Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, cave, cold, death, Mental Health, poem, Poetry, poets, Uncategorized, underground, words

Cold as Ice

Cold as ice, no fun no vice. Locked in your mind-set, stiffened, rigid. No give no play not tempted to stray.

Comfortable land of certainty, no joy, no glee. Tunnel vision, ahead you see, bypass emotion the attraction of the ocean. No emotion, icy steel, always on an even keel.

Wounds fester, never heal, underneath that ice-cold layer that never peels. Time squeals, yearning to bellow into deep voice, but the heat of the moment hits the ice-cold layer, never thawing.

Bleak winter’s cold tears seep into the molten core, deepening the coldness, never to melt like before, never to leave those rocks so bare, so sore. Fossilised emotions on the frozen wastes of time.

© All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2018

Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, bullying, death, neighbourhood, poem, Poetry, poets, Uncategorized, underground, words

Serial Killer

In the shadows of the night, hidden from the moon light by the dark, stands a man cloaked in black. His blade sends a glint of light as the beams from the moon bounce back. This man of darkness is not here to fight.

Dark destroyer, killer in the street, not the kind of guy you want to meet. Yet dark is the alley where he strikes the blow and crimson life does flow. This man you never know. Never seeing his eyes, he attacks from behind. Leaving you oozing in blood and mud and street crud. Life ebbing out of your body and clouding your mind.

Into the night the stranger goes, where he is, no one knows, he could be your friend or just your foe. laying there dying in the street, a passer-by crying at your feet. Wondering how many other victims he will cheat and carve them up like pieces of meat.

Months pass and there are no leads to the man who makes innocents bleed, then, from the shadows he strikes again another victim savagely slain, blood spreading across the ground washed to the drain with the rain, soaking the ground.

Serial killer again and again no motive nothing to gain. He kills again and again, communities terrified they will end up the same. Streets deserted no children playing games. He lurks in alleys out of sight waiting and watching people pass in the night stalking his next victim then fading into the night.

© All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2018

Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, bullying, Gangs, Mental Health, poem, Poetry, poets, tears, underground, venomous

They Know You Know

They know, yes, they do, they know just how to get to you. They know how far you will go and that you won’t say no. They know, you won’t tell, they know you won’t make their life hell.

They know how to hurt and to cut and they know you are in a rut. They know who to pick on, and who will let it carry on. They know they will get away day after day and they know it won’t matter what you say, you’re the one who will pay.

They know their confidence will grow and they know they never reap what they sow. They know that you have died inside but they bring their mates for the ride. They know you want to hide, that you are weak because you cried. They know, you know.

© All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2018

 

Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, doubt, poem, Poetry, poets, short story, Uncategorized, underground, venomous, words

Venomous Poet

Venom spitting poet, on paper with ink he sows it spitting, words in sheep like herds, serving aces changing faces. Firing bullets like cannon balls smashing into 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 like a sermon. Writing poet struggling to grow, it starts to slow as ideas go, losing his flow in tales of woe. Ammunition all spent no quarter lent, message clearly sent.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Markey Mark Symmonds Blogger, bomb, bullying, death, guns, neighbourhood, poem, Poetry, poets, political, tears, Uncategorized, underground

Mac 10

Spray and pray the gangster way, the little boys play, making their way owning the day. Settling arguments, making them pay, violence and revenge, Mac 10 takes the day. Deadly spray, hope and pray, life ebbs away.

Black clad, bandana, bad cussing and fussing street talk, killing on the sidewalk, Mac 10 trying to make them men. Hip hop and rap, street culture and crack. Mac 10 to end the deal rat a tat tat bullets spat everywhere.

No one was there, turn a blind eye letting kids die and mothers cry for ones who lie. Don’t break the code the silence mode mac 10 will keep you quiet. Death and fear the daily diet, wheeling and dealing, robbing and stealing. Life freewheeling, fast cars failed three R’s crime pays dangerous days. Mac 10 to graves it lays shortened lives in shallow graves.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

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

American Dream, Iowa Queen

I dream of holding you tight, of taking a dream flight to an Iowa girl who waits for me every night, even though I’m thousands of miles out of sight. Oh, my American dream Atlantic charm radiant beam. How we long to embrace across the ocean face to face.

But, we both remain in different places, separated by vast space, yet we speak every day, we find a way and it hurts when we must go away. Our times are different in the day. You believe in angels and pray that I will come to you someday. I disbelieve but for you I arrive and wish I was by your side.

American dream of walking by the stream hand in hand as sun beams. Of laying my head on a distant shore and knowing that I am all yours. Alas this dream is worth fighting for to see your face when you answer that knock at the door. My American dream, Iowa queen.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

 

Markey Mark Symmonds army, Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, lost, Poetry, Uncategorized

ACROSS A DEEP BLUE SEA

There is a deep blue sea between Flanders and me, a sea of red lays beyond the blue. Poppies for soldiers who gave their lives for me and you. Between the crosses they still grow, a memory of veterans that never came home.

The last heroes left, pay homage in this foreign land where they once went as boys and returned as men. This corner of a foreign land, of bullets and grass and death on mass. This land where comrades fell and left men with harrowing stories to tell.

For those that came home, they had tales to be told but in their hearts the memories of the fallen they still hold. On battle fields so bloody and cold, of the horrors of war we should never ignore, those crosses row by row, across that deep blue sea, on a Flanders field where poppies grow, where people we never knew fought for me and you.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

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

Heaven

Angels floating on clouds, rescuing the dead from their shrouds leaving the bad to the Satan clan, angels take the sole of good men. They soar to the sky with the big wing span, a succession of souls from women children and men. Skyward, they fly through invisible sky to the utopia on high.

Then, the pearly gates emerge, their purity in the sun glistens and all the souls listen to hear the name of their loved one. Families reunited, spirits get excited, to see them again. Now they are all angels in a heaven so calm, where nothing is bad and no need to be alarmed.

Before Saint Peter, they are judged, all their life and every grudge. What have they done that is good? did they help someone when they could? Will he change his mind and chuck them out and send them down to eternal hell? can they think of a reason why he should?

Then, comes the judgement, the bad outweighed by the good and suddenly they’re in God’s neighbourhood. Will they see the great principal himself or will he be around, but cloaked in stealth? Who will they know? where can they go? can they just sit there and grow? For they have been chosen to sit with the spirits and watch the world as though they are in it.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, death, flash fiction, Poetry

Hell

In a murky world, where demons rule and eat and slash and drool over human parts from faraway lands to where this hell fire land expands. The fiery world of Satan, where, humans are slaves and work in caves and the living souls the devil craves.

For they have come here from fires, tombs and graves, each one, heaven they crave. Each human with guilt to bear, something bad sometime, somewhere, that haunts their minds and never heels with time. No matter how much they pray at their shrine.

Satan was watching seeing the evil checking out how far they would go. Now they are here in this kingdom of lost souls, working for the master of evil, yet they still crave for heaven or to be back on earth, so they can put things right at rebirth.

Alas, Satan has got them they are part of his gang, with the baddest of all they now hang. He is their godfather, head of the clan, they are but foot soldiers not even men. Dispensed with at the nod of his head, twice dead. Nothing lays beyond that evil, nothing to rebirth, just the damnation of Satan’s evil on earth.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017