Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: surreal

  • poem: clowning around/won’t you join me? – 12/03/22

    poem: clowning around/won’t you join me? – 12/03/22

    the waves take me on a journey
    where I’m lulled into a sense of security
    and notes like gentle hands wash over me,
    I am amazed and quiet,
    there is nothing remaining above the surface,
    a breath and I’m underneath,
    the seaweed, coral, clown fish
    are brighter than above-days,
    my heart is pounding ecstatically,
    once well-rested,
    there’s so much to take in,
    to see.

    engineered cobwebs from
    entangled jellyfish limbs,
    mesmerising affray,
    dilating metamorphic,
    fluid heads, bodies,
    passing my very way,
    I become at peace with this sight
    entranced at their careless might,
    manners so poignant with each other
    there’s nothing which escapes
    my sight; gone under.

    And further under, I bury myself in the
    silt and sand,
    mischievous with this land,
    another clown fish passes, then
    mum and dad.
    Oranges brighter than witches’ cones,
    I smile to myself,
    they entertain, and I know
    their intent is nothing to amuse,
    they simply, casually amble,
    stop, move.

    How beautiful such a simple sight could be within
    a quiet night under the sea,
    so breathless, yet free,
    won’t you accompany,
    won’t you slip beneath waves,
    won’t you join me?
    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.

    Image from Unsplash.  

  • Prose: Freedom – 29/05/21

    Prose: Freedom – 29/05/21

    I trust the magic will imbue, with my soul it will carry me through, into the Great Unknown, where hands and eyes await a certain prize, something to peruse, some agent to get high, to ride on euphoria – these days, it’s time, karmic balance, get paid.

    Their surrounding palms reach and reach; through a black hole, they rise forth, making some regret wanting to live, and those eyes, beady, uninterrupted, staring orbs, they could never placate disaster, never cause a broken heart to mend, to become less torn.

    They live to receive; to take from me, each piece of my puzzle which I had placed hesitantly, and then so deftly, will now be taken away from their family, their home, because of spiteful eyes and appendages of others, gone rogue and free.

    But, I am joyful, because unlike these hands, unlike these eyes, I can dance, away and aware, for I am coursing with power, I am alive. Escape is not an option, it is the only way, the only path, my decision, my freedom can never be taken or bought, only given away, or treasured and retained.

    © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
    Photo by Luis Dalvan from Pexels

    Previous Post: ‘Jewels of Thought’ – 29/05/21

    Previous Post: ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’ – 28/05/21

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  • Prose: A Trail of Winding Thoughts – 12/05/21

    Prose: A Trail of Winding Thoughts – 12/05/21

    On the proviso of keen awareness, some can promise the world. Vivid, glorious, blossoming flowers, and pretty passions laid in a row. Everything given has a reason, or so it seems, amazing these moments are, they’re encouraging, they certainly please. And here presents confusion of the times, wait, the headiness of scented fruits scattered all around takes a free-for-all, but they are sublime. This situation seems profoundly positive, satisfying and amazing, soar with the scents, ride upon spread white dove’s wings, heaven sent. And by the sea we will then find ourselves, the salt air tingling as I dart out my tongue from my mouth. Run to the water, rush to the foam, mermaids are beckoning, mermen are calling you home…

    © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

    Previous Post: ‘Stride’ – 12/05/21

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  • Poem: Not of This World – 26/01/20

    Poem: Not of This World – 26/01/20

    She is not of this world, 
borne of an entity and a place
where daggers and betrayal are commonplace,
inside her heart lies dainty ticking time-bombs.
 
In her world, featuring prominently, are those egos, egos,
ergonomic and plentiful,
potent in their intoxication,
and scents of creation,
fresh, tall and poplar,
she is not of our world,
she makes of it what she may.  
 
Tombstones rise within her vision
creaking aching monuments applicable
to her alone,
familial ties lay beneath the soft sandy soil,
petite, concerning, but never do they overwhelm.
 
She comes from a world unlike ours,
she seems as free as the clouds,
though on the horizon
lies a promise,
a blood-red warning,
that soon, she must start running.
 
The unspoken have their own way of speaking,
deeming themselves relevant 
on both ends of a spectrum,
highlighting what she will never say,
a deeply personal experience,
an explosive type of expression.
 
© 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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