Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: poet

  • Poem: The Hummingbird – 25/02/20

    Poem: The Hummingbird – 25/02/20

    The hummingbird buzzes quietly,
She is home at last,
Without the combative competitive bees
Whispering in her ears
Deafening her as closer and closer they come
Because she is set to feed and sudden aggression
Comes over her
As she desires the delicious dining within the precious feeder
She needs
She requires
She must collect
She must consume
And these hissing whispering busy bees
Insist on playing in her outside room
Where she is meant to work
Never abstain
But be precise and retrieve
Her life is antisocial
But she must work around others
To achieve that which she yearns for
The truth
Her feed
Her sweetness
Dripping beak.    

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

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  • Poem: Geraniums – 24/02/20

    Poem: Geraniums – 24/02/20

    I glance at the geraniums,
It seems they glance sideways at me.
Some are happy, bubbly, cheery,
And others, they carry a known disease,
Of negativity among the cheer,
The mirth,
The banter,
The geraniums are not completely innocent,
No, some were willing to barter.
 
Some have exchanged their good looks for power,
The ability to glare and stare at us while we
Glance back and forth with horror,
At having come upon the enemies of the majority of these beauties,
Who have gone through struggles to rise above their
Common duties,
These beautiful flowers are not all cast in the light
Of wonder,
Because some made a willing trade,
Their morals and appearance have gone under.
 
Why would a flower trade for power?
What could a flower possibly do?
I do not know,
You do not know,
Perhaps the mystery here lies in the shrivelled petals
And leaves which are dying,
Silently begging to be pruned.
 
I suppose the deception coupled with the power that
A geranium has traded their beauty for
Could be simply this,
A rising,
A surging,
An engulfing whiteness,
An ability to make a viewer come completely undone.
 
The geraniums smile and smile away
And there are only a few within the bunch which
Could ruin our day.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by S. Hermann & F. Richter from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Those Few Hours – 22/02/20

    Poem: Those Few Hours – 22/02/20

    If only for a few hours,
I felt stable,
grounded,
calmed.
 
I could attribute it to absolutely nothing,
or I could attribute to it to something new.
 
Either way, there is significance in the repose I experience,
a chance from the unquiet,
the river that no longer runs untamed,
the stream that moves with whispered breaths,
gentle hums upon the page.
 
I am now not highly strung, irritated by the smallest stressor,
taking everything so seriously,
or allowing poor behaviour of others run free
in a manner ill and dour.
 
I do not permit others to speak to me as though I am nothing,
I forcefully admonish, without the wild anger flung about,
designation now of freedom.
 
I am a cheerful totalitarian today,
nothing will wear me down,
I am neither negatively affected by poor, misjudged humour,
offensive, though it may be.
 
My addition in my life, I’ll carefully hush the words to you,
may be creating a fictious approach, a solution,
or perhaps something real from me to you.
 
Either way,
I am cured of the results of insensitive speech which had become,
my amulet,
my strength,
my assessment of the moment,
I can clasp it in my wanting hands.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Melissa Askew on Unsplash

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  • Poem: I loved her from the moment she put pen to paper – 21/02/20

    Poem: I loved her from the moment she put pen to paper – 21/02/20

    I loved her from the moment she put pen to paper.
Her heartfelt poetry just sang and sang,
like a robin whose eggs have presently been laid,
a proud woman she is,
I loved her from the moment she put pen to paper.
 
She sought the times when her heart
ached, flowed, and ebbed,
she wrote and wrote of how her integrity had been exploited and foolishly spent,
her tales of young and old and precious emotions set in stone,
she quietly wonders to herself: will I ever be known?
I love her regardless, for the words she pens and owns.
 
Strike not the elements which assist her upon her path,
relish not the pain and suffering which she’ll detail as it
dwells, not departs,
and understand that she exposes beyond her flesh,
her raw insides,
her twisted bone, meat and sinew,
realise that she does this all
so she’s not required to live behind a guise.
 
I love her eternally for how she soars with and alongside her words,
peddles her emotions back and then forth,
makes them breathe with intent and love,
adoring her as she adores her world,
no matter how stiffly or difficult it can be at times
for it to turn.
 
World, spin upon your axis, so she can continue to thrive,
release her from her demons,
to detail the purging, exorcising, from her life!
Allow her to remain fiery yet soft,
tender and loved,
outspoken and muted,
all contradictions imbued.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Sparkles in the Skies – 21/02/20

    Poem: Sparkles in the Skies – 21/02/20

    I feel as though I’m being peeled,
exposed to the situation at hand.
Is it deception?
Was it an error?
A method to expose, tease, and apprehend?
 
I dislike lies, but perchance was she deceived in her own time,
this little lady to the left?
She wears sparkles upon her left hand;
her life’s a pantomime.
 
To the right of her, she offers a hand to those
within the room,
take care, gentlemen, she is indefatigable,
she’ll waltz all night,
dancing prettily,
flowery steps of thrice floating in the starlit skies.
 
