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

Norsemen

viking boat

The men from Norse came as a battle force, not on their horse but in large ships with shields and oars from the north, the mighty men of blond hair, Gillette’s and beards, coming ashore to rape and pillage, running terror through hamlet and village. They pull on oars to the sound of the drum, with square sail catching the gale, rowing by day and by night, through sunshine and hale. To spill Saxon blood so frail.

The wind Blows the boat with a dragon’s head and throat, across the seas so fierce and remote, till they spy land. With sword and axe they start the attack slaying those who get in their way, those who are Saxon foe.

Pyres burn in the midnight sky as Viking men sleep, in camp they lie, watching the stars that brought them from afar. With first light, they start up the fight and see their plight, with their great might those warrior men from the north.

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

​Ode to a Poet

Some days you’re a poet and you don’t know it. Some days you’re a poet and everyone knows it. Some days your poems touch hearts and amaze. Sometimes they are a bit of a haze. You write by day and by night trying to get the words to come out right.
You hope that published you might be, getting the coverage is the key. You can right about anything: who will be queen and who will be king;  she loves me and even what you had for tea. You can be serious and make a plea, or light hearted or talk about how you got started.

Then comes the blog, hard to write when your brain is a fog. But every day you pound away trying not to cause to much dismay, questioning whether your’s is the right way. Struggling to write something new each day.

Finally your piece is finished, put it on line or just bin it. Wait for the likes the comments and follows to come in. Hope that you can do better tomorrow. The audience love it they like it a lot are they just being nice or not. Alas this is a poets lot whether we like it or not. We hit the issue straight on the spot or we write a great load of rot. When we are old and in our last days those words will live on and continue to amaze. So if you are a poet whether you know it or not, give your self praise each day cos being a poet is your way.

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

My Fat Boy

fat boyTurning the grip thumbs clad in leather to give them grip. Roar of the hog as the valves open, my Fat Boy heading for the open road. Sleek and black with gleaming chrome, seat laid back engine throbbing and starting to groan. Iron horse, my trusted steed leaves the smog of the town at good speed

Out on the vast open road, this iconic hog hauling its load, pounding the highway on empty roads. Rider clad leather and jeans the mirrored sunglasses look so mean. Cut off waist coat and tea shirt give way to heavy tattoos to suit. Bandana covers half my face, people are scared when we roll up to their place.

Wind and rain in my face, pick up the pace, the hog glides along with beauty and grace. With gleaming chrome and engine drone the Fat Boy takes me a long way from home. Wheels turning exhaust burning, see the yearning on the faces we meet.

Rider and steed, cow boys in need, on the open road the feeling that can’t be beat. me and my Fat Boy look so neat, my iron horse with its leather seat.

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

Meditation

 

 

yogaSitting in silence in the middle of the room, eyes are shut but colours come with a boom. Empty my mind of the daily grind but wonder what I will find. Music rifts drift seeping into my soul, rain drops trickle onto a metal bowl. my body has long since left it’s just me and my thoughts and my shallow breaths.

I let the nothing flow over into my head, no words are said, just images of the past. Rose garden with fountains and trees, where nothing moves fast. Victorian ladies wander with parasols like lost souls. I  drink from the fountain, water pure and cold, lit by the sun glistening and gold; this is an image I want to hold. My brain has escaped my body is cold, yet I feel safe and bold. It’s time to leave the garden via the gate, as I come down from my meditation state, paradise will have to wait

Slowly counting myself down, back in the room in the centre of town. Back to reality and all its gloom, settled mind, its back in the room. Light in the head, in a bit of a daze, the rose garden is now just a haze. Back to reality and life’s tangled maze

Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, car, old car, poem, Poetry, Uncategorized

In My Car

battered car

In my car that’s taken me far, along miles and miles of tar. I sing to the radio and tap on the wheel, press on the break to bring it to heal. It takes me to work and to play, and sometimes takes me out for the day. I don’t want to change it in any way. I just want my old car to stay. Dented and battered it never will end, for it is indeed a good friend.

It’s not the trend but I can pretend and make do and mend, cos my car will go far on this tar even though the number plate says R. oh where would I be without my friend, I love my battered old car.

 

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

Election

election-voting-vector-734450

No MPs just candidates peddling their lies and messages of hate, now the election has a date when we all go to rate. Will they buy bombs, or give money to moms? Will they look after the old or just leave them out in the cold.

They all say their words but some are absurd, when they win they pretend we never heard. Promises made and then reneged, social class becomes a farce, when politicians get paid so vast. The gap is massive but we stay passive and let them rule the roost.

