Uniform Of Scares

A soul may tally to the stars
Like a badge of victory honor
But who will know of the wounds
And wear its uniform of scares.
Who will feel the icy lick of blood?
That pours forth a sucking flesh
The lust the greed the envy of desire
That makes us sinners blessed.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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The poets well

The poet dips his bucket of thought
Into the well of invading darkness,
Thirsting a spark of eternal light
He drinks from his own reflection

But the consumption is just a taste
Of that void of inspiration
Where the fires ease and waste
Before his true conception.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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Tide and chapel brought me here

Tide and chapel brought me here
On a midnight clear
Here where the dews lay thickly mounted
Here where seasoned hearts be counted
Not for their pain did they suffer
Their lost souls unto one another
Not for their envy did they discover
The glory that lasts forever.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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My Soul Is Teething For Your Love

'When will you adopt my heart?
Like a child in its cradle.
I am like a green flower plucked'.
Dehydrating; on an evening's vigil.

'My soul is teething for your love,
Hunger fills my every desire
There cut; in need of sustenance'.
To sustain the ambiance of fire!

poem by Mark Heathcote
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His bread crumb love!

God is watching us...
look around you
You, might just catch...
A sight of his love!

As you pitch those wings...
And believe as a dove
you can ascend the stars...
Solo a flight above.

Might you even...
His dimly lit attic room
Be permitted of...
His bread crumb love!

poem by Mark Heathcote
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For you

When I breathe in?
You, sigh...
For me for you
For you: for me.

Behind these silences
A drawbridge
Of hopes, rises
And then... falls.

Each, pause
Reaches its
Extremity its
Counter demand.

Every pore!
A moments needing,
For you for me
For me: for you.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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What Shall Be?

What shall be my clandestine hour?
Is to write a poem about a flower

The world is but an open flower
A parchment of white paper

What shall be my clandestine hour?
Is to write a poem about a flower

Or watch another flower bear fruit
Give her hand, bite my tongue mute.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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A Common Brother

Red squirrel your grey brother
Has more earthly power
Then you in all your frivolous fire!
He does wrinkle-out the lower
Where you have climbed the higher!

And this has made the difference
To the bane star of his eye
Where you my red brother
Eat your last supper and die.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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Poor but rich

Poor but rich in flowers
I lay amongst those stems
In them burning gem's

I hear my singing, child
singing to the croaking, frogs
sweet words-
of jangled, thought!

And time I have to laze
And read a poem,
That leaves me dazed,
In humble, awe!
I'm poor, but rich in flowers…

poem by Mark Heathcote
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In The Quietude Of A Bluebells Mound

In and out the dappled dew wet ferns
My grey ghostly spirit glides
In and out these mottled skies
Beneath those blue bristle furs
Where a fox cub has lain aground...
Here shall my heart be found...
Here shall my spirits soul, resound...
Here in the quietude of a bluebells, mound.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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