Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: writing

  • Poem: Good Samaritans – 16/07/20

    Poem: Good Samaritans – 16/07/20

    Who is the Good Samaritan
in your life?
 
Hiding around corners,
quiet until
you’re experiencing strife?
 
Say you feel
your heart
erratically pounding,
left armpit paining,
and you fall, broken,
gasping desperately
to your knees,
 
who is the stranger
who steps forth,
up and ahead,
begins resuscitation,
breathing life
into your hungering lungs,
to keep going that massive, 
yet weakening heart?
 
Who remains calm,
attends to you,
keeping panic from your mind,
helps you focus on 
the positive things instead,
such as the future of your life?
 
You’re a good Samaritan, too,
you’ll help out
humankind where
you can,
 
anyone in pain
or suffering,
of course, within reason,
you’ll extend a helping hand.
 
I think within
us all –
most of us –
there is the propensity,
the desire to help,
 
to ensure the ailing,
the suffering,
the despairing, saddened, or sick
are attended to,
with a sense of hope and care ongoing.
 
Empathy is within
most of us,
given the opportunity
I’m sure we’d
want to help,
 
to better another's
circumstances,
or are my thoughts far
too positive?
I do not wish to overwhelm.
 
But I hold hope
for the general populace,
their empathy,
emotional intelligence held,
whether developed 
rapidly or slowly,
 
underneath we’re all
Good-Samaritans-to-be,
even if some of you think
mine is an idealistic dream.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by Sasin Tipchai from Pixabay

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  • Poem: The Irritated Sleep Poem – 16/07/20

    Poem: The Irritated Sleep Poem – 16/07/20

    I am tired,
exhausted,
feels like I barely slept a wink.
 
I don’t know who
wakes me,
but I stumble up and down
for a thirst-quenching drink,
 
my slumber interrupted,
four am or half past two,
what can I do
to simply sleep through?
Do I need to beat my pillow to tire myself,
until my knuckles turn raw red, or black and blue?
 
I operate through days like a zombie,
lidded eyes,
confused and grumbling,
 
wanting to get through the day,
yet all I’ll do is sleep it away,
I curl on the couch
though heater’s on,
I’m still freezing,
come what may, hey?
 
My rigid form
encourages only stilted blood flow,
if I moved more, I would warm up
but I only want to curl up just so.
 
My attitude easily becomes belligerent,
my irritation arises,
I need uninterrupted sleep, just once,
goddamn it,
how can I sort this problem out right???

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

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  • Some Candid Thoughts – 14/07/20

    I was told: no one wants to hear about your problems. No one is interested in them. They’re not problems, I wanted to explain, they’re reflections, ruminations, story-telling. Is anyone bothered by the tales I share? I’m sharing hoping for relatablity. For the ability to connect, to cause a feeling, or emotion, within the person who’s reading.
 
I don’t mean to perturb, though sometimes my shares will shock. That’s not my main intent. I am concerned by their statements. Because, if it is true that people don’t want to read, why do I have readers return to read my words, the numbers may have fallen but of my release, I am still hanging on.
 
I am grateful for each single word you read, which you digest. If you can’t make it all the way through, I understand, some topics may not be for you. But I appreciate that you are here as part of a type of therapy, the sharing allows an offloading feeling, the heaviness of a topic shared between others lightens the load.
 
I’m not a woman constantly filled with turmoil, a walking accident, a travelling mistake. I suffer and thrive from many things that you do, too. We could be one and the same, for all I know.
 
We may not be so different after all. Thank you for your comments and encouragement on my posts, also. They really do mean a lot, and make me feel as though I’m on the right path with my writing.

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  • Poem: Blessed – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Poem: Blessed – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Audio: Blessed 
    I am blessed here,
in a home so warm and loving,
no matter if it’s empty,
aside from myself,
I can feel the love lingering,
it is forthcoming.

It reaches,
grabs hold like little hungry fingers
would reach for a
snack or chocky milk,
enveloping around me,
arms tight and strong
and true,
like a relationship that
may not fall apart
because the path there was willingly learned,
to be calm and respectful, too.

I am quiet here,
though my fingers tap and compose,
I am strong here,
I don’t need the scent of mature, picked lilies or daffodils,
a single beautiful rose.

