Is This Life's Last Bus Stop
Peevish peeing on a 101 bus…
Down the stairwell in no rush
Where are you going - now alone?
Southern cemetery to excavate—
The marrow of a pelvic bone
A life out of—some oily shadow
Why, do you look so curt?
You're hunched-up shoulders
They're so laden passenger with hurt?
'Have you spent a lifetime?
Digging in the dirt'…
Where sir are you, now, going?
Looking so sorry, here, now to leave us…
Ok, time is a gauntlet of fear
As death comes ever nearer near
O elderly, shabby, gentleman
Then, is this your life's last bus lane.
Is this your life's last bus stop?
poem by Mark Heathcote
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The flower
Where does a flower, go, father
When it has flowered,
Inwards or outwards…
Child—it doesn't matter
All that matters is, is
That it has flowered…
And took root within your soul.
Father shall it die.
When the ice covers it,
Will it perish from the cold?
Child—it doesn't matter
All that matters is, is
That its roots have entwined
Your heart and, you can never die.
Father—is I a flower too
Yes my son, In the Garden of Eden…
Father—where is this Garden.
Focus child look around you.
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Why did the star dust dance
Why did the star dust dance
Why did the rainbow move its stance
Why did I hold your hand and shiver
Why did you move me like a bolder in the river
Why did I feel found and yet mysteriously lost
Why did I tremble in the bough of your arms
Why did I cry and why were you so faux pas...
I don't know the questions to the answers I've lost...
I don't know why my heart is melting why it splinters like glass
I don't know why I kissed you and why I needed it to last
I don't Know why I'm as happy as a chirping cricket in the snow
Maybe I just can't move my stance like a disappearing rainbow.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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The sun and seas a jolly cast?
The sun and seas a jolly cast
As is the sail tied to the mast
And those laggards anchored
Without a future or a past…
Who are they to sink then?
To the bottom of a glass
Without the lowly courage
To weigh anchor, outclass…
Them that is first and last
The oceans fleet of stars.
Who are they to sink then?
Lower than the rank of Czars.
…Should, they not sail the seas
That storm and rage.
Hold—strait the tiller, helmsman
Waves beat my breast a sage!
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Love's A Dodo
Love is effortless they say.
Some compare it to child's play
But whatever it is, it's neither
Child's play, nor effortless…
Just look in these glossy magazines
Stuck between; those perfume ads.
Celebrity after celebrity preens…
Their lives divorced, they're nomads.
Soon—boys these cougars…
Will bring back shoulder-pads:
Live their lives in pent-house apartments.
Prioritizing; by shopping, departments.
Love's a dodo on a discovery channel…
On an island where ego is land and gentry
Who cares about their libido…? That snivel-
ing poultry magazine, million dollar deal…
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Nap of monarch's wing
On nap of monarch's wing have I not flown?
Done crossed times mortal ravages
Into that livery my king holds his throne
Save all; but these wolfs and savages.
Did I not unfurl unto such cherub reaches?
Cocooning; scatter my minds, lustrous web.
Fly over blue vaporous sparking beaches
Did I not crumble ashore and ebb?
Like some oily driftwood haven't I rolled...?
Prodigiously darker in nonchalant waves
Emphatic is the harvest moon I behold:
Oh—edify my soul with one that saves?
The monarch's beauty is but royally savaged
The landscape of any hungry larvae ravaged.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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The rose and the bumble bee…
Love must have its tempest
Said the bee to the rose
Love must have its passions-harnessed
Before its midnights close.
Yes love must have its passion
Said the rose to the bee
Love must unburden of a fashion…
If it’s ever to be free.
But isn’t that a loves betrayal
Said the bee to the rose
Peering beneath; her petals veil
Before whisking to his toes.
Your love is truly a tempest
Said the rose to the bee
But I’m the queen most; royalist
Sir—on this we’ll both agree....
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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But here today when love is true
Summer flowers are pink and blue
But here today when love is true
I see the snowdropp and the daffodil
The saffron crocus on a dew lit hill
I see the emerald spring unfurling in green
Anemones awakening from a sleepless dream!
And so too is our love to be seen, and sensed,
In this timeless, arduous, winter, dispensed.
Summer flowers are pink and blue
But here today when love is less, subdue
I'd hold my breath to catch a moon beams
Drop of morning dew to know those dreams
Once and again, that sweet virginal, taboo!
Rolling in the solar fire, mornings dew,
Again with you!
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Wear on the same gargoyle face
In the corner of a shop doorway
Did I see the canvas of life?
Preening its self with claws, tightly, frappe.
Feet wrapt in dead, wildlife:
One nonchalantly, above the other
Eyes open, neck stretched:
Was he her mate, her one time lover?
His bill open-hangs retched
In the frozen last gasps of demise.
Atop not the least bothered,
Looks completely happy to comprise;
The world hers at last deferred.
Out here the cities, mock their own waste.
Whilst two girls take photos of a
Homeless drunk drooling abase
These girls laughing, at the screenplay...
Wear on the same gargoyle face.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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A Joy if heaven is perpetually bright!
My soul be not undeterred to find...
Myrrh, frankincense or precious, gold:
A swaddling fever to rein out the cold,
Truth; dare not I, not; agonize mankind.
Loves inflicted weariness so, undefined.
The exiled advocate, who leads his fold,
Oughtn't a son to, join a king that shined.
With princely, unabated, breath of old:
Fondly do the stars not shiver out-time?
Doesn't dissembling winter's passage, refine?
Glories brimful, enlivening green and bold.
I err, to listen, to my soul until I'm doled,
The sunbeams countless cuts of endless, night
More my joy if heaven is perpetually, bright.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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