Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: writing

  • Poem: When Words Won’t Speak – 06/05/20

    Poem: When Words Won’t Speak – 06/05/20

    When words won’t speak, 
colours do,
vibrant splashes,
moody shadows,
emotive characters,
abstract patterns.
 
When I cannot find the right letters,
or when I simply stutter,
I bring forth emotional therapy,
brilliant shades bleeding with highlights
or slices of calming, iridescent colour. 
 
Sometimes nothing lyrical comes out, 
and I’m left with a blank, cursed page, 
or attempts of controlled cursive crossed out, 
never for anyone to view.

Or there are other types of words, 
they ramble and demand,
intended for others to experience,
to see, 
their rawness brought about by
my hastily scrawling hand,
interpretation intentionally difficult,
I wait, I hope, I breathe. 
 
But in such a situation, I doubt myself, 
my words may prove too harsh, 
best translate them into a form of visual art,
where it’s less specific, 
less obvious what I'm trying 
to place on show.
 
Less fervent will the story be
for I can disguise the dramatics 
and roll on and along 
with the waves of emotion
'til the process of ambiguity
makes my words fit for public consumption - 
 
images filled to the brim, 
a certain crescent rising,
a personal triumph sent,
 
an explosion of hues, 
of brushstrokes,
of textures, of layers, 
that have been expelled from deep within.

I am now tentatively pleased, 
the story has been told, 
by shades and highlights, 
bright and bold, 

I have created a scene
without a single word, 
the speckles, 
the explosions, 
the colours I'll live and breathe
until I'm frail and old,
this process is a priceless passion. 

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

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  • Poem: A Curious Moth’s Cycle – 01/05/20

    Poem: A Curious Moth’s Cycle – 01/05/20

    The moth is drawn to the flame,
curious though tentative 
he dances,
he flits closer,
the heat scorches –
away, away!
 
Although his wing is singed
he cannot cease his wondering,
in his mind he feels he must
continue to draw closer,
nearer,
until he’s sizzling in a second,
both his wings in 
devastatingly smouldering tatters.
 
The other insects,
they mourn their inquisitive friend 
from the ground,
but what else could they have expected
from a being 
perpetually drawn to the light?
 
It was the moth’s downfall 
to be so hopeful,
to wish to be near a force so dazzling
that it would only burn out 
his own light:
 
an ending
by that impermanent deathly flicker,
the poor moth’s obliterated picture,
a life cast aside by his final fateful flight,
what more than sadness and grief 
could it have delivered?
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Andreas Lischka from Pixabay

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  • Poem: The Grumbling Instability – 30/04/20

    Poem: The Grumbling Instability – 30/04/20

    Instability,
a grumbling temperament grows,
like rolling waves crashing on suicidal rocks,
the aftermath is broken froth,
a bubbling foam of doom.
 
But there is no true destruction yet,
the cascading curling of blue
promised a cushioned fall,
one where anger and misjudgement
could press or
roll away
those points of migraines elsewhere.
 
The headaches which can coexist
when communication is unstable
can mutually present
persisting annoyance –
how to return to how the moods
once were?
 
The light-hearted livelihood,
the bright, jovial moments
which were frequently had?
 
I can see a path;
I can envisage a line of dance
in which temperamental or
agitated thoughts no longer
need to rise and flit,
 
no reactionary measures,
self-defensive songs or tunes,
just easy going,
casual conversation,
won’t the present tension ease itself soon?
 
Then there can be that wonderful chatter,
banter without being bogged down
by irritation at what was or may have
been meant,
 
alluded to,
insinuated,
perhaps it’s read into far too much –
what is desired is for discourse
to return to how it once was.
 
Then peace making is spoken of,
we lay down our arms,
our bitter, sharp, jaded words,
our underlying sarcasm,
our clipped mannerisms,
 
we relearn how to speak with softness,
with the delicacy that comes with the embrace
of well-chosen words,
we return to being kinder and remembering why
these conversations are undertaken.  
 
A stability now present,
we have combed out the tangles,
the mane of conversation is thick,
lush,
lustrous and wanted,

we discuss the darnedest of things,
shimmer with a joyful, playful mood,
and suddenly gone is the negativity
which had crept into
each other's respective mental rooms.

