Uncategorized – Page 4 – Rhythm of the Ink

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.

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.

Jul 31, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, bus, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

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.

Jul 29, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, poem, Poetry, political, short story, sleep, Uncategorized

The Runner

Chilling fog across peat bogs howling dogs on timber logs. Loosing footings stumble and fall the eerie sound of the owl call. Cold and wet, on the run, no happy days no fun or laughs just big over coats and scarves. On into the dense echo of the fog, bordering rancid bog. Light up ahead, fill with dread hunter force wanting you dead.

Change direction, into a stream, back over tracks, to cover the scent, turn around and head back up the ground, listening to the baying of hounds. Running on empty bumbling and fumbling. Memory still sharp, thinking straight, moving on at a doubled rate.

Silence prevails, lost the tail, temporary derail. Into a culvert, under a bridge, look at the map, quick power nap, then back on feet, system to beat, hunter Force turns up the heat. Come low on the hill then way up high, grey cloud sheets up in the sky, all the runner can spy. Then, in the distance, headlights, the runner has made it to the end on that long winter night.

Jul 28, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, death, flash fiction, lost, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

Sea Float

Floating in the sea, head and body calm legs scurrying, hurrying, kicking, keeping me afloat, waves lift my weightless waterlogged load. Free floating bobbing in harmony with the waves, salty moisture penetrating my lips cold numbness of the sea extracting heat from my head to my feet, sun warming my face, life moving at a slow pace. No panic no fear just floating here.

I spy no land and swim to nowhere, just treading water in the tranquility of mystic mire, in the middle of somewhere, daylight fading, sun setting on distant horizon. Night is still with the rush of the sea, moon glistening light show, just for me. Night makes me weary, I try to stay awake, keeping my head from going below the wake. Soon, I drift into disturbed sleep, waking at the cold of waves from the deep, hitting my face in this tranquil place.

Day light breaks early, painting its yellow glow on the sea below, warming the air on the horizon as its warmth rises. Body numb with cold, shivering out of control. I start to slide under every large wave, cool relief from the sun’s burn. I slowly go lower and lower no panic no regret just cold and wet. Head right under in deep dark yonder, what will be I wonder. From each wave, I re-emerge, sunlight glistening on Sea surge. Then finally one more wave takes me down to a dark murky grave. No breathing no heaving, just gentle glide to the depths of the sea where my body can hide, until one day its washes up on a beach on a morning tide.

Jul 26, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, death, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

A Stranger In Town

The tall dark stranger rode into town to find some where to put his weary head down. He alighted his horse and tied it of course as he headed for the local saloon. This mighty man, propped at the bar, ordered a Jack Daniels in his jar. With his tilted Stetson over his face he downed the sour mash in a dash, then the barman topped him up another whiskey in his cup. Then in from the street came cool hand Pete.

He wore two guns and stood seven feet one, not the sort of man you shake hands with when you meet. Pete was like a cat with nine lives, shot at many a time by passers-by, all of them bit the dust on the floor as Pete’s guns roared, now everyone trembles when he walks through the door.

Now before cool hand Pete could reach the bar for his seat the stranger in the corner pulled back his poncho and dropped him without rising to his feet. You could hear a pin drop as the stranger finished his last drop. He headed to the swinging bar doors never glancing back at the floor. On his horse he climbed, rode out of town as the clock chimed. No one knew who that stranger was, or why he shot cool hand Pete. But no one cared, only that unknown stranger was the one that dared

Jul 25, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized, words

A Poet’s About

I can manipulate words into shapes make them dance on the page like mighty apes. I can send love and caress, whisper sweet words about butterflies and birds. I can talk about the absurd, tell you the gossip I have overheard. I can tell of oceans washing over your body, of cleansing rains or even booked drains. I can set it on the plains, or flying high in airplanes.

I can cut you disrupt you, I can savage and beat you, make you cry, spin you a lie. I can be a spy, a bomber dropping words from a high, sending them like guided missiles right into where you lie. I can bring you to your knees, tell tales of your pleas. I can bring Satan to ride through your mind scaring you with visions of every kind.

I can make you laugh until you cry leave you feeling on a high, I can have fun and be daft, writing again and again, draft after draft until I get a laugh. I can talk of autumnal leaves or sunshine and rainbows and the gold to which they lead. I can get a message across and make you look at life, I’m the boss, no rules to follow just jewels to swallow and let me wallow. Cos, I am a poet not everyone knows it. But I am a rhymer, perfect timer. I write short, I write long rhyming like the chorus of a song. I am a danger a word arranger, fact or fiction I can make it stranger. Mess with the poet and they will let you know it.

