Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: poetry

  • Poem: Cigarette Clouds and Pine Leaves – 18/02/20

    Poem: Cigarette Clouds and Pine Leaves – 18/02/20

    The surrounding scent of pine leaves invades my sensitive nostrils,
Since quitting smoking I have been able to discern more,
And my taste buds, they are rearing,
They sing for attention,
These senses,
They are heightened.
 
No more dulling from the poisons within those 
death sticks,
A retraction of the chemical clouds which 
Weighted not only my head
But also my mind,
And made light of my hip pocket
In exchange for the risk of ill health.
 
And now I know, that of this horrid habit,
I have succeeded beyond it,
Grown stronger, 
From the many years I had inhaled 
The carcinogenic compounds of danger.

I don’t pity those who continue,
But I wish they had the strength to put them down, too,
I pray for those who feel they don’t need rescue,
How much longer must they punish themselves
Before they can no longer rasp for help,
For their release?
 
Perhaps they’ll come to a realisation, too,
Just like me, I realised, I couldn’t continue,
For my own personal reasons, 
And for the sake of my health,
I came out of this struggle stronger,
Fighting,
With more willpower and determination
Than I believed I could grasp on my own.
 
The pine leaves emit their delicious odour,
I thank the heavens that I am still here to experience their scent with wonder,
With admiration and health,
Perhaps I quit before it was too late for myself.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Treasures of Time – 18/02/20

    Poem: Treasures of Time – 18/02/20

    I treasure them like a baby treasures his first blankie,
I hold them close and stroke them gently,
calmly, lovingly.
 
I understand that we may not
remain together always,
that soon I will be too overgrown
to walk with them in public,
that I must instead shy away from their presence and
observe them only in the dimness of my room.
 
These sparkling moments,
these memories I treasure,
will not remain with me forever,
but sooner enough I will trip with them,
I will surely falter.
 
Because while clutching onto the past
could prove a wondrous thing
an analysis of everything that occurred
may create a sense of longing,
and what I find most extraordinary is that
if I chose to live in my memories,
in my dreams,
then how could I possible live and exist in the present?
 
In the future I could not surmise of my effects caused from
a behaviour of the present,
and determining how forth I will go
is really, well, a challenge.
 
Clutching onto straws, sucking the marrow from the past,
the richness, its richness, undying, those moments are,
and I smile to myself, finally realising that we in ourselves
can be way too much to put up with, even for ourselves,
and dust to dust we will become,
our memories now disintegrated, gone, disregearded.
 
At least we tried to reign them in,
protect them all along.  
Image by Michal Jarmoluk from Pixabay
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

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  • Poem: Insomniac – 18/02/20

    Poem: Insomniac – 18/02/20

    The second hand ticks,
each click like the repeated trigger of a pistol,
fearful, I lie in wait,
as it speaks of how affected I will be if I remain
in this involuntary state.
 
I’ve barely slept in days,
awakening hours always the same,
middle of the morning,
the arms at those memorable angles,
I wish I could slip daintily into my dreams.
 
Instead, nightmarish awakenings
where I beg for liquid,
I am strangely thirsting,
as though the method of fighting to stay under
the surface of consciousness has drained me of all
moisture;
I am but a slice of aged parchment.
 
And upon me there are unintelligible words written,
scrawled, in fact,
speaking of that which I cannot understand,
let alone behold,
but the effort behind the scratching,
the etching seems atrociously laboured,
is this what I do in my short periods of sleep?
Where I detail myself or,
I detail the unknown controllers?
 
Because that is what it feels like,
I am a being not of my own accord,
when I lie there awaiting sleep,
I ache, anxious butterflies in my chest,
anxiety, anxiety,
there’s something there, unheard.
 
Like a pinprick in the distance, not many would register that sound,
but to understand its existence is of a severe knowing,
a recognition of something there unknown,
an insomniac’s thoughts pinned in the clouds.
 
And I lie here,
waiting, waiting quietly,
my eyes widened and my heart beating in such a state,
how long will it be before the pills take effect?
Before falsified sleep is forced upon me,
a method of a chemical dream, dream, dreaming?

