Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: writing

  • Poem: Writer’s Blocked – 23/08/21

    Poem: Writer’s Blocked – 23/08/21

    I don’t feel like writing,
    no inspiration to scribe,
    my subconscious thoughts
    once delirium,
    no vacuous,
    I want to hide,
    to burrow my thoughts beneath
    the doona,
    my sheets,
    embarrassed, uninspired,
    where have you gone, Poetic Dreams?

    Replaced instead with moods,
    dreary, morose,
    I cannot see positivity further
    than my nose,
    what happened to the ability
    to contemplate? It seems
    it’s gone with the wind,
    awaiting a delivery, please.

    Extract from my mind
    the encumbrances,
    the barriers to ambiance,
    the inability to fly freely
    with the pen,
    my mind, it needs to mend,
    to see itself, its contents
    in the reflection
    then thought’s will be
    quantified,
    quantifiable,
    my ability returns
    to be seen.

    Gently, tenderly
    then will great haste
    and aplomb
    my pen’s ink dances
    across the paper
    sending my soul alive
    from numb,

    pulsating with fervent hope,
    delectable swirls and loops,
    my frantic handwriting’s proof
    that listless writer’s block
    can be wiped away
    with hopeful, passionate views.

    I shan’t allow my feelings
    which depressed,
    to return, again,
    at least not so soon,
    I will bask in the luxurious luminance
    of the inspiringly full and
    enlightening Moon.

    Copyright © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
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    Previous Post: Incandescent – Lines of 7 – 23/08/21

    Previous Post: Bright – 21/08/21

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  • Micropoetry: Incandescent – Lines of 7 – 23/08/21

    Micropoetry: Incandescent – Lines of 7 – 23/08/21

    I sit with eyes upon the fire
    Incandescent
    Glowering hour
    Revealing to me
    Curls and flickers
    Reminds me of
    your internal power.

    Copyright © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
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    Previous Post: Bright – 21/08/21

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  • Poem: Bright – 21/08/21

    Poem: Bright – 21/08/21

    Nothing to be depressed about,
    so positive,
    so joyous – so free,
    encumbered paths we could say
    but ecstatic I choose to be,
    it’s about which side to view
    and walk alongside Life,
    I could pinpoint, acknowledge,
    tiny points of strife,
    elaborate,
    with magnitude,
    some attitude filled with,
    rife,
    with annoyance, with irritation,
    or feelings of ‘discrimination’.

    But the truth is I’m blessed
    to be here, well and breathing,
    the strength, resilience, in
    myself and others I am seeing,
    I could list all that’s here for us,
    right and lasting,
    lingering,
    hope, especially,
    is something I am carrying.

    I am grateful for my health,
    my family, my dear friendships,
    my comforts, and deep love,
    Life’s material things,
    those which bring comfort,
    music, sound, paint,
    art, colours, company combine,
    I don’t chose to inhabit positivity —
    instead it’s bred within me.

    Cast aside, long ago,
    the feelings of downbeat,
    downtrodden,
    the ‘world’s against me’s’,
    I didn’t need to be like that,
    to live like that,
    it was so stifling,
    couldn’t breathe.

    Negativity can suck one into
    its slimy, vicious grasp,
    no enlightenment within,
    to exist then – what a task.

    Turned about face to the sun,
    arms thrown open,
    embrace that amazing warmth,
    while I could find saddening points to exist upon,
    I’ve decided instead to be
    bright, bright, bright,
    radiance fills my lark-song.

    Copyright © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
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    Previous Post: Adore – 20/08/21
    Previous Post: Viewing Me – 19/08/21

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  • Poem: Adore – 20/08/21

    Poem: Adore – 20/08/21

    Tempt the temptress, her former lucid life,
    where round and about the memories
    her behaviour once was rife,
    and haunting her, within her sheets
    is music sounding on repeat,
    that jingle jangle, emotive, replete,
    hanging on the edge,
    fumbled footsteps on a road so steep,
    into history these words shall keep.

    Taunt not the woman for being dumb-
    founded by the options before her,
    numb, was she, her vision pure,
    or so it seemed,
    far less than demure.

    But undertaking the melody is syncopation,
    unexpected haunting dreams,
    the -ah-ah-ah of off-beat rhythms,
    heartbeat pounds, beating mallets,
    her ribcage is the prison.

    Because it was her heart that was the cause,
    the prisoner, too, so wondrous yet lost,
    yearning for that which should come to be,
    would it ever be? Her soulmate, would she see?

    Understanding there are many out there,
    available to pick-her-apart,
    and knowing that which would also drive,
    sending her mind and pulse, alive, alive!
    But it was required, really,
    that her baggage be left,
    at the entranceway before her path
    could be walked yet,
    reaching, open arm, open hand,
    open palm,
    for someone to love her,
    and him in return.

    The bittersweet madness of the executed times
    would send her cursed tale
    forward, centre, and front,
    but care little would the true one,
    the one who will decide to watch her with
    widened, adoring eyes,
    sweep her in his arms and enliven himself
    with her wit, her truth, her character, intelligence,
    and charms,
    no excuses, no lies.

