Blog – Page 4 – Rhythm of the Ink

Aug 13, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

Chip Shop

The smell of chips permeates the air, rushing down streets assaulting the noses of everyone it meets, the fish and chip shop deposits it’s message everywhere, in alleyways and streets. The smell that makes your hunger swell, that draws you in to that hot pungent food cell. Battered cod and haddock and rock, cooked perfectly to the clock. Hot chips sit in the warmer, as others crackle and spit in vegetable fat.

Steaming hot, wrapped in paper, open or not, blow them softly as they are very hot. The salt and vinegar locks into the chips finishing off that divine taste, that will put calories on your waist for time in memorial. Jumbo and battered Sausage and Saveloy, Pineapple fritter; my favourite when I was a boy. Pies and pasties and onions too, pickled eggs and gherkins and onions in big jars on the counter, waiting for their chip shop encounter.

Fizzy pop in cans or bottles, sit on the shelves in the fridge, waiting to wash down those glorious tastes, that are eaten slowly and savored every minute as though not to waste. Queues of people young and old snaking from the shop and into the cold, warming their hands on their precious gold, which, in their mouths they behold.

Aug 4, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds army, Blog, Blogger, death, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, Uncategorized

Passchendaele

Hail and rain, mud all around, machine gun clack, no turning back Passchendaele. Men dying in bullet hails, shouts and painful wails, Passchendaele. Over the top to certain death 6000 men lay in the mud, oozing blood, Passchendaele.

Edgar Mobbs, hero of the hour, over the top for to a machine gun stop, cut down in his prime, dying in thick sludge and grime, hero second to none, Passchendaele. Men of rugby will be playing no more, casualties of war, Passchendaele. War on unprecedented scale, men never came back to tell their tale. Passchendaele.

Families cry and wail, Their love ones fall on foreign ground, many of them never found, just memorials of that horrific killing ground, Passchendaele. Forests grow and peace flows, in this tranquil place where that battle took place, Passchendaele.

Thank you to Ariel Chart for publishing this poem in their September 2017 edition

Aug 4, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized, words

Venomous Poet

Venom spitting poet, on paper with ink his venom sinks, spitting words in sheep like herds, serving aces changing faces. Firing bullets like cannon balls smashing into crumbling walls, angry sage of the modern age firing fury onto blank page.

Take no prisoners please or offend, word Smith creating fire to send, rewriting lines that twist and bend, strengthening the message they send. Melodic movements spitting ink like blades cutting an ice rink. Building the verse row by row, winding up and letting go, machine gun speed to sow the seed, talking of killing, Satan and greed.

The poet slices up the verse, written like a witch’s curse, voodoo doll of prose and verse, vicious words, ideas absurd, mighty ink trying to be heard. Warrior poet slaying demons, recalling of lines from depths of mind. Writing poet struggling to grow, words start to slow as ideas go, losing his flow, in tales of woe. Ammunition all spent no quarter lent, message clearly sent.

Jul 31, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, bus, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

Across the Aisle

Their eyes met in wonder lust, trying to avoid each other’s gaze on the bus. She looked down, as if to frown, he took his time, before looking away. She looked up briefly and gave a smile, he caught it from across the Aisle. He bowed his head as if to ignore, but, knew he wanted to explore.

He returned his head to her glance with a smile, thinking he missed her attention by a mile? She clocked it out the corner of her eye, the look on her face was rye. She uncrossed her legs to fold them the other way, he saw the body language saying come to play. He stared at her fine legs, and wondered would she join him in bed. She knew the message was read but, saw his face full of dread.

As she was getting off the bus he turned his head to watch her leave with nothing said. But, she had a plan and dropped her number in his hand. He texted her to say hi! She responded, suggested he get off the bus, so, he alighted without asking why. Behind him he heard a sigh, she was waiting, the end was nigh. Their lips met with a passion so high, this love had started to fly.

