Lawrence Moore

@lawrencemoore.bsky.social

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Poet. Pushcart, Forward nominated. This Joyful Interlude out now with @janes-studio.bsky.social 🕊️ UK link: amazon.co.uk/dp/1068432330 Vegan, BLM

A heron walking around the shallow waters of Baffins Pond, not far from the bank.
Poetry by Annest Gwilym at The Poetry Post, The Mill Pond, Emsworth
Regrets Sometimes wait a lifetime, too shy to appear; sometimes just an instant, with downward slope sheer. Sporadically spring from no obvious home, admonish from corners, insistent, ‘Atone’. Preferring the old, can still prey on the young. Not keen on dissolving, remain on your tongue. Impalpably moreish, they creep up on you, regrets are delicious, especially when blue. Serene judgement call met by all-out attack; your wall-clattered knuckle, their vanishing back. Unforwarded message, apology saved, portraying the angel, enacting the knave. Past creeds for the shredder, sown seeds disendow, what ifs and could nevers (well nevers from now), cruelties in the gutter where cruelties belong, but none of it changes the truth; they are gone.
It (kind of) fits, I sits. Gatsby 🐱
Rituals In the towers we watch for our princes, princesses, fretting their late arrival, sniffing the rare autumnal air for the slenderest signs of hope. One twitch of a tree, southwest, mid-distance, unwelcome ascent of sparrow. Temptation to shrink to the size of a pin, yet vigilance must resume. If they find us uninformed, then we promise to still be ready. If we witness their advance, we will at last throw down our locks.
Peach Orchards You appeared in my dreams for a second time last night as I pranced through peach orchards, contentious with wind and rain. You were dressed in November more deftly than past July. We were looking, though never quite looking (that much unchanged). To my febrile, self-conscious submission, you showed no fear, pastel tinge of a smile on your face, then you held your ground. If the view proved imposing, the thunderous greenface sheer, still I longed for the same horizon, whilst gaping down. Many inches upon that vertiginous plane I strove, fully chilled to the bone as those menacing brainclouds warned. You were freezing moreover; vacating behind your clothes, dematerialising on flash of a lightning storm as can happen in dreams, but before I turn lachrymose, I’ll be prancing peach orchards again one November’s morn.
Speckled Wood, Baffins Pond
Adieu Today arrived, a different shade of dirge; did anybody recognise but she? I lingered with the morning traffic surge to gather greater evidence of me, met only acquiescence from all drones, grey vehicles uniformly headed out, scarce passengers ensconced in mobile phones, their drivers' minds preoccupied, devout. Just over hill's horizon, silence gave, precursor for a separate kind of tune. Her kindred eyes, contemptuously brave, along the carriageway, streaked into view; dismissing dull delusions, fixed my way regrettably fleetly, soon winked adieu.
Hitch-Hiking Wandering this highway, a time concluded, before forgotten, certain delusions regroup, regather within my mind; condemning psalms as yet unsung (through language most unmusical), choose symphonies from dried and dusty tomes. Down path unknown I falter, lacking all inkling for where to tread, loosely on speaking terms with my fears of standing still, but if you will, one day, find yourself along this highway, driving with purpose towards some destination new, can I come too?
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.
Itinerant Forms What exists is a question in heart and mind that persists beyond skin and bone. The jackdaw hatches, kingsnake unwinds, caterpillar prolegs outgrown. I am weaved through a melody false-arrived; may I leave to a song my own. If the rhythm is lumpy or silky smooth as ice cream on a summer's day, whether colours grow garish, remain subdued, at this juncture, I cannot say, but its constants will offer me keener truths than itinerant forms convey.
All Together, ‘Booooooh!’ The witch hunters are coming, there’s little time to waste. They’ve hatched a plan to grab mi’ Mam and burn her at the stake. They’re awfully excited, they claim her cooking’s cursed, they’ll reach our house tomorrow morn; we’re going to get them first. Horatio’s a harpy, Pauline’s a poltergeist, Ursula’s made a unicorn who’s bored of playing nice. Sebastian is a scarecrow, Hussein’s a headless fool, Rosemary chose a minotaur, so I’m a dancing ghoul.
