Four Poems by Lawrence Moore

 

Cupped Inside My Hand

 

Till many moons have come and gone,

till coasts are clear, till skies are blue,

till devils' graves are danced upon,

I cannot lend this world to you.

 

Take care with all reserves of strength,

sleep long when warmth is running low.

The lays of lands will shift above,

though you shall be the last to know.

 

I see you cupped inside my hand,

transported on the seas of time

like silver, smuggled contraband,

my future love, my present crime,

my cipher scrawled on shifting sands,

my optimistic valentine.

 

 

Kaleidoscope

 

Even the gentlest road is rough sometimes,

the smoothest of inclines, the sharpest rise,

the cruellest of convictions led astray,

the softly lingered wish so far away,

the welcomest of chances wearing thin,

the lustiest of stomachs prone to spin,

the rosiest of reds, the blackest blues,

but even in despair, I dream of you,

then magically, the prettiest of lies

adapt and rearrange themselves as true.

 

 

Another Vicious Storm

 

You sink into your sheets in disarray,

self-consciousness your latest kryptonite.

I'll linger on the couch if that's okay,

 

though not because I brood on your dismay;

the dryness you assume cannot ignite

some subtle spark in me, I am too gay.

 

With keenness, I anticipate the day,

for while the morning raindrops may be slight,

another vicious storm is on its way.

 

I'll leave one pen, one inkwell on display,

be ready with the coffee as you write.

I'll take the consequences come what may.

 

A child could have predicted as they came

ahoisting toxic clouds with dark delight,

that pretty soon, the rain would have its say.

 

I live for when your enemies' array

to topple down like dominoes in flight,

straightforward stains designed to wash away,

first victims of a torrent long delayed.

 

 

Crystal Blue

 

Drifting from clouds of imagination,

I spy a castle

perching on a ray of sunshine.

 

Through hidden halls of crystal blue,

another dreamer sings to me

with the language of blissful nothings.

 

That body and mind may float one morn,

I am grounded,

gathering fluency in their tongue.

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 2022. @LawrenceMooreUK