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

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  • Poetry: Stability – 17/02/20

    Poetry: Stability – 17/02/20

    I once had a metaphorical finger waggled in front of my face: “I know what you want.”
“Stability,” I blurted out.
 
I needed to feel settled, I needed to feel wanted, I needed to feel, well, loved. I had been on a trek through life trying to find the right one – is there even such a thing for me? I’d occasionally wonder.
 
But the truth of the matter is, I was yearning, desperately hoping that the one who asked me was the right one. It was not meant to be. Details are frivolous, yet the feelings behind them are not.
 
I knew that I needed to firstly love myself, but how could I be expected to do so when every part of me screamed that I wasn’t good enough? I had my head in the clouds, peeking through to the sun, and still, the damage to my eyes in the glare was done.
 
I was imperfectly perfect, as well are, as we all are designed to be. Nothing personal, but we can counter ourselves in the wind or the air, or upon the land, or in fire, or within the sea, all we need is a slight understanding of the word ‘Me’, and what it encompasses.
 
It speaks of everything that we are, within two simple letters, capitalised, not, Meeeee, I can yawn the vowels out wide, like a yowling cat, a mama I’m still to find.
 
My search would continue on, the search for myself swept to the side, and in every new face I met, there was a lack of recognition, a mirroring that wasn’t present in the eyes before me in which I was searching.
 
Maybe one day, this stability would come. Maybe the next day, or the day after that, my desire would come to fruition, and  become whole and known.  
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Andreas Breitling from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Sensing – 16/02/20

    Poem: Sensing – 16/02/20

    Like worms in the ground we can slide through life blindly,
only sensing, never seeing what’s right before us.
And as though it’s magic, our touch and sense of smell
are heightened, guiding us through the rough,
the damp welcoming soil.
 
Like the understanding that somehow we must place
our trust in that which we cannot completely, wholly trust,
because while seeing is believing, how are touch or smell enough as
indicators to ensure that we are on the right path?
 
Perhaps we need another guider,
to lead us into the way of the righteous,
because, as the exploring worm will understand,
sometimes it can lead itself astray.
 
Picture after a fresh summer’s rain the amount of worms
capsized upon the pavement,
miles away from comfort, from the land they know,
they’re crawling, they’re wriggling,
set to cook and die in the sun.
 
Perhaps someone kind will rescue them all,
but that’s unlikely,
they led themselves there, searching for a new land so incorrect
that their demise has been promised all along.
 
But we are not entirely like these blind, hopeful beings,
we have the capacity, to intelligibly think, analyse, surmise,
and here we understand that while living blindly,
with a sense of waywardness about us
is something to commend,
it’s also a method rather risky,
and maybe something of which maybe not to contend.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Racheal Lomas on Unsplash

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  • Poem: Nowhere Woman – 16/02/20

    Poem: Nowhere Woman – 16/02/20

    I’ve been lost for so many years,
hidden in the recesses of the wilderness
and I don’t know which way is out.
I'm unsure of how to escape this listless, pointless path without direction,
without a propelling sense of purpose.
 
I once was utterly focused,
I wanted to be something,
make something of myself,
and now I don’t know where to turn,
to a person, to pen to paper, to God?
Is He really there for me?
 
I feel silly as I sit here and address 
the benevolent being up above,
thanking Him for that which remains,
my blessings in life,
the goodness,
through my gratitude,
but all I can manage is to bawl and bawl,
tears helplessly fall,
and I cannot, for the life of me,
stop,
I don’t want to stop.
I desire change.
 
I ache for it,
I yearn for it,
a nowhere person I’ve been,
life is stagnant,
no longer flighty,
and I surmise pieces of my puzzle can be adjusted 
one piece at a time,
but I am covered with soap suds,
my fingers slip,
I’m trying to unnecessarily cleanse while rebuilding a life.
 
How difficult must it be to isolate my innermost thoughts
when I struggle to comprehend them, let alone articulate them?
It's been suggested I search for Him up above,
to reconnect, to recreate
a bond of acceptance, gratitude, and I suppose
acceptance of His undying love,
but its been so long, how can I trust,
and place my life and sufferings into another’s open hands?
 
