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.
Arshi Mortuza is a Bangladeshi poet based in Toronto. Her work often explores womanhood, identity, and mental health. She shares her writing and reflections on Instagram @poetessarshi.
Bio: James Benger is the author of several books of poetry and prose. He serves on the Board of Directors of the Writers Place and the Riverfront Readings Committee, and is the founder of the 365 Poems in 365 Day online workshop. He lives in Kansas City with his wife and children.
These Things Happen
They burned the library down with us still inside, centuries of experience charred until nothing was left, not even the memories.
We spent the first bit searching for exits, for fire extinguishers, for hope that the sturdiness of human knowledge was more resilient than the human body.
The windows took on that sooty, smoky look, the overhead lightning, too, and of course, us, but we're not the heroes of this story.
They burned the library down with us still inside, and when it was beyond clear that there was to be no escape, I took your hand, and that was all.
The Wayback Machine
None of us thought we would get here, when nearly a quarter-century ago, the worst possible thing happened, and then it got even worse, and we kept finding new ways to dig deeper and deeper, deeper still.
None of us thought we would get here, but the course was set long before any of that, but we had time to turn it around; the world is full of opportunities, we just needed to take it slow.
None of us thought we would get here, but here we are, and now all the answers sound like non-answers, and we think we’ve still got time as we scan the hazy skies searching for way back.
In 1994
I mowed lawns for CD and soda money, my grandfather's old blue riding lawnmower.
He gave it to me after he bought a new one; a couple summers of fighting it to run, a couple summers of it rusting in the field, tires dry rotting, some rodent burrowing in the torn pleather seat.
You bleed all the lines, then reup them with the bottom shelf stuff at the auto parts store a quick bike ride from your dirt road shack.
You air up the tires with your leaky bicycle pump. You surreptitiously borrow the battery from your little sister's off-brand Power Wheels Barbie car.
You make sure you're stocked up on AAs, bootleg tapes, maybe a spare pair of headphones, swab the discount Walkman's heads with a Q-Tip damp with rubbing alcohol; you're going to need the distraction for a summer behind the wheel, always trying to coax the dying beast into a higher gear.
You daydream of the girls in your class, and how their lips are always shiny, and how they always smell like candy and hope, and how one day, when you're up on stage, a rock star, or maybe a famous writer, one of them, maybe one of the cute, quiet ones, will say something to you other than, can I borrow a pencil?, or you got a quarter?, or I'll tell everyone you're my boyfriend for today if you let me have your math homework.
It was all Soundgarden and Nine Inch Nails and Nirvana and even some Zeppelin and Sabbath that summer with the heat generously filtered through all those thick pines.
And at the end of the season, the money was nice, but that never really was what any of it was about, was it?
From Within
Sit alone in the crumbling house you’ve built for yourself, your comfy, cozy prison, the battlements higher than the blueprints ever could’ve told.
These walls that keep everything in do so little to filter out the incoming; constantly pummeled with the deluge of a world on fire, and no way to expel the heat.
This is not what was planned, but was it ever truly planned? At the beginning, that fabled long ago, wasn’t it just a last-ditch effort to hold it together, throwing things at the wall, hoping something, anything would finally stick.
Well, like those cheap wall walkers, it stuck, but only for so long, and now it’s falling, crumbling, and when it lands, there’ll be no hope of removing all the carpet fuzz, pet hair, dirt, and regrets.
The castle’s crumbling, and you’re hoping a hole will open up just wide enough for you to escape out into a world where everyone else has always lived before it’s too late.
Spun
We’ll rotate the truth like anything we’ve
ever known, like a preset for the brain,
like the water underneath, the stuff that’s gone brown,
clogged with used hypodermic needles,
and other detritus of life. We’ll rotate the truth,
because what else is there to do with all of this?
Muhammad Rabeeh is a student of Occupational Therapy with a focus on mental health. He writes poetry as a way of processing emotion and finding connection through shared vulnerability. His work explores themes of loneliness, resilience, and the quiet hope that lingers in dark moments.