    She does not boast, she knows truly within,
    she’s worth much more than bad behaviour
    experiences,
    expletives within!
    Wipe away times of hurt,
    unappreciative, taunting words,
    moving forth to the future,
    where she won’t ever need to call for anything,
    anyone,
    yearning? No, hear her, watch her eyes learn.

    Goodness will come to those who listen
    at every turn.

    Copyright © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
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    Previous Post: Viewing Me – 19/08/21

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  • Poem: Welcoming Humanity – 17/08/21

    Poem: Welcoming Humanity – 17/08/21

    I lived a dream
    so raw, impure,
    and now it seems
    my path’s demure.

    Remaining chaste,
    living only for good,
    giving to the common man and woman
    like I know I should.

    Smiles all around,
    humble lips and ears,
    braggart not,
    enlightening my path
    as I resurrect it,

    my journey as I learn it
    I correct it,
    I accomplish some of my finest
    whilst living life in earnest.

    Ask me not of
    prior names,
    accolades nor
    feigned dames,

    no time assured
    from then to now,
    ask me not,
    for I won’t tell
    nor frown!

    Undoing that which
    needed to die,
    needles prickling
    where sleepin’ dogs lie,
    leave the past,
    search the present with haste,
    tomorrow is but a date,
    cement my fate!

    I can rest assured
    that future truths
    will be enriched with
    bounty of beauty,
    experiences willed,
    impassioned by thy Source,
    my energy thrives and lives,
    peace be unto
    this urchin, my sins
    I decided to forgive.

    Prior memories don’t last,
    I’m thankful to not recall,
    all in all
    I’m living, breathing
    my all,

    my search for myself,
    and my treasured path,
    with warmth,
    humanity is finally welcoming me,
    great love at last.

    © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
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    Previous Post: Poetry Collaboration by Amber and Lauren M. Hancock – Chrysalis of Hope – 16/08/21

    Previous Post: ‘Tween Hearts – 15/08/21

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  • Poetry Collaboration by Amber and Lauren M. Hancock – Chrysalis of Hope – 16/08/21

    Poetry Collaboration by Amber and Lauren M. Hancock – Chrysalis of Hope – 16/08/21

    Nestled in the womb of creation,
    perils face the existence of human civilisation;
    birthing much chaos and delirium, 

    unknowingly, we settle in,
    unaware of what our future both promises 
    and what it may bring,

    ever-open hands reach for warmth
    outside our hollows,
    to worldly next-of-kin.

    Hope bears feathers, perched in soul,
    humming a frequency beyond words;
    the eternal cacophony gifting gold from the unknowns,

    upon this hope we glide,
    and then, as though, now sliding into
    pirouettes with symphonic style,

    the treasure bears more than we believed
    able to be delivered,
    let us adore these with calming eyes,

    ecstatic hands, while feathers drift, softly land,
    vivid types of wisdom only known to
    enlightened woman and man.

    The imprinted consciousness
    upon the soothed clean conscience 
    of our astral journeying pillows

    embodies the archaic knowledge 
    of the ancients whose remedies 
    and generational lineage lays

    patiently in hibernation for the
    pivotal metamorphosis of the spiritual development 
    of man amongst turmoil of the cyclical yugas.

    In chrysalis, we lay,
    pods enclosed with passion, with verve,
    growing, minutely, each passing day,

    fragments becoming whole,
    engorging ourselves, we know that when
    we enlarge our intentions, and mend and heave hearts,

    there is no matter in internalising
    this primordial knowledge
    other than understanding we are coming to a close,

    and still the beginnings, unknown,
    our subconscious thread speaks of moments,
    instances, which enlighten even if we do not fully attend,

    but it is with innate knowing,
    with peace and passion,
    that hopefulness and truth breathe as a whole.

    Copyright © 2021 Dios Raw and Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

    – By Amber (Dios-Raw) and Lauren (Lauren M. Hancock)

    Previous Post: ‘Tween Hearts – 15/08/21

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  • Poem: The Hot Room – 13/08/21

    Poem: The Hot Room – 13/08/21

    Orchids wilt in the hot room.
    It is summer here, outside, a belligerent winter
    with a dying, poorly Moon.
    They have thrown themselves from their stakes.
    Stakes which were there to provide safety,
    protection,
    backboned projections.

    The orchids, they are careless, for they have
    left their safe havens,
    their ties have been cut,
    severed from the heaven they once
    grew towards,
    now wilted, lethargic.

    What a sorry sight for eyes,
    used to falling upon beauty,
    now dejection and misery,
    once-taut, now lacklustre under the
    oppressive heat’s fury,
    the split system churns out
    Celsius, five and twenty,
    degrees of measure too hot
    for the orchids,
    whom cannot stop wilting.

    Their heads, they can barely lift,
    too much of a trouble it is to subsist,
    rejection of the support
    because I cannot, will not,
    do not want to entertain that foggy breath
    of mist,
    morning time offers some solace
    when the fiery heater does its trick.

