Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: writing

  • Poem: Panic – 16/03/20

    Poem: Panic – 16/03/20

    Panic mode,
the shelves stripped bare,
triumphant shoppers walk with their prized packets of eighteen toilet paper rolls,
the luxurious purple Quilton brand.
 
We have already rushed from your home,
with few moments to spare,
the opening time has already occurred,
there are barely any essential products there.
 
Hastily, you grab the items from the shelf,
long-life, of course,
why would we deal with anything else?

For we have been encouraged to purchase ahead for two weeks,
the panic,
the panic ensues,
ensures that we here in the supermarket,
at this usually sleepy hour.
 
Seven in the morning is now its busiest,
when the visitors will arrive,
the peak of scanning,
the competitive nature rises within shoppers,
perhaps all shelves of essential items will be stripped in time.
 
We are even more fearful of handling money,
of being within another’s close proximity,
we purchase hand sanitiser,
believing it will purge the virus from our skin,
we wash and wash,
but on occasions, the virus will be silently welcomed in.
 
Our systems were not made for this,
this is a pandemic,
do you hear me?
 
We need to take precautions,
self-isolate when required,
only leave the house when needed,
avoid close quarters with others.
 
And the ideal situation has commenced,
the virus is winning at this fact,
we are together, yet away from one another,
fearful of something which we cannot see
but which, if caught,
could cause saddening fatalities,
need we stay away from all others?

The question remains: 
how will we combat this insidious virus, 
this society-killing disease?
    
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Shrieking and Calling – 13/03/20

    Poem: Shrieking and Calling – 13/03/20

    The genius within you calls and calls,
reckoning like secretly potent anemone,
contemplating as to whether
it’s worthwhile for him to be seen,
or whether, in fact,
he should remain hidden,
and cease his calling for you day by day.
 
The exotic being within you sings,
eyes casting upon the sumptuous feast on offer,
she provides for you what you have been lacking,
that serendipity brings a sense of welcome tumult,
a feeling ongoing,
worth growing.
 
The megalomaniac within you screams,
he wants to be heard,
he demands to be seen,
and the trying notion he experiences when he grates
on your skin
with a voice as harsh as sharpened nails,
he announces,
no, he commands,
well, of your wishes,
he couldn’t give a single damn.  
 
And then the chorus of these characters rise and combine,
their voices, harsh, sweet, ideal,
in their tones I can hear their smiles,
there is nothing worth separating here
for their conjoined state offers this vibrating prize,
their voices make you tremble,
their power is unheard of,
but you can’t walk away,
doing so seems to be unspoken of.
 
So, you sit in their presence,
imagine their voices resonating in your mind,
the differing beings,
different identities,
and then it all becomes too much,
you must block them out,
squeezing shut your eyes.   
 
The silence allows your heart to swoon,
its warming words allow your truthful connection
to everything that is devout.

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

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  • Poem: His Arrival – 12/03/20

    Poem: His Arrival – 12/03/20

    A level of exhaustion beginning to grow,
then an unexpected expenditure of energy comes alive
as I reap what I’ve sown.
 
The quietening down of my mood,
the lessening of my agility,
strangely enhances me,
it does not hinder me.
 
I am cumbersome, but,
my mind is crystalline clear,
open and free,
 
I rise to the challenge,
whatever has crossed my path,
that which is unspoken,
unexpressed, 
I know this breath won’t be my last.
 
And in the still,
the calm of the air around me which
heaves and sighs,
like little droplets of condensation meeting
glass sheets in the sky,
I wait and I tremble
expectant for your arrival.
 
My cheeky prince,
now a loving benevolent king,
you offer me an arm and
we interlink,
the kingdom sighs with contentment as they see,
sensing the rightness of the present karmic breeze.

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

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  • Poem: I Await – 11/03/20

    Poem: I Await – 11/03/20

    Awaiting that irrevocable touch
Upon my hair-raised skin,
I know it will be magnificent, the time for reflection,
To make myself chaste, from within.
 
Butter me up, darling,
I know the emotions too well,
Of diving, sinking,
And finding no treasure,
The tides know my desires all too well.
 
But I will leap from the depths,
I will soar with grace and humanity,
The beauty of the softened mammal,
Splashes, re-entry.
 
And gyrations of the bluest truth,
Which, occasionally could not –
Cannot –
Be handled,
Herein lies the beauty of
the wondrous world of self-reliance.
 
And although most live and yearn to find a mate,
A twin flame, a soul matching ours,
The blueprints complex, though matching in many ways,
 
The phoenixes from their burning pasts,
Rise and soar,
Reaching their own old effigies,
Amazing and looming that they are.
 
We can live as one,
Or two,
A little of both,
That soft, generous touch I long for,
Why, it seems to come from the grasp of
A myriad of stars,
A bank of overwhelming hope.

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

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  • Poem: Regal and Humble – 13/03/20

    Poem: Regal and Humble – 13/03/20

    I hold my head high as I walk into the room,
my flourishing robes,
my gentle tapping embroidered slippers,
rich expensive perfume.
 
And with a turn of my head
I quietly announce:
I am here and
I am who I am.
 
Though I may be laden with jewels,
and layers of thick crushed velvet,
and dense rough furs,
I am anything but arrogant,
I am the epitome of humility,
something I have developed through experiences with others:
guiders, angels, powerful beings, and
earthly and heavenly soldiers.
 
When I ride my horse,
each finger sparkles,
the light refracting,
there’s no need to turn the tables,
nor force my image onto others.
 
For when I enter a room,
I do so dignified,
and now I rouse from an afternoon dream,
was I a high priestess or an emperor’s wife?
 
