Lawrence Moore was something of a dilettante until he reached the age of forty. Since nestling upon poetry’s bough, his work has appeared in a number of publications including Roi Fainéant Press, Fahmidan Journal and The Madrigal. He has a new full-length poetry collection, This Joyful Interlude, published by Jane’s Studio Press in November 2025.
Balloon Ride
Liftoff above the fairground, the trees, these patchwork fields, fears thrust downwards beyond all points of relevance until I am drifting, floating, smiling towards neighbouring clouds, ready to reach out and fold them within my arms.
The distant laughter of children long ago reminds me that we were children once, though that was then.
Seconds grinding by, it takes two seagulls' plaintive cries before I remember you may forget, begin to float once more past rivers, churches, windmills, cares, that moment when all smiles, transcending tears, grow crystalised.
The aeronaut clips her flame and as we descend, truth slowly dawns; that pending his next balloon ride, Grumpy Great Uncle is now restored.
Patchwork Coat
Eight-year-old stands alone in the playground, waves of self-consciousness welcomed like long-lost friends.
Twelve-year-old watches another pass by, pines to say something; lacks gumption for such an intrusion upon the air.
Middle-aged man gazes back, watches menagerie of moments that never happened dwindle slowly out of memory.
Before dawn, he must assemble these separate fragments, weaving them into a patchwork coat, so that when temptation next arises, he will always be within reach of absent kin.
Ignited
Vague paradise I have no right to sell, this host of petty flaws you couldn't love. Incompetence, but arrogance as well; afraid if punches thrown, push comes to shove. There also hides another tale to tell, a story viewed more kindly from above.
It isn't plump of flesh, comes from a book which isn't finished yet, might never be (hypothesis regarding final look assembles dimly, indiscernibly), still struggles under fence, then over brook ignited by mere thought of you and me.
This Religion
is a secret, held only by me, reimagined come sleep in the absence of toss and turn.
Old embers of agitation so gladly burned, but rarely fuelled; my progression of stillness, cool to touch, now ushers out the night.
Where once was smog, next morning's skies u n r a v e l, brisk and lucid, revealing undiscovered path never fully comprehended, forever intimately known.
Still yet grow times that endure no solace, when a mind proves receptive to any given doubt, sensing mountains too steep, futility taunting the heart of each endeavour, forgetting, upon inclement weather's midst, our faith betrays true worth.
The World Smiles Back (Pushcart nominee)
Was drowning neath the sea of small concerns, fixated on the fears that weighed me down, ignoring every lifebuoy thrown to me.
I’m not quite sure what happened in between (perhaps it was the moon as people say), but something caused reversal of the tides,
for here, instead of strain, short bitten nails, suspicion such a world would suss me out, I shine before reluctance has a chance
and everything seems new and brash and brave and everything runs crude and coarse and free, but nothing shall dissuade me now. You’ll see.
Somewhere, beneath Orion gazing proud, where mermaids sing and pirates rule the waves, you smile upon the world, the world smiles back.
Lawrence Moore writes from his loft study overlooking the coastal city of Portsmouth where he lives with his husband Matt and a good many cats. He has felt an affinity for poetry from a young age and wrote periodically down the years before committing to it in his early forties. His poems have appeared in, among others, The Dirigible Balloon, Feral Poetry and The Madrigal. His poetry collection The Breadcrumb Trail was published by Jane’s Studio Press in March 2024.
Harmful Spectre, Darling Ghost
Dim the lights. Draw the curtains. Kill the phone. 'Gone to ground' chief presumption, boy alone. Feed the cats, leave the kittens occupied; dressed in black, open window, sneak outside.
Find the trees that enshrine the golden lake, disappear, checkpoints chomping at your wake, lurk in space no one's heard of, none pursue; force of will, murmuration, something new.
Laying low, swig the shadows, introspect, recreate, count your blessings, resurrect, sense the wind's resolution, sibylline. Greeting May, snuffle daylight, now it's time. Let the man you have longed for manifest, bid this last duplication fond goodbye.
Circling back to the city (preordained), like these leaves, late September, aspect changed. Resuppress harmful spectre, darling ghost; mirth long gone, more than distant, once held close.
Slink past home, salve to any open wound, feline friends spoiled and pampered (like presumed). East-south-east, below bypass, under rail, sleeping bags, blurred graffiti, urine stale,
aging pier, empty fountain, infant school, quiet lane, thornstrewn chalet, crepuscule, rusted key, dust-filled hallway, thirteen steps, slip within bedroom doorway, sheets unkept. Au revoir, flight of fancy, kiss your ghoul. Better drawn. Not to fester. Nothing left.
