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

Storm

Dark clouds rush to form in the sky, darkening like the end of the world is nigh, it won’t be long until you are in the storms eye. Cold wind blows to cool your soul, sun shine disappears into a black hole. Rumbles echo on distant plains, soaked by torrential rains. Then a crack and a shard of light flashing across the sky like it’s electrified

Count the time from bang to flash, wait for the crash,  then into the house you dash. Thunder louder and louder, lightning forking to the ground, picking targets all around. Then comes the soft pita patter of rain, cooling the earth in village and plain.  Louder the bangs quicker the lightning this storm is getting frightening.

Rain torrential, saturating the ground, rivers of water flood the drains, overflowing the puddles do not go. The storm is over head, there’s pressure in your head, black clouds provide a shroud, lightning splitting the cloud.  Then the banging starts to subside and lightning strikes have now where to hide, rain eases and subsides. White fluffy clouds glide, Sucked along by the power of the storm. The wind dies down,  the freshness of a new day, here to stay

Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, lost, pig, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

Lilly the Pig

lilly the pig is small for a pig and wears a wig. Lilly the pig who wears a wig and is a bit small for a pig, likes eating flies, pies and fries and washing them down with something sweet. Lilly the pig wearing a wig and a bit small for a pig, lies around in the pig pound, soaking up the sun, but there is nothing she likes more than a bun resting on her tum.

Now Lilly the pig with a wig is a bit short for a pig, loves to dig in the farmer’s hay rig, now and then having a swig of gin, which makes Lilly the pig in her wig a bit small for pig, take a big swig and fall off the rig. Lilly the pig in a wig a bit small for a pig, drunk as a skunk rolling around under a rig unable to dig.

Now, Lilly the pig in the wig a bit small for a pig, learnt to drive when she was five, she borrows a car from Mr mar. Off to see family to give them a surprise, Lilly the pig in her wig a bit small for a pig with sunglasses that match her wig, smoking a cig, off to see family and go to a gig. Lilly the pig in sunglasses and wig and a bit small for a pig, dances around at the rock gig until Lilly the pig in sunglasses and wig still a bit small for a pig, trips over the lighting rig, the room goes dark it’s no lark, Lilly the pig in her sunglasses and wig a bit small to be a pig, on her back with the lighting rig in the dark, catches a spark and now, she has forgotten where she parked.

Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, cave, flash fiction, lost, poem, Poetry, short story, underground

Underground

Lost in a cave underground, over a hill and under a mound. Darkness is my biggest fear and everything that I can hear. I am unarmed no gun nor spear, just me and the cave and plenty of fear. Dark cloaks me so I cannot see, my lantern is dead it’s just dark and me. Moving forward as fast as I dare, not knowing where, not going back further down there

I crawl along on my hands and knees feeling all the rocks and gullies. One wrong move and I’m over the edge, perched upon a tiny ledge. Water dripping on my head, oh how I want to be in my warm bed. Ice cold rock so slippery and wet, I haven’t gone 10 feet yet.

Spiders webs entwine my face, I wave them away with great haste. Time stands still at this slow pace, dirt and grime all over my face. Then up ahead, did I see light? I rub my eyes to check I am right. My knees are so raw, my hands are so cold, I’ve been here for hours, I hope someone has told.

Echoes and scurrying all around as rats and insects run on the ground. I push on up the ledge, not daring to get to near the edge. The light gets brighter the hole may be big, I cannot scurry as I am too big. I lay on my stomach as the roof closes in, through the letterbox I wriggle in. I can see light ultra-bright streaming in from a height.

I hall myself up with all my mite, heading towards the beam that cuts the night. Lighter and brighter the cave starts to get, I get excited and start to fret, I need to calm down I’m not out yet. The last part of the ledge is full of grime but I can stand up and make better time. I head to the light as fast as I dare, wondering if anyone will be there.

 

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

Witches Coven

witches coven

Witches gather as a coven plotting deeds by the dozen, making spells from potions and smells, ready to cast them on boys and girls. Black clad with rickety hands, long crooked noses not smelling of roses. Each witch chops, the ingredients to mix the elixir, potions of death and one that will fix you. Eye of bat, leg of toad, they won’t break this practice code.

They chant and cast their spells as the caldron boils and swells. Off on their broomsticks to create hell. Wizened old ladies with secrets to tell, magic potions and sinister spells, lots of things to buy and sell.

When their work is done, before the rise of the sun, they scurry away to their own little hovels, they settle in bed with a spell book or novel.

 

Markey Mark Symmonds Poetry

Man

Man

Man, of dismay, man of grace, man with dreary worried face, man who does not know his place. Man, who exists in an empty place. Man, who has no life pace, man who dare not show his face, man who is a social disgrace, man who is seen as a waste.