I’ve suffered in silence,
and I’ve been subjected to much,
but I won’t allow rigid experiences to permeate any further,
I’ve been in a dither, I’ve been bothered,
and honestly now I am
blessed in this house,
upon all hours.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Jess Foami from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Drainage – 12/07/20

    Poem: Drainage – 12/07/20

    Strangely exhausted,
an afternoon, heavily slept,
too much, too much,
ill memories draining,
they won’t rise delicately,
rather seep down below the mattress,
will not gently fly away.

A drainage system
below the surface
of a city, a being,
more than four times hastily gone mad,
residual pain wafting from
the wide walkway pipes,
potent,
uncleanly,
needing purification:
the sensations do not need resurfacing.

But a town mayor deems it so,
right and correct to flush this town of
mental muck
though the waterways will never
flow with pure, clean goodness,
it doesn’t hurt to try, though, does it.

Her drip,
drip draining like a cannula,
a personal IV,
feeding pain-controlling and cleansing
elements to this human city, this sleeping being,
in an instant there is a rush of 
blue then red dyed magic entering into her veins,
her memories become less aching,
less hounding,
can the system be cleansed,
and her self still remain saved?

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Semevent from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Lingering – 09/07/20

    Poem: Lingering – 09/07/20

    The silence greets me.
The questions which I have uttered are left
lingering,
their syllables carelessly thrown
to the wind.
 
It’s not a struggle to have let them go,
in fact, they’re a release,
a moment of crisis,
a catharsis,
 
and I know, I know,
that not every utterance should be
an emancipation,
but lately, most have been.
 
What is wanted, what is required? 
Being a poet, I can be selfish, if I decide,
of needs and desires
I need not necessarily deliver.
I can humour myself and my needs alone,
indulgent word fantasies like thickets grown.
 
But then, where would I be,
with no audience to breathe with,
to greet?
 
No more morning sparkles and shine,
their visits revealing notifications,
understandings that I’ve created something
that’s cast a modest net,
caused an effect.
 
Because when I link with my readers,
it’s the most wonderful feeling,
my mission has been successful,
I’ve helped them enter my realm,
 
how ever grateful am I for their presence
and careful scanning eyes,
your presence encourages me to continue
detailing my pain and paradise.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.  
Image by Jorge Guillen from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Where the Pretty Ones Live – A Romance – 07/07/20

    Poem: Where the Pretty Ones Live – A Romance – 07/07/20

    Where the pretty ones live
is where some want to be,
posed or slouched so elegantly,
chiffon dresses or satin clinging.
 
Where the pretty ones live
is where some want to 
spend some time,
gracefully sipping champagne,
for hours talking softly 
or romancing.
 
Where the pretty ones live
is where I found you,
strong yet awkward,
though slightly out of place,
 
but,
you were poised,
you were prepared,
you were honest and true,
 
and,
where the pretty ones exist
is where we forged our intent,
tenor and alto lines 
so rich and sweet,
I couldn’t conjure 
such a melody,
ours was of 
fantastical truth.

Where the strongest survive
is where we travelled to,
once floundering, 
we now clung to each another,
swept away from those beings,
left them afar,
 
and where the bravest reside,
we carried ourselves 
with great courage,
to rebuild bridges of our 
past insecurities
into palatable platforms 
which were warm,
serene, and inviting.
 
We didn’t need the 
presence of pretty ones
to make us feel complete,
we had each other,
and this was progress to be seen,
 
through many an endless ocean,
o’er many mountains,
upon winding paths and
cobblestone roads
we would traverse,
 
the pretty ones could
heave and breathe
their distaste and 
their bitterness,
upon neither of us
their jealous airs would be cast.
 
Because,
while pretty ones are
interesting in the moment,
we have advanced ourselves,
refashioned our near-empty selves 
into stoic
iron and mortar,

we are no longer 
impressionable,
weak,
overly tender,

through each other, 
we've found ourselves,
alone or together, 
we are stronger because of the other.
 
We no longer needed 
to listen to their gossip,
indulgent hissed and 
giggled tales between
champagne bubbles 
and sips of wine,

no,
no, my precious,
we have made ourselves truly whole, 
we have made ourselves divine.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.  
Image by Khusen Rustamov from Pixabay

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  • Poem: To Make a Difference – 05/07/20

    Poem: To Make a Difference – 05/07/20

    Wanting to make a difference,
trying to be heard,
I've spoken at length
and, I fear I've pained some 
minds,
eyes 
and ears,
still, I insisted on 
sharing more, and more, and more.
 
