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

Giants

In this land of giants where people are defiant. Lives the most enormous giant who is the most defiant. He lives in a tree that’s bigger than you and me. And eats boys and girls for his tea.  When he speaks he spits from his cheeks and you think he has sprung a leak. He is very strong but meek, some think that’s a sign that he is weak. But make no mistake he has a mean streak. 
The giants they also look up to him and he looks down with a grin, through the hairs on his big square chin. Now when they walk and dance and prance their feet are so big the make such a din, and leave such a mess to live in. 

Now one of the giants, had friends to stay not for a week but a week and a day, they made such a racket and cost him a packet they were banished to lands far away. In the night when giants are fast asleep all laying in a heap, for warm to keep. They snore so load they scare the clouds so they rain upon the crowds. And when they stop snoring and a breath they are a drawing they suck up the clouds and the sun so no one can have fun. 

If you were a defiant giant what would you try to do? Especially in your big shoes and a big pair of trousers too. Would you use a ship as a canoe or would you bath in Sydney Harbour with soap causing such a lather?

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

Nomad 

I am a nomad no fixed abode, always on the road. Moving from place to place never knowing what I may face. My home on my back my hole world in a pack, always going forward never looking back. Nomadic and free I can be me and people will say who’s he. No one knows me just let me be for I have places to see.

Odd jobs for a couple of Bob, food and a bed to lay my head. Lasting friends that I will never see again, life with no pain. Walking miles agony and smiles, keep moving, never stay still, come and go at my will. Hot and cold I walk so bold no one to have and hold, just memories and stories of adventures that unfold. 

Very content in Hut or tent, but sleeping out under the stars noises echo from afar. Sand in my shoe, and the twilight hue, sunsets clue. Maybe one day I will meet you. Find a safe place to hide my face and sleep until the day is new. 

Markey Mark Symmonds anxiety, Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, Mental Health, poem, Poetry, short story

Anxiety

Secret feelings flash in your head, mulling over all that was said. Blaming yourself, filled with dread, head still running lying in bed. Insecure low demure, long road to get a cure. Want to run, but legs on stun, no let up when darkness comes. Anxious to please, the day I want to seize. Heart beats fast, sweating palms, why won’t my feelings calm.

Antidepressants, there’s still no effervescence, side effects not pleasant. Counselling room once a week, finding it hard to speak, stony silence, eyes gaze internal struggle it’s such a muddle, would prefer a cuddle. Reading books about black dogs and fog, read someone’s blog.

Mental health label of stealth, stigma seen as an enigma, dangerous person, things with you will only worsen. Media hype a load of tripe, branding all for actions of a group so small. See me as I am, not as the only man, talk to me like I’m all right, honestly, I don’t bite. Help me from this dark shadow into the light, where I can be me and feel alright.

 

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

I Wonder

I wonder what it feels like to put my arms around you when I’m feeling blue, tucked up under the covers just me and you. I wonder what it would be like to hold your hand as we walk barefoot across the sand. I long to stare in to your eyes and hear contented sighs. I wonder what it would be like to feel your bare skin, to laugh and joke while drinking whiskey or gin. I long to see the sunlight glinting in your hair, and imagine what you feel like when I am not there.

I wonder if you dream as well and if you would really care, I long to see your inner side and your artistic flare. I yearn to see the moon light flicker off your dress, to ask you on a date and hope that you say yes.

I wonder if I feature in your dreams at night, I never thought I ever would but now I think I might. And do you see my name and wonder if we would be right, is it just a pipe dream in the cold harsh reality of light. Would you return my phone call and send messages of love, written with your fair hand in a silky glove?

I guess what I’m asking is would you feel love, could we be together like two snow-white doves, when the dark days come around would our love still be sound. I often sit and wonder what it would be like to go out for a day, sunbathing in a field nibbling on some hay. Finally, I wonder if you would even look up when I say I want to sip from your cup.

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 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.