Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: poetry

  • Poem: Welcomed Home – Text and Audio – 16/07/20

    Poem: Welcomed Home – Text and Audio – 16/07/20

    I welcome the rain,
it is cleansing away
the angst which seems to be
my permanent ailment.
 
I welcome its wash,
its ability to stream away
the grime of yesterdays.
 
I invite its arrival
for I know the longer I remain
being whittled away by
little droplets
hollowing me all around,
the more worthy I will feel,
with my brave ability to hold 
my head high with a beaming smile.
 
I grow emotional,
one eye – only the right –
tears up,
it is my regretful side,
the side I led with most,
my foot which began all
ill-fated travels,
paths which I took.
 
Right before left, I’d always
say in my head,
for some reason, the phrase stuck,
right before left,
not left before right,
still rings within my mind.
 
I throw off my outer layers,
step, with left foot,
further into the pummelling rain,
it is strangely pleasant,
its attack,
I’ve tuned out;
it’s mostly dulled, numbing pain.
 
In fact, it’s rather like a
needling sensation,
or what I’d imagine it to be,
the harsh drops begin to fall on an angle,
as though wanting to wash closer
with dire haste toward me.
 
I feel my skin begin to loosen,
or is it bubbling now?
Increased pain,
it’s probably for the best I shed
this outer skin,
for I am developing within,
a physical transformation will reflect this somehow.
 
My anguish is now lacking
as I peel back sheets of my bare layer,
I am a monstrosity, but I don’t mind,
I’ll eventually heal from this indelicate picture.
 
Pieces of me upon the ground, 
pieces of me all around,
away from myself!
Now I’m pink,
fresh-skinned,
a bare-faced woman soon to be welcomed home.

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

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  • Poem: Good Samaritans – 16/07/20

    Poem: Good Samaritans – 16/07/20

    Who is the Good Samaritan
in your life?
 
Hiding around corners,
quiet until
you’re experiencing strife?
 
Say you feel
your heart
erratically pounding,
left armpit paining,
and you fall, broken,
gasping desperately
to your knees,
 
who is the stranger
who steps forth,
up and ahead,
begins resuscitation,
breathing life
into your hungering lungs,
to keep going that massive, 
yet weakening heart?
 
Who remains calm,
attends to you,
keeping panic from your mind,
helps you focus on 
the positive things instead,
such as the future of your life?
 
You’re a good Samaritan, too,
you’ll help out
humankind where
you can,
 
anyone in pain
or suffering,
of course, within reason,
you’ll extend a helping hand.
 
I think within
us all –
most of us –
there is the propensity,
the desire to help,
 
to ensure the ailing,
the suffering,
the despairing, saddened, or sick
are attended to,
with a sense of hope and care ongoing.
 
Empathy is within
most of us,
given the opportunity
I’m sure we’d
want to help,
 
to better another's
circumstances,
or are my thoughts far
too positive?
I do not wish to overwhelm.
 
But I hold hope
for the general populace,
their empathy,
emotional intelligence held,
whether developed 
rapidly or slowly,
 
underneath we’re all
Good-Samaritans-to-be,
even if some of you think
mine is an idealistic dream.

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

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  • Poem: The Irritated Sleep Poem – 16/07/20

    Poem: The Irritated Sleep Poem – 16/07/20

    I am tired,
exhausted,
feels like I barely slept a wink.
 
I don’t know who
wakes me,
but I stumble up and down
for a thirst-quenching drink,
 
my slumber interrupted,
four am or half past two,
what can I do
to simply sleep through?
Do I need to beat my pillow to tire myself,
until my knuckles turn raw red, or black and blue?
 
I operate through days like a zombie,
lidded eyes,
confused and grumbling,
 
wanting to get through the day,
yet all I’ll do is sleep it away,
I curl on the couch
though heater’s on,
I’m still freezing,
come what may, hey?
 
My rigid form
encourages only stilted blood flow,
if I moved more, I would warm up
but I only want to curl up just so.
 
My attitude easily becomes belligerent,
my irritation arises,
I need uninterrupted sleep, just once,
goddamn it,
how can I sort this problem out right???

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

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  • Poem: Ballerina in a Box – Audio and Text – 16/07/20

    Poem: Ballerina in a Box – Audio and Text – 16/07/20

    “Ballerina in a Box”
    Flickers in her eyes
like candlelit fairy lights,
a pair of wings of gossamer,
she breathes and heaves her magic all over,
lightness is present all around.
 
Her sparkles cover her fragile form,
yet ignorant or impervious are those
who refuse her sight
and her magnificent airy sound,
then all of a sudden, a box slams!

