The garden
The garden is a living cell
A Monet' of colour
and still reflection!
Its life is onwards moving…
But still like the sun
forever in dusk or dawn:
A theatre of hearts
beating as one!
An applauds of petals
Scented; in love.
The garden is a river…
a place of worship
a place to espy
a good time to die.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Am I Insensitive?
Ghosts come in the shape of the living
I‘ve seen, both
But; guess what?
It’s frightening how, alive
They are compared to those not yet, dying.
...........................
Meal ticket
The piece of meat
She put aside for him
Has gone to her son
Such is family, life.
The ladders on the run...
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Hummingbird
The hummingbird thumbs
A flower of thought
In its tongue
Of Indian ink
It sips and spills
A thousand souls
Before it spills
Its own,
And piercing the wind
Like a mountain peak
With the weaving
Of a soul to keep;
This little bird brings us
Sweet pressed blooms
To incense us for hours
In the glory of love
poem by Mark Heathcote
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I have not love, enough...
I have not love, enough...
To tempt birds from trees
nor even less the angels
on an ever static breeze...
I have not love, enough...
To love you, as you do, me
I have not love, enough...?
In my heart to set, you; fre...
I have not love, enough...
My dear one, for even me...
for even me... Alone, you see...
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Playful Fingers…
He kisses me like a caterpillar
Curling in a sun aroused flower
So playful is his desire his ardour
My carpel wishes are to enclose
Around that: wincing thorn of pleasure.
To entrap alone his stamens tongue!
Amidst; the sepal-hips of my thighs
Now to cocoon, locked, playful fingers
And petal wings together.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Days swiftly passing
Days swiftly passing
Like a double helix rainbow
Spooned, breaths kissing,
Her breasts sculpted, torso.
Time! I a bird out hand,
Touching her wingtips-nest;
A root travellers, tideland
Her Passions conquest:
All naked nature is removed..?
All remediable needs, approved..?
In love eternally, improved..?
poem by Mark Heathcote
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A Losing Hand Of Poker
A poison text...
A poison flower...
In a poison, heart...
'How can we draw blood?
And say that we - belong
Together as just good friends
And remain forever in a storm
Looking for a rainbows-end:
How can we pretend…?
We haven't vented such pain;
And anger - now the drug is over
Like a losing hand of poker'.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Outpourings... perfection!
His heart an endless soul
A flowering dove tree
Tears and clouds cajole
His soul an endless heart
A whirling dervish
Arriving; towards truth...
A centered spinning world
In ecstasy white gowned
Divinely, he lived on...
Where truth does arrive!
In creations, spiritual, love
Outpourings... perfection!
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Finger on the pulse
if I could nurture life
like a woman
what a tapestry of light
my heart would weave
ambivalent beauty
in a shield of light
if I could nurture life
like a woman
just like a woman
what a compassion
I should comprise to hold
with my finger on the pulse
of the creator
I would love you
[...] Read more
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Our vases were filled with wine
Our vases were filled with wine
As our childhoods spun on a dime
But it wasn't the abstinence of tears
That made us, into granite rocks.
It wasn't Mount Vesuvius…
That turned us each into clay-pots
So what was it, please... answer!
Well, look, look, here's the answer…
It's written on the back of that mirror!
poem by Mark Heathcote
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