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

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  • Poem: Autumn Leaves to the Air – 28/04/20

    Poem: Autumn Leaves to the Air – 28/04/20

    Autumn leaves fall one by one,
excusing themselves from attendance.
Like warm emotions they peel away,
leaving an unfamiliar, unfeeling circumstance.
 
Soon the branches will be barren,
stark,
undecorated, alone,
with no reminder of spring or summer,
when heartfelt words were purred,
within another’s arms feelings were grown.
 
How differently a season can present
a once near-perfect circumstance,
even if slightly illogical,
the dreamscape was there,
unique to be had.
 
A sense of comfortability grew,
but now the delicate leaves fall and fall,
stripping away layers that once shone –
where is that which once called to me now?
 
I sit by the base of the tree,
dumbstruck, tremulous,
at how things have unravelled,
words may be unspoken,
but as obvious as falling leaves dancing,
the silence permeates,
creates an acidic, sullen mood.
 
A loss, a replacement,
with little care,
I reach forth,
throw handfuls of rejected leaves to the air.

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

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  • Poem: Jagged Picture – 27/04/20

    Poem: Jagged Picture – 27/04/20

    Rivulets of broken seams,
the crackling of irritation heaves and gleams,
beneath a thin surface
a heated secret boils
it festers,
does she wish to be anything other
than what and how her impatient heart can muster?
 
There’s no calm in the desert creek
where parched tongues refused to get along
the sandpaper-like exterior
cat-like,
gingerly, one could prime this picture.
 
But to see this image fall apart,
though long-awaited were those positive dreams,
it is clear that irritation is what
the present promotes,
an ultimatum,
a damned unspoken destruction,
meant to be cataclysmic?
To eventually come undone?
 
The fate lies,
awaiting,
quietly, coercive,
need the ending be spoken of
in bittersweet tunes?
 
A sing-song chorus of
maddening annulment,
shattered pieces,
laid there in their raw glory to view.
 
Are these pieces able to be
pieced together again?
as of yet,
unknown,
the picture’s something still
jaggedly beautiful to behold.

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

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  • Poem: Coldness – 26/04/20

    Poem: Coldness – 26/04/20

    the air is icy,
precipitation,
crackles,
I am amazed by the ongoing
incoherence of the
patterns of snowflake icicles.
 
harder becomes the dark night air
with every accumulated breath,
they gather,
layer,
through them I soon
cannot stare.
 
the walls surrounding me
are now thicker than an Eskimo’s igloo,
the protection is not hindered
because all that can destroy it
are heat and brute force towards it,
both things readily unavailable.
 
I stare upwards,
my eyes glazing over the shining surface,
I want to slide my bare hands across the walls
but cold burns do not
appeal to me,
 
instead I huddle my knees to my chest,
internalising the heat that I have left,
powering through,
I need a thermometer to catch
the correct reading,

but I will be fine for the time being,
this frigid air my lung sacs are suckling,
they’re managing,
they are managing.
 
beware, beware,
the negative further drops,
gusts of wind blow through the cavity’s entrance,
my matted, unkempt hair,
a frostbitten decorated mop.
 
it’s far safer indoors than
it is outside in that deep blizzard,
breathe in,
breathe out,
at least inhaling the
warmer huddled air 
is marginally easier.

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

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  • Poem: The Cobra Attack – 25/04/20

    Poem: The Cobra Attack – 25/04/20

    Distortion fills my ears,
the drums,
the drums,
a cacophony
winds its way through,
auditory bombs.
 
I can feel the sound of livelihood
dripping from my ears,
these precious orifices,
here, there is so much to grin and bear.
 
Shell-shocked by the decibels,
I know that others enjoy their cause,
tainted sound waves,
an invisible cobra bites,
inserts everything an attack could possibly entail.
 
And now it wraps its way around my ankle,
my leg,
the constriction a welcome feeling as the venom
swims in my head,
 
the narrowed eyes,
the dutiful cause,
it’s attacked
and now the life it claims
is no longer mine –
would it willingly take yours?
 
Hallucinations swim before my eyes,
I’m held down,
down,
as though an unwilling sacrifice,
there now appears little tiny cobras
scattering toward me,
slivering collectively,
and I know my fate already,
outside my chest the frantic pounding rhythm
of my heartbeat grows.
 
They attack from all angles,
oh, the grief at knowing this may be the end,
suddenly a super, herculean
strength becomes of me
and I rise,
triumphant,
throwing and grabbing them off my body,
where they had suckled
and rested their vicious hungering heads.
 
