Blogger – Page 3 – Rhythm of the Ink

Sep 14, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, Poetry

Roll Over

There were ten in the bed and the little one said roll over roll over. So, they all rolled over, one fell out, as he hit the floor he gave a shout.

There were nine in the bed and the little one said roll over roll over So, they all rolled over and one fell out as he hit the floor he banged his snout.

There were eight in the bed and the little one said roll over roll over So, they all rolled over and one fell out as he hit the floor his teeth fell out.

There were seven in the bed and the little one said roll over roll over So, they all rolled over and two fell out as they hit the floor they rolled down the stairs as a pair.

There were five in the bed and the little one said roll over roll over So, they all rolled over and one fell out as he hit the floor he didn’t shout as he knocked himself out.

There were four in the bed and the little one said roll over roll over. So, they all rolled over and one fell out as he hit the floor he rolled out of the door.

There were two in the bed and the little one said roll over roll over So, they both rolled over and neither fell out so the little one gave the other one a clout, as he hit the floor rude words came out.

There was one in the bed and the little one said,” now I have the bed to my self I can I can lay here with my arms spread” roll over roll over, you will be pleased to know my poem is over..

Sep 10, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, Poetry

When i’m Gone

Like Lord Lucan I have disappeared, yes, it’s weird just disappeared in what I was wearing and my bushy beard. All that is left is this poem, a memory of me you can look at it with glee. Now there is I hope left somewhere deep in your heart, and imprinted somewhere in your brain a memory of me as I was.

Lasting memories of time gone by, of times when we cried and sighed, where truth came between density of lies. Memories of life as you remember it. But what you don’t have is me the real me total me the inside the stuff I hide. You only ever saw the things I have out, the times I held you and the times I had to shout.

You know nothing more of me, except, what I let you see, the part of me that I gave away free, the part that I wanted nothing back for me. I left you with the memory of a nice loving me. Read my words, in my poems, I write what’s deep inside, they give an insight, they tell you how I feel, what I believe is not right and for what I choose to fight. So, in the dark days when life gets you down I hope that what I have left is a candle light burning a glow that helps you remember long ago.

Aug 30, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, doubt, flash fiction, love, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

Heart Thief

Your pulse is racing, what are you facing, door opens, you are embracing. Candles in silver holders sit on the table, perfectly laid, willing and able. Pour a drink, none alcoholic, it helps you think. Sitting opposite gazing into his eyes, wondering what behind them lies. Your lips red with cherry wanting so much to soak his with your passion. But, you hold back, put up a wall, you have been here before, memories not good at all.

Your body language says I want you, your head says he will use and abuse you. Pour another drink and laugh at another joke, small talk and charm, if only he knew what harm they would do. Then comes that moment you dread the one you played over a thousand times in your head. He reaches in to kiss you.

Your spine tingles and knees go weak, as lips meet first, then tongues of fire, full of desire, you pull away as it’s stored in the mire of undesired of memories burning on a funeral Pire. Your head is in a spin you want to draw him in but that would be a sin. Replay unhappy memories this you didn’t want to see. It’s time to make your excuses and leave. Your heart pounding and sense of relief you have escaped from the heart thief.

Aug 27, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, Uncategorized

A Good Man

Life should be so simple for a good man, who should have lots of fans. He bothers not about convention what’s more important is his intervention. From violence and insults he chooses abstention, very rarely the centre of attention. Deep down he fights his demons, which to others he seldom mentions. For he is a man of good intentions, of many kind deeds too many to mention.

Yet when he does good and helps the neighbourhood it’s never reciprocal when he is in need and his heart starts to bleed and help he needs, he is left on his own and no one wants to know. This man, would do anything for any one, now look at how he is repaid, when he is down and glum.

He is tired and spent, fed up of being a gent of being used then abused, that’s not the spirit in which it was meant. That man who offered his all and asked nothing in return, who will never learn as he is driven by genuine concern. Look back at your memories, he will not be there, as he helped you when you were in despair, now you look past him as if he is not there, until, you need him again and more of his compassion to spare.

Aug 27, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, death, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, Uncategorized

Killing Machines

Motors quietly spring into life, propelling the killing machines like clockwork scythes, wreaking havoc and trouble and strife, knowing no value of human life. Robotic motions showing no emotion, just forward motion to the enemy they march, through water and mud and railway arches the machines come alive to dominate the world they strive.

Chopping and flailing, and shooting at will, humans cut down like butter, blood oozing through the gutter, yet not a word do they utter, not a murmur or stutter, just bodies adding to the carnage of death and clutter. Those machines of death marauding in a land of weak feeble tribes.

Metal networks of destruction; death of a race, unrelenting, uncaring, unfeeling, charge of the death machines. Hour upon hour the country they scour more bodies pile up by the hour. East to west, North to South, machines push on to continue their rout. Then, as if they had finished with the earth, they all disappear into the sea, leaving a sneak preview of what the world would soon be.