Brave Little Bricks
I
Some voices in my head, misspending time, announce propensities that are not mine. All sorrows poured may simply trickle through; why hawk despair when dreaming's what I do?
II
For easy prey our enemies mistook brave little bricks more sturdy than we look. Through catapults, contentions work their charm; still yet, the castle lawn enkindles calm.
III
I'm tired, but renewed my trouble comes, arrays of trebuchets replaced with guns. By every angle tranquil set upon; from frayed preprogramme, frame continues on.
IV
'It's ending now' slow clearing clouds confess, as doubtful as the shapes they coalesce and strange, upon the verge of problems' cease, to finally be conquered by release.
First published in Dreich Season 7, Issue 8
Pain Relief Cassette
V
Drift back, before your darkness coined its name. Late Sun, still with ascendance, sleeping sound as Moon foretells next changing of the guard from cryptic undulations, barren ground. Feel pressure gently easing on your skull, new tension in your bones likewise subside; receptive ear within, softly, to wake, these chanted incantations for a guide. First moment you confuse them for your own, perhaps we may at last approach the mind.
VI
It hides, like frightened creatures often will, neath terra firma, hoping no soul comes and if we delve too deep or push too far? Those trebuchets return (so too, the guns). Surrounded by this music, self-explore your pre-existing scars, unplastered wounds. Now picture smooth, unblemished, virgin skin; rose gardens thrive on crumbling catacombs. If reaching ribbon's end, you feel no change, take out, turn cartridge over, then resume.
When Sunshine Returns at Last
there will be lollies and ice cream, the gleam of approaching pond.
Should the bevy of swans float by this year, my camera shall rest at ease; hour the internet fails to see then lived.
Still if, as though by magic, our heron lands upon that same pale priesthood cottage or twin distant seaward strands, we must commit them to memories, hoping next time the sunshine gets torn away, something fiercer than nights we'll see.
First published in DarkWinter Literary Magazine
Owl's Terse Reply
I maunder out most nights, converse with Owl, to many eyes demure and self-contained; still underneath my skin, there lies a scowl, this less than perfect human I remain, surrounded by uncertainties, cocksure, mislaid through complications sometimes mine (light-headed from strange yarns I've spun before, true tales yet to unfold along the line) and in the depths of slumber, I ascend as if one's mortal soul could be redeemed, Owl's terse reply more toothsome time portend; from stormy chills, tomorrow's landscape green.
If only sympathetic heart would lend its upside downs and all beats inbetween.
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.
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. He has poetry published at, among others, Sarasvati, Fevers of the Mind, Pink Plastic House and The Madrigal. His debut chapbook, Aerial Sweetshop, was released by Alien Buddha Press in January 2022. His Twitter handle is @LawrenceMooreUK
My Epitaph
I stirred what I could muster in the mix;
success or failure, it was everything.
A new day dawns (for sunset never sticks),
suggests another chorus I should sing.
Ingredients anticipate from fields
the willing, hearty hands that pry them loose,
far sooner claimed by swords and pens than shields.
Our future selves will suffer no excuse.
Still how, when I have trundled for so long,
am I supposed to walk a different path,
stop worshipping dried ink on printed page,
grant answers to an absent second half?
Let not old verse upon this mind engrave
else 'Thing Once Done' becomes my epitaph.
Messing With Magic
Interned in this tower, no windows, no doors,
commanded by cowards who crawl on all fours.
Deceived by dejection, though not led astray;
when messing with magic, there's always a way.
From stealing revenge from the lips of defeat
to something more subtle, confused or discreet,
a wave of your wand and a twitch of your brow
trades lessons learned then for adventures of now.
Six tales of the reckoning ask to be told,
cream petals long sheltered exist to unfold.
Subdued by your patience, you misunderstand,
this twist you envision suspends from a strand.
Send softness contagious, ill-fortune contrite,
throw flame to lost embers still cautious of night.
With graceful illusion, one hour ago,
despair came a-calling; the answer is no
Just One Spill Before
Is there nothing we could try,
no filament I might heat
to make this world
again taste sweet?
Were I to sing perfect song,
flawless words, soaring tune,
would you sink further darkwards,
torch immune?
Must I understand capacity to heal
no longer mine,
cast futures in
with the leisurely cleanse of time?
Queen's jester hangs his head,
fragmented glass upon the floor
flailed and juggled so freely
just one spill before.
