Ever since there was sun and stars
If you wipe away those tears
And look back over all of those years
You will find not a surer kind of love
Ever since there was a sun and stars
Above to warm the blood in our hearts
"Forever you" I've been in love
"Forever you" I've been in love
I've been there in love for you
You will find not a surer kind of love
You will find every wish
You've only been thinking, dreaming of
Oh, dream of me!
Like I'm dreaming of you again…
Oh when the winter raps its cloak
Around your heart
I will always be there to warm
And shelter you
"Forever you"
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Honey you're so hot
Honey you're so hot
You're a ring of red gold
An amber ring on my finger
Honey you're so hot
You're a ring of red gold.
Honey you are a stage fright
Monster on my mind
When those wedding bells chime
For all... for all time
Honey genesis will sort
The mice from the men
Because when I'm with you
All I hear is amen
Like an anthem
Honey what's all the fog and haze
Will it not take us back?
To those lost lonely days
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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The carpenter's hands are bleeding blood
The carpenter's hands are bleeding blood
His hearts a house made of sandalwood
He carves and smooth's it to fit a tawdry groove
A dovetail joint he shares with you. And you approve.
But still you complain; his soul it has a splintered
-Stairwell, where nothing ever is newly charted…
You say; he gazes with knotted eyes spiralling outward…
Into a space of stars, sawdust sutured.
His carpenter's hands are bleeding blood
His forefathers arms cradled in lave dust
He is now at a distance from the sharp end of the plane.
If only he could, uproots, uncouple just one carriage from the train
Derail the distance in that discontentment, love, once again!
But still you complain; his work has no honesty?
Or shame, she cries like a gull, whose ocean has no-sea-wave.
His hearts a house made of sandalwood
Is but flotsam; is but some malnourished driftwood.
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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The foot and mouth crisis 2001
A clue: "Memitim" 2 down,5 across, DEATH...
Another farmer holds his "breath"
His crossword puzzle now solved,
As he sits by the open fire resolved.
Firebrats shimmer like melting
Sparks through grates, between falling,
Slivering, among, the black slates.
Like silver ashen; phosphates!
Covering that hearths entirety,
They too show there's no need for "piety"
As the future ghosts of the living; burn.
His world is an up-turned urn.
Listing he hears the cries of the last dying ewe.
Whilst angels of death beyond; "view"
Descend across each patchwork acre…
He himself too! screams at his maker.
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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On fairy lit night
On fairy lit night
When the snow shone so bright
And I held you so tight
I felt my love shine through you...
I felt the melting
Of every storm cloud blowing
Away under a summer breeze...
Like a broken healing shard
I felt my love shining in the moonlight
Blooming like a forest orchid
Rocking like a child in his crib
On a fairy lit night
When the snow shone so bright
And I held you so tight
I felt my love shine through you
As we rolled like a snowball
Jointly surrendering to the morning dew
Oh I felt the melting
Of two tear drops melting in mine
And your deep dark warm sparkling eyes...
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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A love slave's shanty to a goddess...
I'd like to look for—the spry-blossom, called Phoebe
There is nought as virtuous, or saintly, as the white gypsy...
I'd like to find me—that last green forget-me-not
What matter the cost, if I don't hit the jackpot...
I'd like to look for—the pale goddess of the moon;
She unto me should be a sun, and I her Neptune!
If she would but, peel me in her "bergamot-palm
...Sister of Apollo". I'd shyly-sing my last, psalm...
Lie with me; with the trident in Poseidon, crowned:
Enter within me, all thy eternity newly bound...
Love, let no mountain-shade you're innate-fancy
Earthquake: Wild horses, shall not tether my fiancée.
Like the smoking-waves upon the sirens-shore
I'll descend to meet her when, the rocks of thunder-roar.
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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I'm drowning in harebells…
Bright as water in bitter wells
Where a smile draws the dust
Oh I'm drowning in harebells…
Chewing on what's solaced.
Oh like a pocket penknife
She cuts me when I treat her kind.
But she doesn't know me?
She just slipstreams into my mysterious life.
Into my mysterious mind
Saying; were just two of a kind
To be cremated together under the sun
But honestly she doesn't know me, none.
But when head lights intercept us…
As another fortified acceptance falls
I see her like a bridge with backward waters
Draining an ocean; with no-pitfalls.
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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To live beyond the sunrise!
Better you just dry those sopping-wet big eyes
What's the point in both of us weeping?
Surely you can't now coquettishly disguise…
The ways, in which I'm cut, the way I am bleeding…
Hide as you always have: Count daily the magpies?
Better you just dry those dual-copiloting empty eyes
Harden even more that propelled wooden heart.
For all its yearly ringed ambiguous lies…
They're no-more than death-nails sweetheart!
They're no-more than drawn-out salty goodbyes.
Better you just dry those sea-green tigress eyes
Look to where this new dawn for me will surly rise!
Look there! Where hurt erupts but now subsides…
Old-flame you can no-longer hope to hypnotize!
For within your tears little else than nothing, belies.
Better I then just dry my own two jaded eyes
Hide not as you would: Count not as you have.
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Full Breakfast
Fried bread, Lord, who's still not; been fed.
Not me a little voice said…
Who said that? A park duck!
Or some hard luck Indian fatherless kid.
Eggs and bacon, God, is there, no!
Red ketchup or bake beans,
Hey kid get-up off your soiled knees.
After collecting that plastic garbage
With an iron-hook in a cardboard box
Whilst your mothers out selling her body,
With some pox-up jocks
Hey can we have some grilled tomatoes,
And black pudding and mushrooms on the side.
I'll have a coffee over here! It's rainy outside.
Hey child - you'll soon be a bride!
A suitor for you, shouldn't be hard to find…?
Let's tip the waitress boys, she so looks suppressed
Depressed - but at least she's got a uniform
And a collection-fund and a counsel house
And at the weekend she's pissed and jocund.
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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They're Singing In The Laurels
They're singing in the laurels
At first our lovers danced
Behind the evergreen box-hedge
O' then they're singing in the laurels
Housed by the woodlands-edge…
Then they're making their house
Taking-in reeds and rushes too nest.
As the wild wind in skyward climbs
Burst's open her golden fields songfest.
O' how soon their family flourishes
Under a tired world, two become eight.
Then squabbles unfold at daybreak
No more time for easy lovers to mate
It's just hellos and good byes at the gate.
As the seasons flicker ta-ta—good bye
Adios, my lover—cheerio, I've got to fly.
I've got to go, with the chaff and the grist
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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