Yet this is a man who can see, touch and taste, this is a man that would push a pram. This is a man who helps his nan, this is a man who does what he can, this is a broken man. See not what he can do, but what he has done for you, for he is no rich man, no faith, no beggar, just a nice kind fella.

 

 

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

Norsemen

viking boat

The men from Norse came as a battle force, not on their horse but in large ships with shields and oars from the north, the mighty men of blond hair, Gillette’s and beards, coming ashore to rape and pillage, running terror through hamlet and village. They pull on oars to the sound of the drum, with square sail catching the gale, rowing by day and by night, through sunshine and hale. To spill Saxon blood so frail.

The wind Blows the boat with a dragon’s head and throat, across the seas so fierce and remote, till they spy land. With sword and axe they start the attack slaying those who get in their way, those who are Saxon foe.

Pyres burn in the midnight sky as Viking men sleep, in camp they lie, watching the stars that brought them from afar. With first light, they start up the fight and see their plight, with their great might those warrior men from the north.

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

​Ode to a Poet

Some days you’re a poet and you don’t know it. Some days you’re a poet and everyone knows it. Some days your poems touch hearts and amaze. Sometimes they are a bit of a haze. You write by day and by night trying to get the words to come out right.
You hope that published you might be, getting the coverage is the key. You can right about anything: who will be queen and who will be king;  she loves me and even what you had for tea. You can be serious and make a plea, or light hearted or talk about how you got started.

Then comes the blog, hard to write when your brain is a fog. But every day you pound away trying not to cause to much dismay, questioning whether your’s is the right way. Struggling to write something new each day.

Finally your piece is finished, put it on line or just bin it. Wait for the likes the comments and follows to come in. Hope that you can do better tomorrow. The audience love it they like it a lot are they just being nice or not. Alas this is a poets lot whether we like it or not. We hit the issue straight on the spot or we write a great load of rot. When we are old and in our last days those words will live on and continue to amaze. So if you are a poet whether you know it or not, give your self praise each day cos being a poet is your way.

Markey Mark Symmonds Biker, Blog, Blogger, bullying, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

My Fat Boy

fat boyTurning the grip thumbs clad in leather to give them grip. Roar of the hog as the valves open, my Fat Boy heading for the open road. Sleek and black with gleaming chrome, seat laid back engine throbbing and starting to groan. Iron horse, my trusted steed leaves the smog of the town at good speed

Out on the vast open road, this iconic hog hauling its load, pounding the highway on empty roads. Rider clad leather and jeans the mirrored sunglasses look so mean. Cut off waist coat and tea shirt give way to heavy tattoos to suit. Bandana covers half my face, people are scared when we roll up to their place.

Wind and rain in my face, pick up the pace, the hog glides along with beauty and grace. With gleaming chrome and engine drone the Fat Boy takes me a long way from home. Wheels turning exhaust burning, see the yearning on the faces we meet.

Rider and steed, cow boys in need, on the open road the feeling that can’t be beat. me and my Fat Boy look so neat, my iron horse with its leather seat.

Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, Uncategorized

Meditation

 

 

yogaSitting in silence in the middle of the room, eyes are shut but colours come with a boom. Empty my mind of the daily grind but wonder what I will find. Music rifts drift seeping into my soul, rain drops trickle onto a metal bowl. my body has long since left it’s just me and my thoughts and my shallow breaths.

I let the nothing flow over into my head, no words are said, just images of the past. Rose garden with fountains and trees, where nothing moves fast. Victorian ladies wander with parasols like lost souls. I  drink from the fountain, water pure and cold, lit by the sun glistening and gold; this is an image I want to hold. My brain has escaped my body is cold, yet I feel safe and bold. It’s time to leave the garden via the gate, as I come down from my meditation state, paradise will have to wait

Slowly counting myself down, back in the room in the centre of town. Back to reality and all its gloom, settled mind, its back in the room. Light in the head, in a bit of a daze, the rose garden is now just a haze. Back to reality and life’s tangled maze

Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, car, old car, poem, Poetry, Uncategorized

In My Car

battered car

In my car that’s taken me far, along miles and miles of tar. I sing to the radio and tap on the wheel, press on the break to bring it to heal. It takes me to work and to play, and sometimes takes me out for the day. I don’t want to change it in any way. I just want my old car to stay. Dented and battered it never will end, for it is indeed a good friend.

It’s not the trend but I can pretend and make do and mend, cos my car will go far on this tar even though the number plate says R. oh where would I be without my friend, I love my battered old car.