Her sparkles, they light their path,
her and a lucky man,
the sizzling couple,
they’re entwined and they wouldn’t have it any other way.
                                                                           
But then she offers her glistening to another girl,
one slumped in the corner, in the shadows,
to brighten her way, and lighten the load of her heart,
do these lights need to be genuine to command her enlivening intent?
Do they need to sparkle in a manner that screams lavish,
without nonsense?
 
The truth is that whichever sparkles are offered
to this poor girl, 
tucked away in her own folds of darkness,
should be humbly appreciated, accepted and loved,
never mind the illusory dancer,
she is creating her own sense of candour and honour
through providing steadily, 
yet seemingly inconsequentially to a needy other.
   
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by cocoparisienne from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Unease – 20/02/20

    Poem: Unease – 20/02/20

    The feeling I get when attending is one of great unease.
I have not been here for long, but my heart pitter-patters,
fluttering in the breeze.
 
Why am I so nervous?
I used to attend and be present many, many times,
a feeling of stupendous awakening?
I’m unsure of this,
though I’ll be brave and allow myself to stay,
I must try.
 
What worries me are certain memories,
but surely, they will not return,
quietness is now overwhelming,
there is only me at the helm,
for I am the one steering the course of my ship,
and if I’m tired, I’ll lend the movements to another,
closer to me,
perhaps a type of kin,
then, he or she, will look after the helm,
and allow me to soar, higher than the fear I feel within.
 
There’s nothing to fear when I can hold myself near,
hold myself together,
or allow the movements of another.
I can allow a being to help me be fixed piece by piece,
because this feeling of unease will soon no longer be with me.

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

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  • Poem: Drifting – 19/02/20

    Poem: Drifting – 19/02/20

    I float above the surface,
Like a piece of driftwood, an otter, a daring platypus,
I rise to the challenge,
God, you know I’m here listening for you like I should.
 
I’ve risen to the moment,
Where I can drift along the water,
Towards the shore,
Certain in myself that this path I’m undertaking
Is finally the right one,
And it’ll be eternal,
Not blunted or short.
 
I will seek the advice of the angels within my life,
The living beings,
Brought forth to assist me,
They have gathered around my dying body many a time
And arisen I have become, always been,
Perhaps I have been blessed by someone divine.
 
I have always been saved,
From the damage of my hand or by others’ wicked ways,
And I thank you, dear Father,
Because of your divine intervention,
Seamless and true,
Without sight of stitch nor glue,
You, are the correct path,
I must herald myself unto.
 
With my guides and my angels
Perhaps I’ll find the right avenues to take,
To this blessed acceptance and awakening
And acknowledgement,
The three A’s,
Cast aside is the need for attention,
I’m now happily quiet within myself,
I need not their eyes staring or voices blatant calling,
I’ve been through that long ago.
 
But this decision I have made,
I have not made it lightly,
And I trust,
I do trust,
That I will traverse the journey wholly.

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

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  • Poem: Scent by the Hearth – 19/02/20

    Poem: Scent by the Hearth – 19/02/20

    I remember the scent by the hearth,
where you and I laid that night.
The sweet oil of ylang ylang permeating,
Heavenly, unique.
 
My heart, it beat wildly from your touch,
there was nothing I wanted more,
and as our feet entwined by flickering flames encased only
by metal and heated glass,
I wonder now, did you feel the same?
 
The emotions,
a sense of wild abandon,
a striking feeling between my shoulder blades,
as though I’d been sledged in the middle,
split into two,
one piece for me,
and the other for you.
 
Then with your magical touch I would conjoin once more,
become the woman that you’ve always loved and adored,
and now I understand that it can take a mere whiff of a scent to
dredge up a wanted memory,
from something, somewhere, that was encased so pretty.
 
By the hearth, my dear, is how I most remember you,
by the fire,
wild and free,
flames flickering with ease,
and I can smell that carrier oil,
which we used in its purest form,
to tide the gentlest touches into firmer movements
with dexterity
until the morn.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by judenicholson from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Treasures of Time – 18/02/20

    Poem: Treasures of Time – 18/02/20

    I treasure them like a baby treasures his first blankie,
I hold them close and stroke them gently,
calmly, lovingly.
 
I understand that we may not
remain together always,
that soon I will be too overgrown
to walk with them in public,
that I must instead shy away from their presence and
observe them only in the dimness of my room.
 
These sparkling moments,
these memories I treasure,
will not remain with me forever,
but sooner enough I will trip with them,
I will surely falter.
 
Because while clutching onto the past
could prove a wondrous thing
an analysis of everything that occurred
may create a sense of longing,
and what I find most extraordinary is that
if I chose to live in my memories,
in my dreams,
then how could I possible live and exist in the present?
 
In the future I could not surmise of my effects caused from
a behaviour of the present,
and determining how forth I will go
is really, well, a challenge.
 
Clutching onto straws, sucking the marrow from the past,
the richness, its richness, undying, those moments are,
and I smile to myself, finally realising that we in ourselves
can be way too much to put up with, even for ourselves,
and dust to dust we will become,
our memories now disintegrated, gone, disregearded.
 
At least we tried to reign them in,
protect them all along.  
Image by Michal Jarmoluk from Pixabay
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

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  • 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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