Is It My Place to Interfere? I've inherited the blink of an eye I would like to put to use (assuming of course my knots untie and their meanings grow less obtuse), but what should be done with this fleeting space where flowers bloom and fall and so often get trampled beneath my feet - should I choose any course at all? There's a canticle glinting yearnful hints that 'I ams' could turn into 'We'res', but when people seem happy the way things are, is it my place to interfere? And what kind of coinage might one bid in exchange for true reason why; this suitcase of worries held above by thin limbs neither young nor spry? Succumb to misgiving then all is lost from a blue evanescent eye.
Colourful fireworks as the shortlists are announced for Darkwinter Lit's 4th Anniversary poetry and short story contests.
The same atmospheric yew tree at Kingley Vale that featured in The Breadcrumb Trail.
Ten Quiet Lines This world is growing louder by the day (provocateurs', co-profiteers' delight). Four walls and firewalls now have their say; surround myself in softness as I write with pussycat beside me, stretching claws, my husband, down one floor, TV turned low. Loft radiator's labours lacking pause; beyond this windowpane, winter's first snow. Perhaps there played pervasive, bitter scores ten quiet lines of poesy ago.
Wilderness is Not a Name An emptiness I dreaded for so long still slithered on, has finally arrived. The presence of its absence fills a room, now limbers up my legs, but I don't mind. Should language melt away for days, then weeks, strange wonders I have sensed fall primly plain, delinquencies once counted on and loved tuck tails as if to never come again, I'll know this die, provisionally cast, won't last when wilderness is not a name.
Delicate Retracings Do you know how to get back to the lands in which we dwelt, where the childhood wonders never went away? Such delicate retracings of our torn and twisted paths eluded from this place we’ve come to be, but I remember lots of things, incidental at that time, which have waxed ever brighter down the years for a storm-trammelled soul, still unsubjugated mind, unimpressed by all darkness came to vend.
Harmful Spectre, Darling Ghost Dim the lights. Draw the curtains. Kill the phone. 'Gone to ground' chief presumption, boy alone. Feed the cats, leave the kittens occupied; dressed in black, open window, sneak outside. Find the trees that enshrine the golden lake, disappear, checkpoints chomping at your wake, lurk in space no one's heard of, none pursue; force of will, murmuration, something new. Laying low, swig the shadows, introspect, recreate, count your blessings, resurrect, sense the wind's resolution, sibylline. Greeting May, snuffle daylight, now it's time. Let the man you have longed for manifest, bid this last duplication fond goodbye.
Gatsby abd Bugsy lounging
Wendy and Crew Neath setting suns and synonyms dwells pixie Peter Pan, who sits upon a toadstool, glimpses out from time to time. He talks through stem loudspeakers, boasts of overreaching plan, concealing insecurities in lemongrass and lime. Pontificates on candour like he’s seen his promised land, but inwards, dreams of nothing more than spilling heart’s design. I try to reassure him on all consequences raised, contending we have more to fear from boulders left unturned. Vain promise of persuasion (precious little heed gets paid); red sweet pea boots, retreating, disappear amongst the ferns, shall traipse another daydream with long-disappeared comrades, as pixie boy continues, real existence still adjourned.
Obscure, Iridescent My love is a multicoloured, sparkly thing, resides upon tree, below butterfly’s underwing; concealed in the pattern of starling and sparrow flight, serene through the ages, revealed when the moment right. It’s there on the breeze, with each first flake of winter snow, approaches and leaves as it pleases (thinks no one knows), freewheels through the ether, forms various cloud constructs, expands under surface, still trickles down mountain bluff, cascades round the river, remaining, since long ago, obscure, iridescent thing better known as love.
Niche, One Hundred Acre Wood There lives a place, not far from here, a shady glade I long to dwell when joyless problems interfere, should premonitions trouble spell. Obscured and off the beaten track, so many simply stumble past, bemoaning trend of income tax, deliberating overdraft. Likewise, I'm often led astray from states of mind I'd rather be. This psyche's stubborn disarray subsumed in modern tapestry. Sometimes, asleep, back garden chair, I float away, by dream propelled, to land with foal and fallow deer, with peregrine and pipistrelle, delay some while, not far from here, a shady glade I long to dwell.
Mother duck taking her ducklets to visit the brooding swan; I think it must be Spring ❤️
Vibrations Deep Within What would I be without you? On those days when everything spins; when I feel distant from my body, like I'm not exactly there and no other escape exists. What would I do were you not to tarry against my legs, persistence paying double as I scoop you against my breast and this inward press, my palm along the smoothness of your back only serves to swell vibrations deep within, what would I do? No, neither you nor I are bound for anywhere, this mutual beneficence could never fade nor end, I just happen to be asking for a friend.
