A Fevers of the Mind Poetry Showcase from “The Breadcrumb Trail” by Lawrence Moore

Bio: Lawrence Moore writes from a loft study overlooking the coastal city of Portsmouth where he lives with his husband Matt and nine mostly well behaved cats. His poems have appeared in, among others, Sarasvati, Fevers of the Mind, Feral Poetry and The Madrigal. He has a new poetry collection, The Breadcrumb Trail, published by Jane's Studio Press in April 2024. Twitter / X: @LawrenceMooreUK

The Axeman

Gather your loved ones
and press them well
to stem the trickling of their cares;
the axeman has not returned.

Tell all untameables
they venture out in packs
within the boundaries
of earshot and evelight.

Make a toast to his wife,
who must brave the scurries and screeches
alone tonight,
her gaze to a latchless door.

Collect our unsavoury tributes
and deliver them
over the brinks of abandoned paths;
commence the wait.

If silence endures
come autumn's prayer,
the rest of us will remember
that the axeman has not returned.

Because We Must

On days when grasping just a glimpse
retreating from periphery,
you turned around to open air;
not every time was make-believe.
We have a home I think you'd like,
a softening which might be earned.
Our feral kin may wander through,
but as it stands, you cannot learn.

All wilderness retrained and sold,
unwilling subjects ground to dust.
You have your ways as we have ours,
we disappear because we must,
yet seek no thunder from the gods
and take no vengeance as we might.
We live the way we've always lived,
untouchable, beyond your sight.

Above My Watchful Glare

Come staggering on torpid limbs,
I wish to grasp another's name.
Ignore the furrows, crawl inside
the recess of my creaking frame.

These overtures are whisperings
I play to you from far below.
One ear against one mossy floor,
then drowsiness begins to show.

Your nemesis, my nobody,
will not be found, they would not dare
as now, involuntarily,
you sink above my watchful glare.

I ask no favour when you wake
and all I take, three locks of hair.

Four Fists Uncurl

We surface, bruised and battered, but alive.
Protectively, you scout the world outside,
contrive to sound convincing when you say
'Perhaps, for now, The Demon's gone away.'

Attempting to accept, confused and scared,
I clamber from this refuge, mutely stare.
Slow seeping through, the passing of the squall,
we squeeze together, let the teardrops fall.

A boldness in the woods appears to grow
when crocus lifts its nose above the snow;
an underbrush alive with smaller feet
that long to run, for now remain discreet.

As if to catch my soul, your eyes are cast,
entreating me 'This has to be the last.'
I feel the words inside me calcify.
Four fists uncurl, you lead us back to life.


I Knew

I had a dream (a real one for a change),
I'd wandered off and paced the London streets
with many things uncertain on my mind,
distrust for every citizen complete.
Though wantonly dispirited and lost,
the solace of the railway station came.
Inside, a payphone, rummaged without coins,
asked 'Please reverse the charges?' Gave your name.
You answered, all confusion in your tone,
like every fundamental ran askew
and only one event would put them right;
on hearing it was me, all fear subdued,
talked nonsense that could only have been joy.
Immersed in my unconsciousness, I knew.