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Best Poems Written by Mark Fullick

Below are the all-time best Mark Fullick poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Mark Fullick Poem

Thank You For Everything

Shush be calm, it’s okay I’m right here,
You’re hugging my pillow and shedding a tear

You have my memory and I feel your heart,
Always forever till death do us part.

We’ll always have Paris and the empire state building
Watching the Bulls and the yankees out fielding 

But there’s nothing like kissing and the shared living touch,
and the holding of hands that we loved so much.

The smell of your perfume at the end of a day
Knowing that just before work we had shower play

Making love in the moon light the sun and the rain
The memories of beach the car and the plane

Running naked through sand dunes and chasing the sun
Naked moon bathing naming stars just for fun

It was always and only about just you and me,
And it always and shall be for eternity.

 Please don’t go just yet I have something to say
Then you can let my balloon float away

I thought I knew love and knew what to do
But it all went so wrong when I met you

My wires got crossed an my thinking went wonky
My smarts all went south on a pantomime donkey

But now that I’m gone I don’t want you to worry
I don’t want you to rush to get here in a hurry

It’s all down to you now to play and explore
Before you join my photo in our sons bottom draw

Thank you for sharing your life and your love
I’ll be watching you always from the blue skies above

From the wind in your hair to the moon in your eyes
 From the warmth of the sun and the sea and the skies

Feel loved and not spied on, I want your sprit to fly
I can’t live with the thought of making you cry.

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Secret Love

I’m not gona get all wordy on you
I’m not gona do look at stuff and flowers on you.

I’m not gona sing in the rain and hold hands wive you
I’m not gona whisper stuff and get you fings like rings.

I’m not gona tell you wot you should take for granted
I’m not gona get all feeley and touchy and stuff.

I’m not I’m not I’m not
I sharnt I won’t and you can’t make me.

There that’s told you no woman’s gona snap or break me
I’m hard I’m tough no woman’s gona mould or shape me.

There you got your poem end of story
Show this to your friends and let them ignore me.

Get it got it feel the cold
Now along this line you should fold-------
 
Below this line stays below
I’ve a reputation to up hold.

Gossamer bumble bees and silken thread 
Hold these thoughts inside your head.

Deep sun sinks into a bubbling sea
Bare feet in hot sand you and me.

Everything I said above
I reverse undo and do with love.

Fold again to hide the meaning 
See my words to you in the Sistines ceiling.

Let no man brake asunder 
What’s been sealed by Thor and bound by thunder.

You have no idea how your perfume confuses me
From the way that you walk to the way you drink herbal tea.

Now I’m sorry for getting all wordy on you
But in my confusion I didn't know what else to do.

Signed sealed and delivered with lightning
My feelings for you are so strong it’s frightening.

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The End

THE END is a little something Mark likes to call a surrealist word painting.

“Ouch!  That hurt, I’m not doing that again,” 
I laughed.

Now that I’m here I must ask how the everything why the reason.
So I asked the question expecting an answer that may in some way challenge my intellect.

 When all of a sudden a voice spoke out in silence with eyes that would square the round

“Always is a word that you should never use, And never means for now, Drink the lemon
sweet words”.

I turned to walk away and find my thinking place,

 “Hey come back,” 

Said the answer, a being of infinite wisdom

I know this to be an un true fact that it helps to think while standing on a rock of pure
marshmallow

I tell myself this as I try to master the art of falling up.

“There is no use for the answer” 
I said if the question just ups and walks away,

“Okay then listen and I shall show you”, said the answer.

Then true to her word she did, and as she finished her words got up and flew around me
like butterflies and I sang the song we all sing,

“Look,” said I, it’s beautiful, the books are birds,” then looking out over the sea of sky
all of a sudden I knew,

 “So this is how the everything begun”.
------
Original work 1995

Details | Mark Fullick Poem

G.O D Investments

Sponsorship is the new religion, and it’s taking over from the old ones, whatever next?

G.O.D INVESTMENTS

I know a London vicar
He’s a sight to behold,
Every time I see him
My blood runs cold.

It says Levi on his shoulders
And Suzuki on his back,
On his front it says for quick exhausts
Phone Bath and ask for jack.

When he throws his arms up in the air
He’s a blaze of neon lights,
They say Clairol Tints Vidal Sassoon
And Pretty Polly Tights.

Yes G.O.D’s gone P.l.C so buy some stocks and shares,
He’s 2.2 up 1.6 we’ll all be millionaires.

The Sunday sermon’s one of woe
And investment trouble’s,
It’s sponsored by Coco Cola
And chocolate filled with bubbles.

Now Joseph’s coat of many colours
Would have stayed and never faded,
If he had washed at 40
And used fairy radiated.

Yes G.O.D’s gone P.l.C so buy some stocks and shares
He’s 6.6 up 4.2 we’ll all be millionaires.


