Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: writing

  • Poem: Does Time Really Heal? – 09/04/21

    Poem: Does Time Really Heal? – 09/04/21

    I wonder to myself, does Time heal most wounds?
    Does it help scab over the surface of gashes 
    more permanently than over a clumsy bruise?

    Will it fix the mistakes, 
    the errors of time gone by?
    Allowing for a reprieve, 
    a chance to redo the actions, rather than saying goodbye?

    Or perhaps Time heals the wounds and allows the person
    a chance to move on after aching for many moons. 
    Maybe the healing is a motion that simply occurs
    the less we think of them, 
    a widened universe that wouldn’t allow us to forget them so soon,
    but then thoughts of them gently intrude. 

    We needed the chance to digest the actions, 
    the gashes, the slashes, emotional warfare, and then…
    we have healed, it has taken Time, this we do know, 
    forgiveness may appear stupidity or ignorance, 
    but people are human, and mistakes we must allow for, 
    and dismiss, and for the future, know.  

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

  • Poem: Quality – 09/04/21

    Poem: Quality – 09/04/21

    I darn the threadbare blanket, 
    there are weaves showing to me, 
    I’m not alarmed by its fragility, 
    it’s actually perfect to see.

    Because it signals much use, 
    desirous times,
    this blanket speaks of laughter, friendship and truth,
    is loving deemed a crime? 

    This blanket’s been with me through a lot, 
    covering, securing, protecting, 
    I darn the holes away, 
    renew it –
    it’s anew!
    with only little errors to view, 

    but are they really errors?
    This covering signals the bond between you and I, 
    it links me to others too, 
    with these friends there’s no need for goodbye. 

    The threadbare areas are reminiscent of our 
    times where we lingered, conversed, and loved, 
    the blanket itself is signalling the quality of my friendships
    with few and far in between, 
    a small quantity of quality now, 
    what is there left not to love?

    I am no longer bereft by the smaller number, 
    it’s not about quantity, 
    it’s about cherishing who and what these friendships are,
     
    the blanket caresses us, 
    carries us under,
    I am grateful for them, 
    and everything. 

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

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  • Poem: Sway – 07/04/21

    Poem: Sway – 07/04/21

    A dainty bow signals a gentle approach, 
    the lady will accept without any form of reproach. 
    She takes his hand and they twirl, swirl with glee, 
    palm to palm now, 
    solemnity, 
    there is no chance to flee. 

    In perfect style, they then waltz and careen,
    to others it’s as though their joyfulness has ne’er been seen, 
    but today, it is on show, 
    it is accumulating, 
    like maidens smiling in a row, 
    greeting their dance partners, 
    in beautiful outfits, decorated from head to toe. 

    I smile upon the scene playing in my mind, 
    the partners sway and sway, 
    closeness here to find, 
    their emotional capacities sing, 
    they’re together through everything, 
    they’ve selected, 
    they’ve chosen, 
    ahead a vast ocean of positivity Life will bring.  

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

  • Poem: Amends – 05/04/21

    Poem: Amends – 05/04/21

    It’s considered ludicrous, 
    as this pencil draws as pen, 
    impermanence detailing permanence, 
    can history make amends? 

    In truth, in part, 
    will hope, will fresh knowledge renew?
    In truth, in whole, 
    intentions grown strength to strength 
    and full. 

    But, unmanageable, so it seems? 
    By a world of common sense and 
    split former seams,
    will future tense stretch in excess, 
    parading that which should shriek with joy, not distress?

    I speak of stitches, 
    popped at their entry points, 
    I mention stitches, 
    now being repaired thrice by thrice. 

    I speak of strings ringing with vibrato, 
    these fingers are tremulous, 
    gently rolling, 
    creating that beautiful musical sense
    now and for all tomorrow’s calling.

    But is there enough enveloping scope, 
    in the melodies nightly hushed, 
    in the tunes gently told,
    because one could be argumentative 
    and find insipid flaws 
    in shattered rhapsodies already spoke.

