Four Wonderful Poems by Lawrence Moore

 

They're Coming for Us

 

By this same sun, we saw the specks,

then first assailed the peak.

We knew them as intolerance,

mistook ourselves for meek.

 

Now standing at the summits edge,

I watch them down below,

careering round the bend we climbed

some fleeting while ago.

 

The captain leads his hungry pack

with bloodshed in his eyes.

We'll never get to state our case

nor mitigate their lies,

 

but stranded, standing next to you,

I cannot feel despair.

No ends, just possibilities,

no holes beyond repair.

 

They're snapping at our shaking heels.

In fate and you, I trust.

You take what looks like mountain dirt,

yet sprinkle pixie dust.

 

The captain, with malicious grin,

springs forth to grab my hand.

You grab it first and lead us off.

Come better times, we'll land.

 

 

Pixie Trip

 

Rising up from dignity

and dull, prosaic parking lots.

Rankled queries emanate

from distant dinner party dots.

 

                                  'Have you considered accountancy?'

 

Gliding over country fields,

expanding to unchartered climes.

Practising psychology

with nonsense ABCB rhymes.

 

                                  'You were always so good at maths.'

 

Parroting Druidic speech

inhaled in dreams like contraband.

Peering through pearlescent fog

to catch a glimpse of Fairyland.

 

                                                          Sigh.

 

Sharing clouds with childish hearts,

we slalom spires and minarets.

Landing into lunacy

with no return and no regrets. 

 

The Dwarf Who Fashioned Wings

 

Deep below the mountainside,

where dwellers lurked and lurkers dwelled,

the Dwarven people learned their craft

on forges, mines and citadels.

 

Whilst normal folk with straighter beards

talked metallurgic alchemy,

Old Glathrun took his break above

to watch the gulls migrate to sea.

 

'Just look,' he whispered in his mind,

'the way they glide and swoop and bend;

what noble engineering feats

their craftsman has performed with them.'

 

He never let the others know -

they laughed enough with no excuse

and beards that dripped intransigence

were difficult to put to use -

 

just struggled in his room each night,

awash amongst a sea of plans,

then sculpted with his earthly tools

two items never meant for land.

 

One elsewise uneventful day

in close to his two hundredth year,

Old Glathrun took his break above.

The stories say he disappeared. 

 

 

Cupped the Raindrops

 

One careless springtime afternoon,

I settled on a stroll.

It started off quite pleasantly

and ended down a hole.

 

My landing spot proved velvety,

the edges smooth, but high

and far above, to comfort me,

a tiny patch of sky.

 

It's strange the way a stumble may

recalibrate the brain.

When darkness lost its novelty,

I paused to think again.

 

Nostalgia and regretfulness

assembled for a tryst.

I swore 'Next time, I'll look ahead

if such a time exists',

 

but movement isn't everything,

there's make-believe and more;

the dingiest of holes presents

a world to be explored.

 

I found myself a cosy nook.

It wasn't quite Bag End,

but on the far side, lost as me,

I also found a friend.

 

My nook was tailor-made for two.

We snuggled up for heat

and cupped the raindrops when they fell

with seldom urge to eat.

 

As everything slots neatly in,

it's hard to be afraid

and though our minds can wander still,

we never cry for aid.

 

 

 

These poems appear in Lawrence Moore’s chapbook Aerial Sweetshop, published in January 2022 by Alien Buddha Press.

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