The lovers-root is a white-flower

The month; does but shiver into joy,
With the tears of a snow-drop,
Little-bells, buoyant, green and cloy,
Ringing; beyond the hilltop.

The lovers-root is a white-flower
On Valentine's Day:
Thus it performs both sweet and sour
Piercing the walls; of shy Cathay.

Kisses: mingle, like woodbines...
As brown; blue jay's mêlée in the eaves...
They're limbs, entwined, like vines:
Need only, the wind, which cleaves.

Violets stir in her amethyst nap
She my oracle, my lover—sings
And awakens; from the frozen snap!
A mortal being, with; wings.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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I blew the dust of his black velvet wings…

He touched me firstly in the sunlight…
I touched him secondly on that moonlit night.
Thirdly; he then touched that red velvet velour.
It was then I'd lost count and we sang, amour…
amour… Amour…!

Like coupled moths we went passionately mad.
It was then I blew the dust of his black velvet wings...
O' then my heart and soul danced pattern-plaid.
In the weft of his dark pale limbs fittings
O' it was then I became his sun burning pleasure.
The moonlight I shivered longing lost to become her.
And then we rolled all day and night long—together.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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Apprehensive lovers…

One wore the trousers
And went about singing,
Fearful of leaving…
Without; first drinking…

One wore black hose
Miniskirts, barefooted:
Without; thinking or caring…
When out dancing and twirling…

Together they’d kiss or pitch battle
Pitch battle or again fall in love
They were like wings on either shoulder
There were times when I couldn’t fly…
Without one, and surely, without the other…

But; together we were like sisters
And brothers…
Together—we were happy village muckers.
Though they had all the difficulties

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poem by Mark Heathcote
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In his eyes

He lights me up
When immanently
I’m in his eyes.

He wakes me up
Almost always eminently
To sunnier; golden, skies.

He wakes me up
In his love; in the gentle
Wings of a turtle dove.

He warms me and then, but
Never the less burns in me
Surly even before, he sojourns, in me.

Oh yeah!
There is really nothing to disguise
Not even for the disenchanted to chastise.

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poem by Mark Heathcote
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No louder than the snoring tigers lolling tongue!

O’ my sleeping; weeping, thoughts.
Were like army blankets, you and I
observing; naught but sunbeams...
Naught...
But the lintel iron moonbeams,
under—which no one listens.
Nor speaks—but gibberish
No one sleeps, no one, dreams.
But even so’ it’s a sentry’s landscape
that’s foolhardy bold as any heaven
that’s nonsensical, as any song,
Sung in rhyme—one learns to love.
(That’s as still, as any silence
Hammering... in the darkened thereafter.)
“My own horrors anthem shot shall roar an alarm”...
No louder than the snoring tigers lolling tongue!

poem by Mark Heathcote
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The Antelope & The Black Sheep

I removed a wall
Brick by brick
Year on year
Stone by stone
And I did all this with a constant
Endless self-deprecation
And I did all this without doing,
A tyrannical untrusting man any wrong.
Any harm: Until one day,
His eyes lashed gentle his ears roof
Opened up his mocking mouth
(Into an unstoppable—
Avalanche…!)
Into an Arcadian mountain gorge,
Now, revealing a noble antelope's spirit.
A relief cave painting,
2 thousand years old.
And like the black sheep
Of a Nigerians family,
I was extended a welcome back into

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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Bleary eyed beauty in aromas sweet

Bleary eyed beauty in aromas sweet
By tinctures of air lilac on the leaf
Give not unto me that broken heartbeat
That crushed sense of being.., of belief.

Be not the pale pallor of unending grief
Be like the hedge rose in rosiness discreet
A warm little dear where bees compete
Garden a blush beneath your kerchief.

So that I might be your one knight's motif:
I draw lance that others meet defeat
Yours is the world above and below my feet
The moon climbs on aural wings all too brief.
Such allures are the stars in orbit
My souls heart for you spoken in sonnet.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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Asexual

Everything is a carbon copy
Squeezing-out of the original
Take that brunet, transsexual,
Nonchalantly-surveying, but genial
All fur coat and no knickers so trashy.

Longing to be a female
Might as well of been born an Airedale
Such legs as hers were meant to be female.
Such analytical tales of a tawdry life:
Could only come from; a misused, housewife.

If ever she were to become a genuine angel.
Wouldn't she then wish to be a male?
Every spore in every cell with less regale
Of cause we were all once asexual:
So to be without sin; truly is to be original.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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Search endlessly for this truth divine

Ghostly are blossoms conjured?
Swirling paths remembered...

On these petals shall we tread?
Rise as though they never shed.

On their pink ribbons, shall we glide?
As angels only the child espied:

As cherry blossoms... so many spent...
Shall we dance as they did, ascent.

Oh the majesty and the grace to ponder!
The orchard and his sacred acre...

Oh, what's there to be afraid off?
Too be as like the petals castoff...

Too be one with this stream of life
Take wonderment for a wife.

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poem by Mark Heathcote
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As a cloud seated to envelope a mountain

When you gaze at your own reflection in a pool of water
That I 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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