Mark Heathcote Poems

O' how lovely is true love's kiss?
Whose rosy wine cup lips implore
men's hearts into an eternal abyss
sacrificing their souls for-ever-more
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The day we met I found my four leaf clover
And my new love could it be moreover.
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The dawns bright light thinks she's the first
She spirals in and out of sight
Like a damsel with feet, submersed:
She climbs and soars like a flashlight
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Love counts the hours before it's gone.
O he loves me, he loves me not…
"What has he forgot", "have I lost the plot".
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We cannot be seen kissing anymore—
Tightly, time-has-folded numbly on our lips.
We have only affirmations, fragments of regret
To bite on from here on …forget.
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Lines have been drawn.
The terminuses of a migrating flock of birds have been mapped, and alone, a pensive long walk has been vigorously taken to follow the distant destinations that they have not yet reached internally or externally.
A date with destiny lies ahead.
But physically if we can keep moving forward; and stay on track and follow our daydreams of the past, we can also somehow avoid being buried under the next avalanche of unpredictable mishaps.
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I wish I were an owl
On a midnight blue
Hidden in my cowl
With a rising, moon in view.
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That day on in sustain unknowns
Coming home - sand between toes
She to me became a sea-witch.
With bags of cheese sandwiches
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What do I find in a kiss?
The toe-curling nerves of bliss
Sedimentary, tingling
Yes!
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Your kiss is a rush of oxygen
That always leaves me smitten
Your kiss is a hot-air balloon
A helium bubble all-embracing, cocoon
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