Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: writing

  • Poem: Serendipity – 21/04/20

    Poem: Serendipity – 21/04/20

    Serendipity flows like loose ivy
along the plains,
like a parched riverbed 
it snakes here and there,
selectively it makes its journey,
though from discrimination it refrains.
 
Like the green vine it emulates,
it has the power to choose
those and that which it comes
in contact with,
poison ivy,
malignancy or benign,
it has the potential to
crush, divide.
 
I watch its path
as it winds along the way so right,
righteous is the mood,
Serendipity is here for all of us,
I wonder to myself if I could somehow catch her
or whether, in fact, she’s better left untamed,
is this what she wants?
Should her freedom be saved?
 
For she is fortuitous,
she always means well,
for those she comes before
she most certainly knows how to
lay down their path,
pull the cards –
so to speak –
share the details,
the ivy of prosperity,
the serendipity of hope.
 
Who knows what is waiting,
before, left, right,
all around us?
There are certainly many tales of young and old to be told.
 
And now she draws these from you,
extracting,
then providing your altered nectar of experience,
the breadth of stories learned from you,
your very being,
as the sweetness of life
which you and her feast upon,
giving both sustenance,
her providing the sticky, hopeful webbing,
the sweet, milky goodness
to go on,
living and breathing.
 
The talented trailing of ivy continues,
she is fortuitous,
she is bright,
quietly praying for your sterling, lucky independence,
all you see is rainbow,
then she provides you amazing flashes of potent white.

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

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  • Poem: Bright Lights – 20/04/20

    Poem: Bright Lights – 20/04/20

    Neon lights flash,
they blind me,
the resultant spots in my vision,
they appear,
they annoyingly swim.
 
I rub my glassy eyes softly,
then harder to rid them
of the itching glare,
I do not understand their mission.
 
Why did I seek this vision,
this stirring sight that promised exultation,
the monumental awareness I felt
while seeking out a personal heaven?
 
Yet, I witness here the malevolent view,
streets lined with barrages of
bustling men and women,
rows, two by two,

their presentation hauntingly beautiful,
but they are too busy and
self-absorbed to recognize their beauty,
a truly wasted picture.
 
The neon lights share the preference of this world,
showy, elaborate, garish, flashing,
new, never old.
 
I had sought these sights for I had been told of them
by whispering souls,
go forth, go forth,
find the bright lights,
absorb the intrinsically spectacular environment,
but there was nothing here to learn.
 
Many who voyaged here became cemented
into a mold,
unable to be freed,
to seek their flight.
 
They are in a land untoward,
yet perfect for some others,
where not even the winter of June
could freeze out the intent
of lustrous stars and lights
and all that such promised fame entailed.
 
Naught of this is heaven sent,
this mission ends,
my search curtailed.  

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

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  • Poem: Illegible – 19/04/20

    Poem: Illegible – 19/04/20

    Illegible,
illegible,
the handwriting lies sprawled upon the page,
not even smeared,
but simply, completely unreadable
and entirely,
legitimately,
incomprehensible.
 
How am I expected to return to these 
convoluted dreamy thoughts and emotions
when the opportunity for self-manipulation 
of my subconscious silently lingers?
 
For this text holds secrets,
expectations and extremities of the land of my curious,
befuddled dream state,
an entry into what may have been performed and experienced,
on and on,
perhaps in a flurry,
fingers and toes dance,
hearts meld,
and truth be told the taut ribbon of thought
could speak of so much here.
 
Purely out of curiosity do I wish to seek
and immerse myself into the opposite of
a doctor’s chicken-like scrawl,
my flamboyant, frantic loops which speak:

Connect with my words,
Relive my wholeness
 
And only then will everything apparent come to life,
microcosmic and magnetic,
an assessment of every early waking morning
worth detailing, speaking or somehow
reliving.
 
Will this illegible privacy be exploited?
My early morning words snatched from my fingers
before the page feels its tickles,
revealed to all?
 
Perhaps, no, sir, no,
none, maybe not even I,
will possess anything more
than the power within my bleary eyes,
my heart,
which know exactly what has
or has not been written,
to others,
the looped ink spots detail nothing more than 
obscure, primitive art.

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

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  • Poem: Where Have You Been? – 17/04/20

    Poem: Where Have You Been? – 17/04/20

    Unknowing of where you’ve been,
where have you travelled?
Where has your mind taken you?
Is it to the edge of your despair?