The tears continue to fall,
it’s ironic –
you’ll rarely see me cry.  
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Found Beauty – 15/02/20

    Poem: Found Beauty – 15/02/20

    Seek the beauty within their eyes,
Their swollen pupils are quiet
yet they speak with booming silence.
 
When you view the allure between gentle palms,
The softened skin strokes,
Muscles unwind,
A heavenly song.
 
When you find the wonder within another’s truth
When you can connect with their experiences
feel their joyous nature and with them experience anew.
 
When you don’t seek superficial beauty but
Appreciate the internal view you’ve been shown
that’s when your heart will blossom,
that’s when your heart will truly grow.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Ylanite Koppens on Pexels.com

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  • Poem: Perfectly Ordinary – 15/02/20

    Poem: Perfectly Ordinary – 15/02/20

    There will be times when you’re viewed as ordinary,
Nothing special about you.
Nothing that others can glimpse upon,
A spark,
A light,
They view you as nothing,
They pass you by.
 
Their eyes dart away when you meet their disengaged pair,
They don’t want to acknowledge you,
To validate your existence,
And while you shouldn’t care for how others may judge,
It hurts that tiny little bit,
They don’t know my story.
They don’t even care.
 
They view you as lowly,
They view you as beneath them,
Surely that’s why they possess that pathetic look in their eyes
That somehow proves your presence is unworthy of being in theirs.
 
I can view the fake smiles now,
The overly chirpy conversations,
Whereas once genuineness and sincerity were simply commonplace.
 
And I wonder, what has changed?
To make me be viewed lesser than what I am?
No matter how I take this,
It’s detrimental to my soul,
Because I’m a sociable being,
And being airily brushed aside for no apparent reason at all,
Seems unfair and something which may fling itself toward them,
Bite them,
Karma will come.  
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Mochammad Algi on Pexels.com

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  • Poem: Inner Light – 15/02/20

    Poem: Inner Light – 15/02/20

    There is a light within
Shrouded by a sheer curtain
That burns brightly for every one of us.
 
Some are able to know of,
Acknowledge its presence,
While others are unable to determine its reality at all.
 
However, truth be told,
Within us all, this flame burns brightly,
We need not concern ourselves if it flickers from time to time,
Dangerously, or just a sway, rhythm and rhyme.
 
My flame is tender,
My flame is small and serene,
What may yours be like?
Take a closer inspection,
And see within.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by icon0.com on Pexels.com

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  • Poem: The Rainbow Bower – 14/02/20

    Poem: The Rainbow Bower – 14/02/20

    Something shiny,
something bright,
she collects with her clutching fingers for an
internal sense of delight.
 
Like a bower bird yet not,
tall, gangly, lean,
her vigilant eyes dart for specific shades which will
perfect that rainbow sheen which
she’s placed upon her bedspread,
 
laid out for her eyes to sumptuously absorb their beauty,
her very own rainbow
created by her own hands,
materials found and designed.
 
She is becoming more like that bower bird
yet by the world mostly unseen,
though still one of a kind,
here she needs not fight to be heard,
a potent lustre, it gleams.
 
She doesn’t collect to impress,
to lure another into her nest,
no, these shades are purely for her,
her heart beats wildly as she blots spilled ink
in colours known only in her realm.
 
Turquoise mixed with a purple sheen,
what would you call this?
Peacock green, she labels him,
he is now part of her luscious scene.
 
And the ripe aroma of baby pink with clashing red,
what will she label that?
What will her imagination draw upon next?
 
She rolls in the hues now,
her eyes brighten and enliven with her soul,
her spirit, it soars, encapsulating the room,
while outside her window, watches the playfully observant Moon.
 
This rainbow bower has much to offer,
she has much to extend to this world
but only in the privacy of her bedroom
can she truly extend, to exhibit her colours
or collect the shades,
because outside these four walls,
if she shared her triumphant secret collection,
the world would be blinded,
temporarily yet wondrously amazed,
she prefers to remain in hiding.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by cm_dasilva from Pixabay

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