Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: prose poetry

  • Prose Poetry: Rocks on the Mind – 02/04/20

    Prose Poetry: Rocks on the Mind – 02/04/20

    I fashion an image within my mind, each curve, each specified colour, every line. That which makes the look complete, of the creature I shall create through my hands, my fingers, with precious time, whether messy or neat. Carefully, I sketch the shape onto the rock – this doesn’t need to be perfect, though it must still have some form. I decide that I’ve made a mistake, but, what to do? I hold no eraser, nothing to warrant taking away from the view. Besides, I can paint over the marks, no worries about that, in fact, I can just continue sketching away on my pebble, my rock, my soon-to-be-colourful artefact.
 
I am new to this art, this activity of decorating pebbles or rocks, and I am excited to create, to add my characters that I house within my mind, a differing relaxed state. They no longer have to swim or dance inside, prattling about wanting to escape, instead, they can be translated upon stone, rather than paper or page. With joy I discover different techniques online, there are so many ways and styles to create, how to make these treasures all mine? To make them perfect, with the correct processes, it is not only about painting or drawing. One must be careful in how to finish the piece, in how to seal the paint or the textas: there are varying techniques. And if I grow restless of painting large pebbles or tiny rocks, I have my terracotta pots I can decorate, why, of course!
 
And here I am detailing my new form of creating art, because I wish to share the happiness and excitement I feel when I create something in the medium – it really appeals to my heart. And when the dangers of leaving our houses are all over, I shall have the opportunity to hide some of my creations to cause a smile and leap of joy perhaps from another! Until then, I shall create for myself, and friends and family, and bring them some bliss from observing something amusing or cute just from me.  
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image: photo and painted rock by myself.
Instagram: @alicewellart

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  • Prose Poetry: The Stormy Sky – 28/03/20

    Prose Poetry: The Stormy Sky – 28/03/20

    I sit by my window and stare at the sky. There is nothing more beautiful in this very moment that I can capture, nothing else which can cause my heart to swell with appreciation. The clouds, they gather in wisps and blobs – light though, they are – they have this sort of moodiness about them, this white and grayness culminating in the distance.

I am pleased with my seated position, for here I can observe that which I wish to, the land of kingdoms above, and the land below, that which we are blessed to walk upon. I smile to myself at knowing that one day, I will be permitted to enter the kingdom above, a knowledge that makes me feel such warmth inside, I cannot adequately describe the feeling. 

Thus, I relax, and observe, and suddenly two gulls pass by and through my vision. The sea is such a calming place, even when the wind is gusting and the nearby sand dunes are throwing speckles of sand onto the skin of my face, I still can appreciate it, I am glad that I live here. These gulls are a sign of hope: they are out foraging, no doubt. They are alive and well, just as we are, within our isolated worlds. It is a necessity to be alone sometimes, and I know that this precious time can be taken to understand and hold gratitude toward everything positive presented to me in life. Even the negative, I surmise, because these experiences have taught me lessons.

I continue to stare at the sky, the clouds now gathering angrily: cumulus, fierce, dark. It is as though they are forewarning of a time when my mind will grow stormy, the thoughts clouded in my crammed mind. Sometimes there are too many, they stagnate within my skull, washing away the peace and tranquillity which was originally there to be felt and observed.

And suddenly, through the open pane, the first smell of rain permeates into my nostrils, that deep soil-like odour, mixed with the humidity of the pavement. I relish this scent; I have cherished it from years prior, during my childhood where it reminded me of the pre-empting of some of the most glorious and appreciated downpours ever to be seen. I wish to dance in the rain, you see. Unfortunately, this cannot be.

Instead, I watch a new pair of birds soar and duck and dive, their forms so delightfully wonderful, streamlined and sheer perfection. Sometimes I wish I were one of those birds, if only for a moment. I could fly to my heart’s content, and never feel the need to further understand my yearning for it. But in a few seconds, they are gone, and I am left with their vision in my mind’s eye. Their freedom mimics that which beats within my heart, a desire, a yearning, for freedom outside the closed doors.

