Tag: poetry
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Poem: Peacocking – 31/10/19
He peacocks here, he peacocks there, he struts and struts as people stare.
His showiness is all-too-easily-seen, and it reflects where he is going and where he has been.
This bright bird with eyes that stare into your soul, they delve inside without concern for you nor care as they take hold.
They intensify, enveloping you,
Making certain to assess and formulate a plan or two for you.
There is nothing these eyes do not see,
For they view me, they wholly see me.
For, this bird is rather sneaky, he wishes to play a game that is not so pretty,
A game in which he can manipulate you,
Into believing there is more than the two of him and you.
For, his eyes, those eyes, upon his feathers they deceive,
Wonder not whether they are in reality or falsified as can possibly be seen,
Because as he resumes strutting and mesmerising all that can see him,
I wonder to myself where this illusory bird has come from,
And when from my life he will leave.
I do not need the deception in my life,
Of a strutting male as I try to once again make sense of the inner chasms and strife,
As I will know from the past, there’s no reason to feel as though I’m an outcast,
Simply because I am different from this showy, eccentric male.
One day I’ll shine my feathers, the true colours showing through the brown.
It’s not easy sometimes, being overshadowed by another leading the crowd.
© 2019 Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
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Prose Poetry: Shedding Intolerance – 29/10/19
I’m like a brightly blazing deciduous tree except I will not weep for you. Because while my colours alternate from light greens to crisp fawns and crunchy dryness as the seasons go from bright to dark, days longer to short, at this moment I’m far less tolerant, adaptive I am not.
Release not the inner emotions, the angst which we both feel. The grinding of stone upon pavement, the scratchy itching frustration I feel. The knowledge that I am absorbing a melody that I do not wish to be performed through me, and the strangeness and wearing down of my barely-present tolerance is surprisingly unyielding. I feel rather affected, and most certainly quite ill at ease.
I’d much rather be alone in these moments, and cast off my unwanted and unfeeling leaves in silence. They are not necessary. And neither is this irritation which is featuring heavily in this ongoing dramatic story.
There’s a brief pause now, an interlude, to allow anger and the stifling feeling of unrest to build into an explosive level of intent and mistrust. Because, neither of us seems to want to admit wrongdoing, or take responsibility, or be willing to say we’re sorry. We’d rather war with our displeased silences than allow ourselves to become defeated and at a loss.
But instead we’ll confide in one another, especially with you sharing how you truly feel. Your frustrations, your sufferings, your immense irritation; your desire for me to wholeheartedly acknowledge your communications about how you feel. It is not all about me, it is due to the surrounding world which surrounds your considered yet busy, ever-changing bubble; you voice, you vent, you scream, then you’re seemingly spent. We now link hands, and forehead to pressed forehead we gaze into one another, our eyes calming the other, the viewing of our aching souls entwined together.
You wrap your arms around your now-caring and almost-barren tree, as the last leaves from my limbs fall with gentle ease. Winter is upon us, allow each to warm the other with a manner of understanding and openness to be felt and seen. For, our hearts are fiery in the heat in which they deliver and the clipped words and admonishments are lost in the airy but biting winter’s breath — this argument seems like the end of an unwanted era. Allow us to communicate more effectively, to prove true calming consideration at its best.
© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
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Prose Poetry: From Strength to Strength – 28/10/19
There may be times where you feel as though it’s all too difficult to go on. These moments can catch us by surprise, or creep up on us, their bated breath upon our backs, stirring heat upon our shoulders. You know that Defeat is upon you; you are aware that it is there. Any moment now, it can tap our shoulders and say, in a convoluted manner, “Why don’t you give up? You’re never going to succeed anyway, anyhow or anywhere.” And here, my friends, we are presented with a choice, do we revile against these words, thrust these Moments aside, fling them to the past, and walk strong, proud and tall, elegance in our stride? Or do we allow ourselves to crumble, for in moments such as these as this seems the easiest option?
It matters not how we take potential failures, what matters most is how we strive to make ourselves more, make ourselves better. To carry on with courage, and strength with ardour, knowing that to fail is not in itself a failure, but a learning curve. And there may be many opportunities to learn, do not feel defeated because you are faced with these chances to better yourself, because, I for one know, that many mistakes in my life were made, and I have become a better person for acknowledging the failings. In becoming a better person myself, I have succeeded. And for you, just compare your beginning, the middle, the endings, and allow yourselves to know where your story has commenced, and where the opportunity will come for it to restart. For with practice and going from strength to strength, we can achieve and triumph.
© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
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Prose Poetry: Icy Heart – 27/10/19
Your heart, my love, has grown as solid and as cold as a block of impenetrable, unbreakable ice. I can’t imagine you remaining like this for much longer – it’s devastating in its effects, my aching heart, my saddened eyes. Because my heart, my love, is breaking, cracks and fissures quietly appearing, into pieces I become, as you sit there pleased, smiling to yourself because for you, this is punishment, admonishment that I deservedly accumulated with ease.
But then you smile quickly – you cannot help yourself, that flash of delight that shows that you’re no longer pretending to be a harsh version of yourself, and now I realise that you were simply just playing a little game, toying with my emotions for that brief moment. Seeing how much I adore you as I crumbled before you, until you lovingly uttered my name.
© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
Illustration inspired by a reference photo:
Shutterstock image: 146245403, artist: Xanya69
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Story: A Race With Conniving Emu of the Bush – 26/10/19
“I can’t fly? Well, I’ll be damned!” the bushy emu said to me. With a squawk and a wink he ran past me with great ease, a bush sprinter as proud as can be.
He then returned quickly as he could.
“What do you say to a little race?” he suggested coercively, “The winner gets to sample all the fine tastes of the Bush’s delicacies.”
I wracked my brains for what these delicacies could be and whether they would suit my palette, but after understanding that this emu was offering up fruits and seeds, I was pleased as punch to verse this bird who carried upon his face such a cheeky permanent grin as his habit.
“Ready, set,” he uttered, and before saying “Go” he sprinted away from the scene, the dust billowing in my widened eyes, shocked at the audacity of this bird which had just been seen.
Still, I began the race after fairly uttering my version of the starter’s “Go”, and ran and ran as fast as my tiny little human legs could push me forth, struggling as I had never ever known.
But on my path, I noticed the Emu of the Bush; he had fallen down, sprained his ankle. He was flat on his toosh. I was horrified, he looked in such pain. If I were an untoward being I could have continued on with the race, being the reigning victor without any complaint.
However, I was not of that type, I was empathetic to his plight, and from my backpack I carried everywhere, I removed my first aid kit, removed a bandage and upon his ankle it was tightly applied.
Tentatively he stood, gingerly on his sore foot, but then with a grin, he realised he could still run with some ease. And off he trotted, ahead of me, towards the end of the race’s scene.
I was devastated, I could barely lift my jaw from the floor, but I resumed my style of a slow human run, impeded by a sense of an ego made sore. Again, I spotted him having fallen by the side of the path but this time I wouldn’t, did not stop, and through the discussed ending of the race did I reach with a victorious laugh.
It was only then that Emu caught up, fossicked in the brush for my prize: a large handful of small stones known as gizzard stones, which assisted emus with grinding up their meals.
It seemed that today both of us had been taught a lesson or two.
© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
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Prose Poetry: The Pansies – 25/10/19
The pansies, they glare at me. They are not charming; they glare and then squint as though trying to decipher me. Their little yellow mouths whirring away with intent, the leader speaks loudly, he doesn’t want me in their view.
Because here I am admiring their view. Laughing to myself as they try to makes riddles of their lives, make complex their measures when they are simply precious flowers avoiding the blights. Though they are temperamental, they are hardy, and this is why they have survived in my overgrown, sprawling garden.
Now it’s as though they’re blowing me raspberry kisses, their yellows spreading into a widened “O” that is utterly reminiscent of those bubble gum-blowing days when as a child I would pop and pop that piece all afternoon, if not all day.
Some pansies start to sink, they’re beginning to bow, to the true master of their garden, yes, it is I, a masterful gardener, their actual Leader, and with due respect they nod their heads, while their nominated pansy leader forcefully rises his head himself. He is too proud to bow, he is too vain to find in himself fault, and the truth of the matter is that he will never deliver his power to anyone other than himself.
The rest of the pansies squint at me in my glowing light, humbling knowing that as the one who tends to them, they must respectfully be in a mode of both gratefulness and gracious delight.
