Photo by Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well
Unlike a
leopard that will never change its spots, this girl has shed her spotted print.
She has altered her life for the better, she has cast aside those undesirable
traits which lurked within. She is different now, careful, yet carefree, light
as a feather. Her heart and mind are filled with gladness, there is nothing to
cause her to be grumbled and sour nor overly candid.
Unlike that
leopard which will forever hold its spots, she has deterred herself from
behaviours that are unnecessary, unnoteworthy, and which had not aided her plight,
nor changed her for the better. Now she is wholesome in goodness, rested in the
night and brightened in the day. There is little she yearns for, because she has
them provided for her and by her in many and most ways.
In her world she searches for moments of true happiness, sparkles in her eyes, plucked from the skies by fingertips eager for more twinkling light, and she carries these sparks inside of her, releases them inside her billowing heart, large enough and large enough it becomes, for her world which was often torn apart.
Now she holds so many sparkling love-bugs, brightness inside her chest, that she smiles to herself, secretively loving the fact that she has her own collection, to keep them at their best. Where she will nurture their glistening hopeful selves, reminding her to cherish everything tiny and immaculate, whether minute or precious within her world, and live with the understanding that some human leopards can shed their prints even at the worst of times.
After all, it’s only a pattern, and a habit can be formed in so many days, how easy enough it has been to displace her negative traits, and place herself within a desirable loving stage.
Feel those interlacing melodies, the interwoven harmonies rise and fall, like a spectacular swarm of hungry, eager bees, starved from Autumn and Winter, waiting for the buds of Spring to appease them all. These melodic bees enter the symphony as they desire, lifting and lilting with their buzzes strictly moving from flower to flower. The pollen dirties their legs, but, they do not mind, they are not self-conscious, neither are they abashed, because they love the dirty work as much as any other insect, except these can rise far higher than any other with a set task at hand.
And like these precious hungry bees, I
speak to you, begging for nourishment. For my meal of sustenance, and for my deep-seeded
hunger to be fulfilled and cause a whirlwind of taste-bud excitement and
delight. Others would not feed me their love, they starved me, in fact, they
took from my heartfelt feelings and left me broken and bruised, a gaping hole
in my stomach and soul, from associating with people who didn’t deserve the true
Me that I was offering them. Had I offered my heart to you? Did you laugh as I
despaired at losing the presence of you?
But now I can hear that buzzing, accompanying a melodious male voice, speaking of acceptance, duality, and kindness, symphonies of smiling adoration and knowingness. You have taken me into your life, made music out of the lullabies I sung to thee, and with your arm around me, we sing together now, accompanied by our symphony of precious bees. Because their pollen will fertilise the flowers, make them bloom, blossom, grow, for many hours, and with their colourful additions into the scene, you and I can travel hand in hand to places we’ve never thought to have been.
Our armour has been displaced upon the ground; unwanted, unnecessary, and now unknown. Because, in you, my love has been found.
There may be occasions where you’ve lost your footing, in fact, many times, possibly. Where your legs and feet scrabble for a holding, a firmer footing, to cease the potential of falling deep, deep below.
When your heart is almost in your mouth, the fear is palatable, tastes of thick iron rust, the bloodied mess that is your broken organ, still beating, but a complete and utter mess.
There may be occasions where you slip and fall, into the abyss of the great unknown, speaking of darkness and unsureness and times of great distress and unknowing.
These, my friends, are occasions which enable learning, where you can take what you will from the putrid or frightening moments, and make of them something worthwhile, a learning process where you drag yourselves up and out of the murky dark.
The strength of character displayed from when you fall and how you pick ourselves up demonstrates a certain strong will and determination that I know you must be proud of possessing.
Because darlings, I know that you can make it through these pains, these issues, You’ve done it before, And you can do it again. Just listen to your aching heart and plaster it with bandages of courage; You’ll make it in the end.
Sometimes, oftentimes, I’d wonder why. Why was I so awkward, so different, so quiet, so damned shy? I’d go through life wanting to avoid the stilted conversations, the dialogue that barely went beyond the obligatory “How are you?” “Good, thanks,”, and a cheery but weak-willed, “That’s good!”, knowing that it wouldn’t go much further than this point, this query and mildly obvious revelation.
Would I ever become comfortable enough in
myself to mix easily with other people: strangers, unknown beings? Or would I
be forever in discomfort, eyes begging for a means of escape, where I could go
without needing to be obvious about my need to be alone and contemplate?
