New poems from Lawrence Moore

My Soundtrack to a Picture Far From Clear

There lives a song that many will have heard,
yet still this planet spins around the sun.
The record plays and by the middle third,
a chemical reaction has begun.

No longer do I lay upon my bed,
penned in by protocols and dull restraints,
but hover under greenwood canopy
no bulldozers or axes ever taint.

Arriving from a dozen different sides
come leprechauns and fairies, kings and queens.
A carnival procession for a bride
paraded through the centre of her scene.

An inner flame imbues a handsome face
with labyrinths the chosen might explore.
A vision of resolve bedecked in lace
with glovelette resting soft against her sword.

A minute takes an afternoon to pass
when each expectant face, excepting she,
looks to its left with lips that beg to ask
'What keeps the other newlywed to be?'

The fade arrives the moment that it must.
In sympathy, the actors disappear.
I flip the vinyl, trying hard to trust
my soundtrack to a picture far from clear.

One Tiny Anonymous Speck

On the main road,
twice a day,
we'd pass our venerable tree
standing alone in the barley field
and every time,
our eyes would stray
with wonder
towards its towering grandeur,
verticality of stance,
without any sense of envy,
seeing nothing to be gained
from the upright life
that leads us to a solitary death.

I am a gnarly twisted shrub
and your limbs were never destined for straightness,
so if you find me leaning your way
until we are nearly touching,
there is no malfunction,
I'm just hoping
one day
we can fade and fall apart together,
one tiny anonymous speck
blending into the background of our choice.

The Healing Grove

The Healing Grove, The Healing Grove,
when sorrow flies, redemption flows,
revealed, it seems, by circumstance,
still sought by this forgotten road.

A place of blues, a place of greens,
a place of many hues between,
a place to gently warm our fears,
then ponder their retreats in steam.

I once was called a hopeless cause,
untouchable from sliding doors.
I took an unexpected turn,
now you are here and I am yours.

If I could roll a magic die
that conjured eagles from the sky,
they'd whisk you there with simple care.
No raptor engineer am I.
The Healing Grove awaits somewhere
but you must raise your head and try.

Bio: 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, Sarasvati, Pink Plastic House, Fevers of the Mind and The Madrigal. His first collection, Aerial Sweetshop, was published by Alien Buddha Press in January. @LawrenceMooreUK