Jul 29, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, poem, Poetry, political, short story, sleep, Uncategorized

The Runner

Chilling fog across peat bogs howling dogs on timber logs. Loosing footings stumble and fall the eerie sound of the owl call. Cold and wet, on the run, no happy days no fun or laughs just big over coats and scarves. On into the dense echo of the fog, bordering rancid bog. Light up ahead, fill with dread hunter force wanting you dead.

Change direction, into a stream, back over tracks, to cover the scent, turn around and head back up the ground, listening to the baying of hounds. Running on empty bumbling and fumbling. Memory still sharp, thinking straight, moving on at a doubled rate.

Silence prevails, lost the tail, temporary derail. Into a culvert, under a bridge, look at the map, quick power nap, then back on feet, system to beat, hunter Force turns up the heat. Come low on the hill then way up high, grey cloud sheets up in the sky, all the runner can spy. Then, in the distance, headlights, the runner has made it to the end on that long winter night.

Jul 28, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, death, flash fiction, lost, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

Sea Float

Floating in the sea, head and body calm legs scurrying, hurrying, kicking, keeping me afloat, waves lift my weightless waterlogged load. Free floating bobbing in harmony with the waves, salty moisture penetrating my lips cold numbness of the sea extracting heat from my head to my feet, sun warming my face, life moving at a slow pace. No panic no fear just floating here.

I spy no land and swim to nowhere, just treading water in the tranquility of mystic mire, in the middle of somewhere, daylight fading, sun setting on distant horizon. Night is still with the rush of the sea, moon glistening light show, just for me. Night makes me weary, I try to stay awake, keeping my head from going below the wake. Soon, I drift into disturbed sleep, waking at the cold of waves from the deep, hitting my face in this tranquil place.

Day light breaks early, painting its yellow glow on the sea below, warming the air on the horizon as its warmth rises. Body numb with cold, shivering out of control. I start to slide under every large wave, cool relief from the sun’s burn. I slowly go lower and lower no panic no regret just cold and wet. Head right under in deep dark yonder, what will be I wonder. From each wave, I re-emerge, sunlight glistening on Sea surge. Then finally one more wave takes me down to a dark murky grave. No breathing no heaving, just gentle glide to the depths of the sea where my body can hide, until one day its washes up on a beach on a morning tide.

Jul 26, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, death, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

A Stranger In Town

The tall dark stranger rode into town to find some where to put his weary head down. He alighted his horse and tied it of course as he headed for the local saloon. This mighty man, propped at the bar, ordered a Jack Daniels in his jar. With his tilted Stetson over his face he downed the sour mash in a dash, then the barman topped him up another whiskey in his cup. Then in from the street came cool hand Pete.

He wore two guns and stood seven feet one, not the sort of man you shake hands with when you meet. Pete was like a cat with nine lives, shot at many a time by passers-by, all of them bit the dust on the floor as Pete’s guns roared, now everyone trembles when he walks through the door.

Now before cool hand Pete could reach the bar for his seat the stranger in the corner pulled back his poncho and dropped him without rising to his feet. You could hear a pin drop as the stranger finished his last drop. He headed to the swinging bar doors never glancing back at the floor. On his horse he climbed, rode out of town as the clock chimed. No one knew who that stranger was, or why he shot cool hand Pete. But no one cared, only that unknown stranger was the one that dared

Jul 25, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, Poetry

Heartless

Stuck, trapped in the middle of helplessness not knowing which way to turn, thoughts and memories burn in my head, mulling over what’s been said, digging deep in my heart, don’t know where to start. Ripped out heart, yet head fighting with who I am, wanting to upset yin and yang.

I’m not sure what I’m doing is right, fed up of the constant fight, family should be tight but taking advantage is killing my might. Thoughts of you on the street in the middle of the night, I begin to think everyone is right, what they say about family. They think I’m heartless, couldn’t care less but deep in my heart, where nobody sees, you sit with unique ease,

Flesh and blood, stick by your kin, no matter what trouble they bring. yet, the threats the violence are all too much, it takes me to a world I hate so much. It upsets my flow, my yin and yang and tries to make me different to who I am. I can’t give if you don’t receive no matter who I am.

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.