All Times by Self Still stung, still staggering streets at night, sometimes with feet, most times with mind, where smoke from chimneys twists and turns, throws silhouettes of lips unlearned and someone from the ether smiles till somewhere more important burns. I wander squares and lanes and groves past modest mice, conceited crows; primeval ploys, pursuits of friends who weave me down the deepest ends to wither, shadow, curse, decry, apologize (would make amends). A further figure shimmers, waves, predestinies of primrose glades mistakable for few things else, though either by deceit or stealth, I'm left to stagger streets at night, sometimes with feet, all times by self.
Back among the bluebells at Kingley Vsle
The inaugural issue of Poets in Verse, out now and available on Amazon.
Mutineers Two names, decrepit boathouse, scrawled in chalk, kingfisher realm, tail end, long river walk. Trajectory, pink bouquet, backwards flung; to think romantic thoughts seem cheap to some, when once, beyond perpetual frontier, though drunk ’pon silver moonlight, crystal clear, we railed, against both captains and the tide, for cost of nearer views proved amplified. Majestic springs the thought dual mutineers must dance where fear and wonder now collide.
The Waterfall’s Flow Persona non grata, contented to be; of goals I am vacant, of cares I am free. Meandering nowhere through acres of time; the darkest of places, the lightest of minds. They'll tell you, quite proud, at the drop of a hat, ‘You need to win this, then you need to prove that’, prescriptions for you because I'm far away, saluting the moon from a blanket of hay. When morn roams again, no regrets will I feel at wanting’s departure, ambition’s repeal, forgetting in life what eluded me so (I left it to fortune, was told where to go). No scheme of escaping, repaying with steel the angel’s embracing, the waterfall’s flow.
Bluesky feeds (very customisable :-) )
Sink or Swim The dauntingness of mountain peaks, candescent dragon’s lair, mendacious ocean’s subtle thrusts, foreboding Finisterre, asperities of Northern winds, suspicious pairs of eyes. I don't know if I have the goods; do know I have to try. The universe is beckoning, ubiquitous, its gaze; a body just a fleeting craft, cut loose among the waves, but sink or swim, should I bequeath some mark along the coast, with sentiment of buoyancy, perhaps the next one floats.
I'm delighted my poem 'Mutineers' has been accepted for the inaugural issue of Poet in Verse, coming soon! ❤️
The Conversion of Lestat de Lioncourt (Homage to Anne Rice) Inquisitive, tempestuous was I, wolf slayer, priest and thespian by turns, the fearless youth Lestat de Lioncourt. A mother’s boy, sharp thorn for siblings’ sides, transmogrified through weeping violin; fresh apple of pitch black, predacious eyes. He clawed me from the sanctum of my bed, past windows, across walls and over roofs to somewhere light shall never creep again. A soul’s damnation stubbornly opposed till fangs grew tired of toying with their prey, immortal’s blood first dripped upon my tongue.
Treats at Offbeet Cafe, Southsea
Let me know when it warms up' - Gatsby
Stagecraft Lone magpie, with inestimable flair, twitches his tail both sides of ancient yew, prays sorrow’s caws mistakable for joy, vexatious one turned effervescent two. I also, in my own selective ways, still demonstrate equivalence untrue.
This Joyful Interlude, a full-length poetry collection by Lawrence Moore. Cover illustration by Jane Cornwell
The World Smiles Back 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.
'The poems here, hopeful and forgiving, are a balm and an antidote to the current coldness of the world. I look forward to getting happily lost in them again and again.' - Steve Denehan, author of 'A Quarter Dead and Half Alive'
This Joyful Interlude, a full-length poetry collection by Lawrence Moore. Cover illustration by Jane Cornwell
Below the Buddleias From nowhere, neighbour s garden, two gnomes occurred, grinning and waving together with their bright and bushy beards. Perhaps they failed to appreciate the buddleias at their feet already plotting a path to next year's sunshine, for when next summer arrived, they were good as buried;
Samantha Terrell: Moore's new book is truly a 'joyful' read. Lots of dog-eared pages in my copy! A delightful collection — well done.
Inside, warm and cosy, Gatsby, Elliot and Bugsy ❤️
Lost Embers He measured long those gradients of subtle burn and fade, lost embers of what might have been that stormful, distant day. Unblinking, surely hypnotised, unanchored, yet unfree, he drifted on, saw greener fields unreachable by me, where sheep and shepherd, sheltered, dwelled with dwarf and unicorn, two pairs of eyes had gleamed as one, sought refuge from their storm, but countless pairs have veered away when young, complacent, shy as older pairs still court the past, by preference, lacking time for other embers likewise lost, still warm, though passing by.
