The last visit and conversion…
Here lays my grandmother
A week from: Death.
The gentle archetypal, type of grandmother
Who nursed my cries; made all things better.
Here lays, my grandmother…
In that; week before their heinous lies….
“Spoken in hellos but not goodbyes”
In that week before her untimely: Death.
Before; her cloak of life fell silently away bereft.
In isolating surrendered breaths…
In hopes and prayers…
In hopes; never-ending…
In words that were formed:
Like crusts of bread.
Floated in the mouths of the living…
Where once it was lovingly said.
That our own increments will rise conversely…
And speak from; our own deathbeds.
Shall we not all of us…
Then one day, converse, with the dead.
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Liqueur and Life
Liqueur and life
Trouble and strife
Blow my brains
Oh, transcendence a kiss
Last forever and a day
Like the music of a harp
There notes string you along
Like a child you hear
But not the voices behind
The silence in what they say
Because you're to blind drunk
You cannot hear or see
Beyond, your own misery
Liqueur and life
Trouble and strife
Blow my brains away...
But quantum physics
I better understand
Like Janis Joplin she lives with me
Through you!
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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The Mighty Have To Fall
Purges are needed in a forest:
The strongest have to fall and com-bust.
In-order for the weakest the poorest
To grow - regenerate their lushness…
We need a whole new subsistence:
A grass blade a head of green corn!
Good footing in the sunlight's clearance.
The world isn't made-up of one 'Acorn'.
Purges are needed in a forest:
The mighty have to fall and crash!
'Burn and sacrifice' the strong the plumpest.
The best growth is made-out of potash.
Strangle like the forest-fig, let chaos...
Rule! As they did, but know, that the sun!
Shall shine that they'll lose their pathos?
And we'll renew our own fortune!
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Flightless angels shall fervently stare
A little prismatic wing of love wings its way back for us all at once to try and cocoon its meaning and discover.
O’ what cherished rose petal flower buds with their sunlight’s rubicund rays will always deliver.
Yes a little flight of fantasy, a love that; could sojourn or rest with us or none other apart from him.
When their wings walk on the water… and their swift’s tail slices the sweet air we’ll swear his with her soul goes gently there.
Through all the wonders of the heavenly world they’ll go gliding together here and there everywhere elsewhere.
As little cabbage white butterflies courting in the air in love forever. Prismatic stars shall gaze in anger and flightless angels shall fervently stare at the vacuum of their worldly unabated care.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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The truth about Ruth…
Describe to me something…?
Such, as…? Well, any old thing
You want; but make it true.
Else, I’ll only come to rue’
A lie, if it were told as truth.
Say, didn't you love a girl called Ruth?
I, did but she was headstrong,
So, I couldn’t dare belong,
Or even think to her; now, could “I”
And whys that then do reply…?
Truth, be said, I was shabby and shy.
She, seemed more than earthly,
Rode horse back at; weekends early.
Where is she “now” then?
She’s been long gone. Since… when?
Oh, these last twenty years I guess
Like I said; she, was more than earthly.
Let’s get back to what I said:
Describe to me something…?
Such, as…? Well, any old thing
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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No I am not without love
I
No I am not without love
Or understating above…?
My monarch's wings have that black stucco-
Edge; like a church glass window.
Orange, warmth; heavily, leaded
But they're coursing with red-blood
Lights filter, within, vaulted:
To frame those darker, vaults pallid.
I'm a thorn of living fire
I mumble with choir inside
Weeping angels guide my satire
Both heart and soul are allied.
Simultaneously two wings beat
Love and compassion complete.
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Winters apart
We live winters apart
That's how we live and love
It may have become a black art
But it's indicative of
The way we live the lie
The way we seek
To share "but honestly, misapply
Some old technique"
Yes you were given unto me to trust.
But in due course eternal ice-cores were broken...
Now all our reflections combust
Like those words here...unspoken...
Yes, we live winters apart
You and I that's how we live and love
Each heart is on a downturn pie chart
It's indicative of
The music within the music
The pulse within the pulse
That beats so, so rightly virtuosic
Even our truest echoes are now a repulse
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Raking over church yard cinders
That night in the church yard, I raked cinders
This way and that; like a Chinese gardener.
Rinses the suns gold. "Black renders lacquered "
Into green coals, honeycombs, hot pitchers.
There I see the broth in her eyes poking fun.
As I raked the cinders this way and that,
I am reminded of every hot-spat.
That char-coaled my fires to the bone, and made shun…
Like a shadow from the sun, like a bee from the rain.
And why with the job-done. Did I let mosquitoes bite?
Blister and bloody my smoke- kippered skin, again
And again, I question, what's to reignite!
As the moon bequeaths its skeletal light!
Through the eye sockets of distant; lank-white-stars,
I'd perch a blackbird with my feathers alight…
Hoping to find her old warmth's in the winds guitars.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Sonnet
Love bends over a yellow stalk of wheat,
Hope shields these grains her seed, sowed, eyes
Corn poppies pearl-black the inset stars discreet,
Worm eaten flowers, caste-up†a moment’s prize!
The sparkling cross pollination of souls and minds
Of hearts cool, hot, tepid, passionate, tears assigned:
These aren’t the sting, swollen, eruptions†she reminds.
Each bursting bloom a blood vessel, newly; entwined:
But gaze not blindly men at women’s true honest preserve
It’s God’s worn-out labour here on mother earth, cherished
The brashest of bees can dance and thrash their verve
And like the kneeling Sheppard raise all... the perished.
As the yolk of a flower is but a set, weed!
So he the father must chaff-out the wheat from the seed.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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To the intolerant elected us must learn
To the intolerant elected us must learn to love: for it is they, who have frozen on the path to light. For it is they, who have frozen short sighted and fastened their tempers of understanding.
For it is they, who have frozen on the path to all they make righteous.
Only when these their silent hands dwell in a mindfulness of prayer manifest
Or with a carpenters hammer hammering will they this rich rabble care
For the emptiness visionless theft they've taxingly declared.
Only when they see that great depth of love and wealth; shall they be troubled.
Only; when they see just how poor spiritually they to really are will they be heedful of their own ever growing hunger that grows within themselves that blind despair?
That we the people of this their world are only too often fully aware.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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