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.

 

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

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.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

 

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.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

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.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

 

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.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

 

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.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

 

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.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

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.

©All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

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

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.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

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.

 

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017