    One must be patient, 
    and wonder not, or perhaps continue to dance, 
    it’s dangerous around certain fires, 
    but some flighty ladies love to linger and prance.

    © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.  
    Image by Kateřina Hartlová from Pixabay      

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  • Poem: Cloaked – 03/04/21

    Poem: Cloaked – 03/04/21

    The cloak and the dagger lie in the foreground, 
    awaiting to be employed, 
    ready for use. 

    What part of the present screams for perusal, 
    what part of the current? —
    tried, terrible and true? 

    Sheath that dagger, 
    hide beneath that cloak, 
    hear the nightly winds rustle 
    through the still-golden oaks,
     
    and if there’s desire for much more, 
    when the moments ought to be bottled,
    admired, 
    should culprits turn to run,
     
    ambiguity in tired breaths as
    innocence gives chase,
    justice will be told, 
    lest my breath expires, 
    laid to waste. 

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

  • Poem: Lavender and Violet: A Little Tale – 02/04/21

    Poem: Lavender and Violet: A Little Tale – 02/04/21

    Violet and Lavender were the greatest of friends. They rarely fought, never had to make amends. Their hearts were in the right places, they assumed not in their lives now, they understood how to avoid moral corruption and rot, their positive moods would mutually grow and ascend. Their smiles were often worn with a glowing halo or crown which one could not usually see, but only when one focussed with great intensity. It was easy to understand these two just knew how be. They understood that the way to live life was with both vigour and kindness, always avoiding potential strife, associating themselves with kindness and niceness. They were lovely beings, these two shades, and they knew, they understood, that life was for living, and moments should be made, that Life was for positivity, for good. There was no extracting one another from a situation, because each wave they rode, they rose with a certain sense of mutual adoration and completion, their hearts had tales which would be eternally told. 

    One day, there came a time where everything seemed rather strained; Lavender and Violet were at their wit’s end, and this argument seems like it could not be saved. They did not know what to do, but they were chewing at the bit, wondering, What happened to our friendship? Is this it, is this it? 

    It all came about because Lavender could not handle because kept at arm’s length by Violet, whom was secretly carrying shades of green and red in her aura, without any yellow as a habit. Her glow was shining, but in a way that slightly perturbed; it reflected her inner state, and the ways in which showed what she currently desired and what she deserved. It was disappointing, really, and upsetting to Lavender, because she wanted Violet present, around for much longer, but it seemed she were pulling away, wanting her own space, it seems, and for that, this and that, she had to allow the tearing at the seams. 

    One cannot make someone stay, but they can leave without any form of rudeness or harshness, one can ensure they leave the slate clean, without emotionally leaving a desire for repair or dissolving of distress. And the factors within Lavender and Violet’s saddening tale, it that they’ll likely never meet again, and this is part of it all, and that’s the long and the short of it, such a difference from here and then. 

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

  • Prose: Celestial Beings – 30/03/21

    Prose: Celestial Beings – 30/03/21

    I wonder where we go as we sleep; I wonder where we travel within our dreams. Do we rise from our consciousness, into the cluster of the atmosphere, smiling, giggling, intertwining? I understand that some won’t dream, while others are cloaked with an ailment of not being able to see, while others are afforded the opportunity of recollection; they remember their dreams. Their moments of deep introspection. 

    Sadly though, some dream less devout, illness encompasses them, and they’d better off images be without. Their hardened hearts, their swift take, take, take, of whatever they can from the fellow man, well, why, this is their dream, and I know that it should be wiped away, vanished, completely unseen. 

    But, I want to talk about travel with celestial beings, not travel with the average, untoward man upon the Earth and down below. I wish to sing the beings’ praises, while knowing that I don’t know how to exist within the memories without saving them, although what I can do is immerse myself in their potency so greatly that the sensation at least won’t ever be forgotten. 

    Their glowing brightness, their ability to sing, sing, sing, heralding the coming of better things, and I know, I understand, I realise, that this path I am on each night, is the right one, despite the lessened waking hours, despite my inability to remain asleep, despite everything, I am able to revisit my celestial beings. 