War on the world and war on the poor while they keep money sitting off shore. Money is their driving force not people of course, they would sooner you walk than have a car of course.

Low tax and no tax hacks, yet they charge us more to fund their wars. who is paying for this pain? the usual people they are all the same, they want to make you feel ashamed. what about people who moved to Spain, what have they got to gain? will they move home again as their money takes a drain.

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

Pushing Through

Thinking-man

Pushing through for me and you, making tunnels in what we do, clean the house, polish a shoe all done for me and you. Watching out for the dew on the grass, time to raise another glass. Walking along hand in hand wanting to be in nether land.

Having a dream that we are a team, sit in the bath to keep us clean. Never explaining what we mean by love, like a glove that fits so snug it never comes off, however much you pull and tug. Nights by the fire on the rug wrapped in a blanket all nice and snug.

Staying awake all night long wondering what went wrong, why we were together for so long; on the radio our favourite song, we used to dance to it on nights gone. We thought we were so strong, how could we get it so wrong? Then all of a sudden, it is gone, no heart, no love, no song.

 

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

Summer Days

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERASweaty, sticky, tacky heat; talking about the change in weather with everyone you meet. Rotary fans and ice cream vans, people making holiday plans. Windows down on cars and vans, babies out in pushchairs and prams enjoying the heat with their mams.

Barbecues start to be used, sausage and chicken and burgers, finger licking; Washing it down with a drink of your picking. Flip flops and shorts; summer dresses; children in swim wear, hats on their hair, playing for hours without a care.

Venture out, if you dare, sun cream on your body hat on your head, protection from sunburn, going red. Larger and lime or grapes from the vine. Bottles of water not from the tap, checking the forecast on an app and looking for the seaside on a map.

Then comes the night, all sticky and hot pyjamas on or maybe not. On top of the duvet the breeze on your knees all the pollen has made you sneeze. Lack of sleep daylight creeps on the bed in a heap. Get up early, out of bed you leap. Into the cool shower to raise you from your sleep.

On with the shorts and vest, you are already a sweaty mess. The summer is here to stay, you want to make the most of every day.

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

They Just Stare

You sit there upright in your chair and people just stop and stare. They talk to me like your not there as though talking to you they don’t dare. They don’t see the pain in your face they think you should always have good grace. Then there’s the others who want to race even though they couldn’t keep up the pace, they will only remember your chair they haven’t even registered your face. 

Then come the questions you know the ones I mean, will she get better and how long it’s been, obviously  the person they haven’t seen. We tell them we have children, they are very keen then comes the question we all dread the one we play back time and again in our head. How do you manage you know to have you know to do it. I wish they would go. I can’t help the reply I say it so Rye, at your age I thought you would know. That did it a direct hit, now they are feeling a bit of a tit, now they start to go . But it’s not long before the next bit of a bore asked do you know so and so.  

They think you must know cos he is like you must be some kind of queue, maybe they think there is only one or two so you know them all and they know you.  The person is behind us in the queue so no chance of make a u and getting away fast and some peace at last. It’s almost like your from a different class, not really an adult or a human but then what gives them the right to ignore you and treat you like an animal in a zoo. I wish they would all see you as you. 

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

​Power of Waves

I like walking on the beach watching the tide amble it’s way in, filling rock pools and breaching sand castle walls, as it fizzes and bubbles and crawls. The coldness of the sea make calf’s go tight and feet sink into the soft sand below. The sea advances with no stopping jumping and hopping as it raises it’s game twice a day it plays the same. 

Waves get larger and stronger white tips across the rabid sprawl as they hit the sea wall. Spray flying into the air dampening any who dare. Then comes another wave and the water flare.  Crashing on rocks and groins and piers, sound of whooshing in the ears. 

Cold mist forms, the sea fret roles in land.  So thick you can’t see your hand. The mighty force takes its natural course.  

Then the tide starts to turn the fret recedes and the sun starts to burn as the sea is on the turn. Dragging it’s treasures back down deep rubbish and shells it wants to keep. Deposits stones and crabs and shells as the sea slowly back swells. White peaks fade to a foam, drawing down the beach all the way home. 

The sand is wet and cold where the sea took hold and rock pools glisten so bold. Seaweed and kelp lay on the shore like the aftermath of dragons at war. Then come the bathers the children and more and seagulls still happily saw above the newly replenished shore. 

The sea goes back to its place,  gently washing the sand with all its grace. Trickling back  with every reach showing off more of its nice clean beach. No trace of the immense power that was there the last hour.