Mark Heathcote Poems

We're rooted in routine
Like a candle burning out of flame
Wearing clothes we once wore with love
Now worn out, decrepit
...

My soul has been unravelled like razor barbwire
And against my will, it's been stretched out wide
Mountain high and valley low,
My soul has been crushed in radioactive mud and air.
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Love will blister
Like those leaves full of grubs
The more you love
The more grubs will feed
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I can't hold down any more fires
I want to explore how you'll burn,
Burn under examination
Of course, there'll be sparks
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White raven,
How did you come by your plumage?
Did you do some charitable acts of kindness?
Did you do a thoughtless good deed?
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I want to gather you up in my arms like meadowsweet
Smell the earth in my hands like an unfired pot
Feel and taste the brackish waters that surround your feet
Have you leaned against me like a willowy clothes prop?
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She was nurtured in the Garden of Eden
It became her palace, her prison of daydreams.
She tended it daily with love.
It was her, one true - garden of sacrifice and hope.
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As we sleep, levitate with me awhile?
Show me there are beliefs
without superstition or question.
That there are silk roads still to be found
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It's a precarious, insecure situation
gazing into the abyss of corruption.
Working like Sisyphus did and done
for no pleasure or recompense.
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Because your heart is oak
I grow an acorn for you?
Most-venerated of trees
Dancing in dew-lit emerald saris
...