Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: poetry

  • Poem: The Cobra Attack – 25/04/20

    Poem: The Cobra Attack – 25/04/20

    Distortion fills my ears,
the drums,
the drums,
a cacophony
winds its way through,
auditory bombs.
 
I can feel the sound of livelihood
dripping from my ears,
these precious orifices,
here, there is so much to grin and bear.
 
Shell-shocked by the decibels,
I know that others enjoy their cause,
tainted sound waves,
an invisible cobra bites,
inserts everything an attack could possibly entail.
 
And now it wraps its way around my ankle,
my leg,
the constriction a welcome feeling as the venom
swims in my head,
 
the narrowed eyes,
the dutiful cause,
it’s attacked
and now the life it claims
is no longer mine –
would it willingly take yours?
 
Hallucinations swim before my eyes,
I’m held down,
down,
as though an unwilling sacrifice,
there now appears little tiny cobras
scattering toward me,
slivering collectively,
and I know my fate already,
outside my chest the frantic pounding rhythm
of my heartbeat grows.
 
They attack from all angles,
oh, the grief at knowing this may be the end,
suddenly a super, herculean
strength becomes of me
and I rise,
triumphant,
throwing and grabbing them off my body,
where they had suckled
and rested their vicious hungering heads.
 
I peel myself off the ground now,
escape is no longer difficult,
rushing into the wilderness,
away from the crazed cacophony
and altered visions
where I will hopefully find,
rediscover the safety of my herd.

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

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  • Poem: Crystal Gazing – 24/04/20

    Poem: Crystal Gazing – 24/04/20

    I gaze into the crystal ball,
eager fortunes and fierce dreams to find,
the smoky scene is quartered,
into sections the interpretations are spread,
their great divide.
 
There is something special about these areas
that makes one tingle and shake,
the magical moments of being able to envision
another’s hopeful future,
though occasional destitution features,
their saddening fates.
 
The vibrations of the visions,
they tell me to absorb them,
then move along, along,
there is no point in lingering past my welcome,
the spirit world assures me of this,
to remain longer would be inherently,
entirely wrong.
 
The spirits’ fleeting presence seeps
into and around
the crystal ball’s view,
telling me to reveal?
No, to withhold,
at most,
I understand this is the correct thing to do.
 
May the querant’s hopes be as receptive as
naked skin upon electrified flesh,
a certain truth he wonders,
or when she says,
“Fortune teller,
tell me old, 
share my fate determined ever
softly or bold.”
 
But, I cannot,
even if I am paid for the service,
a true teller obscures,
does not specifically state one way or another,
and all in due course.
 
Instead I smile and dote upon their
accompanying card reading,
positive traits,
and unwind-unwind,
they don’t need to continue
their obsession as to what their fortune might be,
unworthy of pursuing,
little point in trying to find.  

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

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  • Poem: The Path – 23/04/20

    Poem: The Path – 23/04/20

    Weariness, Weariness,
rests upon my head,
where cobwebs and stilted cogs lay well rested
in their beds,
the machinery’s movements have ceased,
Weariness allows me to take that break,
but behind the scenes I’m still ruminating,
I simply disguise it from him.
 
Aptitude, Aptitude,
once carefully measured with closely observed time,
makes me wonder now whether the path was worth
the efforts to propel me so far,
because what am I doing here with this life?
 
I know,
I know,
that intelligence comes in many forms,
not always those tested,
skills, handiwork,  
of Aptitude, many are assured.
 
Desire, Desire,
to be something more,
to perform something else,
to rise to the challenge and advance myself,
it is not only in the mind that Desire does seek,
a change,
a triumphant case,
in which I can alternatively speak.
 
Knowledge, Knowledge,
have I sucked you bone-dry from the pages
I have to tend to?
The parched paper with its annotations and highlighted markings
grins at me,
resonate reminders of hard work and times oh-so studious.
 
Whenever I am down on myself,
I simply need to glance at my words,
my interpretations,
the violin fingerings,
the sheet music’s markings,
 
and I understand that I have worked arduously
at several crafts,
and have returned to the original craft of my own.
 
Conclusions, Conclusions
are like cadences softly spoken,
the melodious cessations of my
quiet contemplation,
I’m not performing at Life so badly,
according to my efforts
I’m trying to better myself,
there is no need to sink, sink down,
to aim a tirade toward myself,
 
I am improving,
daily,
through the efforts of no one other than myself.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.  
Image by Jorge Guillen 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: Bright Lights – 20/04/20

    Poem: Bright Lights – 20/04/20

    Neon lights flash,
they blind me,
the resultant spots in my vision,
they appear,
they annoyingly swim.
 
I rub my glassy eyes softly,
then harder to rid them
of the itching glare,
I do not understand their mission.
 
Why did I seek this vision,
this stirring sight that promised exultation,
the monumental awareness I felt
while seeking out a personal heaven?
 
Yet, I witness here the malevolent view,
streets lined with barrages of
bustling men and women,
rows, two by two,

their presentation hauntingly beautiful,
but they are too busy and
self-absorbed to recognize their beauty,
a truly wasted picture.
 
The neon lights share the preference of this world,
showy, elaborate, garish, flashing,
new, never old.
 
I had sought these sights for I had been told of them
by whispering souls,
go forth, go forth,
find the bright lights,
absorb the intrinsically spectacular environment,
but there was nothing here to learn.
 
Many who voyaged here became cemented
into a mold,
unable to be freed,
to seek their flight.
 
They are in a land untoward,
yet perfect for some others,
where not even the winter of June
could freeze out the intent
of lustrous stars and lights
and all that such promised fame entailed.
 
