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





2 new poems by Lawrence Moore

Fearing a Mess

They came with good intentions,
brushes and scalpels,
buckets and spades
and though I told them not to,
the family dog jumped for joy.

I don't know what they expected to find;
a solvable crossword puzzle?
Old bones?
Or broken china
fit for exhibition?

I'd rather not care what they could have seen,
but headproud and fearing a mess,
I constructed an awkward, spurious tale,
then threw in a scary monster
so they would leave me in peace for a while.

My Second Reverie

This morning, as I gazed into the well,
the only thoughts that occupied my mind
were falling, drowning, waking up in hell.
I ranted down, was answered back in kind.

Despairing deep, a dizziness arose
that made me slip, fell backwards on the grass
and there, when I expected I should doze,
my second reverie then came to pass.

A subtle cloud I hadn't yet perceived
gave up its petty squabble with the sun
and while the warmth was welcoming indeed,
it was the light by which the day was won.

Those subtle, probing, uninvited beams
illuminating underneath my skin
betrayed to me the vessel and the means,
the germ of something better lodged within.

This evening, as I gazed into the well,
my lucid mind was confident and still.
I let the sudden thirst within me swell,
then wound the bucket back and took my fill.


Wolfpack Contributor: Lawrence Moore 

Poetry Showcase by Lawrence Moore


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

Wolfpack Contributor: Lawrence Moore

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

Poetry Showcase by Lawrence Moore

Skull, Mirror, Horror, Scary, Halloween
Ghost

In near perfect darkness,
she pads through the woods,
trying to be dainty,
cursed by the snapping of twigs.

Reaching the border,
holding back the ferns,
she stares at the houses,
fails to observe the rain.

They'll all be inside,
laughing and joking.
None will remember
the freckled child at the inn.

She notes the obstructions,
calculates the angles,
nods in agreement,
turns and rejoins the night.


Ghost was first published in Dreich 4 Season 2, March 2021.

Magpies

Don't shine too bright, my errant child,
for that's the way the magpies come
to latch upon the gleams and glows
of overprecious little ones.

I used to flirt with books and dolls,
I used to have your scabby knees -
well, look beneath my locks of hair
and witness what they did to me,

then run and join the other girls
who gather at the matchworks line.
Make wood the only thing that burns,
be sensible and anodyne.


Magpies was first published in Pink Plastic House (in The Haunted Dollhouse), December 2020.

Smokey

I remember you cowering under Matt's t-shirt
two weeks after your rescue -
finally out from under the bed.
What sights those unblinking eyes had seen
we didn't like to guess.

I remember you making yourself small
when Oscar,
in all his jealousy,
launched himself from the kitchen side,

but I remember you best in the garden,
unaware of my gaze,
carefully extending a velvet paw to the butterflies
as though somewhere in your DNA,
a voice said 'Kill'
and another behind those unblinking eyes said 'No'.


Smokey first appeared in Dreich’s Fire and Water chapbook, July 2021.

Picture on the Packet

Aware I had no leeway for a tree,
I stood up on a jealous afternoon
to soften up the earth and press my seed.
The ending of the poem follows soon.
My sapling stretched its stem towards the sun
and strew confetti blossom all around
with roots that grew prodigiously and clung,
constricting like a snake what life they found.
My home began to quiver, then to crack,
delivered up a message on the wind.
'These walls would not contain or hold you back.
What is it you can never find within?'
Don't ask me to explain, I understand.
The picture on the packet looked so grand.

Pretty Dream

We wrestle with foundations reckless fate
has foisted on our sacred temple sites.
Surveyors show reluctance to proceed.
We pay no heed, obliterate the nights
with paint and canvas, microphone and tape,
with pen and paper, clapperboard and screen,
lay 'would have loved' and 'never did' for bricks,
mix 'still to be' for mortar in between
and if our walls should crumble to the ground,
we shan't forget we shared a pretty dream.


Pretty Dream first appeared in The Madrigal volume ii: roots, May 2021.
Wolfpack Honorary Contributor: Lawrence Moore

Poetry Showcase by Lawrence Moore

New poems by Lawrence Moore: The Ballast, Ferris Wheel, I Must Be Light

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Lawrence Moore

Poetry mix by Lawrence Moore : ‘My Dream Playground’ from Anthology & new poem ‘Plumb the Depths’

3 poems by Lawrence Moore : “Over the Trees” “They Sang For Me” “Tethered”

3 poems by Lawrence Moore : “Battle-Hardened” “Ghost #2”, “I am a Tightrope Walker”




New poems by Lawrence Moore: The Ballast, Ferris Wheel, I Must Be Light

ferris wheel during golden hour

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.


Wolfpack Honorary Contributor: Lawrence Moore

Poetry Showcase by Lawrence Moore

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Lawrence Moore




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








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