Felling's Eve
There sprawled a redwood tall and wide
that must have housed a million birds.
From nests of poems, truths and lies,
they tweeted loud, were sometimes heard.
Come Felling’s Eve, they took the skies
through lighter flocks, formations blurred
and some were happy, gladly rid
of nooks they'd never filled with glee
and some, uncertain, sombre slid,
nostalgic as we thought we'd be.
Some soldier on - they always did -
perhaps shall tumble with the tree.
Sleeping Bears
When familiar fades,
must we walk as one
with the leopards
pacing their cage?
Far wiser to follow
the sleeping bears this winter,
stretching our claws
to the rhythms of unknown storms,
calling our fish
through honey-soaked,
springtime lips.
Cold and battle-hardened,
cast the drawbridge from my heart,
may the waters never part.
The border spare and sterile,
let no creeper bear its fruit,
make me barren at the root.
A world within my chamber
painted vivid and opaque.
Soak in dreams, all else forsake.
The bold knight probes the fortress,
courts a torrent of abuse,
keep it in but what's the use
when the music he belongs to
is a song from whence they came?
Same fresh face, a different name.
Hurt but not defeated,
he retreats beyond the moat,
picking daisies, writing notes.
Alone and battle-hardened,
past the point of nothing lost,
how I long for peacetime-soft.
I Am a Tightrope Walker
alone in a crowd,
balancing on a thread so thin,
sometimes I forget it's there.
I try my best,
two half shoes on either side,
s t e a d y a n d s a f e
u n t i l
the lurch
when the crowd snaps to attention,
baying for blood,
yet afraid to bleed,
four laser beams of unspoken will
imploring me to make their world
my final destination,
but I am a tightrope walker,
stalwart of obstinacy,
comfortable in solitude
and try as they might,
it's hard to break the constancy
of a man with his head in the clouds.
Ghost #2 The gentle hum of distant traffic curls the dormancy within him, till it swirls and blends into the background, loses hold. He peers into the restaurant from the cold. His jealousy no good to man or beast, he leaves the happy couple at the feast, heads early for the theatre’s gaping doors – romantic fiction Saturday’s reward. The teenage boy who works behind the till distracted, doesn’t notice (no one will). Two hours pass before him in a blur. The critics weren’t impressed, he might concur if only he could hide his joyful grin. The night-time crowd are slowly traipsing in and he should limber up and head for home to work upon a fiction of his own.
My Dream Playground
Innocence spent,
stacked with children.
Hues of amber,
my dream playground.
Clever get by,
bullies prosper
Scabby hungry
weak in corners.
Big get big,
small get smaller.
Never an upset,
games decided.
Don't interfere,
nod with approval.
Watch behind fences,
stone-faced parents.
Let the market regulate itself.
Stone-faced parents
watch behind fences,
nod with approval,
don't interfere.
Games decided,
never an upset.
Small get smaller,
big get big.
Weak in corners,
scabby, hungry.
Bullies prosper,
clever get by.
My dream playground,
hues of amber.
Stacked with children,
innocence spent.
Plumb the Depths
Unspoken feelings mingle at the bar
with scuppered trysts and promises withdrawn.
Forgotten, in the corner, plays guitar,
Rejected holds the mic for Weather-Worn.
A group of skeletons are dropping hints
to worry dolls and children's marionettes.
Such clumsiness will breed no fingerprints;
they've heard it all before and placed their bets.
Our dwellers and a few itinerants
anticipate the day you plumb the depths.
Over the Trees
Never was an R.A.F. pilot -
out of two hundred, made the last seven.
Held your breath the requisite minute,
disappointed in terms of aggression.
Back from Fratton Model Shop
with your kit, your miniature pots of paint,
set to work in the makeshift hangar,
slowly assembled the balsa frame.
Four months later, stood by the river,
take-off, eyes full of hope and glee.
Drifted beyond the scope of radar,
vanishing gracefully over the trees.
Underwhelmed for a puzzled moment.
Started to dream of a task renewed.
Anecdotes over Sunday dinner,
told them you didn't crash, you flew.
They Sang for Me
I lived alone the longest while.
I spread my wings, I sometimes smiled.
Though thermals bore me on my way,
the wind complained as if to say
'There must be something more.'
I screeched and squawked to birds unknown.
For half a day, I must have flown
till limbs seemed spent and voice had cracked.
Then, on the verge of turning back,
I heard the sweetest score.
A distant chorus swelled and stirred,
the smallest speck became a bird.
