Mark Heathcote Poems

We are all individual vessels of pulsating life.
Pouring from the same wineskin bota bag
into the same cup.
Mingling amongst the same ocean and stars
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What does it do to free their souls?
From emancipation, what paroles
the shackles that kept them toiling?
Even now, they are leaving.
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I believe angels are here to love and laugh.
To save us from another stupid mistake
I believe angels are here to guide us home.
Like Mosses with his tablets of stone and staff
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Ah, brother Luscious is playing with the dead.
His tears are rolling from his worried mind.
Because he doesn't understand all he can see.
His toys are tanks and military war dreams.
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There are echoes.
Echoes amongst echoes—don't register.
And as of yet, do not travel nearly as far.
And yet, you say they are not as audible.
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When some star does shine in the distance
I squint to see it roundly better
I force my eyes to see its beauty.
Therefore, I think. I understand it even better.
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I would give my life to understand.
How the oak tree made its monumental stand
And yet, still, it vanished-
Without as much as a grain of sand.
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Water can be calm, flowing balminess or icy tears.
Fire is a fierce cocktail of desire, love, and hate.
Earth holds our feet firmly on the ground.
But she can quickly turn to quicksand.
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If tears are due to flow
If your lips are palpitating, child.
Do not bite them if tears are due to flow.
Child, let them go.
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Anticipation watching the sun go down
And you still haven't bloomed.
Anticipation of watching the sunrise
And you still haven't bloomed.
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