Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: prose poetry

  • Prose Poetry: From Strength to Strength – 28/10/19

    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.


    Return to All Posts


    Home

  • Prose Poetry: Icy Heart – 27/10/19

    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.


    Return to All Posts


    Home

    Illustration inspired by a reference photo:

    Shutterstock image: 146245403, artist: Xanya69

  • Story: A Race With Conniving Emu of the Bush – 26/10/19

    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.


    Return to All Posts


    Home

  • Prose Poetry: The Pansies – 25/10/19

    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 ©


    Return to All Posts


    Home

  • Prose Poetry: Wrapped Like a Burrito – 25/10/19

    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.  


    Return to All Posts


    Home

  • Prose Poetry: Movement – 24/10/19

    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.  


    Return to All Posts


    Home

  • Prose Poetry: Hospital Girl – 23/10/10

    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.


    Return to All Posts


    Home

  • Prose Poetry: Daffodil – 20/10/19

    Prose Poetry: Daffodil – 20/10/19

    The daffodil is strangely beautiful in its brightened yellow garb. In his coloured outfit of delight, he makes observers sing and sigh with breathy appreciation and flowing rivers of love.

    He is modest, this daffodil, he does not ask to be seen for what he is not, he is not showy or greedy for eyes, he accepts what is given, where our eyes are cast.

    But we cannot stare at anything other than him, his joyous melody of lightness seemingly singing, singing, through our innate senses of melodious being.

    He also represents awareness, a sign of a reminder, but here he is simply here, present, and we appreciate his wonder. All the while though, there is a knowing that his sincere purpose is to make others show that we understand, we are aware, of his meaning we truly care.

    His beauty can be deceptive, but he is now blossomed, into full bloom, like the brightened message he represents, we can take this flower with us, from hushed room to comforting room.

    This daffodil is magic, and he is perfectly pleased with being part of a message, raising eyes, awareness and acknowledging the brave hearts whom the blossom is trying to help save with his blessings.  

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


    Return to All Posts


    Home

  • Prose Poetry: Hoot Hoot – 19/10/19

    Prose Poetry: Hoot Hoot – 19/10/19

    Hoot and holler, holler and hoot, they express their blatant approval as you walk past their scene. Where you are not viewed as a person, but an item, a beautiful thing to be objectified and admired without the understanding that you feel and express yourself too. Now you hoot and holler, toward them you shake your fist and call, standing up for yourself, you won’t take their disrespect at all. With surprise they lower their eyes, ashamed, awash with embarrassment, they should have known better, to perform their social role with the respect they’d been taught to express at home. 

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


    Return to All Posts


    Home

    (*Used Shutterstock image as a generalised drawing reference then altered.)

  • Prose Poetry: Expulsion – 18/10/19

    Prose Poetry: Expulsion – 18/10/19

    I have long ago released all ill feeling for those whom were once in my life, for the former alliances, for the ones who took advantage of a young naïve woman who was I. For those who exploited the gullibility in a cruel selfish manner that meant only they would be the ones benefiting, I speak to you now: you have no effect on me anymore, it is easier to forgive then commence forgetting than to cling to the hatred of years before.

    While it is effortless to recall angered words about them, in my being, in my core, I don’t feel anything bad or negative for them now, not anymore. It’s as though the thick black soot of anger and slime which permeated my being when I recalled them has simply annihilated itself, wiped itself clean.

    Certainly, I can detail my former anger and sense of insult and offence but what would be the point in that? Live and let live. These beings are the ones who have to live with who they truly are, how they are themselves, and that is quite possibly the biggest sucker-punch of an irony to be known and seen. They will one day be suffering; this I can assure you. The conscience has a way of making oneself accountable for their actions. And I know to stay well away from these types, because for me, the warning signs signal in my mind for evermore.

    I can’t imagine being like some of those self-serving, arrogant, selfish people I once knew. They would have to come to terms with how they treat others, and perhaps for them, there is nothing wrong with being advantageous, fashioning circumstances benefiting themselves and themselves alone. They do not think kindly of me, nor do they think of you, they precisely alter the methods and exercise their wiles until you’re backed against a wall, with nothing more to say. Unfortunately, occasionally our self-control and courage take a sick day.

    Do not allow yourselves to be affected by these types, nor the memory of what these types have performed. They are unworthy of your anger or spat spite, instead allow yourself to be free of negativity, they’re worthy of nothing in your life, nor space in your mind. They are gone for a reason. To the memory of them a firm goodbye.

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


    Return to All Posts


    Home