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

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  • Prose Poetry: The Realm: An Exploration – 14/03/20

    Prose Poetry: The Realm: An Exploration – 14/03/20

    Since the dawn of time, we have existed. And breathing out fire and brimstone are the ones below us, but we live on a middle plane, known as Earth, where soil is beneath our feet and the endless sky is a twinkling seascape in our curious, admiring eyes.
 
The singed beings, they wish to harm us, to draw us into their world, of fire, smoke, of fire, smoke, until all our brittle bones will cry out NO MORE! And everyone, hands held in a circle, crumble to the ground. Only some will rise, and the others will remain face-down, unable to snatch that moment, that last breath of life, that fleeting air, because they could not rewind. We can never go back in time, what is done is done, it is dusted. It is history, as I call to the little returning memories which niggle in my ear, in my head, in my eyes, as I recall those confusing moments – did they mean something? Had something occurred, or really, not even at all?
 
I confront these sizzling, smoky demons, stopping them, now stagnant, in their tracks. What they do not know won’t hurt them, this I understand to be true, because these cold, unfeeling beings are exactly that: emotionless and malicious. They enter dreams and make me toss and turn and bore holes into my heart until I feel the dire attack, and that there is nothing left within my former safety, due to their ability to arm.

I manage to walk up to one, my face inches from his, and I hiss and hiss because this is the language that they are familiar with. And now he laughs, he cackles, he is unmoved by my display and with a sense of cruel poetic injustice he bites my thick thigh, inserting his poison. How I adore the chill as it enters my muscle, those two puncturing fangs. Though I know this can only mean certain death, I relish the coldness entering. Strangely, it makes me feel alive.
 
He then removes his weapons from my skin and carries on, passing by. I am left to handle my damaged outer and slowly disintegrating inner layers which burn and itch incredibly. I am left unknowing what to do, unknowing how to handle this vile situation. But, it seems that this is meant to be my fate. I lay down and shudder, cold and hot chills, there may not be a second left to waste. I huddle into a ball, attempting to retain the remaining heat I have within my form, and lull myself to sleep with pleasant images in my mind, my wanted dreams, my dispelling of those nightmares which perpetually plagued.
 
With a sense of melodramatic finality, I heave my final breath, my ostentatious sigh, and pass into the spirit world, where I can finally access the information I would like. I am here and now, yet not here, and this is something I must contend with, between worlds, floating, my body upon the ground, my spirit rising, free. I will return to myself soon, but I am yet to explore this new realm presented unto me.
 
At this current moment, I am the only one permitted entry. I silently thank the being who harmed me, for he allowed something great to transpire. This opportunity I will not allow to pass me by. I will connect with my past beings, with knowledge and gracious gratitude, and a feeling of fine ardour.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock All rights reserved.
Image by S. Hermann & F. Richter from Pixabay

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  • Prose Poetry: The Fall – 22/01/20

    Prose Poetry: The Fall – 22/01/20

    When I am slighted, I can become cruel. My words spit forth with venom; I cannot help my purging. It is as though I need to get them out, in order to stop the poison taking effect upon myself, my soul, and in doing so I hurt others by means of my cathartic process. Afterwards I should feel remorseful, but, not yet, not yet, a lone raven calls, not yet, my dear, we have to await The Fall.
 
What is The Fall, you may ask? Let me explain simply, The Fall is when everything culminates and crumbles from a formidable boulder into shattered, tiny pieces, the strong once broken, forming mere pebbles settling into dust clouds, which really are unsettling. My exterior, strong and generally kind, now turned cold as of recent times, has been dismembered into gravelly limbs and such that really, didn’t need any adjustment at all. I had pooled my energies and forced myself into intensely focusing on one or two tasks alone, and in doing so, my stresses had increased tenfold. And the way I perceived being treated or mistreated really spoke volumes to my self-harassed being. I convinced myself that I was the most obvious victim.
 