I cannot tell my once-designated role
as the feeling of regression has never come to pass,
never a flashback in my mind,
so instead I sit quietly,
meditate, try to avoid falling asleep,
although if I do so,
I know my rest will be luxurious with
thoughts and rested muscles
as warm and pliable
as wholesome honey.

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

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  • Poem: Ornate Wooden Box – 09/03/20

    Poem: Ornate Wooden Box – 09/03/20

    What’s in the wooden box?
An ornate engraved chest –
Does it promise me treasure?
Diamonds, jewels, gold?
It must with any luck.
 
I approach the container with trepidation,
My fingers tremble with delicious anticipation,
And the tremor which should rile me awfully
Pushes me forth:
The adrenaline is potent.
 
What will I find?
Something pleasing to the eye?
An ornate dream awaits me,
And I beg to see,
Continuing to hungrily breathe the moments in and out 
And in.
 
Each second,
Every centimetre,
My reaching hands,
My claw-like fingers,
Closer and closer until:
Revelation!
 
Inside there is nothing,
Illusory, so potent.
I tear aside all crushed expectation within.
 
The thrill was most certainly in the pursuit,
The hunting,
It was within the chase,
And I realise that what my mind,
My imagination,
Can conjure up
Is far more magical and worthwhile than
Any gold or diamond or jewel sparkling within my eyes.
 
More than anything these material possessions can prove 
At a later date,
My internal world,
The breadth of my dreaming,
This is the true gift I should accept 
As a prized possession in my life,
It is irrevocably part of my healing.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by myself.

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  • Poem: Pageant Girls – 07/03/20

    Poem: Pageant Girls – 07/03/20

    Barrel waves,
beautiful curls,
how they suit these pretty pairs of girls
who dance in the moment,
left to right,
right to left,
linking arms in the present,
advancing, advanced.
 
They smile widely
though little do you know,
their teeth are plastered with Vaseline,
to shine, shine, shine each little toof and teef,
to make their pearly whites evermore sweet,
each two sets of perfect rows.
 
Now in a line they twirl into one another,
taking turns,
sharing their partners,
their blonde, brunette and auburn barrel waves,
beauty in motion,
luxurious to behold.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by lorilynnoliver from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Holding Charge – 05/03/20

    Poem: Holding Charge – 05/03/20

    Will I hold charge? I wonder. 
Will electricity pass through me and back out to them?
I contemplate how my mind will handle the surging volts,
Will it crumble or will it take the brunt?
 
Perhaps they do not know precisely what they are doing,
How to discover whether the procedure is a success?
A general turn around in mood, I’m expected to about-face,

I’d like to thwack someone out cold, 
he or she who approved this cruelest decision,
But hey,
Doing so would warrant more charging,
And the thoughts of this hardens my face.
 
I’m out of control,
My moods have escalated,
Neither the nurses nor doctors can control me,
Plan A for me: out cold,
Electrocute,
See how she is later that morning.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by 024-657-834 from Pixabay

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  • Prose Poetry: A Land of the Free – 02/03/20

    Prose Poetry: A Land of the Free – 02/03/20

    I fly off, toward a land of the free, where I can soar with my wingspan so wide not even dragons could watch without envy. Their narrowed eyes and aching hearts would speak of something so paining and green that neither head nor heart could be altered, though to be seen with these beasts would be a dream.
 
I am a spectacular bird of the skies, my feathers six feet long, yay high, and of a particular, peculiar colour, tan dipped with white and rose, I am seen throughout the skies daily, my presence is always known.
 
I am on a journey to the land of the free where I will land and find myself among other birds of prey who do not want to capture any more, to kill life. Where we are all equal, soaring, travelling across the craggy and green ground, where we meld with one another, sociable, never disastrously cruel or unkind.
 
The dragons pass me overhead, their keen red beady eyes are searching the ground for me, but instead I rise above them, flourish by flourish of my wings the wind around me grows, and I smile unto them, caw-cawing, as my species is known to express, in a manner so bold.
 
The dragons realise I am not a threat, in fact, I am here to escape their prosperous land, where animals such as rats and mice – my favourite – were available ongoing. There was no competition to capture such meals and it was never left to chance. They simply scurried before me, as though begging to be taken, but now, I am in the land of the free, where no lives will be taken.
 
This includes mine. I wave off the dragons, and smiling, they rise into the sky, leaving myself and my others to decide what to do with our now guilt-free lives.

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

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  • Poem: Free Falling – 02/03/20

    Poem: Free Falling – 02/03/20

    Out of the window
where my tears fall, fall, fall,
rich and ravenous am I for the salt 
which is encompassed by all.
 
They sting my eyes, 
this liquid drawn from the depths of my despair,
the lingering victimisation of my soul,
I don’t want to become air.
 
I feel real, more alive
when the salt water of my form stings me,
it ails my orbs,
a pair once so bitter and jaded in their viewing
of a world where I’d come undone.
 
There appears nothing worth saving,
a tumultuous wind untamed,
randomised about my body,
my crazed hair,
that my face is seemingly effaced,
there is no longer anything there.
 
Perhaps the salted tears are corrosive,
they are acidic, perchance,
I linger on the thought too long,
it seems preposterous,
and I chide myself for knowing that what I am assuming
is incorrect.
 
I’m in but a daydream,
a nightmare,
a living fantasy?
 
If only I wished to no longer breathe, 
I’d take this nightmare with me,
allow it to launch off a precipice
and grow and bloat and steal
every living atom from me.
 
But then here’s the catch,
I’d have to disappear willingly,
and there is no chance of that, is there?
I can’t allow some people their dreams.

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

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