Biography of Lawrence Beck
My advice to anyone reading one of my poems: read it so quickly as you can the first time through. Since I write in a rush, my melody will become most evident if you read in a rush.
I have a web site, www.lawrencebeck.net, which contains more of my recent poems than the 50 I leave up here. I refresh this site every other month.
Alas, I must add this: if you write to me asking me to read your poems, I may, but I will not comment on them. I am very sick of numbers hogs who troll through a day's list of contributing poets, and ask each one to read his or her poem. If you write well, someone may notice and comment. If you browbeat people into reading your poetry, the comments you receive are worth nothing.
Lawrence Beck's Works:
Lawrence Beck Poems
The cloud has come again, the prairie fire Smoke, and all is wrapped in darkness. That is what I see. The pills, it seems, No longer work. The faint pinpricks
It is better to be in the dark, I suppose, I get up before dawn, the past out of sight. The present is nil, the future is...well, it's Just black, I suppose. We aren't apt to
For My Therapist
Yeah, you have your fucking theories. You don't know the half of how life Writhes beyond those theories' lines. You're right. The woman's an obsession.
When it's too late, the kitchen table takes on The haphazard balance of a still life Chardin Might have painted once. There are no Gutted fish or bunnies, no stout, earthen
Dry Redhead/Wet Blonde
We both know she isn't her. She could have been. She almost was, but romance dies with distance And my home is very far away. The one she almost Was is there, while we skip down the city's streets,
Another Pair Of Eyes Or Something Else F...
Would these faded things take back their colors If I brought her here? Would all the trees upon The bluff go green again, and would their leaves Flash back and forth from dark to light when
“What of it, then, depression? ” he looks Up at me. “It's always there, a piece of Gauze across the sun, a pair of walls, electric Terror, on the edges, pressing in, and anger,
We have learned to lean against each other lightly. That is apt to be all we will ever do. I'm not sure What she needs from me. She'll never say, but I suspect it's simply knowing that I love her.
Come Join The Islamic State
They sat with you for years. You gave no Thought to all the things they saw: the lies, The mealy-mouthed evasions. Everything Which everyone in your debased, decrepit
The Warm Glow Of Reflected Glory
I don't know who's more pitiful, my Neighbor, Ed, or me. He's in his House on his computer, searching Records, hoping he will find somebody
The birds are making conversation. I'm not. I'm beneath them, growing Smaller in the morning sun. I got To see her yesterday to tend our
A Dash Of Bitters
Of all the women, who I know, None mentions Michelangelo, Or global warming, even elves. These women talk about themselves,
People have to do these things, I tell myself, A creature out of place inside a building's Lobby. Someone must direct the calls, And someone has to count the money
Let that man in his chair, in his oxford cloth Shirt, take his notes, and make sense of a Mountain of details. The facts are apt to Seem stark to him. His queries all circle
All those pictures of that god-damned church,
While true, are not the same. The light would
Change, the time of day, the weather, how
The painter'd spent the hours before he came
To paint, and, thus, some churches glower
Underneath unstable, stormy skies; some
Glow, instead, beneath the sort of gentle
Sun of lullabies. The church is life, and
Then it's death, and we who've come