In loose array, she led the skein.
They sang for me and thus became
one greater than before.
Tethered
The kite a Christmas gift,
bright orange,
functional but swift.
I've lazily awaited such a day.
My dad the flying nut;
silently,
he sends her up,
then carefully,
the reel is sent my way.
The line extended tight;
the wind is mad -
it wants the kite
and suddenly,
this doesn't feel like fun.
Responsibility
is stifling,
can I be free?
And must I always end what I've begun?
I dream of letting go.
The kite
it winks
and down below,
I envy its ascent above the roofs.
Soon, I'm waking up.
My dad takes over,
I'm in luck.
The wind and I decide to call a truce.
Tethered was first published in Driech 4 Season 2, March 2021The 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.
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.
Quick-9 Interview from 2021 with Lawrence Moore
Q1: When did you start writing and first influences?
Lawrence: I played around with words and wrote the odd poem as a kid, but it didn't take off in any way until I was a hyper-political college youth with vague dreams of being a singer-songwriter. I would leave little scrawled scraps of lyrics around the house (a nightmare for my minimalist husband to be!). I felt an affinity for John Donne’s poetry early on, but didn’t become a bookworm until my early thirties, so took my influences from artists I loved such as Indigo Girls, Levellers and Kirsty MacColl.
Q2: Who are your biggest influences today?
Lawrence: I’m into some well known poets, like Wendy Cope and Seigfried Sasoon, but I’ve delved deeper down the rabbit hole of Twitter, where I am continually inspired by Kristin Garth (lolaandjolie), c m taylor (@carma_t), Susan Richardson (@floweringink), Annest Gwilym (@AnnestGwilym) and many others.
Q3: Where did you grow up and how did that influence your writing? Have any travels away from home influence your work?
Lawrence: I’ve lived my whole life in the working class coastal city of Portsmouth, rarely traveling. The people I’ve met and experiences I’ve had left their emotional mark on me (particularly as a kid in school experiencing friendship, bullying and unrequited love) but that’s true of most people in most towns. It has given me a love of football and the sea. Perhaps the roughness at the edges helped to make me an introvert, but I’m very fond of the place.
Q4: What do you consider the most meaningful work you've done creatively so far?
Lawrence: I guess ‘Holding Hands’ – a pared down, free verse poem I wrote about the difficulties my husband and I have felt as a same sex couple wanting to show affection in public. I am a big fan of form poetry but sometimes, when I have something to get off my chest, it flows out quickly in free verse.
Q5: Any pivotal moment when you knew you wanted to be a writer?
Lawrence:
Since my late teens at least, I’ve always sought some sort of creative outlet, but mostly as a dilettante, flitting from discipline to discipline (with zero discipline).
I often looked to make something happen with poetry – on MySpace in 2007, then in 2010/11 and 2015, but then I tried quite hard to be a singer-songwriter for a couple of years. I found the whole concept pretty intimidating because it has so many aspects – for example, production, melody, lyrics, vocals and instrumentalism. I partook in a grade 4 piano exam with grim determination but was a mess because of nerves.
In 2018, I spoke at my dad’s funeral, where I read the poem ‘High Flight’ by John Gillespie Magee Junior to some thirty people, and despite the strains that come with such an undertaking, it dawned on me later that I’d handled it a lot more calmly than I had the piano exam. I saw nothing in poetry that could unnerve me and felt ready to wave my dilettante days goodbye.
Q6: Favorite activities to relax?
Lawrence: Reading, listening to music, going for walks and playing Elder Scrolls games.
Q7: Any recent or forthcoming projects you'd like to promote?
Lawrence: I’ve made several poem videos, for accepted pieces, that I’ll be putting up on Twitter upon publication. I’m also working (I hope) towards a first collection, so that is occupying my mind a fair bit.
Q8: What is a favorite line/stanza from a poem/writing of yours or others?
Lawrence:
My place within this scheme is very small –
I am no Gandalf, I am Radagast.
From my ‘Radagast’, to be published in Sarasvati (Indigo Dreams Publishing)
Q9: Who has helped you most with writing?
Lawrence: My mum helps me quite a bit. She wrote poetry herself and is a very qualified teacher. She got me using more line breaks for effect and has read and commented on everything I’ve had accepted, which concerns me a little as I may get something really lewd or terrifying published one day and then feel obliged to show it to her!
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 ofthe Mind and The Madrigal. His first collection, Aerial Sweetshop, was published by Alien Buddha Press in January. @LawrenceMooreUK
Fevers of the Mind 