1. Loneliness is Poison
Loneliness is poison It will eat you slowly Until you can't recognize your voice You forget what made you laugh What made you stay
You keep checking for messages Even when you know there is none You try to make sense of memories And wonder if they ever truly happened
You laugh at your own jokes Then cry a little because no one heard You sleep too long Or don’t sleep at all
You speak in your head Because you forgot how to share You stare at ceilings Wishing for someone to knock
It is not just being alone It is becoming invisible Even to yourself
2. The Need to Be Seen
There was a time when I had a reason to wake up Someone to go to Something to look forward to But now I can't find it Somewhere I can hold
They are not at fault Every time it goes right Guilt takes hold of my heart A knife stuck to my chest I need to let go
My heart cries, “Don’t.” My mind yells, “Let go. They deserve better.” And I just can't give myself anything
I see good people But I can't be part of them Because I am afraid of feeling left out
Yes, it is cowardly But my heart can't take any more I fear pain more than I value my happiness I wish it was easier to trust
I can only blame myself For my past mistakes that hurt me too much Perhaps it is time to accept My fate and my present
I still want to see sunsets and sunrises
3. The Story Feels Long
My heart screamed at me The lost kid in the dark Still looking for a way out I wanted to help him
So I swallowed my pride My dignity and fear I asked my relatives to help They said it is normal
I asked my teachers for help They tried to help My friends wanted to help Then I went to my family
But they took his side Protected him like I didn't matter That hurt me
I realized there was none who could help I couldn't give up I don't want to
I want my brother to look up to me My parents to be proud So I keep going No longer looking for help
I will sit with him Even if I have to lose I won't abandon him Nor will I give up
I will become someone’s reason A voice that listens Nothing I want in return It is my way of healing
To help someone out of darkness It doesn't give hope in humanity But some part of me gets warmth
I am aware my influence will be minor Maybe 10 people But that 10 is enough I hope I will reach them
I want to give hope to myself One day I will make him smile again
Myrtle Thomas writes contemporary poetry and has been published in several poetry journals and magazines. She is retired from a large manufacturing company which allows her to write her poetry . She found long ago that writing was for her medicine and a warm hug , mending her broken pieces with ink and paper. She has been a member for several years on ALLpoetry.com , Penn name Bluebird74.
A Grave-Yard's Haunting Memories
memories are lovely hauntings dreams that dream themselves voices only whispered shadows in the night.
friends that live in a heart family growing and growing apart borders that are breached - an open gate songs that sing mindfully silent.
sins that bloom in the dark all hide from repentance crashing the pearly gates while strolling through a grave-yard.
haunting memories last till death when the mind lies dormant in decay brain waves have waved good-bye to every prying eye.
for the soil is a secret place where every soul will reside we take these lovely hauntings where they'll forever rest .
the giant oak tree in the grave-yard witnesses the burial of our hauntings and has never a tongue to tell but stands guard at the gate leading to its own estate.
In Living and Dying the Remembrance
can we discover the break between clouds and sun ? or even move - from the shadow of turning ? I look for the lost memories - of all the times of days and weeks there are still empty hands - of dangling fingers.
*
mother and father you have left - along with so many others leaving me to wonder who will keep you alive when the sun leaves my face who will be there standing firm as a tree ?
*
mother , you are buried in my mind with your everyday dress and apron what but death could remove you ? you may never know I sing your songs while I wring my hands and worry in grief.
*
father you were never strong enough to fight for your life in kindness your voice enormous and angry coughing blood until you left - without your breath - I wonder if you were ever sorry.
*
I do think of other things of beauty as the sunlight shifts through the trees of how the moon and stars find the sun about that reflection I see in the mirror the familiar lines of my face seek me out mother I can barely see you.
*
I do wonder are we just clouds apart there will be no one to remember your voice as I walk slowly away toward you you have no idea mommy how much - I feel and see this sadness - just knowing you will die again without dying.
Holiday Photographs
my eyes race across the picture leaping at the stare they find watching smiles seem painted on and unfamiliar trying to conceal yesterday's quarrels I often wonder who could have framed us ! who could have seen us in this future ?
the light from the window hovers glimmering from those pleasant eyes they have a spark of life now non-living everyone leaves and falls into a photograph they have changed without me making me a solitary image holding a page.
I can see the smiles before the tears fall before the clouds were ominous and dark I fight this opposition without winning but the resistance to turn and look is strong while I try to catch what wandered away loss but gratitude in holding onto what was.
seasons and holidays have changed for me watching the spring flowers bloom into summer feeling the change in autumn's air turn itself around knowing that those days that took you all away is cruel leaving me just holding onto to leather binding with images living on stained paper stressed in my old hands.
Here I Can't Touch You
1.
watching from the window my mind drifts away - back to so many yesterdays where my mind desires to play just a child in the mirror drawn from memory of what I'm not today !
2.
a shadow of a child ----my face - is not my own`----------- a hollowed out shell ---without a home shall I linger longer in this gilded frame peering into space ? searching for the child that left without a trace.
3.
a mother without a mother my fingers have no grasp ! an orphan in my old age----------- still feels alone in pain longing for the sight of family only found in photographs stained-- ------ found only in my failing mind.
4.
here I sit in much younger clothes covering up the nakedness of what I no longer have--------------- time has decayed my clothing have I truly came this far ? walking along motherless ----this pain is so hard to bear.
5.
I 've failed at being my own mother time walked away in it's shadows leaving me in the darkness------------- imprisoning me in the mirror with a face I do not know ! tonight I've walked the many miles in the shoes of long ago .
Fevers of the Mind 