI 
Creative Commons — Attribution 3.0 Unported— CC BY 3.0 
https://creativecommons.org/licenses/

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  • Poem: Jagged Picture – 27/04/20

    Poem: Jagged Picture – 27/04/20

    Rivulets of broken seams,
the crackling of irritation heaves and gleams,
beneath a thin surface
a heated secret boils
it festers,
does she wish to be anything other
than what and how her impatient heart can muster?
 
There’s no calm in the desert creek
where parched tongues refused to get along
the sandpaper-like exterior
cat-like,
gingerly, one could prime this picture.
 
But to see this image fall apart,
though long-awaited were those positive dreams,
it is clear that irritation is what
the present promotes,
an ultimatum,
a damned unspoken destruction,
meant to be cataclysmic?
To eventually come undone?
 
The fate lies,
awaiting,
quietly, coercive,
need the ending be spoken of
in bittersweet tunes?
 
A sing-song chorus of
maddening annulment,
shattered pieces,
laid there in their raw glory to view.
 
Are these pieces able to be
pieced together again?
as of yet,
unknown,
the picture’s something still
jaggedly beautiful to behold.

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

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  • Poem: Serendipity – 21/04/20

    Poem: Serendipity – 21/04/20

    Serendipity flows like loose ivy
along the plains,
like a parched riverbed 
it snakes here and there,
selectively it makes its journey,
though from discrimination it refrains.
 
Like the green vine it emulates,
it has the power to choose
those and that which it comes
in contact with,
poison ivy,
malignancy or benign,
it has the potential to
crush, divide.
 
I watch its path
as it winds along the way so right,
righteous is the mood,
Serendipity is here for all of us,
I wonder to myself if I could somehow catch her
or whether, in fact, she’s better left untamed,
is this what she wants?
Should her freedom be saved?
 
For she is fortuitous,
she always means well,
for those she comes before
she most certainly knows how to
lay down their path,
pull the cards –
so to speak –
share the details,
the ivy of prosperity,
the serendipity of hope.
 
Who knows what is waiting,
before, left, right,
all around us?
There are certainly many tales of young and old to be told.
 
And now she draws these from you,
extracting,
then providing your altered nectar of experience,
the breadth of stories learned from you,
your very being,
as the sweetness of life
which you and her feast upon,
giving both sustenance,
her providing the sticky, hopeful webbing,
the sweet, milky goodness
to go on,
living and breathing.
 
The talented trailing of ivy continues,
she is fortuitous,
she is bright,
quietly praying for your sterling, lucky independence,
all you see is rainbow,
then she provides you amazing flashes of potent white.

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

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  • 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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  • 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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  • Poem: To Pen Something Worthy On the Page – 08/04/20

    Poem: To Pen Something Worthy On the Page – 08/04/20

    I feel it’s been a while since I’ve written a quality poem,
Something to make me smile and feel pleased,
Proud of myself for something sharp and sweet,
Or lengthy but with purpose and a sense of growth and speed.
 
There was a time when I researched and read,
Many books of poetry I had immersed myself in,
Inspiration, a powerful thread,
But now, these books are silently laying,
Gathering cobwebs, it seems,
Until of them, my heart will once again be calling.
 
It was difficult to create when I felt the pressure
To delve into many other’s styles,
Why couldn’t I write in my own style,
Without having to research?
Of course, a writer is a reader, too,
A poet reads other poets.
 
But the time had come when I grew tired of it,
I needed a break, in order to keep on going,
To continue my art,
My twisting, turning words,
But then that break became longer and longer,
Until proudly, obnoxiously, it became incredibly self-assured.
 
This Break knew that it would be ongoing,
Something without end unless I gained the motivation to,
Once more, become back in the habit,
And I will try perhaps, one of these days,
To pick up my favourite poets and read their masterpieces,
Because of two reasons:
I enjoy them, and, they will assist my understanding and feelings,
Emotions to project through my words that can taunt, tease, or please.
 
So, this poem,
Where I bemoan,
Is not so much any more of that,
I had assumed I would complain,
But,
Here are the workings of the frame,
I simply detail, detail, detail,
And my words,
My explanations,
Will hopefully,
In the future,
Become less of an excuse and frail,
I will pen something worthier onto my page.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay 

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