The workings of a clock
It can be as mechanical as a stopped heart.
A wingless entity
Naked and caged propelled to flower.
...
Crush the victims.
The homeless, the dispossessed
Jail the peacemakers, the protesters.
Praying that the starving see another loaf of bread.
...
Let us find peace in death.
Live life as if it's got one day left.
The sun has always remained a pacifist.
As does the long shadow remain a warmonger.
...
God comes howling. Children, what's going on?
I haven't rested since I hung the golden sun.
God comes howling; children, what's going on?
...
The cup of water
Has a mouth for stars
In the shadow
Where a black hole
...
Your fears and failures are just stepping stones
over not-so tranquil waters.
These are the places where you have frozen,
fearing your every next shaky step.
...
I am attracted to the water that calls me
To either sink or swim,
I am attracted to echoes in the darkness
That whisper there's yet more personable beauty within
...
There it is. Kids,
a white blanket with spots of blood
Crisp as salt on the blade of a stainless-steel knife.
In its purity, fresh as a daisy,
...
Please leave nothing but echoes of love.
When everything is gone, turned to dust
This world will remember you, your shadow.
...
When time is stilled and stoppered in your heart
An echo heard that might not mean that much
Shall a song to remember be imparted?
It'll ring in your heart of silence a touch.
...
So, I guess after all our stars weren't aligned.
I'll wake up and forget the lack of mourners.
And remember when you once were mine?
I shall wake up and stroke the bed corners.
...
We fight against the end like a derailed train.
Leaping off the track constantly, trying to jump back.
Wheels squealing, backward spinning
Jettison ever forwards, trying to stay on track
...
I am the fall, the colour of God's love.
I am Lava. I am Rosso Corsa.
I am Magenta. I am Fuchsia.
I am Rosewood, disintegrating rust.
...
I'll be water - I'll be shade.
I'll be a storm cloud, an ever-spinning weather vane.
I'll be a Mediterranean Picasso blue.
And Van Gogh's favourite colour, yellow.
...
Explore the colours of life.
Before the curtains close
And all shades are equally exposed.
Dance and sightsee a diamond sky.
...
Depending on the artist's medium, his pigments
Ambitious colours take centre stage on the page
Take Gauguin, for instance, who would use bright, flat colours
With simple outlines, vibrant, sunset-richness
...
Some say her complexion is as white as marble.
Others say that her skin is jet-black
Some say it's red—no, wait, it's yellow.
Some say her skin is a rich, earthly brown.
...
His inconspicuous manner was a smokescreen.
That meant his crimes went undetected for years
He exploited the susceptible, the vulnerable.
...
You have a gaze that hears music.
No one else understands
An intensity of thought that no one else feels
A brush of your angelic hand on mine
...
Then, as now, I will always love you
Then, as now, I will always honour and obey you
Then, as now, the stars will always shine
And also, our hearts will align
...
Mark Andrew Heathcote is an adult learning difficulties support worker. His poems have been published in various journals, magazines, and anthologies, both online and in print. He is from Manchester and resides in the UK. Mark is the author of In Perpetuity and & Back on Earth, two books of poems published by Creative Talents Unleashed. I am sadly locked out of my previous account https: //www.poemhunter.com/mark-heathcote/ [email protected])
The Workings Of A Clock
The workings of a clock
It can be as mechanical as a stopped heart.
A wingless entity
Naked and caged propelled to flower.
And wings to fly, but doesn't,
For fear of falling. So, watch instead,
Dejected and alone, through a small keyhole.
Spying on all those what-could-have-beens
The workings of a clock
It can be as mechanical as a stopped heart
A spiral up or a zipwire down?
Which is it to be?
A poppy seed opening into flower.
For a whole glorious hour,
Spent in a rain shower
Or a worm castor trodden into the dirt.
Never risking its heart over its head above ground.
Afraid to be a swan.
Pledging to be loved by only one
Imprisoned by self-fear.
Thinking there'll always be time,
Enough time to open your wings and glide.
Only you get to be too old.
And forget how to unpick the locks.
And wind the dial and turn back the fingers of the clock.
The Ekphrastic Challenges
The Birdcage, by Harue Koga (Japan) 1924