Markey Mark Symmonds

Jul 25, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized, words

A Poet’s About

I can manipulate words into shapes make them dance on the page like mighty apes. I can send love and caress, whisper sweet words about butterflies and birds. I can talk about the absurd, tell you the gossip I have overheard. I can tell of oceans washing over your body, of cleansing rains or even booked drains. I can set it on the plains, or flying high in airplanes.

I can cut you disrupt you, I can savage and beat you, make you cry, spin you a lie. I can be a spy, a bomber dropping words from a high, sending them like guided missiles right into where you lie. I can bring you to your knees, tell tales of your pleas. I can bring Satan to ride through your mind scaring you with visions of every kind.

I can make you laugh until you cry leave you feeling on a high, I can have fun and be daft, writing again and again, draft after draft until I get a laugh. I can talk of autumnal leaves or sunshine and rainbows and the gold to which they lead. I can get a message across and make you look at life, I’m the boss, no rules to follow just jewels to swallow and let me wallow. Cos, I am a poet not everyone knows it. But I am a rhymer, perfect timer. I write short, I write long rhyming like the chorus of a song. I am a danger a word arranger, fact or fiction I can make it stranger. Mess with the poet and they will let you know it.

Jul 24, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, pig, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized, underground

Mice

A little mouse lived in a hole in a little old house, yes, Barrister the mouse, being a typical mouse loved cheese, of which he had plenty, it came up to his knees. Now barrister the mouse who lived in the hole in the little old house, met a lady mouse called Alice. Alice came from the other side of town and declared the hole her home palace, but she had to confess with no Malice, that she hated cheese, and in order to please she would have to be served cake. So there they were two mice in a hole in the small house, filled with cheese and cake.

A year or so past after they married, when three baby mice hurried and scurried, little white mice not once, twice but thrice. Now, those little mice didn’t like cheese or cake, but drank tea and one took coffee. Soon aunty Jennifer mouse came to stay, she tidied all the stuff away now Jennifer mouse didn’t care for cheese or cake or tea or coffee, but she adored spam, in a can, she brought loads, in a pram.

Then, uncle John came to stay, he brought enough luggage for more than a day, He brought jars of pickles and chutney too, the smell of them made everyone go phew! Then one day there was a knock at the door, surely there could not be anymore. It was cousin Dean from Milton Keynes, how could they fit him into the den with all of them? Now, Dean did not know how long he would stay, was it a week or a day? The mice emptied the hole; of cheese and cake, tea and coffee and spam in the pram, even uncle’s pickles were gone so that Dean could stay for long. Now, Dean was a modern mouse, at no cheese he did not grouse, for now the only thing they eat in the house is beans on toast.

Jul 23, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, lost, Mental Health, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

Your Choice

All alone, nowhere to call home, sofa surfing, nomadic loafer. Anger rises no surprises, hounded by your past, how long will it last? Used by all, scarred as you fall, free for all society maul. Making bad calls.

History shaped you; pounded you and raped you, brought you to your knees, just wanted to please, now life of sleaze that disagrees. Once again on your knees, not praying to a god. but, struggling so on you plod. No job, not the type to rob. Life taken and shaken, future forsaken. Life of drugs replaces the hugs. Anger smashes love crushing olive branches from a dove.

Advice not taken, path mistaken, lonely walk to who knows where, flitting from place to place as people care until you scare, then you are not welcome there. No money to hold your flat, selling this and that, surviving the only way, you know how, living in the here and now, no routes just any old how.

Take your chances on the streets, soon if not now. You can beat this turn it around pick your life up off the ground. Only you can live this life and only you can change your mind. Recognise when people are being kind and don’t upset with your constant whine. It’s up to you to put that life behind.

Jul 22, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, poem, Poetry

Green

Green scene of grass and trees, a sight for the eyes to please, Pollen rising making sufferers sneeze, children with green stains on their knees from rolling in the grass and climbing trees. Green utopia swaying in the breeze.