Aug 26, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds army, Blog, Blogger, bullying, doubt, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, political, short story, Uncategorized

View from the Shadows

In the lonely shadows I hide, watching two worlds collide, scared to venture outside. I live with pride, that I am not part of what’s going on outside, part of the animalistic joyride, of sheep that swim with the tide. I’m happy in this lonely place where I hide.

Some nights I have cried and to find a reason I have tried, but no reasons come to mind, why people should hurt fellow man kind. The actions of hate are just outside my gate, no sign it will dissipate. People shouting cussing each other and their mother, no respect for each other nor religion or colour.

I look from my hide out, from my long lonely shadows, safe behind strong doors and windows. Watching the animals to and fro as the battle scars sows, where it ends, who wins, no one knows, just hatred row on row. Tear gas and burning cars, sticks and stones, co-ordinated on mobile phones. I still hide, all alone, watching the hatred roll down the road until it is back out of site mistakenly thinking that’s the end of the fight.

Aug 23, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, Uncategorized, words

Obscured Light

The bright sun gives way slowly, to a dark grey creeping moon, darkness will be here soon. Rays of light flicker from the ever-advancing moon, changing the shape of the sun, as coldness descends, on a summers day, when the moon and sun are both out to play.

The moon blackens as it continues its journey across the face of the sun, obscuring light as though night time has sprung. Crowds form on sun drenched mounds, waiting for the moon to complete its rounds. Dark glasses and pinhole cameras to stop optic burn, as mums and dads and children watch this spectacle, of which, in school they learned.

A full on Solar Eclipse, sun forming shapes of ellipse, until, all that is left is the cold and dark, with the hue of the odd sun beam raising a spark. Then, from the dark, the sun starts to emerge from the edge of the moon, right on the verge, shimmering heat rays as the day starts to burst into colour, slowly heating the ground as the sun slides around. No sudden burst of celestial light, just slow evaporation of the night, until day is restored in full sunlight.

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

Empty Vessel

Inside this tin shell, there is no heaven or hell, just a void, a dark space inside, where my soul goes to hide, it feels so long ago that this inside died, leaving no trace, only ice, in this dark place. I looked long ago for life in this deserted cell, but, found only my heart, cold as ice, cryogenic island hanging in the vastness of this empty shell, no stories will it tell.

Before the wasteland; came the anger, the hurt, the torment that had nowhere to venture, but ripped the inside as it sat and cried. Made the mojo go, feelings come and go like a yo-yo. Slowly drifting, running out, leaking feelings, all over the place, until there are no more to seep onto the floor, just a heart to seize and freeze.

Contemplate a thaw, to open that door and let those demons and feelings return to this tin shell start to burn and swell, to thaw my heart making a fresh start, new blood racing to my heart. Yet deep within, it knows not how to fill the void, can’t let go of how life has always been. Deep inside, where darkness and claustrophobia reside, there will always be a space so wide, full of darkness, for me to hide.

Aug 16, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, doubt, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, Uncategorized, words

Absurd Words

Give a poet a word, something quite absurd like lemon curd, OK that’s two words. What can be done with lemon curd, that uses and twists and turns words, that makes them rhyme in perfect time. Poets can play with its use, turning it to radioactive slime; using it as a cleaning product to get rid of dirt and grime. Letting it run through their hands like alien sticky slime, but, then there is a favorite of mine, slap it on hot buttered toast and eat them one at a time.

Give a poet a word or a phrase and they will play for days and days, fitting it in poems, different ways, but sometimes their mind will go blank and at the paper they will stare, until a new idea comes to bare, something abstract they might dare to write, with flare that will ignite passion, no word ration.

Then one day someone will say, bet they can’t write one about this. The poet will writhe and twist and turn and discern, using everything they have learned. Oh, how they wish they had never started, when will it end, it will drive them round the bend. Suddenly, the penny drops and out of nowhere an idea flops. Ink drops start to flow as the poem starts to grow and grow, it just ebbs and flows, this heady prose, where it stops no one knows.

Aug 15, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, Uncategorized

The Bored Bard

The bored bard tried hard to write a shard of prose about his toes, why he wanted to write about his toes I guess only he knows. The bored bard, found it hard to write anew every day, in an exciting way, so, he wrote often a load of rot and then sometimes it was not, but then just occasionally he would spill the lot.

The bored bard found it hard to write on a summers day, he watched the birds and the butterflies at play, frittering away the day. The bored bard tried playing cards, being inspired by kings and Queens, but, he became the joker as the smile left his face when he couldn’t write and ace and stormed around the house like a jumping jack.

Oh, this bored bard found it hard to be inspired and write a piece that everyone admired, no imagination fired, just a brain weary and tired, he thought that maybe he should retire. So, out came his quill and he wrote of his own free will, until he made himself ill, and went to bed with a bottle of pills. The bored bard slept hard and had many dreams, when he awoke he picked up his quill and wrote reams about his dreams, on all sorts of ridiculous themes. He is still a bored bard although to imagine that is hard, cos when he dreams he becomes an insatiable bard, yes you wouldn’t know it but he becomes an incredible poet.