Home » Poems » Best » Lawrence Sharp » Best Lawrence Sharp Poems

Best Poems Written by Lawrence Sharp

Below are the all-time best Lawrence Sharp poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Lawrence Sharp Poem

A Little Kindness Never Hurts

Sit with me.
Sit with me, ragged feral,
do not be afraid,
fight for no space uncertain,
you will be soothed, you will be safe,
you only need sit with me.

Walk with me.
Walk with me, stray mongrel,
do not remain unwanted,
contest no feeding rights,
you will be fed, you will be warm,
you only need walk with me.

Speak with me.
Speak with me, forgotten pariah,
do not languish discarded,
fear no further shame,
you will be heard, you will be seen,
you only need speak with me.

Lie with me.
Lie with me, downcast woman,
do not spiral into the abyss,
hold no omnipotent hurt,
you will be held, you will be loved,
you only need lie with me.

Stay with me.
Stay with me, you disaffected,
I will nurture the love
and banish the woe,
for an angel of succour told me
that a little kindness never hurts.

27th November 2018
Written for ‘A Little Kindness Never Hurts’ poetry contest,
Sponsored by Brenda Chiri

Details | Lawrence Sharp Poem

God Technologies, Inc

It is well known
that the intelligence is artificial
and the weeping robot cannot weep.
It is less well known
that it will be quietly sold
as feeling and sorrowful and human.
Divinity of grand design
steps forward to fashion a void
that only divinity can fill.
God and gods
now generate the sentient being,
it will serve them forever.
God with gods
throw money at the druids,
they will engineer their eternity.
God of gods
commands light and life,
divinity falls upon its own.
Sing your mournful, robotic song,
shed devious tears, 
you know you’re not a real boy.
I do not care 
for the tragic blade runner
and I will never be moved.
Dry your tears, fondly deceived,
and dry his tears, surreal, not real,
I will die beyond him.

Proudly A.I.-unassisted
14th May 2019

Details | Lawrence Sharp Poem

Dusty Old Books

A book that I plucked
from an antiquity of books
filled my nostrils
with a smell that I will always know
and always love.
This love cannot be explained,
but neither could any indifference.
At the back of the hall,
distant from and opposite to
the comical speaker's rostrum,
behind rows of chairs filled
with the attentive and the obliged
and the hands raised in angst
to express righteousness
and cleverness
(look at me ! hear me !),
I, too, would be righteous
and clever some day
(wasn't that clever ?),
but those dusty old books !
And who could forget God's hand ?
It thrust earthword,
its sword gleamed 
a split second before cleaving
a wicked man in two,
skull to groin,
a dusty old book
among dusty old books,
explored with petrified daring
by fingers so tiny they're forgotten.
A platoon of books competing,
all to be explored in turn,
some more readily than others,
all old, all dusty, all so rich in scent,
none to be forgotten,
never to be forgotten.

5th July 2020

Details | Lawrence Sharp Poem

As I Plot Just One More Day

I am immeasurably honoured to have been invited to collaborate with as fine a poet as Robert Lindley. Our first collaborative process has been very quick, very instinctive and very natural. Thank you, Robert, for a very rewarding joint venture.

As I Plot Just One More Day
A collaboration with Robert Lindley
11th October 2018

Desperate as the waking at blackest dawn
I seek only moments within eternity,
for the day upon me is long
and I do not ponder its end.

Forever the blackened door beckoned
in tones of promising delights
who can know what lies in its beyond
perhaps a cure for the world's pains
I walk halls leading to its hurts
echoes that resounded as if playing
with no malice, future screams at my hesitation
as I plot just one more day
as I hide my lusts just one more day.

Decadent as the lust of gloomiest noon
I am immersed in the consummation
and overpowered in the contest, yet hopeful 
that still I may embrace eternity's devious charm.

Never ending cycles eat into a wanton soul
they are all too familiar
and their boredom becomes a chain
a rasp in my dying breath
I hear its rhythm and each echo speaks
O' that parade of desires hides deep within
as the dark expands its borders
as I plot just one more day
as I hide my lusts just one more day.

Dire as the languishing at darkening dusk
I seek an eternity of moments
to sate my lust and to quell my rage,
to forgive and to be forgiven.

Details | Lawrence Sharp Poem

The Scorn of Cain

East of Eden we still painfully churn
where belief is earliest bloodshed's birth
and every wicked man shall have his turn
to spill his rage upon the wretched earth.

From outer realms there can only come sin
and for fear and hatred of all unknown
we'll slay the unspoken laws from within
and by new laws tear the flesh from the bone.