God Investments by Mark Fullick Original work 1980 Copyright 2003

Details | Mark Fullick Poem

Take the Butterfly

TAKE THE BUTTERFLY

Take the butterfly is what Mark likes to call a surrealist word painting
---

“Halt, who goes there?” 
I said to myself out loud, and then I answered me in a soft loud slow dulcet tone type
style of voice and said.

“Who goes were?” 

I surprised myself, as I was sure that I was the only one there.

“Do you want to ride my bike?
  And 
“Have you ever tried treading grapes while juggling?”

So surprised was I that I made my mind up there and then Never to buy those knobbly bits
That taste of flat square circles ever again.

Why does my left hand keep coming up and smacking me in the gob?
  Still it’s dark outside and that’s the best place for the night to be.

So I sat very still while trying to balance on a moonbeam, and asked everyone I passed,
why are their feet going in opposite directions to themselves?

  And why is my head on your body?

Wow what a night, still its early days but I think I have the answer,
Take the butterfly.


Take the Butterfly
A surrealist word painting Original work 1991

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Holding Hands

Holding Hands
Summer leaves on autumn trees,
Wave to winter winds from a summer breeze.

Vivid red and shining yellow in the summer rain
The red leaf asks a squirrel for the yellow leafs name.

The squirrel darts back and forth all season long
Carrying messages from leaf to leaf of love poem and song.

The leafs could see each other but where too far to touch
And even for the squirrel this was becoming too much.

As autumn fell the leafs made their plans
To fall together holding hands.

They had talked of touch and wanted this,
So falling they knew that they must not miss.

The squirrel watched with baited breath as the both leafs left their trees,
She heard red leaf ask the yellow leaf to marry she said yes please.

Sadness over took the squirrel as she let her leaf friends go,
But like all great loves the squirrel knows there love can only grow.

2003

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The Word Wizard

The word wizard weaves his whiley words,
And we believe the words he weaves.

Then with a silky pen and clever hands
He sets about his master plans.

To make a map; a treasure map, were he leads me to a place,
Where stores are islands and x marks the spot in advertising space.

Its time he smiles; time to begin with wand in hand he scratches chin,
With his wizard words and bikini eyes he blurs the lines between risk sin.

Then as the wizard weaves for us a sticky world of wants,
We lose ourselves our minds and eyes to the wants the wizard weaves.

He reaches me and touches me with wants I never knew existed,
He is the trinklet master my add candy man and cannot be resisted.

Details | Mark Fullick Poem

Waking Up With You

I’ve ripped batteries from the clock and slung them to the floor,
I want this time to last with you a million miles and more.

As we snuggle up and touch we throw our cares up in the air,
Along with wishing hopes and dreams and perhaps some underwear.

Wearing nothing but the morning sun we lay starring at the ceiling,
 Both holding hands and sharing dreams it’s one amazing feeling.

Details | Mark Fullick Poem

History Stuff

Magical Mystical history and mystery,
Painted and woven on tablets and tapestry.

Cave painted hunts and sand script on tombs,
We dig for our history then fill in the wounds.

The secrets of Stonehenge and Silbury Hill,
That tapping and digging will never reveal.

See Picasso and Van Gogh, read Byron and Shelly,
Then watch the war on a plasma screen telly.

Chipped marble statues partly destroyed,
The wisdom of Nietzsche and ramblings of Freud.

Thank Romans for wine and Columbus for tea;
Thank genetics and Science for deciphering me.

History is stuff that lives in the past,
Historical characters the sets and the cast.

I’m living in history but today is for real,
I thank my lucky stars for this being alive deal.

So look me up in a thousand that’s me in the picture
I’m loving your history but I wish I could meetcha.

Details | Mark Fullick Poem

The Mad Poet

The poets mad his ramparts stormed his mind has twisted his head has turned,
bridges smashed the battle lost and his note books we have burned.

Padded white walls screwed down stalls, no place to run so they like to think,
but lashing out I think a scream and use my thoughts like a laser beam.

But though they listen they can’t hear me think
And I break the silence with a blink.

More books and opinions needles and the oh such bitter sweet twisted use of the nations
electric power sauce, it feeds me; if only they knew.

If only you; ugh there you go again trying to burn away parts of my brain
But those parts are my muse and you call me insane

Go ahead and twist some more light me up and switch me on
Strap me down and wire me up but you cannot make my muse be gone.

Don’t stop now you’re having fun and we’re only half way done,
Don’t mind me I’ve played here before but by harsher rules and with twice the tools but
you can’t make my muse run.

Still alive I cling to the poet’s standard of a poet’s pen resting on the forever-clear
paged book of works yet to be penned,
And using my sword I pull myself up and look deep into the clear blue page before I take
some words to shape and bend.

This torture I speak of that’s so damaging to the poets mind
It’s known as the torture of day job and it sends the night writer blind.