So, essentially speaking, The Fall is when one falls apart. Strictly speaking, symptoms are as such, when I rock the boat slightly, testing the waters, then finding it fine, I start pressing back and forth violently, making certain I am causing a commotion, then suddenly the boat keels over and the only air pocket is the oxygen underneath the boat.
 
I must breathe into this prison,
For without breath there is no hope.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Prose Poetry: Your Rainbow Warrior – 01/12/19

    Prose Poetry: Your Rainbow Warrior – 01/12/19

    As a rainbow warrior, I take it upon myself to bring light into the world. I bear my brightness against the darkness within ongoing roads and winding fields. I take on the enemies within darkened dreams that tiptoe lovingly into darkly hued painterly scenes. I shine a kaleidoscope of colours into avenues and alleyways that promise naught but destruction and demise, and allow the travellers to wind down these paths with beauty and stars in their eyes.

    No longer are they in hues of grayscale – black and white, a parched under-colouring of darkness and barely-pure light, instead they are bathed in pinks and blues, and greens and yellows, oranges, purples. Oh, what delight! Suddenly they feel alive, the lethargy which dripped and dragged from their souls now slides cleanly away, allowing them to breathe. And as their rainbow warrior who has taken it upon myself to save their lives from inaction, I know that even though they cannot see me, they are grateful for my intervention.

    Because who wants to live in greyscale, a wishy-washy world of white and grey and black? Some might find this studious, perfect, but for myself I would ache if the colours were away. They brighten my mind, cause my smile, lift my spirit always, as I am the colourful child of this party, please allow me to be with you, and aid your brightening souls each day.    

    © 2019 Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.

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  • Poetry: The Farthest Light Away – 14/11/19

    Poetry: The Farthest Light Away – 14/11/19

    She glows from within. Her thoughtful, ponderous eyes focus on that which is unfocused, the worldly others farther away, further, further, but of the complexities they hold, she projects them from her sense of being, internally of them she is freeing.

    Her connection with the light may not make any sense to others, those observers, those outsiders, but she does not need to prove, nor feel a need to speak of her faith in the light above. She is guided by the unfocused worldly others, dragged forth, her eyes grasping, caressing their views, as she allows them to rest within her being, to sink gently inside.

    To wholly accept the notion of something that cannot be entirely shown but can be existentially felt either shows a brave blind trust or something special entrusted to us. Because our viewing of her faith, so fair and knowledgeable without having a presence behind it at all is something of great circumstance, this day, this night, never will her faith fall.

    She trusts the light, the beings within her adoring eyes, the scene before her that no one, nothing, can take away from. She is special in her acceptance, the light means more to her than to those who nay-say about her beliefs, and incomplete to complete has her life become because of her ability to dare to dream and believe.

    © 2019 Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.   

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  • Poetry: Eyes All Around – 09/11/19

    Poetry: Eyes All Around – 09/11/19

    Eyes all around, I can sense their presence lurking over me. Eyes all around, I feel the pupils burning into me. A sense of understanding that somebody is watching; I dart my eyes to the left of me, and there he is blatantly staring. I smile briefly to let him know I knew of his watching. A feeling of being observed makes me feel more than slightly aware, why is it these pairs are watching, as I travel from here to there? What is it about me that makes me special to their vision? This isn’t paranoia at all, their practices need intervention.

    Do they know who I am? Or am I simply an interesting spectacle? I’m not dressed in anything attention-seeking, to bring forth their overt sense of observation. I am in the usual place I can be found at often, simply shopping for groceries, snacks, then off to the car. I want to ask that man what was it that made me so interesting to him that he had to blatantly stare, as though he was waiting for me to become aware, of his interest, should I have glared? In hindsight I know inherently that a glare is no solution, not even from afar.

    I know what paranoia feels like, I’ve been there, experienced it, then tenfold before, this is nothing like that whatsoever. I simply know that rumours might be abounding, and of this, I can’t do anything more than ignore.

    © 2019 Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.

