Gingerbread Men

Four sons baking made
Gingerbread men…
The two youngest prayed
That when they woke-up
They wouldn't all be gone!
For what they'd made…
For what they'd made...
They'd had—none!
They were right to pray…
For all the chocolate coated
Ones had gone!
And just two remained out of'
The eagerly, awaited, twenty one!
The eagerly, awaited, twenty one!
And just two remained out of'
The eagerly, awaited, twenty one!
The two left where without
There chocolate coats
So they weren't eaten because their coats
Were none!

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poem by Mark Heathcote
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A filigree of gold:

I have a heart ancient and old
it's core is of a rock larva...
Newly formed with a pumice soul
that absorbs its self
that absolves its self
till nothing of the whole remains...
It is as a liquid-salt, or a filigree of gold:
It is as a barren desert
It is thirstier than a cacti-flower
awaiting some other blissful dead-sun
that has no need of substance!
No need of reliance or earthly love
I have a heart ancient and old,
it's core is of a rock larva...
Searching-out the mountains top:
A mountains summit to unfold...
Endlessness it is rent with a mouth of love
unearthed but any-ways housed untold.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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The music of one’s love is deaf and dumb

Curiously I once heard music
where there was none
this I perceived when
-two deaf and dumb,
young lovers were caught-up
in an all-embracing kiss.
After which they spoke in sign,
by so much implicit recollection-that
I myself; could clearly, understand
each phrase of intangible air
each semaphore!
Each nuance of elicit breath;
and whilst I silently stood, there…
I swear I saw their beauty
prelude in an almost; atmospheric light!
And oh, I'm sure the aurora-borealis
invoked my hearts delight!
To see that the music of one's
love is deaf and dumb,
but never is it blind

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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Candle-wax-sky

Pellucid blue-eyes, whoever told you to-be-wise
whoever told you; you could dream, beyond the
Moon-lit, monolithic, midnight-skies.
Drink the midnight curtain of sleep
into the waking hours…
Where dreams can sublimely creep
Around; like a carnivorous green-flower
like a sun-spider sunning on a rock
like a worm in the pippin of an eye
looking down from a Candle-wax-sky.
Whoever said? It would be easier to dream..?
Whoever said..?
That; those darker blankets of velvet-red:
Wouldn’t come eventually calling to cover
your miserable maudlin flower-
Stem-head; with the blooded-thorns of a rose bed.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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Clairvoyant landscapes moving yet frozen

Give me a paintbrush to define poetry
All movements of a riverbed reflected
Give me a pen inks flowing subjectively.
I'll show you a spotted salmon swam willingly
To climb out the furthest deepest, falls…

A poets like a woodlouse's gnawing
…Away at life, from inside-out…
What he builds places for the quivering air?
A bridge over the void of space…
Like a spider weaving her web to snare.

Poets tend to live in Blue-John mines
In some mystical crystal hermits cavern
Listening to the lapping of spring waters
They're like remote smokestacks lingering
On clairvoyant landscapes moving yet frozen.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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A Flower Cut From Desire

The lotus is a flower cut from desire
Whatever her hue her petals attire
She is the goddess that sank into…
The muddy waters - arose anew.

Her purity and beauty is no cauldron.
Thou portrayed to symbolize the sun
She is but a spiritual, awakening…
A flower of prosperity, meaning.

A symbol of fertility, spirituality,
And even in her purest-state eternity.
The blue lotus is victory over wisdom
Pink the supreme lotus, Buddha's pilgrim.

The lotus path to noble truths is Purple
White purity spiritual perfection mental.
The Red lotus is related to the heart,
Associated with, love and compassion.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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The physical scent of life has gone…

Where; did all the wood garlic—go?
Sure it must have been dispensed.
By the ice, and snow,2 yrs.’ ago
2010 / 2011 now never; seen again.

I ask myself will it ever recover…
Now; that milder winter weather
Has returned, without shedding,
One, white; single blossom, feather.

How strange the woodlands are now?
How strange these green moist lands,
Without… swans coupling, the snowplow.
That followed both winter and spring.

How strange the disregarded remains
Of a swan’s egg, has on our speculation.
A transient thought, the soul profanes.
The physical scent of life has gone…

poem by Mark Heathcote
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Where; did all the wood garlic—go?

Where; did all the wood garlic—go?
Sure it must have been dispensed.
By the ice, and snow,2 yrs.’ ago
2010 / 2011 now never; seen again.

I ask myself will it ever recover…
Now; that milder winter weather
Has returned, without shedding,
One, white; single blossom, feather.

How strange the woodlands are now?
How strange these green moist lands,
Without… swans coupling, the snowplow.
That followed both winter and spring.

How strange the disregarded remains
Of a swan’s egg, has on our speculation.
A transient thought, the soul profanes.
The physical scent of life has gone…

poem by Mark Heathcote
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The first unsullied snowdrop

Love; what flower do you most aspire?
Love; what flower should I most admire?
Red peonie's with "lustful conduit desire
Purple" crocuses cupped with fire.

Or the now pink foreign ragged robin,
Breathless; rolling on… that country, common.
I "sprig of green moist" Solomon's seal,
You a single rose bud so genteel.

Love; what flower should I mostly aspire?
Love: what flowers do you mostly require?
Be it the fox gloves fleshy advancing spire
Or the honey suckles tendrils of wire…

Or be you simply May times forget-me-not
Still better the first unsullied snowdrop.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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Hope Gardens Every Whisper

Hope gardens every whisper
Ever thought thoughtful flowers
A brocade of desire
Like dew-fall they are there to wander
The landscape of your dreams
To filter down and replenish
Every fallen leaf thereafter
Every jasmine is a star-gazer
White and pure in the now and hereafter
Hope gardens eternal
Just listen to the children's laughter
Their sudden mist of tears may fall
But search what happens after
Their limbs move gentler than the rain
When they in your arms are renewed
With your love again
Hope gardens every whisper
To a rainbows end we all must surrender
Pliant with; root in the earth, seeking heaven.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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