Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: poetry

  • Poem: They Can Try – 23/06/20

    Poem: They Can Try – 23/06/20

    Sometimes in this life,
you’ll come across
people who want to
bring you down.
 
To place you lower
than themselves,
denigrate,
control your voice,
mute your sound.
 
They may be able
to control within
a certain realm,
where cavalry
and royalty
exist where they live,
 
but they cannot
snatch the fight from you,
your opportunity
to present your facts,
to fervently express,
to succinctly speak.
 
Perhaps you’re unaccepted in
their built-up kingdom,
but the fact of the
matter is, 
I’m not sinking,
I don’t need saving.
 
Am I a pesky person
for sharing on and on
at length,
confessions in the form of
poetry,
blunt or flowery,
sometimes thicker than timber,
facts to be saved, learned or relived?
 
Is this a crime or sin?
 
I shan’t allow
the silencing to have
any ill effect,
 
if I’m not welcome,
I’m unwelcome,
an ironic fact this is.
 
I shall carry on,
carry on,
I don’t need to
share when words
are halted by others,
I’ll accept the apparent ruse,
 
and right the wrongs
by continuing to
share as I see fit,
I have my own space
for poetic compositions and tunes.

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

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  • Poem: The Mirror: In-Between and Afar – 23/06/20

    Poem: The Mirror: In-Between and Afar – 23/06/20

    I drag out my colours,
many hues to
create a show,
 
A popularity contest?
Or a forceful appearance?
How will the audience react?
Perhaps I already know.
 
I begin to create,
build the underpainting,
of the basics
of that face,
 
that wide-eyed,
mildly shocked expression
that shows she’s 
realised something,
or that some fact has her
strangely amazed.
 
Painstakingly – no!
Haphazardly yes!
Do I slap on her colours,
her pigments,

she’s really shaping up
to be a
beautiful one, you see,
tinges of 
hot then cool colours; 
convergence.
 
Borne of chaos,
borne of haste,
her hues shimmer,
her tones scintillate,
 
they really create that
visual realm
where we are
taken on a journey –
her journey –
but where did she travel?

No one knows but me.

Because as I look in the mirror
to reference the
painterly revelation
of my personality,
its travel, 
my development
here upon this Earth,
 
I smile to myself,
for the chaos has settled,
inner beauty and outward wonder
in my life have appeared,
they have shown their faces
at last.
 
Now the shades begin
to seamlessly blend,
coagulation of tints,
colours melt,
warming trends,
 
the appreciation in this
character’s eyes
for her world
is plain for all
to see.
 
Relaxed shoulders and posture,
thankful, ever grateful,
for the ability of self-development
and the ability to finally feel
so free.
 
From a frenzied presence
to a gracious, determined being,
for life’s progression and lessons
I thank my lucky stars,

I adore how life
has allowed much growth so far,
and my eyes,
those painterly eyes,
are staring right back at me,

no longer hollow or aching,
widened or shocked
but knowing,

understanding what’s beyond for
her and myself,
in the future,
in our Afar,

our qualities, our realities,
our emotional experiences,
this is the priceless wealth
of the land of In-between,
melded, we finally are.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo: myself 
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    Poem: Gnawing Nails – 22/06/20
    
			
    Poem: Gnawing Nails – 22/06/20
    
			
    

    




    Fingernails ache
from gnawing,
desperately famished
things are they,
 
ever-searching,
ever-hunting,
for fresh flesh
to drag into –
carefully they will
take aim.
 
These nails are not
discerning,
they take,
rip apart,
any creature that they can,
 
fury, famine,
circumstances,
alleviating hunger,
annihilating the need for Man.
 
Man used to feed
these monsters
perishable items
from the woods,
 
cuts of venison,
moose,
rabbit;
the fingernails took
what they could.
 
But now Man is
out of the picture,
attending to protests,
restrictions,
leading disrupted lives,
 
Man has no time
to humour a pair
of dirty, scroungy hands,
no, not now,
not upon this hour,
not any longer.
 
Fending for themselves,
the gory extremities
cast their digits
on the war path,
 
feeling duly pleased
with the freedom
they’re allowed,
 
there is no concern,
they are rulers of
their world.
 
In the corner of
a trench in the woods
they spot a flash
of browny-red,
 
a squirrel,
bless him,
he’s making his final bed,
 
they reach out for him,
darting forth,
blurs to be seen,
 
but when the light settles,
there is no sign of him.
 
Squirrel, Squirrel,
has escaped his fate,
how much longer will he last?
 