    It does not matter that I cannot recall them in my thinking. They are there, I know it.

    © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
     

  • Poem: Comrade – 22/02/21

    Poem: Comrade – 22/02/21

    Glowing in the dark, 
    your pallour simply shines, 
    you’re not sickness, 
    you’re bright and mine. 

    The whiteness that doth paint thy reserved cheeks,
    highlighting flushed spots upon eager flesh
    which competes with the calmed presence within you,
    voices call for you to go, to go,
    but you know better, you know best,
    the truth. 

    You won’t leave me,
    no matter how much the world calls and calls 
    for you to depart, 
    you are devoted, 
    purposefully stuck, 
    in the land of Inbetween, 
    your eyes and heart are thus awestruck. 

    I didn’t aim to drag you aside from your path, 
    the strength to do so required Herculean, 
    but here we are, 
    myself overjoyed and anew, 
    and you distracted, wondering how this situation became true.

    In a way, we both gained, 
    yourself, a heart-song to warble, to unwrap, to borrow, 
    performed in time, 
    and myself, a loyal comrade who shall accompany anywhere with an eager smile.  

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

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  • Poem: I Do Not Exist, I Live – 15/02/21

    Poem: I Do Not Exist, I Live – 15/02/21

    Sing to myself, I will this day, 
    there is nothing to perturb me, 
    my worries they have been laid away. 

    I do not exist, I live, 
    broadly speaking I experience, 
    I take, I give, 
    my heart yearns for nothing, 
    I am complete because I’ve accepted the truth of myself,
    I’m growing more comfortable in my skin. 

    Strength comes from knowing who I am, 
    visions come from planning through resilience, 
    I am no longer weakness walking, 
    the insecurities forthcoming, 
    I do not rely on another to complete or fix me, 
    the notion of this unsettles me. 

    Because, being independent mentally, 
    and emotionally, shall we say,
    it is, in itself something wondrous to look upon after
    endless helpless days, 
    I won’t suffer, I won’t be useless with myself, 
    I have courage and ardour, 
    I’ve grown and I don’t need another to leap in 
    to take me as their prize 
    when I’ve worked so hard to develop myself
    for years, not days. 

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

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  • Poem: The Wild Card – 11/02/21

    Poem: The Wild Card – 11/02/21

    I am curious:
    how much of this tale 
    do you know for yourselves?

    I am inquisitive: 
    which part of it makes you need to 
    live and breathe, and want to dive and delve?

    I am aware there lies certain conditions of the body and mind, 
    the pages whipping in the gust, 
    their varied intent,
    settling in, seemingly randomised.

    Like her, he needed saving,
    but it’s as though he calmly waited to be found,
    the blow softened from another well-trusted, 
    I’m whipping away their cobwebs, 
    the path ahead is easy enough to find now.

    It’s all set to be trodden upon,
    won’t they reap what has been sown?
    Certain pieces of this puzzle discarded, 
    and others’ presence completely unknown. 

    Now, the wild card,
    rugged character, 
    in the playing deck is quite uncommon, 
    his frequency is not plentiful, 
    and his presence here is never forgotten.
     
    Thus, while searching for his twinkling stars, 
    remember the constellations which have been
    gazed upon
    by millions and millions more, 
    so appreciative from afar,

    this player, in his rarity, 
    his appearance, he is speaking, 
    to me, to us, 
    to you, to them, 
    his relevance akin to a promising
    three card spread,
    a bright destiny which won’t stop calling. 

    I yearn to provide some solace 
    for ambiguity is what I’ve leaned upon, 
    in time, many souls will repair themselves,
    heart, body and mind,
    the wild card smiles upon and with them as one.
     
    There will be much motivation to spring forth
    to allow progress to heal,
    these facts are done and dusted,
    more predictions to be told soon,
    positive forecasts, will they bloom,
    will they yield?

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

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