Naught of this is heaven sent,
this mission ends,
my search curtailed.  

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

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  • Poem: Illegible – 19/04/20

    Poem: Illegible – 19/04/20

    Illegible,
illegible,
the handwriting lies sprawled upon the page,
not even smeared,
but simply, completely unreadable
and entirely,
legitimately,
incomprehensible.
 
How am I expected to return to these 
convoluted dreamy thoughts and emotions
when the opportunity for self-manipulation 
of my subconscious silently lingers?
 
For this text holds secrets,
expectations and extremities of the land of my curious,
befuddled dream state,
an entry into what may have been performed and experienced,
on and on,
perhaps in a flurry,
fingers and toes dance,
hearts meld,
and truth be told the taut ribbon of thought
could speak of so much here.
 
Purely out of curiosity do I wish to seek
and immerse myself into the opposite of
a doctor’s chicken-like scrawl,
my flamboyant, frantic loops which speak:

Connect with my words,
Relive my wholeness
 
And only then will everything apparent come to life,
microcosmic and magnetic,
an assessment of every early waking morning
worth detailing, speaking or somehow
reliving.
 
Will this illegible privacy be exploited?
My early morning words snatched from my fingers
before the page feels its tickles,
revealed to all?
 
Perhaps, no, sir, no,
none, maybe not even I,
will possess anything more
than the power within my bleary eyes,
my heart,
which know exactly what has
or has not been written,
to others,
the looped ink spots detail nothing more than 
obscure, primitive art.

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

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  • Poem: Loved – 18/04/20

    Poem: Loved – 18/04/20

    Their presence lingers,
I am eternally grateful for the guidance
that only Love can provide,
there is little more to be understood
that needs no wishes to be further sanctified.
 
Because their devotion is pure,
warmer and lovelier as time goes on,
and I am appreciative of everything that has been performed,
which has ever been done.
 
For, I am now the thankful being
grown into the mould,
who has matured in the depths beyond
left behind
from the blind ignorance of Youth,
which came with the temperamental haughtiness
of someone unknowing of truly what they had.
 
I understand my luck,
my lottery win in this world,
to have such wonderful people in my life
while others suffer,
are maltreated, 
are unloved, or even
abandoned.
 
I hear their words and actions speak,
“I love you”
time and time again,
the provision of special food on the table,
their kind, empathetic words,
the joyous asking of how my day was,
and I know,
I know,
that one day this will come to an end,
but, by God, I am here,
acknowledging, grateful,
for everything I have.
 
My love for you will never cease,
do you understand?
My voice trembles, tears threaten to flow,
I am finally showing true emotion,
poignant and exact.

My special ones,
who know who they are,
please understand my truths and here,
accept them for all that they are:-
you do the same with all that I am,
together we love,
united we stand.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.   
Image by Comfreak 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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  • Poem: A Gentle Reminder – 16/04/20

    Poem: A Gentle Reminder – 16/04/20

    Bulging eyes like those of a mute man’s persuasion,
an idiomatic world wreaking destruction
with its occupants not any worse or well off than the land they stand upon,
Ingot! Ingot!
Who told me you’re the one?
 
I never put on the shield of makeup without
first assessing the importance,
painting, changing,
it’s all required,
the heart is still at large.
 
The loathing,
self-loathing,
more insignificant
yet still there as a slight,
it stings,
its pain it will seemingly never repair.
 
And there is the sharp spike,
a prick in my heart
the poison,
fuel injection,
electric explosion,
my eyes they take in all
that swimmingly the pain receptors cannot.

A gelatinous feeling now overwhelms my flesh,
the unformed nature jiggles and sighs,
the athleticism is gone from those
once fit, toned calves and thighs,
my muscles ache almost as much as my heart,
of the present they quietly speak.

A butterfly comes to visit the tip of my nose
and suddenly in a flash 
I’m reminded to exist in the present,
to create my own formulation of self-acceptance and hope,
and nothing less or more in between,
nothing else withstanding.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by David Englund from Pixabay 
Image by Larisa Koshkina from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Cotton Wool – 15/04/20

    Poem: Cotton Wool – 15/04/20

    They cotton woolled me,
padded me safe,
to ensure if I fell,
I wouldn’t crash,
bang, break.
 
To make sure that I was
protected by the softened cloud,
like a growing cumulus
I would travel here, there, about.
 
But always did I feel this
protection surrounding me,
a knowledge that when I’d fall
I could tangle among
branches of kind gum trees,
who would soothe me with their eucalyptus scent, 
calming, warming,
my panic flew –
it went.
 
And I am suspended,
here between heaven and earth,
it’s not so bad, I realise,
I’m surrounded by the now-dripping cotton wool
pungent with oil.
 
I appreciate those who thought it prudent to
wrap me like a child in a
tight woollen blanket,
because of this, 
the next stage of
my life I can be assured.
 
In fact, I’m more like a caterpillar
in my woven silk threads,
to my original protective layer
I’ve added to this,
 
Now I am layered, softly cushioned,
nothing can penetrate even if I allowed it in
because, quite frankly,
this is my time for healing.
 
As time passes, I feel my body grow strong,
none of this limp wrists and arms,
fragile ankles and weakened shins,
no, I am becoming something,
something more,
and suddenly the cotton wool and thread?
I have no need for these anymore.
 
I emerge heroically from my encasing,
an uproarious cry of triumph escapes my lips,
the trials and tribulations of long past
which the wool had patched
are strangely flung from my memory.
 
And here I stand,
stronger than ever before,
plights and disasters all untoward,
I will recall nothing of them
for I have moved forth,
a body no longer in a woollen cavity.

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

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