Disappointed fingertips,
tap, rap, tap,
underlying hunger,
growing famine,
 
only now do they long for,
yearn for the return 
of their precious, absent
Man.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
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    Poem: The Thundering Waves – Spoken Word and Text – 22/06/20
    
			
    Poem: The Thundering Waves – Spoken Word and Text – 22/06/20
    
			
    

    




    

    

    




    The quiet solitude
as waves roll in,
their silent crescendos,
thundering vibrations
only I can feel within.
 
The rumbling of
their presence
marks tremulous
tumultuous moments,
fear impending,
a sense of doom
all around.
 
When did I
sign up for
this battlefield?
 
One in which
only I
can sense and
anticipate,
but with not a
shred of volume
to warn
as my heavy breaths
heave and leave.
 
The desperate notion
of reaching forth
for something
that’s invisible,
only sensed,
not heard or
or even seen.
 
The waves,
their raucous fights,
go frightfully
in my night
as I toss and turn
inherent confusion: –
impeded sight.
 
I grasp ahead,
feeling for safety,
though the nothingness
meets me,
my desire for freedom
is far too hasty.
 
I spin and spin,
vertigo in my head,
a woman in distress,
instead of feeling
calm,
well-rested,
blessed.
 
These thunderous
waves of consciousness
roll on and on,
and on,
may I please
escape from them?
 
Or be hailed by
heavy reliving of
a personal, solitary hell.
 
The vibrations chase me
in my dreams,
as yonder, yonder,
I fervently reach,
 
Will I live to tell my tales?
Will the waves crash on opposing shores?
I can only hope they’ll recede,
if not,
I’ll fend them off with
primal roars.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by Dimitris Vetsikas from Pixabay
Recording: Myself

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    Poem: Yesterday’s News – 20/06/20
    
			
    Poem: Yesterday’s News – 20/06/20
    
			
    

    




    Why would I want
yesterday’s news?
Through stale headlines
I’d peruse,
 
collecting well-learned facts,
impact flatter than a tack,
what am I to do
with yesterday’s news?
 
Just yesterday,
headlines stunned,
they proved 
others’ wrongs,

what was going on
in people’s
calm, proud, or contentious
lives,
 
but, tell me this,
my interest’s amiss,
I only have bright eyes 
for today’s worldly affairs,
you see!
 
Tired old news
has no place,
the bold, firm,
new headlines
taking shape!
 
And what to do
with saggy, bitter news?
Throw those headlines
to the wolves,
unless for them,
our curiosity
still has a use.
 
So, turn the pages of The Age
or Herald Sun,
the Sydney Morning Herald,
or perhaps
a local one,
 
absorb news of
terrible catastrophes,
learn bold statistics,
market growth,
the rise or fall of the
temperamental Dow Jones,
 
then wait until
tomorrow,
when new ink
will tell fresh tales,
 
different notes,
different tones,
fresh truths
to inform and overwhelm,
 
then, we will eagerly devour
the new words
as though we’ve never
seen such interesting detail,
why, won’t we be so informed?
So well-read, so many facts to tell?
 
By tomorrow,
today’s news will be
tired facts,
 
we’ll await
the new morning,
a mass of words
presented to greedy eyes
and hungry hands.
 
But, perhaps all facts still
retain their importance,
no matter their age or relevance,
 
maybe there’s no such thing as
“yesterday’s news”,
either then, tomorrow, or today,

some facts remain as 
important facts,
of this truth I already knew,

apparent judgements withdrawn,
null and void,
perhaps some of yesterday's news
can stay.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Pexels from Pixabay
 
    




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    Poem: The Farce – 20/06/20
    
			
    Poem: The Farce – 20/06/20
    
			
    

    




    There are days
when I feel incredibly down,
I can’t turn the corners and curves
of my mind
back up and around,
 
my stage presence is moot,
I’d like to crawl back in the pages
of my life’s former books,
and relive the wonderful stages.
 
But I cannot control myself,
my miserable entity
seems intent on being
desperately distraught and utterly contrary.
 
These pages upon which I stand,
I used to dance, flip, make cartwheels
of fun,
the best I’d ever had.
 
But now I am temperamental,
grouchy,
a modern-day grump,
have I reached a plateau?
I’ve simply had enough.
 
What is the use
in whimpering and wallowing,
so depressive these pages
surely are to read?
 
I cannot fathom
why the sudden mood change?
From a joyous high
to catastrophic dips.
 
