Four Poems by Lawrence Moore

 

Emma

 

I was sleeping out the winter,

you were in summer bloom;

the fossil seeker, the slow-worm keeper,

friend of wasps, consumer of peppers.

I know what your finger wrote on my back.

It wasn't knowledge that I lacked,

but pluck.

 

In bedrooms and in storage cupboards,

you tried to help me find it,

gleefully acting out fanciful roles

and dancing to Penny Lane.

 

A for effort.

 

I remember being taken out

to a grassy field in Arundel.

As my dad was flying his pride and joy

and we were larking about,

I looked up into the endless blue

and I was gleeful too.

 

 

The Fever You Wish to Feel

 

Remember as you approach the gate,

you are neither imposter nor thief.

Better still, forget.

 

Walk in July's magnificence

till sunlight brings

the fever you wish to feel.

 

Stick to the path

where flowers thrive.

Let Reverence be your moniker, not Remorse.

 

Anticipate

the patter of feet and their innocent song

as the handle begins to give.

 

One deep breath, then knock the door.

Come wintertime,

all residents may have flown.

 

 

Completion

 

I want a beginning,

pink cheeks,

wayward turns.

 

I want you to make the first move,

catch my awkward side by surprise,

make it plead 'No contest'.

 

I want you to take me upstairs,

us to take each other everywhere

that feels, but doesn't think.

 

I want you to grow me into something I am not,

but could be with the right amount of water.

 

I want to win you safety,

have you lie back in your creaking bed

with the knowledge of arrival.

 

I want us to be all we've ever wanted.

 

 

In Deepest Night

 

I had a dream,

in deepest night,

that we were floating through the air.

You gazed into my heart,

I felt a swoon,

I didn't care

and every monster that we faced

had given up and gone away

to watch their monster children

who were starring in a play.

Then, our little friends who scampered -

on their little friends who flew -

all rose up into the heavens

for a fellowship renewed.

When the greetings had been given,

someone started up a dance

which cascaded, escalated

to a disco, when by chance,

a conspiracy of ravens

and a parliament of owls

wandered over, almost sober,

pleaded 'If you would allow,

we're familiar with this number,

we can salsa with the best,

may we join you in your venture?'

Came the chorus 'Be our guests',

so we ratcheted the volume,

every eye upon the birds.

If we feared exaggeration,

they were equal to their words.

With our energy redoubled

and our inhibitions canned,

it was somewhere near this moment

that the fireworks began.

Your left temple on my shoulder,

then I took your hand and squeezed.

I don't know if it was destiny,

good fortune

or the breeze,

but we melted into laughter

like two paupers on a throne

and we knew that from this hour,

we would never be alone.

I had a dream,

in deepest night,

that we were soaring through the sky.

I'd prefer you not to wake me

till the instant we arrive.

 

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

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