Inspired by Bob Dylan poems from Mark Andrew Heathcote

Lucifer’s wife

I’m waiting on my severance pay
And the gallows of the moon
When all you can say is I don’t care
Please, please go away 
What did you think I would do?
Did you think I would swoon?
Or drown in a lake 

Honey, I don’t care for all your cheap-talk
Darling takes a long walk all by your lonesome
Maybe the morning crickets will love you and cry
But-me I wish you would die

Please, please go away 
What did you think I would do?
Did you think I would whisper a fugitive’s-prayer?
Wish-you’d return a changed man 
No longer cruel or mean, please,
Please, please go away stop standing there
I’ve spider’s webs have better fair
With half-broken snare honey, what do I care?

I’m waiting, batting my blue soul-redeeming eyes.
But all my faults are my own faults that’s-no-surprise
And I am listening to all you say 
But have some heart for a yard dog’s bark 
Throw him a bone when he’s whimpering 
And he’s nowhere to steer, and the missed is closing in.

I’m waiting on my severance pay
And the gallows of the moon
But I’m stubborn I’m dogged 
I won’t throw in the towel
I’ll be happy with Lucifer’s wife
And darling evens you.

A thousand-different-ways

I’ll tread these hills a thousand-different-ways 
And catalogue every river and climb every mountain
I’ll turn every boulder and cross every crossroad
A little bit happier now I’m finding my way.

I’ll stop and talk to the gipsy woman and buy her heather
I won’t tread any more fearful than if you entered the room
And the whole of nature held its jealous breath
I’ll wash down my throat with water and bread
And thank the lord that I’m going to your bed.

I’ll burrow down with my beautiful 
My, how beautifully blessed are my eyes 
they’ve never-seen-better days
my, my cup is flowing overflowing 
because there’s an angel at my table 
and, she doesn’t-bark, 
she just-sings-like some heavenly skylark.

I’ll enter the dark because there’s an ember spark
and I’ll map every acre of god’s creation for you 
just to see those fireflies in your eyes looking back at me.

I’ll swim every river, lake and sea
I’ll cross every desert before I pass away
and know I’ve been saved, and I’m second-sighted 
and “prophetic thunder” he can only wonder
what I’ve done to deserve a woman like you.

The Lord of Catchers-Can

In the isles of a gutter
In the dim-lit graveyard of a church
A man must walk forever
With beggar's bowl in hand
And succumb to all the rough bad weather
A man can withhold, understand.

The Lord of Catchers-Can
Is both a shepherd and a man
From a palm of dust; father's the waters of the land.
And hails the wheat & barley to either fall or stand.

Into these storm drains of heaven
A dream is, washed away
Like the rains of yesterday.
A holy man sojourning for a little while came
And then was gone
Where no such earthly vanities belong
And blessed us in one name
In the light of the eternal flame
All sinners are likewise the same.

The Lord of Catchers-Can
Is both a shepherd and a man 
From a palm of dust; father's the waters of the land.
And hails the wheat & barley to either fall or stand.

It's here I've heard it said
We pay for the eyes of the dead
In the living hearts and souls left
To do, our living, to do, our living, when we're dead
So take my hand, 
And-let-us-all-understand, 
The ways of the Lord are yours and mine to command, 
For every child, woman or a man.

The Lord of Catchers-Can
Is both a shepherd and a man
From a palm of dust; father's the waters of the land.
And hails the wheat & barley to fall, and stand.




Bio: Mark Andrew Heathcote is adult learning difficulties support worker, he has 200-plus poems published in journals, magazines, and anthologies both online and in print, he resides in the UK, from Manchester, Mark is the author of “In Perpetuity” and “Back on Earth” two books of poems published by Creative Talents Unleashed.

3 poems from Christian Garduno influenced by Bob Dylan

photo by Cory Polacek

Ghost Station

I’m a ghost standing at your station, mama
wondering if this train’s ever gonna show
sometimes I think you tickle my brain
and the whole scene is just for show

It’s pathological, mama
the way you wrap around my head
I find myself about to boil over
maybe I should just walk home instead

I should sit down and write you a letter
I’ve got your address memorized by heart
the only thing I’ve written is “THE END”
and I think it’s a pretty good start

It’s Reaganomic, mama
the way you trickle down my spine
the space between us is quite maddening
but I can’t unspend my time

One of these days, I’m gonna down take your picture
but your eyes are tattooed across my heart
you always take me to the end of the line
and I think that’s a pretty good place to start

Hiroshima Skyline Rag

Hot river of ashes
lava making its way down your throat
when your eyes start to cross
you know you’ve no thoughts to float

So look at what we have done to them
we will do it to ourselves by accident or fate
But it’s not for me to mention
if we’re on time or if we are late

The Mountain has been decimated
the shrine has been desecrated
They lean into me
telling me- this is victory

Their words are mausoleums
empty without sacrament
They only hear echoes
of their own vehement 

Hot river of ash
lava coating your throat
you’ve got eyes to get across
you know your soul will float

But it’s not for me to mention
if we’re on time or if we are too late

The Oracle

The Oracle of Delphi has spoken
with her drunken voice unbroken
She muttered now’s the time
to rip the wine from the vine

She couldn’t have known it was me
who was picking up scraps from her feet
She was tossing down diamond fillings
as I went sweeping up her street

Apollo was spaced out, he never heard a word
some say behind his back
He’s gonna burn up upon re-entry
well, I had to laugh at that

The Oracle of Delphi layed me down
though I realized it was only in jest
when I said I had no answer
She told me that I passed the test

Apollo, he was stargazing
wondering if it was odd
that the fellow in the mirror
was a sad young God



Bio: Christian Garduno’s work can be read in over 100 literary magazines. He’s the recipient of the 2019 national Willie Morris Award for Southern Poetry, a Finalist in the 2020-2021 Tennessee Williams & New Orleans Writing Contest, and a Finalist in the 2021 Julia Darling Memorial Poetry Prize. He lives and writes along the South Texas coast with his wonderful wife Nahemie and young son Dylan.

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