On the wings of youth…
Mayfly if ever an angel be
It was you and me
Pirouetting in the air so free
Above a cobweb lea…
If ever a child had azure blue wings
As blue as a periwinkle sky
Then sweet tenderfoot, swimming
It must have been you and I.
Down amongst the meadows
Where the green-woods wend:
Down amongst the willows
Where the reeds draught an end.
There I came a dancing…
A roving like a bee
With honey-dew brown eyes,
By the rivers spree!
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Yearnings of the longest day and night!
Nameless; she herself dares her, secret kiss…
Softly, tenderly, he tinkles like a gentle rain fall.
Falling down the chimney, its then senses sizzle…
She calls come this solstice at owl, call.
Like those embers that fizzle…
Back to full Burning-flame.
"Burst with desire my darling, I entreat you…
Arrive, when I' whisper your secret name".
She begs yet more' of his, edifying passions.
"O emanate now' my love, fan my blue coals…
"Come—sojourn my mysterious, silent one.
Here where silence reverberates and moans".
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Thieves and menschen
She's a precocious milky sky
A moon white opals radius
Her velvet hand of winter calls
Beckoning to all, who'll pause?
In their stalactite breaths; outdoors
‘O sees her on her footfall-haunches
Like a woodland lily unearthed.
Within these layered satin-sheets
Men in their time honoured-way
Have believed they‘re kings and princes
Thieves and menschen
But they're just not her kinsmen's children.
They're not holy in sea bound prayers
Too her the goddess of the moon
They're just dumb fed flower bees
Pollen drunk on the suns doubloons.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Do the British take their brollies?
Do the British take their brollies
On their Las Palmaris hollies?
Do they drink their Earl Grey tea
With two sugar lumps or three?
And whilst sitting besides the sea
Have they enough vinegary chips
Girls with oval red tomato hips
Too saucy for just a kiss
On the lips in hopes she'll reminisce...
Do the British spend all their pennies?
And take their Pooh bear Winnie's
And why do they buy mugs and plates?
To show back home their mates
And brag about a bartered price
And return not just once nor twice
But thrice was it really that nice.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Beneath the cloy mountain grass
Oh come hither my lass to the hills
Where the valleys gorge calls out
And sing, dance and shout my love
For what this life is all about?
And if it isn't to be merry my love
And if it isn't to be glad;
Then bury me my bonny lass
Beneath the cloy mountain grass.
Oh come gather me in your arms my lass
Take me back to the sea and the stars
And if there's nothing shinning my love
Tarry with my heart in your lonesome arms
For the waters all around me love
Are deep and dark, and black
So if it isn't to be glad my lass
Bury me beneath the cloy mountain grass.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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A Medusa's calling…
As its translucent body rings-out
Under an unheard, jet propulsion…
Question; does it cast shadows?
Does its prey know of an answer?
To this rhythmic, Medusa's calling…
It's death squad of little stings?
Why is it they, avoid shadows.
Contracting in the suns arrows…
Why does a bell without a gong.
Cause such alarm just wearing,
A sarong, swimming, vertically,
Diligently, towards the rising sun…
Why is it they disguise themselves?
As a millpond ripple is it in order
That we shall ignore their riddle?
And, think them an innocent suspect.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Out Of Their Laurels Like Greek Gods
'At night there are moonlit slugs…
Whose ivory body's comet'
'Out of their laurels' like Greek gods…
'Alone' these horned demons'
Taste the linden air for life.
'A life, that's far beyond aerials.
Far beyond our, own, receivers'
'As they sliver' into the darkness'
A glow… follows in their starless
Path: Through these open spaces.
'A Journey is taken, nightly, blind.
‘This is the quest' of a primrose hope.
'This is a ghostly, passage…
Into a virginal flesh' …unspoken… for.
Such is the hunger of all loves.
… (Even that of slugs') …
poem by Mark Heathcote
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God Is A Prophet Don't You Know?
God is a prophet don't you know?
'He said pick these here moon daisies
And chain—them—together—
Gather—and make merry weather'.
'A donkey kicks' at your hindquarter.
'Son, come hither - high or hell water'.
As a hermit-frog must break a spell…
'Play a game of life, called, ticktacktoe.
My sons pay Hermes his alms rupees'.
His dough, until it's time for you to go…
God is a prophet don't you know?
He's the preacher whom leaves—word
Silently glimmering in the snow…
'Footless ways, which way to, go…
For the new life he'll newly bestow'.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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You're not middle aged yet you think?
Old age then your back aches
Becomes a viaduct arch of pain
Foundation's get subsidence
You lose 10inches all elegance
In thought your opinion's tower
Your judgments still acquire
Unremitting unquestioned respect
Old age is senile let's not forget
You're misunderstood too proud
To listen to wear a hearing aid
Yelling above the common crowd
False Orange tan what a masquerade
A grandmother in her pre-war paint
An atheist till age 78 still hitting town
So I mock the aged and the antiquated?
'You're not middle aged yet you think? Oh you silly clown'…
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Wardrobe-skeletons
The perils of wardrobe skeletons
Holding keys to abandoned souls.
And hearts covered with lesions…
Rattling in self-confining asbos
Is a self-abuse shadowy iceberg?
That prohibits all natural warmth…
Whatever germinates is a stillbirth?
A trust, that's eventually abhorred.
Healing can only come from within,
Absolving doesn't arrive easily.
Neither does the strength to forgive.
Who wants to act - reasonably?
It's skeletons that should suffer
An eternity to loiter - unloved
Locked in their airless; lifeless, coffins
Conduit ice flows bumping abrupt.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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