Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: poetry

  • Poem: An Early Ode for Mother’s Day – 09/05/20

    Poem: An Early Ode for Mother’s Day – 09/05/20

    While we are separate,
our hearts are still all together.
We reach for means to communicate,
to strengthen the bonds between one another.
 
No matter the distance between us,
we know, we feel, we understand
that we are only a breath, a second away,
for those who are near and dear to us –
they are not so terribly far away.
 
We smile at each other through the pixel cameras,
we hear the hearty tone of laughter enrich the conversations,
we hear the witty banter,
the decidedly clever nattering,
of young, middle aged and old.
 
We care for those through these calls,
no matter that we cannot visit,
and if we try, we’ll see them through window panes,
smiling and waving again and again.
 
Separation is difficult,
it drains us, weighs heavily,
but it is for the better of all,
and soon, in the future,
hopefully there will be tentative good news
that a leader will be bringing.
 
But for now, allow us to keep one another in
our hearts and minds,
those bouquets of flowers glorified and bright,
delivered to cause great smiles,
Happy Mother’s Day tomorrow for all,
may all mums feel wonderful, appreciated,
no matter whether tomorrow or another date,
loved every day and every night.  
  
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by annca from Pixabay

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  • Poem: The Mauve Gown – 08/05/20

    I need to stop
I tell myself,
I need to stop this now,
the needle pulling through the silk,
the soft material.
 
I can’t keep sewing,
creating, making,
while my heartbeat thuds and pounds,
the danger’s lurking,
my task’s undertaken,
can I truly wear this garment loud and proud?
 
To them it announces revolt,
to me it signifies freedom,
those bright mauve tatters
sewn into sheets of beautiful layers,
ever so silken.
 
And I will wear them with pride,
without embarrassment,
no need to hide,
my fingers,
my thumbs,
pricked many a-time,
 
They will try to tear me down,
but this is not their time,
I will rejoice,
for my hard work,
all so damned sublime.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Bruno /Germany from Pixabay

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  • Poem: When Words Won’t Speak – 06/05/20

    Poem: When Words Won’t Speak – 06/05/20

    When words won’t speak, 
colours do,
vibrant splashes,
moody shadows,
emotive characters,
abstract patterns.
 
When I cannot find the right letters,
or when I simply stutter,
I bring forth emotional therapy,
brilliant shades bleeding with highlights
or slices of calming, iridescent colour. 
 
Sometimes nothing lyrical comes out, 
and I’m left with a blank, cursed page, 
or attempts of controlled cursive crossed out, 
never for anyone to view.

Or there are other types of words, 
they ramble and demand,
intended for others to experience,
to see, 
their rawness brought about by
my hastily scrawling hand,
interpretation intentionally difficult,
I wait, I hope, I breathe. 
 
But in such a situation, I doubt myself, 
my words may prove too harsh, 
best translate them into a form of visual art,
where it’s less specific, 
less obvious what I'm trying 
to place on show.
 
Less fervent will the story be
for I can disguise the dramatics 
and roll on and along 
with the waves of emotion
'til the process of ambiguity
makes my words fit for public consumption - 
 
images filled to the brim, 
a certain crescent rising,
a personal triumph sent,
 
an explosion of hues, 
of brushstrokes,
of textures, of layers, 
that have been expelled from deep within.

I am now tentatively pleased, 
the story has been told, 
by shades and highlights, 
bright and bold, 

I have created a scene
without a single word, 
the speckles, 
the explosions, 
the colours I'll live and breathe
until I'm frail and old,
this process is a priceless passion. 

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

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  • Poem: A Curious Moth’s Cycle – 01/05/20

    Poem: A Curious Moth’s Cycle – 01/05/20

    The moth is drawn to the flame,
curious though tentative 
he dances,
he flits closer,
the heat scorches –
away, away!
 
Although his wing is singed
he cannot cease his wondering,
in his mind he feels he must
continue to draw closer,
nearer,
until he’s sizzling in a second,
both his wings in 
devastatingly smouldering tatters.
 
The other insects,
they mourn their inquisitive friend 
from the ground,
but what else could they have expected
from a being 
perpetually drawn to the light?
 
It was the moth’s downfall 
to be so hopeful,
to wish to be near a force so dazzling
that it would only burn out 
his own light:
 
an ending
by that impermanent deathly flicker,
the poor moth’s obliterated picture,
a life cast aside by his final fateful flight,
what more than sadness and grief 
could it have delivered?
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Andreas Lischka from Pixabay

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  • Poem: The Grumbling Instability – 30/04/20

    Poem: The Grumbling Instability – 30/04/20

    Instability,
a grumbling temperament grows,
like rolling waves crashing on suicidal rocks,
the aftermath is broken froth,
a bubbling foam of doom.
 
But there is no true destruction yet,
the cascading curling of blue
promised a cushioned fall,
one where anger and misjudgement
could press or
roll away
those points of migraines elsewhere.
 
The headaches which can coexist
when communication is unstable
can mutually present
persisting annoyance –
how to return to how the moods
once were?
 
The light-hearted livelihood,
the bright, jovial moments
which were frequently had?
 
I can see a path;
I can envisage a line of dance
in which temperamental or
agitated thoughts no longer
need to rise and flit,
 
no reactionary measures,
self-defensive songs or tunes,
just easy going,
casual conversation,
won’t the present tension ease itself soon?
 
Then there can be that wonderful chatter,
banter without being bogged down
by irritation at what was or may have
been meant,
 
alluded to,
insinuated,
perhaps it’s read into far too much –
what is desired is for discourse
to return to how it once was.
 