Pink and white intersperse the green of the hedge, flowering berries line the edge, green of the box hedge deterring witches, cut like a ledge. Green of spring and summer too, grows with morning dew. Motors of grass cutters green, levelling the grass to improve the scene, clip back the bushes, blow away the leaves, clearing up with electrical breeze.

Then comes the rain, fine at first then building to a big outburst, satisfying the greenery, quenching its thirst. Water drops hang off the leaves and the stems of grass, like pure beads of glass glistening in the midday sun, light rays forming rainbows having some fun. Damp feel of saturated grass consuming its elixir that overflows, drinking its fill before it goes.

Jul 20, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blogger, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, Uncategorized

After the Storm

After the storm comes the quiet, a gentle state a relief from the overnight riot. After the storm comes a gentle breeze cooling the moment, a subtle ease. Freshness in the air, as the newness of the day flares, debris strewn everywhere, battle scene of despair. After the storm, the smell of revitalised grass and trees, gentle day breaking free.

After the storm, the isobars swirl, never deciding which way to turn, pressure low, a temporary state after the storm dissipates. After the storm, the heat starts to rise simmering slowly in the background, gathering momentum over old ground. Heating up in small chunks, waiting to be the main act, once again at the forefront.

After the storm, equilibrium, back to the norm, the usual form, but now it’s getting warm. Pressure building to a crescendo until the heat boils over and the day heads to another night storm. Light night sparks, thunder rumbles and tumbles across the plain, water drenches the ground as the storm begins to pound. Exerting its power all around, electrifying, terrifying. Damage once again strewn all around, feelings abound, doors bang the thunder is gone. After the storm, comes the remorse then the divorce.

Jul 17, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, cave, flash fiction, lost, poem, Poetry, Uncategorized

Lost on a Mountain Top

Wandering, lost in the mountains, thin air slowing breathing as much as it dares. Lost in rock and boulder and crag, energy beginning to lag. Pain in my body, fog in my mind, a way out I try to find. Every step becomes a grind close to the edge of lost with time. Busting my spirit to drag my body, occupying my mind with thoughts of hot toddy.

Stumbling, exhausted, every step of the way, trying to find a landmark to show me the way. Night falls on rock sprawl, into my sleeping bag I crawl. Fully clothed with hat and gloves cold tries to take me from the ones I love. No sleep in the night, no end to pain in sight, running knowledge in my brain until first light. Cup of tea and bite to eat, my body craves more of the heat. Deserted ridge no one shall we meet, weary body stumbles to its feet. Reluctant steps one by one taking whatever will come. Then in the valley I see some cars, I must let them know I’m not far, as I shout, the words come out and echo around the outcrop. Did they hear, will they soon be here? I sit on a rock, this is where I stop stuck on a mountain, not knowing how to get off this rocky top.

Then, to my surprise, I see a pair of big eyes and a wet nose, where he came from I don’t know. He sits by me keeping me warm, barking my presence to the rescue team, like a horn. Soon, I was surrounded and with questions hounded, before I was led off the mountain and thoroughly grounded. Glad to be down, in the warm and dry, small tears in my eyes as I have a cry, don’t ask me why, but I’m now down, off this high.

Jul 17, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds cave, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized, words

Permeable

Solid ground not permeable from liquid and drudge, needing much rain to turn to sludge. Saturation of moisture softens the surface, takes away the debris, refreshing the life and changing its flow where it ends is not for us to know. The more water falls the softer the surface gets, until it blends into its very core, opening ever spore. Softening every cell its own unique well.

Layer upon layer stripped away, deposited across vast expanse forming stacks of loam and sludge, deposited where ever it roams the ground to intermingle and permeate, to infiltrate into the heart, the centre the core, of its new-found host, better able to handle this intruder, extruder earth mover. Deposited until it is time for it to complete its journey: dissipating, dissolving ever evolving until once again the water runs clear.