Are you aching,
begging to be heard without any
actual words?
Misunderstood,
underappreciated?
Does this strike a chord?
 
Do you wish you could move on quicker
to achieve your goals
within your dreams?
Is there a hollow in you
needing to be filled?
Measurements two by two,
or maybe just a clearer view.
 
I hate to see you in distress,
you feel you hide it well,
and from the world you want to encase yourself,
a solid armour,
self-protection still,
where the wind and sound will
rush over your body and not even care,
you will find that anonymity there.
 
And huddled in the tunnel you’ll be,
against the thick of a storm which strangely frees you
from hefty concerns and worries
which drag, drag you down,
and now you’re just a molecule
or a large particle
against which beats the busy air.
 
I can sense your freedom now
in the darkness,
in the shadows of that tunnel,
some may find such a situation
claustrophobic, atrocious,
but you, dear,
are released by the air,
being pounded by winds is no trouble,
each gust dispels care upon care.

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

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  • The Sliver: A Horror Poem – 11/04/20

    The Sliver: A Horror Poem – 11/04/20

    The translucence of an eye is insidious,
it narrows its eyelid to a sliver of pupil to see,
a glint of curiosity
but little remorse to view,
what could this vision present to someone like you and I?
Us, or even just you?
 
Barbaric tones,
the slashes, the slights,
the light burrows into my own orbs,
quietly, calculatingly I take on the mood
of the insidious view I’ve knowingly absorbed.
 
Unbeknownst to myself though,
from now, I am expected to travel alone,
this living, breathing eye has snatched me away from you.
 
Now I work in tandem,
my eyes with It,
alone, I am,
yet breathing its painful sooty sin,
can I not escape,
with peril can I be freed?

A combatant’s energy:
I stare into its glare,
its memories are horrific to experience and even worse to see.
 
Free me from its peril!
I want to shriek.
The maladies I’ve experienced through its blatant enormity
weigh down upon me,
they dare me to speak.
 
But, how to escape horrors so convoluted they make us entwined,
where are you when I need You?
I cry posthumously.
I live only through the Sliver’s memories,
stifling, the visions stew.
 
And it is as though we are living a dragging nightmare,
undulating waves of nauseating misery swim through
the void of energy that once carried and housed me,
I can barely breathe,
but isn’t that the point of it all?
There’s nothing left to see.    

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

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  • Poem: Heavy Crimson Droplets – 10/04/20

    Poem: Heavy Crimson Droplets – 10/04/20

    Teardrops fall upon me as bloated shiny beads
of purple wholesome grapes,
speaking as to whether they should aim themselves for Earth
or be aiming within somebody’s hungering mouth.
 
What fate would be most adequate were they to
satisfy and feed the famished others,
or perhaps their desires for freedom
are better suited to desperately flinging themselves
upon the pavement of my skin,
smoothly they will roll aside,
back to where they belong.
 
They are here by accident,
these living, breathing fruits,
globules of sweetness that many cannot resist,
inside the fruit bowl some of them rest their eyes
somewhat haughtily above other types
for these pieces are displaying more height, position and quality
than the lesser beings,
the lower fruits,
the more common pieces which are quietly required to remain,
unbeknownst to the grapes, these others are there as the safety weights.
 
And wouldn’t it be nice
if they were able to understand and accept wholly
that this is currently their destiny,
to silently be the front line of the war,
the flung purple bubbles of squeezed crimson,
as they designate their lives to survival, unknown sacrifice, or unspoken safety.
This situation is anything but light-hearted folly.
  
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay   

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  • Poem: To Pen Something Worthy On the Page – 08/04/20

    Poem: To Pen Something Worthy On the Page – 08/04/20

    I feel it’s been a while since I’ve written a quality poem,
Something to make me smile and feel pleased,
Proud of myself for something sharp and sweet,
Or lengthy but with purpose and a sense of growth and speed.
 
There was a time when I researched and read,
Many books of poetry I had immersed myself in,
Inspiration, a powerful thread,
But now, these books are silently laying,
Gathering cobwebs, it seems,
Until of them, my heart will once again be calling.
 
It was difficult to create when I felt the pressure
To delve into many other’s styles,
Why couldn’t I write in my own style,
Without having to research?
Of course, a writer is a reader, too,
A poet reads other poets.
 
But the time had come when I grew tired of it,
I needed a break, in order to keep on going,
To continue my art,
My twisting, turning words,
But then that break became longer and longer,
Until proudly, obnoxiously, it became incredibly self-assured.
 