Lawrence Moore's 'No Soul Need Know', from his collection This Joyful Interlude, is coming to BBC Sounds, BBC Radio and BBC Upload this Thursday!
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.
Yardsticks Most people measure their lives in years; I've decided to measure mine in chocolate flapjacks, expectancy nigh two thousand. There are other yardsticks some might apply like marriages, trophies, children, kings. I'm determined to focus on more important things, like the crispness of the cleave on my first chew, the way, when initial taste kicks in, the room just disappears, returns renewed as peculiar taste nirvana, befores, durations and afters of which lie imprinted upon my soul, so, much like our palette of rainbow years, each bite becomes subsumed, one chocolate blur, indivisible from its peers.
Eight cats of Fratton - Hugo, Lupe, Bugsy, Gatsby, Elliott, Nikita, Wanda, Effy
Magentas on Mauves Time becomes blurred, given time. One year exits, the next arrives and the colours grow more confused; magentas on mauves, no reds, no blues. As we drive around the city, I witness various versions of me, a rainbow's gradual fading. Now skirting Farlington Marshes, three college girls waste four lunchtime breaks; has it been thirty spins already? Constitutional, Baffins Pond, we lampoon school juniors' boisterous ways; cocktail of admiration distilled with a pinch of envy. Lastly, head off towards home, flinch when elderly gent cuts us up, waves self-conscious wave. I endeavour to send him my warmest smile, also blending with violet someday.
Just One Spill Before Is there nothing we could try, no filament I might heat to make this world again taste sweet? Were I to sing perfect song, flawless words, soaring tune, would you sink further darkwards, torch immune? Must I understand capacity to heal no longer mine, cast futures in with the leisurely cleanse of time? Queen's jester hangs his head, fragmented glass upon the floor flailed and juggled so freely just one spill before.
Susan RIchardson's hardback copy of This Joyful Interlude.
Broad Daylight, an outpouring of poetry in tribute to Renee Nicole Good.
Alone as Cinderella Last dusk, my Fairy Godmuse spied on me, confuzzled as to cause, this dormant state; bore witness as I passed the lonely hours foul-mouthing maledictions, slurs at fate. Post laughter, after cleansing of the ears, thought 'With a tongue like that, he has a chance.' Our medium? Concluded poetry, gave wave of magic wand and here I am. Alone as Cinderella at her ball, I dance and weave, almost believe each line, resemble everything I wish I was, neglect to keep one eye upon the time till quarter before midnight; sorry folks, my pumpkin cab awaits, ta-ra, goodbye.
Owl's Terse Reply I maunder out most nights, converse with Owl, to many eyes demure and self-contained; still underneath my skin, there lies a scowl, this less than perfect human I remain, surrounded by uncertainties, cocksure, mislaid through complications sometimes mine (light-headed from strange yarns I've spun before, true tales yet to unfold along the line) and in the depths of slumber, I ascend as if one's mortal soul could be redeemed, Owl's terse reply more toothsome time portend; from stormy chills, tomorrow's landscape green. If only sympathetic heart would lend its upside downs and all beats inbetween.
Forest Girl (and Happy Cat)
Golden glitter unicorn snowglobe (gifted at Christmas, shaken, spun). Happy Christmas!
To the Heavens Steer Golden glitter unicorn snowglobe gifted at Christmas, shaken, spun. Hunches and hints of past adventures, neither can know what's left to come. Sloping, swirling, shimmering, shaping, sinking, twirling, glimmering, strong. Clueless without your random signals; lost we may seem, though not for long. Questions extended, pesky subjects, solicitudes, independence, fear. Output imprinted upon my psyche, something to salvage this awkward year. Strange divination or self-cajoling, either will do; to the heavens steer.
To the Heavens Steer Golden glitter unicorn snowglobe gifted at Christmas, shaken, spun. Hunches and hints of past adventures, neither can know what's left to come. Sloping, swirling, shimmering, shaping, sinking, twirling, glimmering, strong. Clueless without your random signals; lost we may seem, though not for long. Questions extended, pesky subjects, solicitudes, independence, fear. Output imprinted upon my psyche, something to salvage this awkward year. Strange divination or self-cajoling, either will do; to the heavens steer.