Something hits the ground.
 
She’s captured
like a ballerina,
presented in a crass jewellery box,
whom dances in circles and circles all around,
all day and all night and all the same.
 
She adheres to certain requirements,
the lightness,
the frail form, she meets their expectant looks,
but her interior melody is strong,
well composed,
and her heart, it has its own set of wings, too.
 
She leaps and bounds and twirls
around societal requirements
more and more,
she weaves dictated beauty before scrutiny 
as though ribbons which dance in the wind and 
plait themselves further together,
favourite colours of pink, yellow, blue, purple, and green.
 
But, Ballerina, dear dancer! 
Once born a free sprite,
tied down, though maybe not,
she won’t allow expectations
to make her stagnant,
her jewellery box to rot,
she is impeded, somewhat,
though if necessary,
she knows how to leave,
it sounds simpler than reality,
more often than not.
 
She'll simply stop spinning her pirouette,
become still once more,
and those observers,
with their child-like wonder
will soon grow bored of her;
close they will her Reality’s door.
 
Magically, she may return to a sprite,
wings of glittering gossamer,
free to take her flight,
and flickers in her widened eyes
which will dance and flare like delicate flames
aided by greedy kerosene.

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

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  • Poem: A Meandering Path – 14/07/20

    Poem: A Meandering Path – 14/07/20

    Meandering,
I take a walk down
Future’s Lane,
to view what’s on offer,
what goodies can I take?
 
To pluck from the bushes,
to gather from the trees,
elegant prizes which await me,
I need not beg,
nor lower myself to my knees.
 
For my future seems rich,
not with pennies or gold,
but with strength and
well-formed experiences,
they’re settled,
they’re silver, poetry and prose,
platinum and palladium,
I need not worry about golden views.
 
For the kingdom which beckons
and calls out my name,
from Future’s path
winding path to it from which I came,
it is modest,
it is small,
but perfect for me
and my quiet heart alone.
 
I’ve plucked the fruits
from the trees,
scrambled past brambles and briars
where curious-eyed rabbits rest,
awaiting me,
but within my kingdom,
is something only which I know of its name.
 
It is Freedom,
personal freedom,
to be as I wish and I will,
 
he’s a powerful soldier,
he’s waited for years,
and now, we are linked,
acceptance all the same.
 
I’m surprised he knows
me by name,
an excited fan’s moment,
mutual admiration
as he explains,
 
“I waited many years for you,
for your heart and courage
to expand,
as the entity I am,
you need not hold
my hand,
 
but you have arrived,
you’ll understand this more
as you continue growing on your journey,
your path.”
 
I smile to myself, I have my match,
he is here presenting a viewpoint,
offering what my path can be,
his freedom, my freedom, I could firmly grasp,
 
but then I realise,
I am already free,
because I have travelled near and far,
and to this Future, and seen what I have seen.
 
Thus, I will return to the present,
with this knowledge that now, not with time,
I already possess the courage and freedom
to live my life,

with honesty, strength and courage,
no one possesses my life other than me,
I am who I am,
I am alive, I am free.

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

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  • Poem: Unhealthy: A Confession – Spoken Word and Text – 14/07/20

    Poem: Unhealthy: A Confession – Spoken Word and Text – 14/07/20

    Audio: Unhealthy
    I am appalled,
I have failed to secure or retain
a personal connection,
a fallen notion,
an untidy, needy calling.

Why does my desire to be considered,
to be seen without trigger
exist, a stifling need woven like poison ivy
around a body and mind so disheartened?

How to dispel my lofty expectations
and allow the rain
to fall upon myself,
some cleansing gratitude,
I have spoken of this before,
now again this needs to be acknowledged,
deemed as righteous self-care and to the core.

My eyelids begin to droop,
my mind has abruptly flipped its switch,
medication has settled in,
it may be time to cease this
emotional barrage,
I’m disrupted behind this blank, calm mask,
no, now is the time for my redemption,
I’ve struggled to be myself,
to not lean upon others for self-worth;
I’ve been like this for years.

Caring eternally for opinions
can be stifling and drain the life from me,
even those whom I shouldn’t care for,
shouldn’t be concerned about nor mind,
I'll secretly consider what’s on their minds,
though we may be different,
we are still from the same ilk,
members of humankind.

A collective smile,
a happy family of viewers,
then frowns and bemused looks from
some unmoved, disapproving beings,
subtle trends of purposeful silence,
I am not subtle,
I am loud, and proud, and obnoxious
or at least that’s how I portray the dramatics.

Because, this is who I am,
it is a prickly part of me,
the indelicate balance of showy
need for approval,
for acknowledgement,
with the desire to be
proud and confident and not care,
at least neediness has lessened over the years.