This Break knew that it would be ongoing,
Something without end unless I gained the motivation to,
Once more, become back in the habit,
And I will try perhaps, one of these days,
To pick up my favourite poets and read their masterpieces,
Because of two reasons:
I enjoy them, and, they will assist my understanding and feelings,
Emotions to project through my words that can taunt, tease, or please.
 
So, this poem,
Where I bemoan,
Is not so much any more of that,
I had assumed I would complain,
But,
Here are the workings of the frame,
I simply detail, detail, detail,
And my words,
My explanations,
Will hopefully,
In the future,
Become less of an excuse and frail,
I will pen something worthier onto my page.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay 

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  • Prose Poetry: The Beckoning Seascape – 01/04/20

    Prose Poetry: The Beckoning Seascape – 01/04/20

    I wonder what it would be to live like in the sea, surrounded by clown fish and anemones, and smiling jellyfish that could sting as they please. Floating past little krill and tiny bright fish, I consider what my role would be in this charming, pristine, cobalt, irreverent water. I rise up and down, parading before no one, yet swollen, the swells, around me, the waves recede, their special charisma is innumerable, anything but singular simplicity.
 
I carry on with my journey – I notice my mermaid’s tail – so beautiful and sparkling, each seascape coloured scale, and I understand that I am here in a manner of being so-very blessed, my countenance shows my solemnity and gratitude that am present, here, watching the ecosystem seemingly perform for me.
 
But, the truth is, that this world will keep on turning with or without my presence, I am here but as a visitor whom the Sea has invited with ambivalence, seemingly uncaring of whether I am here nor there, because she knows, and I know, that while I am watching the sharks parade with ominous delight, taking in the sea coral so bright which pushes away the pain it could cause another who didn’t understand its potential, and the larger fish, whose species I do not know, yet who capture my eyes and imagination that I cannot stop but stare and be enthralled. 

No, I thank this Sea for willing me, for beckoning me in her own way. To envision that which she has to offer, the sanctity of herself open for inspection, just for me, just one set of eyes, that are not prying but are filled with ardour, accompanied by a heart which is so very amazed.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by PublicDomainPictures from Pixabay    

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  • Poem: Damsel in Distress – 22/03/20

    Poem: Damsel in Distress – 22/03/20

    I used to be a damsel in distress,
I called and called to them,
to assist me with my longing heart,
yet all of them decided to leave.
 
I worked so hard on being that
which portrayed what I felt was visual worth,
without understanding that what mattered 
was not essentially looks
but a kind, warm, and caring heart.
 
Others stared as I went on by,
my chest filled with pride 
at knowing that I had drawn their eyes,
but what I didn’t realise was that 
I was only striking for a second,
perhaps when I opened my mouth I’d lose their attention.
 
In distress was I, 
I wanted to be known,
acknowledged,
accepted,
to be understood,
to receive the gratification that came with being wanted,
the validation I'd glean inside.
 
However, the turnstiles kept turning,
and the admirers kept disappearing,
only there for a few fleeting seconds,
I became more daring.
 
Then underneath it all,
I slowly realised
that I needed to work on myself,
not on the outer, exterior view,
what mattered was my mind.
 
My inner truths,
the way I would treat mankind,
and the most important things of all were love
and the fact that I was grateful,
that I was still breathing,
despite the haphazard, lethal points in my life.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Alice Alinari on Unsplash

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  • Poem: Salted Iridescence – 18/03/20

    Poem: Salted Iridescence – 18/03/20

    The taste of salt upon your skin,
the glistening iridescence
as I feel your glow within,
the sun shining through your being
as though warming my very soul,
like the heated taste of winter when
you and I were eternally enthralled.
 
I can feel the gurgling of growing gumption
from within your soaring spirit,
rising from the former desolation within,
and I know,
you know,
that we will remain entwined,
as long as we stay heart-to-heart,
forever in need of each other’s fair wine.
 
Our necessity to be close to one another
has the sharp addictive taste of that salt
that I once tasted on your skin,
and if I were to magnify this need
I would understand that it comes from
a state of savoury and lack of sweetness,
a desire to cause that salivary moment,
to keep it stirring,
 
And while I knead into the skin of the
effervescent sparkle that you bring,
I know,
honey, you know,
that we were always meant to be.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock (including illustration). All rights reserved.

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