Blue and White Flower Zeniths
On approaching the white cliffs of Beachy Head
A feeling of hysteria and glee—snuck over me.
As sunshine began pouring down, instead of slanting rain
It was here I proudly proclaimed some local knowledge.
'This is one of the world's most notorious suicide spots…
Did you know that?
Do you know that?
Is it; came back a short swift but agreeable response.
Once standing there an eternity for one marooned second
We both switched our notice to a deep blue flower'.
Is it real or plastic, thoughts ran wild; mine to is it a gentian?
So then, I decided I'd have a looksee—see and find out.
It were right on the edge no-less nourished than the sun
So I knelt down beside it, and then I took a long look over…
O how lovely those well-worn cobbles, how milky the sea:
It's dreamier than any voyeuristic dreams I'd ever had.
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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In these cormorant hours
I’ve never begun to understand,
The sea changing patterns beholden,
With holding onto a woman’s hand,
No matter how many times
Unwilled she can be emboldened.
The ever changing wind still chimes
With me!
The ever changing green sea grimes
Deep in the deepest blue coral waves
Of the world,
In the darkest barroom grave
With me!
Just to be hurled,
Unbroken like a bird like a wave
Sucked out on a storm just to be free!
In these cormorant hours spent swift
On the wind like a sparrow hawk
With the thoughts of these old lovers up lift
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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The lord of Catchers-Can
In the isles of a gutter
in the dim-lit graveyard of a church
a man must walk forever
with a beggars bowl in hand
and succumb to all the weather
a man can understand.
(The lord of Catchers-Can
Is both a shepherd and a man
from a palm of dust he fathers the waters of the land.
And hails the wheat and barley to fall or stand…)
Into these storm drains of heaven
a dream was washed away
like the rains of yesterday.
A holy man sojourning for a little while came
and then was gone!
Where no earthly vanities belong…
And blessed us in one name!
In the light of the eternal flame!
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Joyous moonlight I'm no broken sunlight
Joyous moonlight I'm no broken sunlight
I'm no burden to thee
I‘ll happily shine when love is bright
And there's only blood on your shoes
I'll run through the grass and swathe a path
When my heart is hurt, and misused
Oh after Election Day, who'll lead me?
Contradictorily to grace
When all my fear is gone
And I keep praying to a disease
That begs treat me fairly please…
Oh, jealous lover you can be my brother
My father my sister and father
As long as I can taste your bubble-gum kisses
That takes me far away…
Oh, Joyous moonlight I'm no broken sunlight
I'm just a deep breath in your chest
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Right before your eyes
I'm a defender of crimes
Right before your eyes
Voters let us all be hypnotized.
Be lead defenders of lies
As city bankers wink with a grin
Let us scratch and toil - cry
In a unheated bathtub
Numb, let us bathe cold to save.
Darn your pockets dear
But there's no money, here
Save the bones
Of an old Christmas turkey
Oh I'm a defender of crimes
Right before your eyes
Voters let us all be hypnotized.
Be lead defenders of lies
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Anesthetized Shock!
People, people, people, today,
—Don't they all, but seem,
Accustomed to the agonies—
Of sorrow and shock!
To pain and suffering. (Today…)
"Today, they're only mortal comedies—
After all—as are all subversive—horror show stories".
Just shrug your nervous shoulders—aback
And give out that tenuous frigid laugh.
To all this human cost
Spill-it-out like cold-vomit over their loss…
"Over their bankrupt, souls torment".
But—you know, I'm sure? !
There is still a shock that'll
Cut you to the quick to the core.
Just occasionally, even venomously,
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Somewhere Inside Of You!
Every life, shall meet death.
Every breath crosses that bridge
Every autumn leaf falls bereft.
See all in its burning leafage.
Oh diamond sparks burn inside
…Blue, with rage, behind iron-bars.
Oh there's a heart of a flower
And, somewhere inside of you!
Inside of you, child there's a Houdini…
Honeycombed with green-envying eyes
Somewhere inside of you, child, there's
A queen, that, that, that, never dies…
Oh, look, child how she just swans…
Seductively easy across the skies
Ah, seduction… in ivory,
Seduction… in ivory,
Seduction… in ivory blossom
Into a million crimson dyes,
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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The decency threshold
Close the campus. Yes, but question your...TRUST
Valuing people "Now" do we stick or bust?
Now that NHS is just another amputee
A listless... shopping channel casualty.
Devolved from central governance
Question; a "Tender" without substance
Contrition is the national agenda!
The malady is a palliative flora.
The disenfranchised, dispossessed.
Who in community care can protest?
Given a home domestic goddess...
Wouldn't you be happy with some social solstice?
Let us bring in that domiciliary...
A couple of hrs Monday to Friday,
Like meals on wheels let's just hope we're able
To convey the valuing people principle.
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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By the river of contemplation
We sat by the river of contemplation
And girl you did whisper unto me
Like a summer breeze
All the secret's of your world to me
And I was so mesmerized
I unlearned how to breathe...
I unlearned all the reason's for being!
Being, being alone & afraid!
Yeah we sat by the river of contemplation
And slowly we sank into one subconscious...
Into one subconscious sea;
Sea of reflection...
And girl you did whisper unto me
Like a summer breeze
All the secret's of your world to me
Love we held the star's, and god held us
Love we held the star's, as the star, s held us
Subliminally, sublime! girl you were always mine
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Is It The Station Of' The Lost and Lonely Soul…?
Where is the peace…?
In the whirring's of my mind,
Cartwheel after cartwheel
Even in these depths of rem sleep,
There is no slumber.
…Dreams come thick and fast:
As the snoring, begins its thunder…
Why, even now the world whistles
In the silence of this nightmare my lord
And even now, sleeping, hot-pulses
Race like a train, with a dead river
On board rolling through, empty-carriages.
O' now babies are being born …wailing
In my arms, awaiting, their mother.
'Lord what's this crazy station, called'?
Here where plastic surgeons…
Is working-out of' a dusty bivouac?
Doing, jigsaw body-part transplants.
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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