Minerals, rock and solid stock, channel the residue to drains and plains where it’s absorbed again, pure and clean lubricating the scene, too little to saturate or change its hosts state just making it more adaptable more resilient to the flood of liquid to decay its surface, dissolving as part of this cycle ever-revolving. Waiting for the molecules to freeze, creating a hard-exterior, baking, drying, disappearing at midday when the sun is high, able to cope, more to come from this flood of stained life, sodden water streaming life creating and altering with its blunt knife.

Jul 17, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

Love That Is

One step closer to complete love, the love that lasts and defines you, it’s hue absorbs you takes your breath away enthralls you. Love that will crawl to you no matter how hard struggling over ever yard, just to be by your side, being part of this roller coaster ride.

Love that commits with pride, that will never hide, love that’s knowing, seed sowing so it goes stronger, lasts longer chained to lovers under the covers, blossoming fruit, made to suit. Never looting, always routing, sometimes disputing, but never abusing.

Love like tomorrow, a love never borrowed, hollowed, mellowed. A love that is fierce intense makes sense. Love that makes no difference what you drive or rent, whether you borrow or how much you lent. Love that lets you be heard, to venture, to be angry and spent. Love that holds its arms out, pulls you away, knows what to say with no delay. A love for every day and every way; a love that’s implied without having to say. Love that is here to stay

Jul 15, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds army, Blog, bomb, death, flash fiction, lost, Poetry

Descimated

Shape shifters flitting in the shadows, alleyway to doorway they stalk their prey, anyone who after curfew strays. Dogs bark in the fog of destruction, wasted planet of dis function, disfigured mammals roam the streets, looting what’s left to eat.

Black cars roll up and down the street; counting the numbers of people in retreat, the mas unprovisioned stampede to nowhere just a place in time, that didn’t heed the warning signs. Vapor spurts from disused silos, the kind of place where no one goes, what went on there, only a few know, we just remember the blinding glow.

Children piled two deep in the street as what is left of their mothers weep, while shape shifters creep taking bodies on the cheap, People of gods pray in the street to have mercy on the crops and wheat. radio signals crackle to life, some have made it and kept their lives, no music to stream just recalled screams of a world on its knees.

Streets of deserted homes, fires still burn at the edge of the street, no water for the flames to meet, just an unsettling intense heat. More metal falls from the sky mushroom clouds, flashes burning the eye. in the distance, a baby cries its last tears, it probably won’t make it out of here. Men in masks arrive to burn those are not alive. Riding the streets an epidemic risk the actions are brutal and very swift.

It’s time to leave this forsaken place and take my chances in a land of waste. Hiding by day and scouting by night, making use of anything that I find, using whatever comes to mind, constantly watching for signs of life, or attacks from behind. no one is kind, they are all for themselves, smashing windows and looting shelves, lawless and powerless the rule of mob. No home, no food, no job; just trying to survive, to thrive in this wasteland barely alive.

Jul 13, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, lost, love, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

Life Machine

I know you are there, all I can do is stare at the inside of my mind. I’m still alive, to tell you I strive, but, I can’t make you see I’m still alive. No movement I make, you hope I awake, laying here is not the person you know, I look like a fake. Tears in your eyes as you start to cry fearing that I have died. I feel you squeeze my hand, I want to squeeze back but I’m paralysed, trying to find a way back.

This wretched machine keeps humming, keeping this piece of debris running, wires and tubes from my body protrude, my life support, my food. I’ve seen the light, the tunnel of flight, but I have fought to stay here with all my might. I want to tell you I’m alright, that I will continue the fight until I can be with you again tucked up in the moon light.

I still see the day and know everything you say and do, I’m watching everyone and every move, I know how you feel, how the kids are, I even know you banged the car. I wish I could open my eyes and see where you are.

Days of rolling around in my own brain, powerful drugs that kill the pain, its driving me insane. In my mind, I wrote a poem for you, I hope one day I will be able to read it aloud too. I see you are weary, you need sleep too, come lay with me until the day is new.