© 2019 Alice Well, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
Photo by Lauren M. Hancock 2019 ©
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Prose Poetry: Wrapped Like a Burrito – 25/10/19
I love it when you make your bed around me,
as though I’m a mini human burrito.
I adore being so silly in the kitchen for you
as I wriggle and wiggle,
showing my happy dance,
a humorous movement, slight grooves,
more laughter, if you please,
just a little, if you will.
I appreciate when you bring me cups of coffee and tea
and become slightly angered when you
forget about me and don’t,
But all’s fair in our little tiffs and wars,
Our hearts meld, that’s what matters most.
Allow us to go from strength to strength,
Taking on the challenges of the world.
Us two against whom?
None, there are none standing in our way,
Because we control our life’s climate,
Our weather,
Our potentials, we decide them.
We are but two constellations in the
sky known as the fabric
Of human life,
We burn brightly together and
linked in arms we are forever,
Our names will be written in our
version of the skies.
Our adoration for one another, while playful,
Raucous,
Can be seen in the quiet moments
where we say nothing at all,
There is no need to talk or touch.
A simple understanding that you are there for me,
And I for you,
And even in the most trying of times,
We will remain as tightly linked
Firmly held together with permanent glue.© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
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Prose Poetry: Movement – 24/10/19
Movement swirling about my mind, looking for little chasms to rest. To parade and fly can be dandy, but growing opportunities and situations present as a test. The gaps in the countryside are special to explore as they can be, but the Wind begs to rest himself; he has travelled too far, and with lessening ease.
Free the hurricanes, the gusting winds, allow the movements to fly with no delicateness, please! Let them gust and blow, until tomorrow or future morrows, where they shall land and hide is anyone’s guess. Little hurricanes now circle little chasms, and aren’t they so beautiful to witness. A delicate mess, if you will. The Wind lays down his weary head, feeling utterly blessed.
© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
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Prose Poetry: Hospital Girl – 23/10/10
To look at her, you’d think she was cautious, tentative, wary. Scrutinising you with eyes that have seen much more than others could dare to dream. Her being which had walked through many paths, some twisted and gnarled, others delicate and soft, but generally most with a visible barb.
Her mind, having been through so much, broken down, split and medicated, behaviour watched by those in authority as though circling hawks, observing in a manner that noted every hour how she was travelling, her mindset and behaviour positive, light, or becoming worsened, so dark, increased internal suffering.
Oftentimes she was out of control, this was why she was there, in that world she couldn’t leave without being signed out of, couldn’t easily visit her comforting home. Where ‘Leave’ was something dreamed of, yearned for, an hour or two here or there to spend in her warm loving environment, then dismayed she’d be returned to the unit with the rest of the others, who themselves were suffering from differing mental health matters and in differing manners.
So, while she observes you observing her, she is reminded of the way in which she was observed carefully, with eyes roaming around the ward, or from the nurses’ Fishbowl. Where they could hide somewhat, from behind the glass, watching her as she went about her daily business, her feigned sense of existence, trying to get better as fast as she could.
Socialising with the other patients could only hold her attention for so long, before she became desperate to leave the ward, she just wanted to go home. How she was there for many weeks, sometimes months at times, she couldn’t bear to drag herself from the squeaky hospital bed, she wanted to hide, despair, just be discharged, she didn’t belong there.
And then came the admissions when each second morning she’d be wheeled out, in her hospital bed through the main ward, sent on a trip upstairs to visit a specific doctor, for a buzzing and a convulsing, in an attempt to make her mind whole and somewhat better. It was because the medication wasn’t working. It was a last-option intervention, medically speaking.
And while she became better with time, in the sense of being able to function in society, there were always times when her mental health became worse, and back into the hospital she would be, that familiar unwanted scene. Stability for her only lasted a year or two, and she was never truly living, because she was forever too close to the edge. Of shallow goals and dreams, she would be constantly dreaming. Reaching out for these caused her health to decline rapidly.
But these recollections matter not now, because she is no longer Hospital Girl, she is the one who has succeeded at her true life’s dreams, written in her school yearbook as a little girl. As a twelve-year-old dreamer, she had written of her desires, and here she was, having achieved those two goals that she had wanted her life to deliver.
© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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