The Ballast
It grows stormy up here in a flimsy basket, monomaniacally soaring for stars that I deemed so reachable from below. You are the ballast, my supper call, the path back to reality, my treat in store when I touch down. If it were left to me, would I remember to watch the fuel or would someone find a mystery wreck smashed against the mountains? Ferris Wheel I've grown tempestuous these last few days. My Ferris wheel begins to spin once more, submersion inescapable it seems. I've upped and downed so many times before, yet never quite adjusted to the lows (thank God they come less natural than the highs), just gritted teeth, awaited upward curves, my optimism thus far undenied. Still, secretly, the pauses come like friends. No rise and fall, suspension of the ride. I Must Be Light It's an awkward, freighted world out there and it often weighs me down, when the littlest thing we say or do is prone to produce a frown. A million causes shout to me; 'Are you ready?' they say. Not quite. Don't force me to have substance, friends, when tomorrow I must be light for then I can float to a calmer sea or escape to a warmer clime, mayhaps mislay the noise in my head and be dead to the taunts of time, drift far from reach for a day or a week or as long as it seems to take till I feel my strength return to me and I'm ready to gain some weight. Lawrence Moore has been writing poems - some silly, some serious - since childhood. He lives in Portsmouth, England with his husband Matt and nine mostly well behaved cats. He has poetry published at, among others, Dreich, Pink Plastic House, Fevers of the Mind, Quince Magazine and The Madrigal. @LawrenceMooreUK
