Tag: Lawrence Moore

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.