short story – Rhythm of the Ink

Oct 5, 2018 Markey Mark Symmonds 21st Century Dyslexia, anxiety, Blog, Blogger, Dyslexia, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, poets, short story, tears, Uncategorized, underground

Dyslexia 5

Brain unclouds as the mystery peeks out from beyond the dark shrouds, the hidden gem tucked deep inside, a secret hide. The end of a long ride; the turning of the tide. No longer need to hide, life taken in my stride. Embarrassment lifted, pressure shifted, memories sifted, brain explained.

Change of behaviour long ingrained, dyslexia no longer reigns. No need to explain or feel ashamed, esteem regained, demons slain, back in the game. End of the pain that made me look so lame, now pulling out into the fast lane.

Assistive devices, mentors advise, seeing me with different eyes. Electronic wizard, no more word blizzard. Understanding still demanding but life commanding.

Aug 24, 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.

Nov 11, 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.

Nov 8, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, love, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

Satin and White Lace

A collaboration between Mark Symmonds and Debra Sasak Ross

Through satin and white lace.
I can still see your face.
Your features I can trace.
No one could ever take your place.

My heart starts to race
As our passion quickens pace.
My hands pull at your lace.
To reveal the satin of your face.

Nov 3, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds flash fiction, love, poem, Poetry, short story, tears, Uncategorized

Pillow

Scarlet lipstick and black liner leave their stain on the pillow of pain, that has seen the world through the eyes of its owner, the damp stained case trimmed with lace, soft comfort for salty teared face, pushed deep in, to muffle the cries, hugged tight in arms of trembling night. Holding the pillow to smother the sight of make up running like a zombie in a fight.

Yet that pillow no secrets it tells, no matter how much she swells, just hints at the turmoil within her head, where she lay down and her tears spread. Flowing locks on soft silent rock, absorber of the shock.

Curled in a ball on bed covers she sprawls unleashing the pain as tear drops fall. Absorbing the lies and the hate and the hurt, of men that just see her as a bit of skirt, the pillow stays loyal no matter how much she soils. Never runs from her in her hour of need never answers back or states it’s needs. Yet, her fears it surely reads, confidante of soft scented joy. She pummels and abuses but never destroys. The pillow of choice she laid her head on to go to sleep and get over that boy.

Nov 2, 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.

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 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 13, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

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.

Aug 4, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized, words

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.

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.