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
We are cripples, leaning on each other. We both are aware of that. I'd saved My love to give to one who desperately Needed it, and her sole need was love
Charley And Me
I've seen that battered, stuffed giraffe you have. It's on your bed. You've had it since when you Still were in nursery school, and you can't bear To part with it. When all goes wrong, you
Should the impossible occur, and you and I At once escape the cells in which we've Been imprisoned all our lives, and if I came Upon the cash, I'd ask you where you'd
What I'Ll Never Say
You're not here. I speak to you anyway. Would we both be better off if I left you Alone? I can't have you. I know that. You say I should stay, but you're somebody
Bee And Mole
She's near, but rarely here, and that fact Eats away at me. She wants me close, But not in sight, and, while she flies from Friend to friend, a honey bee among
They say that too much time alone, confinement In a solo cell, will cause someone to go insane. The same thoughts echo endlessly, the doubts, The recollections, pressured, altered. Now,
Life seems rather sordid now, seen through These compound lenses of betrayal. Once, You were the one, the beauty in the boudoir, Youth, against the sag and sourness of Madam,
Fused, Almost I write for you, not them, this time, To tell you what you long have known.
Red Cliff, Colorado
I can walk among the gravestones here, And see my name one hundred times: My father, uncles, and their parents, Cousins, some of them have died, the
When the final minute came and killed The hope that she would change her Mind, I quickly went to her. She smiled And opened up her arms, and, finally,
Out there, way off beyond the clouds Of gas and all the scattered stars, Alone, within the frigid silence, Something sucks the life from things,
Not A Haiku
We shall be as gods in this fictional town, Writer and reader creating at will, and We'll start with its street, which is patched And uneven, and two lines of buildings,
When the final minute came and killed
The hope that she would change her
Mind, I quickly went to her. She smiled
And opened up her arms, and, finally,
We held each other. Seconds passed.
She said, “You have to let me go. I
Answered, “No, I don't.” She said,
“You do. I'll scream.” “I don't believe
You, ” but we drew apart at last, and,