Chris Lawrence, England


Chris Lawrence, England

I live in a coastal town West Kirby with its spectacular sunsets, with my wife (muse) and family with two cats a sled dog and some fish. I was born in 1964 a son of a teacher and a booking office clerk , I was an avid reader and turned to writing quite quickly , poetry came first then stories and screenplays, I have been published in many magazines and won a United Nations Poetry for peace contest, and to the here and now I have also fallen into acting as well so all is well and I hope you enjoy these poems.

removal day

in this green and pleasant land
a turmoil has begun
cousins once embraced
reviled in tirades and taunts
pulling away
away from all that is foreign
insular thoughts
clinging to a past
forgotten and fallen
a future and past
created in one gasp
some speak of it
others speak to it
but no one addresses it
a shattered dream
and ripped up promises
the only happiness
will come with the afterlife
and itscruel persuasion


beneath the trembling of the moon
shimmer sheer shine
over folds of dune and sea
each flash foam
salted spray
holding hands in youth remembered
running haphazard
stumbling with wine filled veins
more laughter muffled
soft coughing
falling into the fullness
of each other
memory flourish held suspense
passions dilation gaze
accepting golden sand
and those seaside memories

my mouth in the kitchen

I inhabit this house
board and billet
with the chattering of others
fleshy pods of
my fallen dna
from cockerel to sunset
odours of cooking
those teeth cutting food
into particles
I look about
at this plastic coated table
dishes in array
cursed with being so forgiving
can I speak
edging words out into
that space of air
around us
but I cant
invisble lips a sealed face
sinking into

wretched way I am attached

love can be so weird
you can bless it or curse it
but to me
love is that sweet honeythread
that can seem wretched
yet it is so beautiful
each moment be it silent
or the briefest touch
I cannot resist
that awfully wonderful flutter
a judder of the senses
more depth than fear
in fact fear fled
in the face of it
attached so willingly
threaded by kisses
and tender loins

edge of the acute

waste from the body
skin speckles dust
hair coils into spools
upon the floor
we shed our self
upon others
food devoured excreted
sweat in the sweatness
of love
but what if semen
expelled ejaculated
spread as a film
over warm flesh
and downy fuzz
to be rubbed off
on sheets twiste
into urgent knots
and the vibrancy
of another tomorrow

eyes upon the corpse

it is a violent need
a figurative urge
to drag someone
across linoleum
streaking a crimson smear
silver fox sacrifice
not for fur or flesh
man is worse than
the angry dogs running
chattering jaws
swearing unforgiveness
is it a strategy
to eliminate for love
hide in shadowy doors
lust and other elements disquiet
not a moral narcotic
alone now
predator vocalizing to prey
opponent gone
slithered in its own gore
into the trash
to be carted off
as an incidental offering
to what god
rules passsion

spirit on the child

waxen lip kisses
sorely benevolent
beyond the yearning
of smaller hands
reaching skyward
towards a blue fixture
long before dark rolls in
crescent moon
scything into dreams
disturbing mind and heart
roiling in a bed alone
another room
a voyage away from the parents
but for now
those hands
reach around a fleshy neck
hug and embrace
succumbing to the care
of a deep embrace

blazing flowers

collapse deeper into sleep
stains of the night
worn into the pillow
there are holes in the sky
he could not imagine
that originated
from spools of promises
that never happened
sleep no longer sweet candy
but a bitter writhing mass
worried with desire
and ageing falling trees
stood on the lawn
ripping dark canvas
finding blazing flowers

narrow path convert

until the day of when
you can count upon
ridged finger tips
times in the amount
of moments
that have been breathed
between each cigarette
lit inhaled extinguished
dreamt of
and now remembered
that to avenge
an unjust death
a crime to be comitted
gun tucked in waistband
wind pushed at bank doors
closing car door
a decision made

book of teacups

is that cat
you stroke from next door
of authentic colour
do its eyes match
or are they discoloured
like the stream
it was rescued from
soft mewling
plaintive needing much pity
you want to be pious
get a can of paint
of colour more befitting
using the organ
of your heart
before consulting another
colour guide
for the colour you want
to be yourself


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