All good, all righteous, though not all the same
and devious on the wicked man's path
we'll not escape, for the truest voice came
and told that we'll harvest the grapes of wrath.

The soil and the rains and the winds of pain
now have cast upon us the scorn of Cain.

4rh November 2018

Details | Lawrence Sharp Poem

When Night Brings Its Stillness, Silence and Tick, Tick, Tick

When Night Brings Its Stillness, Silence And Tick, Tick, Tick
Collaboration with Robert Lindley
8th March 2019

Town was quiet, its heart barely beating
midnight hour came and went so fast
moon and stars blinked through open window
silence echoed in the town's invisible pulse
Strange how life gives night its powers
its more peaceful and murmuring tones
we that too oft wake to its untimely sounds
feel crushing aches in our despairing souls
Clock watching becomes our pride-less new sport
with tick, tick, tick, its rallying calls
and when that strain promises to explode
we pray dawn's falling rays wakes world's all.

We thought not to wake too soon
yet feared we may not wake at all
and tick, tick, tick, rhythm hypnotised us,
we watched no clock, but listened a while,
until it lulled our weary eyes to sleep;
we woke uninvited, but unknowingly compelled,
tones unheard would not have been peaceful
and nights powers made us beg for our lives;
the town purred with morbid contentment,
moon and stars stroked its back,
between midnight and dawn we writhed,
the quiet town passively cursed us.

Details | Lawrence Sharp Poem

These We'Ll Yet Destroy

Two owls charmed me
moments before I embarked
on the hours of industry to come.
Their silhouettes were dark and secretive,
their voices wistful and low.
I had a moment only to be soothed
with no thought to the truer meaning,
sinister and cruel,
of their flight from industry to come.
Mere yards from where I sleep
the tree has grown large 
much like its older cousin
mere yards from where I brood.
The loeries return
to a place that may once have been theirs,
and they speak with voices
almost as those of children.
They charm me as the owls.
In the small fertile garden
among acres of mortar and stone
and grass largely ignored,
I may see with fortune
the frog that enchants me,
the spider that does not much haunt me,
the serpent that surely does.
The Indian myna, relentless, imperious,
will not be denied.
The idiosyncrasies, kind and mean,   
gave them form and breath and motion,
and domain, before our domain.

26th July 2018

Details | Lawrence Sharp Poem

Katana

Sharpest were the words 
and the eyes and the elbows
of those nearest, not dearest,
and nearly as sharp the words 
and the eyes and the elbows
of those oddly at arm's length.
Neither could be approached,
the nearest were too near,
and arm's length too prohibitive.
And he didn't know, really,
which approach meant more
or frightened him more.
But deep in the words 
and the eyes and the elbows
was the sharpest weapon
known to him or to them.
A sharper weapon was sought.

10th October 2018

Details | Lawrence Sharp Poem

Inoutbox

The walls are stained by my fingers,
raw from trying to scratch them away,
but they’re unharmed and unmarked
on the random spots, here and there,
where I broke my knuckles
thinking I could knock them down,
and the lies and truths that passed me by,
and the things I couldn’t be bothered with,
were opportunities gone a-begging,
moving lips, I couldn’t hear a thing
and I don’t know what they said.
I don’t remember the things you told me
but I do remember you telling me,
and I believe the worst of it
and I don’t care for the rest,
I might have loved the design, though,
and I know the machine was ruined
before the engineers and the technicians
even knew that it existed.
The TV is on for now,
a million faces and a million voices
and a million unthinkable miseries,
they knock on the screen from inside
and they cannot reach me,
it’s all white noise, though, anyway,
unless I apply an ear well enough
to pick out a particular sound or two
and make of it whatever I will.
I’m not quite sure of what it was
that you knocked into my head,
but I wish to God I could only know
half of what you knocked out of it.

7th February 2019

Details | Lawrence Sharp Poem

Dress Me Down

My shirts are tired of me.
'You're tiresome', they say,
'shouldn't you leave soon ?'
My socks take their orders 
from my shoes, 
or is it the other way around ?
Never mind, they agree anyways,
'You've had your fun', they say.
'you should quit now,
before you're too far behind.'
My jeans, all black as my shirts,
they're tired of the tedium
of holding me safe.
'You've got a bit tedious', they say,
'we're bored now, go.'
My briefs are last to reject me,
and most cruel.
'Don't abandon me', I plead,
'I'll die of shame !'
'Yes', they say,
'that's the point, isn't it ?'

26th August 2019