I’d like to be happier,
cheerful like during
the days, weeks, months prior,
 
but my soul seems intent on
allowing itself to have something, unseen,
dragging it down.
 
I force my eyes to brighten,
to beam a vivid, gleaming smile,
perhaps I can seduce the crowd
into believing this farce for a while.
 
Then the mask slips,
they quickly realise who and what I am,
a woman in costume,
bearing herself,
revealing, with little success,
the best side that she can.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
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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. 
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    Poem: Releasing A Grudge – 19/06/20
    
			
    Poem: Releasing A Grudge – 19/06/20
    
			
    

    




    It’s petty, I know,
to hold a grudge,
not letting go,
clinging to ill feelings of something,
 
a wrongdoing,
an incorrect action,
a misdeed,
 
but if I won’t let go,
aren’t I the only one suffering?
 
While the perpetrator
walks, scot-free,
happily the other way,
 
nothing dragging down
their conscience,
they have no
sense of guilt,
 
why,
what could I expect
they’d have to say?
 
It’s irrelevant, and silly, and stupid
to expect remorse,
when the only person
who really needs to breathe
and let go,
with a calm exhalation
is myself.
 
Free I shall be
of any niggling irritation,
free of internal annoyance,

when we stop expecting
something from others,
that’s when we regain
our sense of personal power.
 
No more holding onto these grudges,
what’s the use in priming these patterns
within the cage of my mind?
 
Inside I must reach forth,
practice forgiveness,
some actions will lighten the load,
make me feel that much more
brought to life,
the lessons learned of old.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
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    Poem: A Moon’s Search – 18/06/20
    
			
    Poem: A Moon’s Search – 18/06/20
    
			
    

    




    I stare at the moon,
she is full
and round
as you can see,
 
beautiful, chubby
smiling cheeks,
glowing luminescence,
she is so free.
 
She travels through
the night hoping
to gain her 
sought-after company,
 
Sun, Sun, Sun,
when will you come,
and make this moon feel
so complete?
She requests you hurry!
 
She searches high,
she searches low,
but his presence isn’t revealed,
not on show.
 
Where is this Romeo
to her hopeful smile,
will he return? –
surprise! –
in a little while?
 
After a night spent trudging,
though tirelessly travelling,
inspecting every inch
of the cosmos,
 
she searched arduously
but now
sadness and despair,
of her overwhelmed state,
none can deny.
 
(Have you ever seen a moon cry?
Nor had I,
but there’s always a
first for some things.)
 
But there is this
tiny window
of opportunity,
of allotted time,
during which Sun and Moon’s
paths will cross,
 
Ecstatic be they both!
Lovers reunite,
kisses upon healthy cheeks,
delicate mouths and lips,
and openly appreciative, 
fervent eyes.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
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    Poem: When She Comes Undone – Spoken Word and Text – 18/06/20
    
			
    Poem: When She Comes Undone – Spoken Word and Text – 18/06/20
    
			
    

    




    




    She’s had enough.
Life, with its cruel measures, 
she’s defeated,
broken,
dare say surpassed
feeling rough, 

her thoughts may not terrify,
but they will reveal
salted, open wounds.

What is the point
in detailing mediocre thoughts,
some things which,
in the moment,
seemed thoughtful,
and loving,
caring, or clever,

but of these qualities,
her thoughts are apparently not.

Instead she’s left
with a soupy rendition
of a mirroring of
words that seem to
fail to impress,
 
for herself, she cannot bear to even
re-read them,
unworthy they are to share.

Just a joke,
self-doubt overwhelms,
such a malignant disease
it is,

she wallows,
bitter in the circumstances,
she solemnly nurses her hot cup of tea.

The sponge,
its creative cells within her,
that assisted her cushioned absorption
of her many internal tunes
is now blackened
with thick sludge,
her ideas stagnant,
left to rot while they remain disused.

Who is she
to pull herself out
from this torture,
this slow drowning in
grudge, sludge and grime,
of phrases and turns which
really aren’t that bold?

Will she return to her true self 
with time?

She once believed herself
to be an enigma,
misterioso, a chameleon,
alter herself at will,

now she is just herself,
hollowed and despairing,
thoughts no longer
flitting amongst the trees,

rather she’s dragging herself
by her hands,
crawling painfully on
chaffed knees.

She guesses this is what
living means today,
on this day,
at least for her,

salted wounds,
depression,
its lingering gloom,
has long ago set in.    

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Jerzy Górecki from Pixabay 
Audio: Myself.
    




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