cold – Rhythm of the Ink

Oct 22, 2018Oct 30, 2020 Markey Mark Symmonds autumn, Blog, Blogger, Boots, cold, neighbourhood, play, Poetry, poets, season, Uncategorized, weather, words

The Fall

Autumn leaves fall from the trees, dancing their way to the ground on the breeze. Fiery colours line the avenues and streets, dappling the low sun as the horizon it meets.
Summer fades, gradually holding on to the sun’s last heat, like it’s dying and struggling for its last heartbeat. Children run and jump and kick the leaves, wearing hats and scarves with boots upon their feet.

The council pile the leaves so high and neat, until flailing feet they meet. With an explosion of colour, the flames of the fire take to the sky once again, until onto the earth they retire, rotting and mulching as they expire.

Cold mornings, frost on the grass, brisk winds whispering behind window glass. Roads and paths freeze with speckles of diamonds and glass, glistening in the light of the headlights that pass.

Comforting food in stewing pots with dumplings like giant spots, warming the insides of frozen bodies, curled up with hot toddies and blankets wrapping intertwined bodies.
Autumn fades as darkness pulls down its shade as winter gloom comes on parade.

Oct 14, 2018Nov 1, 2020 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, bomb, cold, death, doubt, lost, love, neighbourhood, poem, Poetry, poets, tears, Uncategorized, words

Would You ?

When you hear that mother cry, would you stop and find out why? Or would you just walk on by? When that man in the doorway is high, would you bother or carry on by? When that man needs food for the day and has nowhere but the street to lay, would you stay and pass the time of day? Would you turn the other way?

When a heart is breaking would you bother about the making? Would you walk by and leave a child to die and not hear their desperate cries without shedding a tear from your eye? When bombs hit far-off lands, do you try to wash your hands and hope you never go anywhere near those desert sands? When the rains don’t come upon another man’s plains, is all you can do is say he is to blame?

Would you love and cry and hold a man’s hand as he dies, or would you leave him to die alone. In whose name do you walk by too scared to even try? Is it that you don’t really care so long as you are still there? What if it was you, would you expect helpers all in a queue? Would you cope with being alone no friends no family no one at home? If you stand on top of that building, waiting to jump, would you hope someone will ask you why or would you expect them to just walk by.

Sep 22, 2018 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, cave, cold, Poetry, poets, Uncategorized, Water, words

Tiny River

Tiny river trickling along the narrow channel, meandering along like a lazy camel. Twisting and turning down the mountainside looking for a path to take, somewhere to hide.

Slipping silently over moss-covered rock, gathering momentum picking up the pace reaching out to fill the cavernous space. Smoothing the rock face as it starts to race to the edge of oblivion to the side of its fate. Over the edge, the fine cascade dropping to the granite below in its continuous harmonious flow.

Gouging canyons, white water torrent, exploding cauldron of froth, descending into the distance sweeping debris away, casting its load aside as it hurries down to meet its death, absorbed by the ferocious vastness of the ocean.

Sep 20, 2018 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.