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.
Fevers of the Mind 