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  • Prose Poetry: Hope – 01/11/19

    Prose Poetry: Hope – 01/11/19

    Hope is the feeling of a singing soul, the uprising of a perfectly white dove against the pristine blue sky, tickling its feathers in the tapestry of life. It is when our emotions run free, accepting of openness, love, and crystalline positivity. The promise of something only pure and of sincere goodness, that an individual cannot pull their eyes away from: the vision causes their heart to fill only with gladness and goodness. It is the sound of trickling water splashing quietly from a pond’s waterfall, the gentle and quiet understanding that of one’s future, you will be promised a special kind of scope, a reasoning in the mind and a strength within your soul, because the knowledge that arises is filled with hope for not you alone, but really for us all.

    Reach within and draw forth the seeds and encumbering ropes of a fortune told with supreme justice and knowledge that you will succeed, that lives will always hold some form of glistening and gleams; a perfection that the dove flying overhead can provide for us, yourself, myself, whomever, those who we can encounter in the land of Inbetween. Because isn’t that the point of it all? — to be hopeful even when events present as darkened, depressing, dismal, hopeless even? Allow your light to shine from the dark, and illuminate all that you are. Hope is but a state of mind, a sense of emotion away, embrace the understanding that what is felt will ultimately compel goodness and sincere positivity to flow your way.

    © 2019 Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.


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  • Flash Fiction: Poison in a Land So Sweet – 01/11/19

    Flash Fiction: Poison in a Land So Sweet – 01/11/19

    I lay myself down in that quiet meadow that exists only within my mind. I rest back, against the soft, pillowy grass and I allow myself to keep. To become at one with the scene, the beautiful sunset, the sublimely coloured horizon; it is so glorious, and I know it’s only for me. I bask in the wonder, treating my eyes, my amazed orbs to swell and brighten as the light slowly changes, the atmosphere darkening, into the dusk of the afternoon. And I lay here waiting, for you to come soon. I lie in wait, for your presence, to keep me safe.

    There is nothing to fear in this landscape, for I have created it all on my own, but I wish for you, I call for you, to visit at least, or perhaps to return here and decide to call this home. A land in which you and I can exist, with love and soft-spoken dexterity, our hands, their movements, clutching each other’s, are not at all amiss. We grasp our attentive and longing outstretched hands, linking also arm in arm. But, my love, you have not come, will you ever arrive?

    My careful eyes watch for you, I know you won’t leave me alone for too long.

    But in trots an arrogant fool, one who does not belong in my precious landscaped scene, nothing to compare with you, because he is too proud, he is too haughty, yet I am confused, do I pay attention to him or ignore him completely? After all, it seems far too rude to dismiss another, even though he seems rough and overly boisterous and showy. I am not in the practice of being rude, I dislike the practice and behaviour greatly. So, I make eye contact with this buffoon, who is lauding himself throughout my delicious scene, trampling on the flowery neighbourhood, and I, close to rolling my eyes, acknowledge him if but for only a few seconds. I do not want to encourage him, to have you feeling my eyes treating you as seconds.

    Oh, how he prances, how he dances, before me, his masculinity screams for my attention, begs for it more and more, until I cannot help myself, I start to laugh, he’s amusing, and this encourages him some more. And then suddenly, you appear from the corner of my eye, from behind a dense bush, and your eyes scream betrayal; I cannot do anything but fumble: I wasn’t moved by him, I want to scream, I wasn’t moved at all, not a little. Yet my heart, how it now aches, at having hurt you in a manner unintended, I am filled with guilt, while the buffoon stands to attention, smiling widely, grinning with obvious pride bursting from inside. He guffaws at the problems he has advertently caused me through amusing and entertaining me with his wiles, and all the while he remains there, cocksure, boastful, pride-filled – of him I am reviled.

    I reach for you, but it is too late, you tell me I have made my choice and it is time for you to dissipate. With tears forming in my eyes, you melt back into the horizon, never again to be seen, in this fantasy of mine, you are now gone. You were my only delicate and sweetened portion. I weep for you, but this buffoon has proven his method: a rapid and obvious sabotaging poison.

    © 2019 Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.   


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  • Prose Poetry: Shedding Intolerance – 29/10/19

    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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