That’s What They At The Asylum Now Say
I have walked in wait of my own death
I have swam and drowned in my own life
I have climbed only to sink beneath the sky
I have crawled belly-down and stood on-high
I have wrestled with hatred only to find love
I have been the bully who first needed a shove
I have been quick-tempered deep into manhood
But old age mellows that adolescent boyhood:
At least that’s what they at the asylum now say
Little does this white walled demigod know?
He too is buried under the walls of Pompeii...
His life to a moulding of death anther Stucco...
poem by Mark Heathcote
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The family tree
Old men cling to their gnarl-wooden sticks
And wither from the cares of the world over
Like apple blossom kissed silver with icy cold licks
They know there are no more days of clover
But from their flowering came the fruit
The seed of wane-blown family
From their branching water-shoot
A core of all that's good and bramley
So remember dearly, remember clearly
The canker of their clay sincerely
For they still warm us ever so dearly
With their glowing embers.
And sweeten our childhood, Septembers
Long into their own autumnal Novembers!
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Whatever Creation Is
No time to judge
The flowers the dust
Whatever creation is,
It is imbued with love.
And must! Have the good-
Sense to fly like a dove.
No time for ill will
But lust corrupts
Even a nightingale
Sings her best love
Ever so shyly at dusk
With a heady, smell of musk.
So harvest what love
You might carry...
Be but empty, and full
For in death:
Shall we not all truly,
Marry for love?
[...] Read more
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Windswept shadows...
A place where shadows, disassociate
Themselves; from bough and leaf green stem.
Where these dissolved mulches conflate!
In that, that is no longer—mayhem.
A place where shadows; indemnified.
Once sort not to be contra or defuse.
Bones of these ashes fall hearthside!
Souls of these embers a fire imbues!
A place where shadows, incredulous
In number proliferate like stars
Cluster in a galaxies nebulous.
A being of enduring light pulsars!
A place where shadows—strategically,
Golden; disappear, reappear, heavenly...
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Happiest Is He Under A Lone Sunbeam
'What the soothsayer says.
Love is effortless as a dream'.
Say' what he wants, love's neither
Childs play, nor as easy, as it seems…
It's not ever easy or effortless.
Though we've all wished, it was…
O' I've taken; love for granted:
And, loves heart now seesaws.
Every, action, word, and thought, is
Pivotal too our needs, and demands.
Such demands are melancholic.
Chores; no lover, understands.
'Whatever; the soothsayer says.
Love is not an effortless dream'.
That's why he enjoys the hermit's life
Happiest is he under a lone sunbeam.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Smoke rings
Didn't life see us dance?
In the arms of death,
That giver of breath, if, so.
What commodities, do
These smoke rings have left.
Surely in essences burned
It is purer, watered and fed.
Better than a single scant,
Mountain-rowan tree:
Whose berries be amber
Pink, white or red,
Who amongst us need lodgings?
When vapours condense
Beyond the rip-shore-tides
Of flesh: Better to be, the
Music; never heard sung.
Than one, that has rung.
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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The joys of a young boy are simply cruel
The joys of a young boy are simply cruel
They'll take living things in matchboxes school.
To give you a slightly squeamish example!
I once squeezed a tiny frog into one.
Oh the silent anemic guilt I felt - when
A front limb lay detached like a tale.
Still yet worse; I once watched a young man
In a shared B&B boarding house
He managed somehow to catch, lighting fast
A Little grey half-starved house mouse
He put it into one. And then he stamped on
It…
Oh the joys of young boys are simply cruel
How glad am I, I never attended his school.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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In the radiance of I?
When you gaze at your own reflection in a pool of water
That I that you thought was you has continually moved
For you are as a cloud seated to envelope a mountain
With just a changing of thought you are as if a rainbow
On a path of the enlightenment your true river is an arc
A waterfall reaching inward minerals in a universe of I's
You are an earth mother a widow a sister a daughter
You are also another's wife another's new born child
You are a thousand unsung, unheard I's awaiting one
Final burst of flourishing stillness in the radiance of I?
poem by Mark Heathcote
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A bridge of joy
The things we did were quite insane.
But that's how joy came to pass…
As we cut the turf and made a bridge
Out of lush green; meadow grass.
Knowing only all too full well nothing
On this earth or river shall ever last.
Then gazed in awe, when all was laid
And done the river dammed 6ft or more
Our heart beats beating their full score
With aloud furor as we ran across…
"5 times or more and, yes…
The things we did were quite insane".
But that's how joy came to pass…
As the river washed
The last sods of earth away to the last.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Towering Above and Beyond
Sometimes I feel so dirty
Unworthy of a human body
Sometimes I want to pray or preach
Sometimes I want to hide out of reach
Sometimes I want to cry like a baby
In the womb, imagine I'd never been
And how much happier I'd of been
Never to of been born…
But life, life is here to be witnessed
Here with Him and with all others
So here I am to listen and see
Here to judge without judging
Each witness has to have faith
For faith is a plunging stone
Raised up to be a mountain
Above and behind a veil of clouds,
Towering above and beyond, all flowers.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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