But then new experiences came along, fresh
faces, different names, all a whirlwind of growing conversations and
opportunities, explosions of learned moments within my mind. And I became more
comfortable, at ease with myself and others, although I never learned to be
completely as secure and comfy as I did with myself as the other.
“A lilt in
my rhyme, thank you very much,” I order, not ask.
“You’ve got it, lady,” the bartender says, and turns his back to me. He commences his current task.
Lady? Lady? I think to myself. I’ve never been called that in my life, at least not that I can recall. Sure, baby, honey, and so forth, but never a full-blown lady.
The bottles and glasses clink and the blender whirls, the cocktail shaker with its ice cubes makes a nice heavy thud all of their own, and I, smiling to myself rest my chin in my hand, looking as pleasant as could be for my first date with What’s-His-Name. These dates are always the same; same formula, same format, just different person, different name. I’d rather a lilt in my rhyme than an extended purr to my name, and by goodness was I going to achieve this wish, one and the same.
He shows in
the doorway. My heart beats frantically. This one looks like a catch. My date
approaches me with a great air of confidence.
“What are
you drinking, my lady?” There’s that word again.
“A lilt in my rhyme, why do you ask?” I reply with a cheeky grin.
“I do like them feisty,” he says, a twinkle present in his eye. And how do you think the night will unwind?
I go through stages with my words, my artworks, my creations. Lighthearted, jovial, childish antics. Then I’ll swing to the right, suddenly serious and in love, purging myself of the almost-sickeningly sweet tastes I have devoured when fed adoration from his gifting hand above. I swoon, how I swoon, when together we are in my words.
Where to next? Maybe back to the storytelling, the longer expressions of my mind and imagination, the telling of tales, freshly beginning? Or should I remain where I also now find myself comfortable, no more humorous creature poems to be spoken of, instead remaining in the flight of heady love, my expression of how we once were and how we now always are? Should I speak for you, address my intentions, of encouraging you, inspiring you, to accept who you are, self-acceptance internally wrought, prompted, but also heaven-sent?
Or shall I not plan, but write as my heart desires? I have many tales to share, many worlds to recollect and connect, my arms can only reach out for so many, but I hope to reach you all, with my heart of hearts I hope to reach you, to speak to you all. I aim to express my heartfelt emotions, my best, to produce what I can with no judgemental pointing or disapproving voices. But because I know there is always the presence of that type, I shall smile in my whimsy, and dance the night away, critical beings I shall not acknowledge, instead I shall dream where I now comfortably lay.
She became
lost in her daydreams, her thoughts while awakened, the sparkling moments during
which her life was reassured and free. When a contemplative little smile was
upon her lips, the dreary world outside could not come within. She was protected
by her angels and passed love ones, they formed a circle, a colony around the
areas where she was most weakened. Here within, they protected her crushed heart
and soul, broken from her wanting dreams.
Her angels knew how to make her smile, they whispered words of teardrops from Heaven, laden with sweetness and reassurance that she would make it through the morning. How her heavy heart ached, but they massaged the thump-a-dumping organ into something more palatable, more wholesome, less heavy and cumbersome. Something that could be socially acceptable for the beings upon an often-judgemental Earth. But as she was had been enough; she was perfection for her place in Heaven.
How there were many answers for her prying queries and questions, the posing thoughts that needed to be addressed by her pained mind each day, every second. Why was she this way, why was she perpetually made the victim, and why was she permitted to live through each distressing scene? It wasn’t difficult to view the situation; she was beautiful, inside and out, her very presence caused others a great commotion. But why didn’t they see her for herself, a unique being, different from everyone else, who required times of contemplation — she did not always need the hoorah happening.
She
remained still, eyelids slightly flickering, like the wings of a tentative
butterfly intent on tenaciously hovering just above that height of five point five
feet, high enough to feel spectacular, yet dangerous enough to know no higher.
She laid back in her mind, allowing her feelings to wash, to overcome, and
realise that in essence, it does not matter who is judging, because who she is now
is a great success because of her shortcomings and life errors she’d triumphed
over, willingly overcome.