I’d apologise for
being fixated,
but, I am compelled, 
I want to
share my truths,

will they, have they
made a difference?
Could you relate?
Were you moved?
 
I know I need to
pull back,
drag drawstrings on the
crazed kite that’s
whipped so free,
decrease the momentum,
I need to drag, drag,
drag,
my words straight back to me.
 
To corner them in
a box,
a private site for
me alone,
until I can assess
what should be shared,
not haphazardly at you thrown.
 
Sometimes I share so
I feel less alone,
knowing that others
are sharing my
experiences, too,
 
makes me feel like
my varied path with its mistakes
and pains
may have more of a learning curve to 
ride and view.
 
I cannot help that
I’ve overloaded,
but when I look back
on my words,
 
I’m pleased that I’ve
shared, 
that I've opened up,
perhaps to you,
and to others,
this has drawn us closer.
 
Understanding to be allowed,
interwoven,
ne’er to be undone,
these moments, experiences,
truths of mine,
recollected and digested
together.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by Alexas_Fotos from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Heartbeat to Heartbeat – 5/07/20

    Poem: Heartbeat to Heartbeat – 5/07/20

    Like the sound of rolling thunder
on the distant hills,
my heartbeats clamber to be heard,
(to be heard),
received and acknowledged by you,
at your breezy window sill.
  
Your hand reaches out
to grab the distant beats,
the uniquely peculiar patterning
that pounds, and pounds
and pounds,
 
from my sill to yours,
a distant utterance
which begs to be translated:
what does it call for?

When transformed,
will my percussive pattern affect
your strong and courageous, 
masculine disposition,
into quietly affected, weeping eyes?
This vulnerable beating is all for you.
 
How harrowed I once was 
without you,
without this link,
how now when I look back
my life seemed utterly empty
and terrifying,

I was morose,
broken,
somewhat together but alone,
 
and now that we are here,
window sill to window sill,
glancing into the darkness
wondering at the other,

you’ve brought me back to life,
and I can send you my
heartfelt rhythmic dictations,
my life force 
representing my dreams,
my quietly built courage.
 
I want to receive your beats,
to capture your fervour,
perhaps one day we will
meet face-to-face,
and I’ll embrace you,
my surprisingly welcome saviour.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by Comfreak from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Still Surprisingly Numb – 02/07/20

    Poem: Still Surprisingly Numb – 02/07/20

    As our car enters
our street,
around the bend
the surprising sunshine greets,

glorious, positive, shining,
it strangely has
no effect upon me.

Where once I felt the
warmth, the sunshine’s smile,
now I remain hollow,
there’s nothing brightening
about.

All I can remember,
all I can recall,
are the feelings of
emptiness,
when will I succumb
to something
more positive?

It seems that while the weeks
of introversion have
yielded some success for me,

the negative side
of excessive rumination
is that my eyes are now
stained pensive,
accompanied by a
despairing lullaby,
with no clearly visible dreams.

Bright colours,
warming garments,
vivid flowers,
used to heighten
the corners of my lips,

though now at these
I stare blankly,
my eyes and heart
are underwhelmed.

When did I permit
all to be ordinary?
Artistic inclinations
no longer on the rise,

a dulling effect
upon me now,
a colour is just
a colour,
no feelings or associations
to see,
to tempt my mind.

To look out the
window to the garden,
yes, a winter’s bed
is still beautiful,

the way the sunlight
basks upon the plants,
bird sculptures seem to dance,
bird baths slowly collect,
gently clanging hanging chimes,
a world carefully constructed
yet it’s no longer part of mine.

When will these
feelings pass?
I feel so stuck,
encumbered then by this negativity
which fails to cease,

I need to rid myself of this
pessimistic realism
as I have deemed it,
there is no need to fall into
a wintry storm,

where the unwanted snow
dumps its fall of
powder-soft drift,
and I don’t even scramble because
I cannot be bothered
with freeing myself.

So, I freeze,
due to my despondency,
my inability, 
my lack of desire to escape
will long keep me
from roaming free.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

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