But what pains me most is that
I cannot stop caring,
be it due to my annoyance or curiosity,
I want to please others,
so much so that it’s unhealthy.

I could sit before a psychologist and
allow myself to be willingly
scrutinised and analysed,
but, I view no point in this,
these traits are heavily ingrained in me.

Through years and encounters of 
desperately desired equality,
having been taken for a ride
because my mind was immature,
naive,
self-esteem fragile,
I was unwitting.

Thank God I'm finally waking up.

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

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  • Poem: Conclusions – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Poem: Conclusions – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Audio: Conclusions
    When conclusions are reached,
my being sings a triumphant song,
we’ve set aside our differences,
placed them out to pasture,
pains thrust aside,
almost forgotten all along.
 
There’s no irritation lingering,
no passive aggressive disease,
poor judgemental words pounding,
understanding ill, reactive behaviour
for what it is.
 
And tirades and mutual disrespect
have been left crumbling
in the dust,
anger does not propel and further,
resolve is stronger,
admiration and mutual support are clearer.
 
Because what would we be
if we didn’t occasionally
stumble and fall,
there’s no need to crawl back
to one another,
we only temporarily lost our enthrall.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Ron van den Berg from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Blessed – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Poem: Blessed – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Audio: Blessed 
    I am blessed here,
in a home so warm and loving,
no matter if it’s empty,
aside from myself,
I can feel the love lingering,
it is forthcoming.

It reaches,
grabs hold like little hungry fingers
would reach for a
snack or chocky milk,
enveloping around me,
arms tight and strong
and true,
like a relationship that
may not fall apart
because the path there was willingly learned,
to be calm and respectful, too.

I am quiet here,
though my fingers tap and compose,
I am strong here,
I don’t need the scent of mature, picked lilies or daffodils,
a single beautiful rose.

I’ve suffered in silence,
and I’ve been subjected to much,
but I won’t allow rigid experiences to permeate any further,
I’ve been in a dither, I’ve been bothered,
and honestly now I am
blessed in this house,
upon all hours.

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

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  • Poem: An Illusion – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Poem: An Illusion – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Audio: An Illusion
    My hands present as aged and weary,
my flesh paper-thin and melting 
like an image of Salvador Dali’s,
with bones like soft honeycomb,
where bees cheerfully settle in.

Their wings frantically beat
they seek nectar from the rhythm,
the rhythm,
hands slowly try itching them away,
off my skin,
away from an arm which they travel upwards,
ignoring my slow decay.

Other insects join in,
stinging mosquitoes,
beautiful butterflies
who live but three days without sin,
it’s rather unlike the diaries of old,
to go three days without intentional error
would utterly amaze.

The bees are now concerned,
combatted by the wasp
whose angry demeanour wishes to fight
my friends,
in my shin’s honeycomb land,
the buzzing, the droning,
whom will succeed at their intent?
At securing a home of marrow-less matrimony?

A fly settles on the wall of my wrist,
sardonically smiling,
he decides to join in the violent tryst
of bee upon enemy
upon melting candle-wax skin,
dream-like
or like a nightmare,
reality is falling.

In the heaviness of a veil
which draws itself away from my subconscious,
I'm once more myself,
no more strange images,
curious bees
butterflies, maddened mosquitoes,
wasps whom will not leave.

My bones are themselves again,
full and not deprived,
weariness dissipated and skin almost
pristine,
I am alive.

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

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  • Poem: The Din – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Poem: The Din – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Audio: The Din
    Filter the rain from the mountaintops,
where acidic droplets beat down,
an acrid taste,
a burning sensation
of skin besieged by astringent vowels.
 
This was not intended,
though this was required,  
her purging,
pairs of eager, shiny boots
step forth,
 
the small crimson soldiers attack,
an internal awakening
as hearts and minds ache,
hers will visibly crack,
it’s not only her sufferings that stun,
it’s her experiences, too.
 
Their blood lust for her mind,
they wish to invade,
pillage,
and never give back,
these blood-stained soldiers, miniature beings,
worth nothing alone,
yet together,
they could save lives, if agreeable to this.
 
Yet they press forth,
through her skin they pierce,
there’s nothing to do with permission here,
her thoughts, they appropriate themselves at their will,
care and concern are remiss.
 
Staining upon her clothing,
staining upon her skin,
her purged catharsis,
unwittingly melded,
she flails,
she falls,
to their silent din.
 
The vibrations are enough
to cause her cacophony,
she will lay here until dawn rises,
quietly still,
until it's the morning.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by 3321704 from Pixabay

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