He rarely buys me flowers. It isn’t because he lacks sentimentality. It’s because I know, that, while pretty, their company will only last for a short while. But when he does, their perfume will romance me, I will breathe in their intoxicating scent, I will feel their colours bloom before me, a wondrous presence I have been given. Still, I ache at their loss, when they inevitably die away, although I know, that unlike the flowers which graced my world for a few days, that his love for me remains. It is here to stay.
This
morning he steps into the kitchen with a cheeky, knowing expression on his
face. His hands are behind his back, as though there is something obscured that
he is so proud to hide from me. Something which he can’t wait to present, something
exciting, perhaps. Something I’d love, with his intent so potent. I’m playful,
my eyes dance, I know there’s something to expect from my love, something within
his strong hands.
“What do
you have there, darling?” I ask. With a flourish, he draws his arms from his
back, presenting to me, before my delighted face, a beautiful bloom for me to
have. Its colouring and perfume, so wondrous to accept, to breathe in and view.
I smile, jump up and down, grasp it within my hands then hold his firmly, too.
“My
darling, thank you so much, for being in my life.”
The Pink Pearl originated from the Deep Sea of Joseph, a far off seascape where there were no humans to know of. Beneath the depths of the surface of this glorious sea, were little minutiae, to be viewed of by the most precise of eyes, on any given day, to be taken in, to be seen. Yet closer to the forefront, there lived a special, and rather especially large oyster, inside, tucked within was a beautiful pink pearl, of great vision to be held, to be sure. Her name was Eve, she was as pretty as could be, a special sheen, a opalescent luster, about her body was present for all to view, of her sheen the viewers would appreciate her glowing gleam. But one day, she was unfairly plucked from her casing, and taken away, far off, into a land of unknowing.
Ferocious pirates were responsible for the pearlnapping of Eve, from her homeland, her oyster bed she knew she would never again be or breathe. So she sobbed in the galleys of the ship where she was locked away, she was miserable and experienced such utter heartache she could not live out a single positive moment in her day. The tears, oh, how many she wept, her wailing drew the attention of her pirate captors as though of them she was willingly calling, her tears never seemingly enough spent, always continually falling.
The pirates decided to hold a private, personal polling and debate, was it worth holding Eve aboard the ship, when of her misery she would not abate? They never knew how homesick a silly little pearl could be, in fact, she was a gigantic pearl, that was why they stole her, but of her presence they now wished to be free. She was far too much of a baby, she could not control herself, why, who on earth would mourn the loss of an oyster bed when here she had a perfectly superior and clearly far more comfortable bed shelf?
They landed the ship at the nearest island, small, sizable enough though, for a pest whom they did not wish to hear of her continued whining, no matter how much her worth on the black market, they could not deal anymore with the irritations she was providing, a sense of patience would never grow.
Quite obviously, these pirates were not empathetic, they only thought of themselves, and where and how they would benefit, cash flowing beneath the decking of the boat. Then, they forcibly removed Eve from the room, and threw her overboard, onto the island, where they left her high and dry, marooned. And sail away as quickly as they could, before she could even run and yell, all the time she had was to throw up her hands, and scream out, “What the hell?”
Her misery continued, for now she knew not where at all she was, not even upon a ship with others, no matter how cruel they were. At least she hadn’t been alone. At least they had fed her, given her drinks to allow her positive, continued shimmering sheen, and now, what to do, she was alone here with the swaying trees.
Over time though, she realised she could survive, she taught herself to prepare and eat the leaves of the native trees and how to dive. This was a means of how to replenish her moisture, so she would survive, for she could not drink the sea water, it was far too salty for her, back in the Sea of Joseph there housed fresh water, of a taste which she much preferred.
To her surprise, one day a ship sailed past, slowly, eyes lazily convincing herself that it was not a mirage, it was safety beckoning toward her at last! Oh, this opportunity for rescue was presenting itself, right before her very eyes, if only she could attract attention to herself! And call, call, call, call out she did, she caught the ears of the crew and the captain, she was now readily seen, and rushed aboard she was, treated like a queen, no longer the abandoned pink pearl, she was the rescued pink pearl of the Seas! All the world over would she now be seen.
Even her mother, the oyster, now a grandmotherly type, grey and cuddly, viewed her daughter on the seascape television, so proud of her little Evie was she, she wished one day they would be reunited with ease. And even if this could not be a wish come true, she knew Eve would have a wonderful life, and she wished so truly hard for her, for this to come true. Of her girl, she was so very proud and pleased, for surviving her trials and such a wretchedly painful catastrophe.
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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