Then peace making is spoken of,
we lay down our arms,
our bitter, sharp, jaded words,
our underlying sarcasm,
our clipped mannerisms,
 
we relearn how to speak with softness,
with the delicacy that comes with the embrace
of well-chosen words,
we return to being kinder and remembering why
these conversations are undertaken.  
 
A stability now present,
we have combed out the tangles,
the mane of conversation is thick,
lush,
lustrous and wanted,

we discuss the darnedest of things,
shimmer with a joyful, playful mood,
and suddenly gone is the negativity
which had crept into
each other's respective mental rooms.

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

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  • Poem: It is Decidedly So – 29/04/20

    Poem: It is Decidedly So – 29/04/20

    “It is decidedly so,” her mother speaks,
she smiles with warmth in her tone.
A kind welcome
is assured,
the woman’s feelings strong, heartfelt,
well grown.

The kingdom has gathered to
witness and bless this young babe,
her cooing and calling for Mother
draw attention and affection her way.
 
While a wild gust of wind could blow this scene away,
there is hope on the horizon
for this newborn,
society’s requests have not been forgotten,
their blessings for her will be spoken.
 
They wish for her:
long life,
prosperity,
intelligence,
beauty and bravery,
 
but if these wishes for her
were not enough
a grinning godmother approaches,
her eyes lit up –
is she deranged?
Or is she delighted to speak,
moved to promise the child even more?
 
“I wish you the truest love,”
she begins,
with a slight inflection in her tone,
head cocked curiously to the side,
she glances over at the two royal thrones.
 
“Love in its truest form shall make you alive,
cause you to excitedly feel,
and the memories of a childhood will then be lost
and simply fall away.
 
Begone the memories well-constructed,
of timely family events and moments,
of kingdom comes and open loving arms,
decidedly it is so,
decidedly it is… -"
 
And the evil godmother was knocked out cleanly
with one single blow.
 
Who was the babe’s true saviour?
That somebody who temporarily removed the ability
Of Godmother’s intended curse?
The desired removal of the babe’s
future fondest memories,
to be torn from their safety
with the cruellest of feelings?

Why, it is a young boy,
could only be of three,
smiling to himself
shyly, but proudly enough
to see.
 
In his hands lie the sparkles
and twinkles of magical folk,
perhaps he is the babe’s truest love –
we must wait to see this as fact,
or as falsity,
or as truth,
with hope,
in due course.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by PawinG from Pixabay
_____________________________________________________________
A/N: I watched Malificent for the first time over the weekend and really enjoyed it. This poem is inspired by this movie.

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  • Poem: Autumn Leaves to the Air – 28/04/20

    Poem: Autumn Leaves to the Air – 28/04/20

    Autumn leaves fall one by one,
excusing themselves from attendance.
Like warm emotions they peel away,
leaving an unfamiliar, unfeeling circumstance.
 
Soon the branches will be barren,
stark,
undecorated, alone,
with no reminder of spring or summer,
when heartfelt words were purred,
within another’s arms feelings were grown.
 
How differently a season can present
a once near-perfect circumstance,
even if slightly illogical,
the dreamscape was there,
unique to be had.
 
A sense of comfortability grew,
but now the delicate leaves fall and fall,
stripping away layers that once shone –
where is that which once called to me now?
 
I sit by the base of the tree,
dumbstruck, tremulous,
at how things have unravelled,
words may be unspoken,
but as obvious as falling leaves dancing,
the silence permeates,
creates an acidic, sullen mood.
 
A loss, a replacement,
with little care,
I reach forth,
throw handfuls of rejected leaves to the air.

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

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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: A Funny Little Poem – 26/04/20

    Poem: A Funny Little Poem – 26/04/20

    It’s three in the afternoon,
my tummy begins to grumble!
Time for a snack,
what’s on the menu?
Possible thoughts are tossed and tumbled.
 
A muesli bar?
A chocolate slice?
Caramel latte or a tea?
My stomach further grumbles:
rejection!
It seems these treats are not for me.
 
I open the fridge,
peruse available drinks and snacks,
but suddenly my eyes fall on a package
with a smiling cow upon it
and I know what I’m going to have!
 
Cheese, cheese, on crackers,
yes please,
dairy delicious and fine
and completely, utterly mine!

I’ll munch my way
through this treat and smile,
it seems far too long;
I’ve not had cheese in a while.
 
Now satisfied,
I grin from ear to ear,
my tummy complains no more,
delighted is its mood,
of this I can assure.
 
I'm no longer hungry or temperamental,
those around me should have no fear,
this little afternoon treat has raised my mood,
and that’s a stellar feat.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay  

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  • Poem: Coldness – 26/04/20

    Poem: Coldness – 26/04/20

    the air is icy,
precipitation,
crackles,
I am amazed by the ongoing
incoherence of the
patterns of snowflake icicles.
 
harder becomes the dark night air
with every accumulated breath,
they gather,
layer,
through them I soon
cannot stare.
 
the walls surrounding me
are now thicker than an Eskimo’s igloo,
the protection is not hindered
because all that can destroy it
are heat and brute force towards it,
both things readily unavailable.
 
I stare upwards,
my eyes glazing over the shining surface,
I want to slide my bare hands across the walls
but cold burns do not
appeal to me,
 
instead I huddle my knees to my chest,
internalising the heat that I have left,
powering through,
I need a thermometer to catch
the correct reading,

but I will be fine for the time being,
this frigid air my lung sacs are suckling,
they’re managing,
they are managing.
 
beware, beware,
the negative further drops,
gusts of wind blow through the cavity’s entrance,
my matted, unkempt hair,
a frostbitten decorated mop.
 
it’s far safer indoors than
it is outside in that deep blizzard,
breathe in,
breathe out,
at least inhaling the
warmer huddled air 
is marginally easier.

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

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