Love will always find its catamaran
You say you’re glad that now we’ve reconnected:
Introspectively, “I think anymore, takers”
Then a dullards-thought: Doesn’t the sea play cupid.
Crashing too surfs, falling into breakers...
So having; returned once-more ashore!
I trackback by a darker bluer horizon-
Of forgetfulness: What; marine, decor!
Do coral reefs have to pull-down the Mizzen...?
If I discover lands where oceans; meet the sky
Where; impermanence conjoins together!
Lands of starry mass... souls and hearts so-near-nigh!
Without doubt; I would be her drowning-sailor...
No matter what the tentacle world does plan
Love will always find its catamaran.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Binary butterflies
Love without the pain
What would be the gain?
What would be the point?
Should life never disappoint?
Not even once in awhile...
Should we not all be more?
Entrepreneurial and versatile
After all many people abhor
Themselves to the core
Put themselves in that lower
Quadrant bottom drawer
Love may have non rapport
But still isn't it worthwhile
That beguiling quarter smile
Feeling your hearts commotion
Fluttering true loves emotion
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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If You But Wish
If you but wish to turn the keyhole
I'll give to you a Skelton key
“I give to you my soul'
My hearts love' abiding beauty.
If you but freefall in to my arms
With faith take this parachute!
'I give to you lucky charms'
You can unwrap in a snowsuit.
If you but truly desire me
Would walk to the ends of earth
“I give to you my love gladly'
Daily, your hearts joys rebirth.
If you but prescribed to my love
I'll then live with you forever
'I give to you wings of a dove'
Together we'll fly over the heather.
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Raspberry canes
In and out the raspberry canes
"On a jack-frost bitten day:
With nothing more than twine,
and knife…
To earn my daily" pay.
Bending back the line of whips!
From: "Lands-End to John o' Groats"
These willowy viaduct sticks…
…Seemingly it will, never end.
In and out the raspberry canes
"With nothing burning on my mind:
Accept the numbing" hail and rain.
And the wisps of empty time!
Bending, back the line of whips:
Beneath a solemn; grey stone-sky.
Under the derogatory east-wind!
A hells purgatory; cry!
From: "Lands-End to John o' Groats"
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Bubble gum pavements
City pigeons make street art under bridges
A Jackson Pollock, something organic.
It could be Mural 1950s and look—here?
A bubble-gum pavement is this urban street art.
The pointillist canvas does it mimic the universe
And all that's still, to ‘comet' through there…?
I love all kinds of art but a dead carcass.
In formaldehyde stretches that to the limit.
I'd rather see some burnt-out Wreckage!
A car, where no-one got hurt or died.
I'd rather see pigeon excrement's…
Than a human anatomy, artist:
Using, someone's once living flesh and bone
I'd rather see bubble-gum pavements.
Than; this great new modernistic art of nothing at all…
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Nicknames for Aislinn
She was born a bald little lassie
long and thin, truly, ever so pretty
6lbs-8oz if memory serves me well
she was slender and strong as gazelle.
She’d the yellow ochre of barley jaundice.
She lay on my lap; her eyes opened wondrous…
She’d match for grace all the tiny wild cowslips
I'd laugh! “I'd nicknamed her chips”
Because of her yellowing, jaundice—after
finally she came home with her mother
I changed that name to “clothes peg”
As seemed right… even if a little bowleg,
She’d lie in the little red washing-basket.
Just as if it was her Moses basket
Clothes peg stuck; it was only proper!
As we hung her out to quietly jabber…
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Often I'd search out the blue
Often I'd search out the blue of forget-me-not
Back of some tall-hoary; May hawthorn, shabby hedge
Or right down to the waters marigold ledge
I'd dream of orchids the hybrid bergamot.
I'd look for these lost gems to find—there!
Which; grew the better where they were without care.
Entangled fighters at their wondrous best;
For them who had survived the cruellest test.
They; once fly-tip plants I would dig to cherish
But death my dear sits amongst the strongest flowers
Even to them the rubbish, heaps nourish.
Even to them that triumphed to flourish
Nodding to the lord who gave equal powers
Who bore the hardest test cast out his parish?
poem by Mark Heathcote
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We'd lie atop the mountain, reminiscing...
We embraced the fears in hand, monumental.
Here mountains standards we came to climb,
We carved a jade path through the incidental…
Chain-mail dew-lit; frozen ice, there to smell the thyme.
Freshly crushed at dusk at morning sunrise
There's where we'd lay a throbbing, chanting, chorus
Starting out nervous, nothing else belies,
The way we shivered, sweated, yet, so porous…
After; love made low a wheat-field agleam.
Taking-on all the passionate golden-sun!
We'd rest in the silos multifaceted dream
Heavy, heady, with so much singing; still to be done.
Like foxgloves entwined with as many kissing
Mouths, we'd lie atop the mountain, reminiscing…
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Who but could—the saints preserve us, resist her...
Here; alone lying on this cotton pillow.
I can still recall the lure of her lily scent:
Bouquets do me gaze and camphor and shadow...
Never a dull moment does the heart repent:
Her fragrance, what; a promiscuous, allure.
Such elicit essences spring ajar the dart...
What an art this palpable kiss velour.
How it courses through my head and lonely heart...
Then swept-on bye with brocades of flower
Spent-fallen, from Piety, a honey-suckle,
Vine; twisting around, the Lover’s Lane Larkspur.
Who in the world could be gleeful, yet; still bashful?
Who but could—the saints preserve us, resist her.
Maybe; only the “Morning Star her goddess sister”.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Up-Wellsprings Poetry From The Coldest; Deserts Hearts
'Up-wellsprings poetry from the coldest; deserts hearts'.
Where; blooms the most exotic flowers of all…
'They're dunes, they're zephyrs, and they're petals caul,
Wrap-around each sunset—sunrise subverts'.
'Yet, they're as real as any pollen-laden bee.
In the art of subtlety, such, interactions…
Deceiving as the moon, undercurrents the sea:
But, these ruses are finite, attractions'.
'They call for intricacy, a little mystery!
And of course they all question what if, anything'.
'Poems are about: Do, they have integrity
Who'll balm just one soul, Lord Where to begin?
Each word, a sphere orbiting—another!
Let's not be over analytical… my lover'.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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