Universal Puzzles
In this universe is everything,
As rudimentary; as is a sum?
As 1 + 1= 2
Are the building blocks of life?
So profoundly, complicated
As E=mc2 is, or was at first to gist.
My guess is it's not, so why
Do we need a lightning bolt?
A falling apple … on our head
Is it as linear as we're supposed to think?
Well string theory has got me all raveled up.
So what do you think?
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Disappointment…
What have I done?
That is so undeserving.
I'm no oil-painting,
Or crying specula verse
I'm neither a mystery
Or something worse!
-Over or under rehearsed:
I'm neither rouge nor wretch.
Nor a purple plumed knight
With a damsel to fetch!
Waging arms on a burning bridge…
In flaming, shining, armour!
So, who am I then, I'm just me, so…
I'm sorry if I'm just disappoint yeah!
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Pale white beauty
Soft as the moonlight, glinting
Through a veil of silken snow
Your pale white beauty, maudlin?
My hearts beat speaking in overflow…
You with your dark hair roving?
Oh ivory shouldered, queen
There where the barn owl, sleeping?
So quietly calm and serene
There where the raven is feeding?
His talons in the snow,
There with a heart still bleeding
I'll pray you love me so…
poem by Mark Heathcote
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The Father's Daughter
Only his kiss will do
Only a smile from him
Only his embrace will do
Cut from this cardigan
Cut from this aging cloth
Worn in view of a memory
Now only this alone will do
Only the warmth of his hand
Shouldered in a fatherly stand
Only his high back wicker chair
Hugs her now as he use to do
Only her tears stave off despair
Oh father how I loved you.
And in this abandonment still do.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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When winter does wrestle death
When winter does wrestle death
Snow lies falling with petals bereft
Her mantle a meadow white lily
Uprooting stars in heavens pity.
Veils of fine silk are spun to order
Wheeling moths circle and flutter.
Ferries-wheeled across the boarder
Our souls are curdled in god's butter.
When winter does wrestle death
No one's heart did feel bereft
Even the old drew a second breath.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Blank Canvas
I often think the artist
Needs a vast blank canvas
I often feel the poet songs
Arise out of pure emotion
Loneliness, emptiness…
A void to be filled, transgressed.
But, what does it all say…?
On a personal, level
Anyway, about ink or oil…
Are their horizons, just?
Just as barren …as desert soil?
Hell no! Beauty is translucent.
'To a point…
But what could be more real'?
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Ermine landscapes
Running into the mountains all children would go...
With hearts aflutter O there's a golden rainbow
And a pot of gold on a white ermine landscape-
Of snow, where playful; polar bears play
With Apollonian spirits roaring all day—
And a billion stars with a moonscape!
You can closely lasso, you can lasso,
And, take your Winnie the Pooh,
Do you remember this, too?
Or is it just me.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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No two people
No two people are ever the same
By day or by night
Their tapers both lit by shame
The joy of their light!
No two rivers run smooth or strait
The valley is winding...
Their journey is binding...
For their love too collate.
No two forests are ever the same
One maybe birch another a willow
One maybe mountainous another a hollow
...But in the main
No two people are ever the same.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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O Child Of Mine Grow No-Older
Place your head upon my shoulder
O child of mine grow no-older.
Less life's platitudes make you stronger.
Stay with me a little longer!
Misfortune' rings her lowly bell
She's waiting there to here you, yell.
Solemnly she's genial but who should tell.
She'd wish all that's virtuous smote in hell!
O child of mine grow no-older.
Than the stone Jesus Christ moreover!
Newborn, bold-over...
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Forever autumn
The sun has gone in to shade
And, turned a corner
She will not be returning
Not neither soon… nor later
Not ever…
Autumn leaves are falling, now
My dispirited, one…?
Winter blankets are descending,
And there is no more to be done.
The cyclones ear is sevenfold:
But even here therein there is
Just one rule of thumb,
One grace above all falsies
Love is a sour plum,
With a pit of gold!
poem by Mark Heathcote
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