I peel myself off the ground now,
escape is no longer difficult,
rushing into the wilderness,
away from the crazed cacophony
and altered visions
where I will hopefully find,
rediscover the safety of my herd.

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

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  • Poem: Crystal Gazing – 24/04/20

    Poem: Crystal Gazing – 24/04/20

    I gaze into the crystal ball,
eager fortunes and fierce dreams to find,
the smoky scene is quartered,
into sections the interpretations are spread,
their great divide.
 
There is something special about these areas
that makes one tingle and shake,
the magical moments of being able to envision
another’s hopeful future,
though occasional destitution features,
their saddening fates.
 
The vibrations of the visions,
they tell me to absorb them,
then move along, along,
there is no point in lingering past my welcome,
the spirit world assures me of this,
to remain longer would be inherently,
entirely wrong.
 
The spirits’ fleeting presence seeps
into and around
the crystal ball’s view,
telling me to reveal?
No, to withhold,
at most,
I understand this is the correct thing to do.
 
May the querant’s hopes be as receptive as
naked skin upon electrified flesh,
a certain truth he wonders,
or when she says,
“Fortune teller,
tell me old, 
share my fate determined ever
softly or bold.”
 
But, I cannot,
even if I am paid for the service,
a true teller obscures,
does not specifically state one way or another,
and all in due course.
 
Instead I smile and dote upon their
accompanying card reading,
positive traits,
and unwind-unwind,
they don’t need to continue
their obsession as to what their fortune might be,
unworthy of pursuing,
little point in trying to find.  

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

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  • Poem: The Path – 23/04/20

    Poem: The Path – 23/04/20

    Weariness, Weariness,
rests upon my head,
where cobwebs and stilted cogs lay well rested
in their beds,
the machinery’s movements have ceased,
Weariness allows me to take that break,
but behind the scenes I’m still ruminating,
I simply disguise it from him.
 
Aptitude, Aptitude,
once carefully measured with closely observed time,
makes me wonder now whether the path was worth
the efforts to propel me so far,
because what am I doing here with this life?
 
I know,
I know,
that intelligence comes in many forms,
not always those tested,
skills, handiwork,  
of Aptitude, many are assured.
 
Desire, Desire,
to be something more,
to perform something else,
to rise to the challenge and advance myself,
it is not only in the mind that Desire does seek,
a change,
a triumphant case,
in which I can alternatively speak.
 
Knowledge, Knowledge,
have I sucked you bone-dry from the pages
I have to tend to?
The parched paper with its annotations and highlighted markings
grins at me,
resonate reminders of hard work and times oh-so studious.
 
Whenever I am down on myself,
I simply need to glance at my words,
my interpretations,
the violin fingerings,
the sheet music’s markings,
 
and I understand that I have worked arduously
at several crafts,
and have returned to the original craft of my own.
 
Conclusions, Conclusions
are like cadences softly spoken,
the melodious cessations of my
quiet contemplation,
I’m not performing at Life so badly,
according to my efforts
I’m trying to better myself,
there is no need to sink, sink down,
to aim a tirade toward myself,
 
I am improving,
daily,
through the efforts of no one other than myself.  

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

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  • Poem: Emotional Flight – 22/04/20

    Poem: Emotional Flight – 22/04/20

    Triumphant whispers heard along the plains
as dire circumstances wane,
they express newfound freedom to be had.
 
Their softly spoken words
envelope like kid gloves,
they speak of goodness,
of hope,
of reinforced love.
 
Because with the returning of others
to another’s open arms,
the reuniting warms them,
it has been so terribly long,
 
or so it seemed,
the removal of allowance of
physical expression.
 
Heaven has now descended,
their adoration has been placed
into motion.
 
The duration’s away,
for some so painful,
though for others
they could cope better than their matches,
 
but here we are,
slowly reuniting again,
a scope of positive circumstances,
a veil now lifted to all,
feelings patched,
on the mend.
 
The control which was so utterly necessary
is gradually being withdrawn
and in the eyes of others
like them, us,
you and I,
we are able to express desires,
for simple touch, for embraces,
for everything able in company.
 
This period has made important,
a great highlighting,
of what may have been taken for granted by
you and I,
but for now,
we allow our hearts to be free,
emotions to positively fly.

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

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