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

    Previous Post: Interior – 11/08/21

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  • Poem: Interior – 11/08/21

    Poem: Interior – 11/08/21

    The fullness in my belly
    tells me how blessed
    I am to smile,
    to grin until cheeks ache,
    what madness,
    corners of lips will remain
    widow-peaked,

    I’m grateful for the satisfaction
    which comes from not being
    lonely and hollow,
    many yesterdays,
    potential tomorrows
    promised to be laden with
    such sorrow.

    But I have changed mindsets,
    it is nothing short of amazing,
    withholding health from myself, I had,
    now, pleasantries, luxuriating,
    I would not allow myself to
    experience any possible bliss,
    deprivation, for firm reasons,
    and now I’ve relaxed,
    relinquishing control,
    what personal power this is.

    It should matter not,
    should not be all about,
    what one looks like
    to the world,
    how one presents is only
    one sheen, lustre,
    shimmer of a pearl,

    what we are made up of,
    the interior,
    our strength,
    our power,
    our desires,
    truth of the matter,
    these are what really matter.

    Disgruntled nature within,
    cataclysmic, self-loathing,
    hatred growing,
    wanting, desiring, that physical
    changing,
    but it is with true consciousness
    that we should be engaging,
    not just with the world
    but ourselves,
    power-pressing up against
    closing-in walls,
    free yourself,
    it’s truly triumphant
    to be strong in this world.

    No longer aiming for tiny,
    but aiming for happy and healthy,
    already halfway there,
    won’t I growl a prized cacophony?

    I can be anything I want to be,
    and I choose to be me,
    the only authentic form,
    shape, person
    in this world
    that I can truly be.

    © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
    Photo by Johen Redman on Unsplash

    Previous Post: With Ease – A Swan Song – 09/08/21

    Previous Post: Poem: Refractions – 09/08/21

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  • Poem: Refractions – 09/08/21

    Poem: Refractions – 09/08/21

    The growling primal fear
    which rears its head
    dances its eyes over our
    circumstance,
    and in a plethora of
    understanding
    it wisely retreats into
    the distance,
    pillars surround us
    as petals, thrown,
    fall from invisible hands.

    The area we find ourselves in
    beckons to outsiders
    near and far,
    cajoling them,
    calling them in,
    to come join
    the party,
    if one could call
    it this,
    we are prisms within
    shafts of light,
    sensing deep within.

    And so, we carry on,
    dispel any negativity,
    growth is a factor,
    plurals multiply,
    lace-widths of sin
    and unroll do these errors from past, future and
    unknowns,
    our history determines
    how much we want  
    others to know.

    So, wary are we,
    these refractions dance so thin,
    like slicing daggers into
    unwanted entities,
    our lovers hear and own
    everything that shouldn’t
    be seen,
    as though thickets,
    deep brush,
    slash, gash, branches
    not so tough,
    do and say are different things,
    but results matter most,
    is what some might say.

    Thinning out,
    excavating memories of time,
    white-hot circumstance,
    disallowing swallows flighty times,
    drift away from that sea
    that calls and calls,
    deep swells for you,
    and for me – well,
    I’m tackle what I am given,
    arrivederchi.

    © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
    Photo by Emma on Unsplash

    Previous Post: Shade – 07/08/21

    Previous Post: Rose – 07/08/21

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  • Poem: Rose – 07/08/21

    Poem: Rose – 07/08/21

    What we are and what we feel are
    two different concepts,
    notions I need to feel,
    I watch from within as thoughts build and layers
    harden then peel
    like ancient flakes of house paint decorating
    that life we accepted and treasured within,
    I know through deep understanding
    that each flake tells a story,
    it’s witnessed so much of life
    to be felt, heard, and seen.

    What I feel is a blossoming,
    a wafting rose developing,
    from a tiny elaborate bud into
    much,
    much more,
    complexities created,
    so much in store,

    her fragrance is intoxicating,
    I do not yearn for anything but her
    in the morning,
    a pin-pricking, her warning,
    to be gentle with her,
    patience never stalling.

    A petal drops –
    by goodness, what a shame,
    her story is unfolding,
    but losing beauty? –
    should the ache in my heart refrain?
    Because it is with dying that she is
    breathing life,
    to live is to expire,
    but to experience is proof of internal fire.

    And her flames are astounding,
    she’s alive, so vivid now,
    effervescent, glowing
    the flakes of paint fall into an inferno,
    fuelling her understanding
    that to live is to capture and incinerate
    what the world deems as beauty,
    there’s much more to her presence,
    behind there is more than a duty,
    it’s a requirement fulfilled morally.

    And it is with experience that she
    continues to grow,
    her form is not lopped,
    stunted growth,
    to entertain others with her vision,
    with her dangerous thorns
    as protection,
    for her wonder in the morning
    and beyond,
    we think, we feel,
    we consider what she does,
    what notions there are to accept,
    as necessary?

    Sometimes it’s required that our awareness
    is measured,
    and our hearts, oh, our hearts,
    must begin to beat harder,
    no option for slowing,
    no option for stalling,
    they should continue to beat fiercely,
    uncontrollably.

    © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
    Photo by Meghan Schiereck on Unsplash


    Previous Post: Distance – 06/08/21

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