From A to Z.

I do everything with you from A to Z.
From the moment you wake up
Till I pat you on your head,
And tuck you up into bed.
I do everything with you
For you, because the day
Starts and finishes with you
Because I love you!

I need your laughter
Because I need your fun, my son
This wintery cold dreary Easter
What I don't need, is your strops.
When you get out of bed
And I don't have your Coco Pops
Let's just have Cornflakes, instead.
And be done my son.

When you couldn't get your way
Alas; once again, the other day.

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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Rumble in the jungle

Give us some poetry?
Me, we..?
These are the words;
Of Muhammad Ali..!

Ali—baba-booyah! Ali
The emperor of Horus
Sang back the chorus…
Ali—baba-booyah!
Ali—baba-booyah!
Ali—baba-booyah!

The peoples Champion!
A roaring catlike, lion
with long-legs of lynxes
a king of all… the Cobras
With a right leading, paw...
His arm like a ripsaw...
And with words of combat
He was like a buzzing black, gnat...

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poem by Mark Heathcote
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I Remember My Own Insanities…

Oh, what presence attends our emptiness … this…?
I've dived down drowning with these daylight thieves
Falling deeper and deeper in their stone dead sleep, in this…
Angel enclave: We dug all for our lost fairy souls.
Like ghost listening to anchored ship wind chimes.

Oh the lightening bugs laugh with our love above the mountain heather
As we run with our jam jars downstream forever.
0h, I feel like a fly in the corner of some thoughtful lost feeling
The feeling of lungs fragility, the fragility of flying sails, or not...

Oh, I remember days and the years in bedsits, just sleeping, hoping each day never—began.
Oh, I feel hunger and loneliness and anger; always tugging within me.
And neighbors that I wished, would vacate, go astray like a dog chasing a bitch.
Oh, I'd wish them all hit by a car and left in a graveyard ditch
With beating wings that just twitched forth and back.

Oh, I remember cold November days, till the dawn uncoiled lifted up its anchor
Like a unicorns horn in mid mild March through the red neon light and neon-blue air.
Shivering like a bird like a skylark flying in frantic circles still as a sphinx

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poem by Mark Heathcote
Added by Poetry Lover
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