Five Poems by Lawrence Moore

 

 

Stranded in Sepia 

 

Alone now, in a fabricated time, 

I wonder at the roles I've taken on. 

Society is beautiful and blind, 

its images abideable, but wrong. 

 

My loved ones greet a boy who'll never be, 

no need for confirmation of the view, 

their negatives held under lock and key. 

Sometimes I'm still convinced I know him too. 

 

There calls a day for laughter and content, 

when wild, unbroken dreams roll into town. 

I whisper back, suspect I waste my breath. 

Subdued upon each page, all answers drown. 

 

Below the dust an envoy must descend; 

inside a photo album I am found. 

 

 

 

 

Begin to Know 

 

Steal out and take a chance, 

past the wardens of this keep. 

There is nothing to be won 

repretending what has flown. 

 

The hearth forever lit, 

fingers long to interlace 

far beyond the shallow scopes 

of all introspective fears 

 

and if you can't do it for yourself, 

then do it just for them. 

 

Breathing deep December air, 

then reoffering as mist, 

you will glance up ahead, 

begin to know. 

 

 

 

 

Abandoned Shack 

 

I see a box still ribboned 

in a world without surprise, 

two distant restaurant eyes, 

my fairy tale's absent page. 

 

I see a hand I would lunge for 

should the branches beneath me crack, 

self-secluded abandoned shack 

unbarred to a storm-drenched soul. 

 

I see a route stumbled onto 

in a future I thought had none, 

this cosseted curse undone, 

a view beyond pastel shades. 

 

 

 

 

Thank You 

 

Thank you 

for the heady days 

of half-knowings, 

for the you's and me's 

of uncertainties 

that hover 

around our hearts. 

 

Thank you 

for the starts 

that may never finish, 

all wisdoms diminished 

by wayward butterfly wings, 

for the singing of songs 

too shy 

for a true love's dotings. 

 

Thank you 

for the hopeless hopings 

that come with these conditions, 

rude mutterings, 

split decisions, 

the staggers and sways 

of fate and fortune's 

tease. 

 

Thank you 

for these idiocies, 

strange explorations, 

secondments above our stations. 

 

Thank you 

for their realisations 

we trust will arrive 

on cue. 

 

 

 

 

Labyrinthian 

 

Risking our necks for the slightest chances, 

running a mile from all fleeting glances, 

no one can tell me love weaves its docile course. 

 

Drafting crude letters at crazy hours, 

swallowing potions, scaling towers, 

restless, reluctant and always, forever, yours. 

 

Dressed to the nines, pretentions naked, 

fears crying out, hopes understated, 

playing with chips I cannot afford to lose. 

 

Sifting through safes, then under floorboards, 

pondering facts, maintaining scoreboards, 

making it up and looking to you for clues. 

 

Clueless as me, you shrug your shoulders. 

Left on its own, intention moulders, 

innocent slave to wandering plot's design. 

 

Let us be bold, obscure inventions, 

free of all taste, soft grey conventions. 

Anything under your duvet would prove divine.

Lawrence Moore writes from a loft study overlooking the coastal city of Portsmouth where he lives with his husband Matt and nine mostly well behaved cats. His poems have appeared in, among others, The Dawntreader, Fevers of the Mind, Feral Poetry and The Madrigal. He has a new poetry collection, The Breadcrumb Trail, published by Jane's Studio Press in March 2024.