Cot death

I dream so, oh so, so high of ye
Night and the soul wilt rest
And raise me on an oncoming cloud
Aloft to my angel, my angel child
That winged my hearts flutters with joy
I wish to bring ye young one home
And clothe thy bones with flesh and blood
But all I have is gone, my seed in the grave
Ye have flowered and died in spring;
Our little winged soul is ye lost like sheep
When I count my dying prayers and weep
Don't bleat child, don't bleat!
In the holy meadow, sleep, sleep, sleep...
Until that time again we meet.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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Misfortune's Usherettes!

Even when their happy,
It's with sour vinaigrette's
-Wailing and crying…
With packets of cigarette's

This leaves me to reflect
Why all these Juliette's
Whisper and misdirect…
Pretending, their sweet-

Misfortune's usherettes!
Why do they harbour deceit?
With a smile, select!
Of course it's a movie show

A drive in nymphet!
I only wish I brought a wetsuit…
And, had done with, regret
But their airs like morning,

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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Until that time again we meet

I dream so, oh so, so high of ye
Night and the soul wilt rest
And raise me on an oncoming cloud
Aloft to my angel, my angel child
That winged my hearts flutters with joy
I wish to bring ye young one home
And clothe thy bones with flesh and blood
But all I have is gone, my seed in the grave
Ye have flowered and died in spring;
Our little winged soul is ye lost like sheep
When I count my dying prayers and weep
Don’t bleat child, don’t bleat!
In the holy meadow, sleep, sleep, sleep...
Until that time again we meet.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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We are as the dew on a prairie

We are as the dew on a prairie
Flowers amongst limestone graves
Entrenched in living rock
Watered by bird song

Engulfed in nettle stings
We are but charcoal smoke rings
Fasting on a single drawn out breath
Resting on a forward moving breeze

We are a clutch of eggs
Encased in a bough of creeping ivy
Squawking franticly upwards
Up at the midnight's sun

We are the covenant…?
The rain storm afore the rainbow
Slayed by the swords of angels
We are the dewdrops on the prairie
Flowering; amidst the entire universe.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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For a short time—Only? !

For a short time—Only? !
Needing—without Hoping...
Wishing—without Wanting...
Gazing—without Looking...
Dreaming—without Searching...
Thinking—without Understanding...
Listening—without Hearing...
Touching—without Feeling...
Sensing—without Knowing...
Healing—without Bleeding...
Growing—without Aging...
Hurting—without Bruising...
Sleeping without—Mumbling...
Feeding without—Eating...
Breathing without—Inhaling...
For a short time—Only? !
Then was I—Truly,
Happy? !

poem by Mark Heathcote
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Harvey’s: Lullaby…

Harvey, Harvey, drives a red, Ferrari…
Around; St. Peters Square.

Eating an apple or a pear
He really, really, doesn’t care.

He’ll drive it right around there—I swear…!
Right around, that great; big, Egyptian-obelisk.

And park, just; there…!
“In the Centre of—St. Peters Square”

Free from: The thrall:
The bondage, the serfdom of prayer...!

He’ll sit—just to stare—at its red granite.
And listen to his; own little pomp, fanfare…!

Like Pope Alexander VII.
With his brothers and nephews, coheir.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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The autumnal princess...

One step further to the winter
Two steps further to the spring
The autumnal princess danced
On the silvery feathered wind

Like a lotus flower of pearl
She coverts the sleepy world
And soothes the mirrored stars
In reflective blue stone hearts

By piecing snowdrops of pearl
The oracle amethyst of her eye
Divides a world of brittle pleasure
An autumnal garden of treasure;

That within her lips of autumns gold
-is wrought to rest the woodlands fold
And on her pallid breast that humbles not
Shall be tarried a harvest moon forgot.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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If beauty could let her love to me

If beauty could let' her love to me'
Like the white buds on a magnolia tree
What a nature in my soul there would be
What a freedom in my breast for thee
Could I in truth set wing flung free...

If love were just an olive branch
What bodice of joy would there be
No chaste hearts lost romance
No heaven for a wondering, bee
Not for the likes my love for thee.

If beauty were plentiful in every cup
If every face wore a stars makeup
How miserable it all would seem;
How much like an empty dream...
Clouds in there thunder would, ream!

poem by Mark Heathcote
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Living sparks in the dark

The world will fast collide
With its own beginning,
Then silence shall reign
Supreme again, I surmise.

There'll be no more singing.
Joyous choirs shall be silent
Even Kingdom Halls shall be shrill
With no end or beginning
There'll be only time to kill.

Endless as a mocking bird
Mocking at his will…
With his black-wing-span
Across all that we have done
Right across the Rio Grande
There'll be a death knell…
Over all we have come to understand.

On all except that mocking bird,

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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Traces of an eternal flame

Fingers flesh out desire
Tease then set her soul on-fire.
He then traces of an eternal flame
Without anymore/ claimants
Without anymore/ resistance
She does call out his name?

Love is their torch light
Sleep, their only dark partite
Singly; they are but one.
One-starry sky, a jarred,
One-landmass; one ocean,
Underpinned like a mansard.

She is his north his east
His west and south…
Together they'll out exist.
All other chief lusts of drought
"Bract in a dripping-stem of salt
Tell, who" could find them at fault.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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