Jul 24, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, pig, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized, underground

Mice

A little mouse lived in a hole in a little old house, yes, Barrister the mouse, being a typical mouse loved cheese, of which he had plenty, it came up to his knees. Now barrister the mouse who lived in the hole in the little old house, met a lady mouse called Alice. Alice came from the other side of town and declared the hole her home palace, but she had to confess with no Malice, that she hated cheese, and in order to please she would have to be served cake. So there they were two mice in a hole in the small house, filled with cheese and cake.

A year or so past after they married, when three baby mice hurried and scurried, little white mice not once, twice but thrice. Now, those little mice didn’t like cheese or cake, but drank tea and one took coffee. Soon aunty Jennifer mouse came to stay, she tidied all the stuff away now Jennifer mouse didn’t care for cheese or cake or tea or coffee, but she adored spam, in a can, she brought loads, in a pram.

Then, uncle John came to stay, he brought enough luggage for more than a day, He brought jars of pickles and chutney too, the smell of them made everyone go phew! Then one day there was a knock at the door, surely there could not be anymore. It was cousin Dean from Milton Keynes, how could they fit him into the den with all of them? Now, Dean did not know how long he would stay, was it a week or a day? The mice emptied the hole; of cheese and cake, tea and coffee and spam in the pram, even uncle’s pickles were gone so that Dean could stay for long. Now, Dean was a modern mouse, at no cheese he did not grouse, for now the only thing they eat in the house is beans on toast.

Jul 23, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, lost, Mental Health, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

Your Choice

All alone, nowhere to call home, sofa surfing, nomadic loafer. Anger rises no surprises, hounded by your past, how long will it last? Used by all, scarred as you fall, free for all society maul. Making bad calls.

History shaped you; pounded you and raped you, brought you to your knees, just wanted to please, now life of sleaze that disagrees. Once again on your knees, not praying to a god. but, struggling so on you plod. No job, not the type to rob. Life taken and shaken, future forsaken. Life of drugs replaces the hugs. Anger smashes love crushing olive branches from a dove.

Advice not taken, path mistaken, lonely walk to who knows where, flitting from place to place as people care until you scare, then you are not welcome there. No money to hold your flat, selling this and that, surviving the only way, you know how, living in the here and now, no routes just any old how.

Take your chances on the streets, soon if not now. You can beat this turn it around pick your life up off the ground. Only you can live this life and only you can change your mind. Recognise when people are being kind and don’t upset with your constant whine. It’s up to you to put that life behind.

Jul 20, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blogger, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, Uncategorized

After the Storm

After the storm comes the quiet, a gentle state a relief from the overnight riot. After the storm comes a gentle breeze cooling the moment, a subtle ease. Freshness in the air, as the newness of the day flares, debris strewn everywhere, battle scene of despair. After the storm, the smell of revitalised grass and trees, gentle day breaking free.

After the storm, the isobars swirl, never deciding which way to turn, pressure low, a temporary state after the storm dissipates. After the storm, the heat starts to rise simmering slowly in the background, gathering momentum over old ground. Heating up in small chunks, waiting to be the main act, once again at the forefront.

After the storm, equilibrium, back to the norm, the usual form, but now it’s getting warm. Pressure building to a crescendo until the heat boils over and the day heads to another night storm. Light night sparks, thunder rumbles and tumbles across the plain, water drenches the ground as the storm begins to pound. Exerting its power all around, electrifying, terrifying. Damage once again strewn all around, feelings abound, doors bang the thunder is gone. After the storm, comes the remorse then the divorce.

Jul 17, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, cave, flash fiction, lost, poem, Poetry, Uncategorized

Lost on a Mountain Top

Wandering, lost in the mountains, thin air slowing breathing as much as it dares. Lost in rock and boulder and crag, energy beginning to lag. Pain in my body, fog in my mind, a way out I try to find. Every step becomes a grind close to the edge of lost with time. Busting my spirit to drag my body, occupying my mind with thoughts of hot toddy.

Stumbling, exhausted, every step of the way, trying to find a landmark to show me the way. Night falls on rock sprawl, into my sleeping bag I crawl. Fully clothed with hat and gloves cold tries to take me from the ones I love. No sleep in the night, no end to pain in sight, running knowledge in my brain until first light. Cup of tea and bite to eat, my body craves more of the heat. Deserted ridge no one shall we meet, weary body stumbles to its feet. Reluctant steps one by one taking whatever will come. Then in the valley I see some cars, I must let them know I’m not far, as I shout, the words come out and echo around the outcrop. Did they hear, will they soon be here? I sit on a rock, this is where I stop stuck on a mountain, not knowing how to get off this rocky top.

Then, to my surprise, I see a pair of big eyes and a wet nose, where he came from I don’t know. He sits by me keeping me warm, barking my presence to the rescue team, like a horn. Soon, I was surrounded and with questions hounded, before I was led off the mountain and thoroughly grounded. Glad to be down, in the warm and dry, small tears in my eyes as I have a cry, don’t ask me why, but I’m now down, off this high.