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

Doubt

When doubt creeps in to steal the show, you feel that you really don’t know. When it stops you from moving on, sets your mind to all or none from self-belief to disbelief, the distance is only brief. The unknown thief, falls like a leaf, no motive or brief.

Wrong decisions seem harder than procrastination, but still you don’t get to your destination. Setback and derailment, other people you come to resent, pride and confidence takes more than a dent. Want to give up as you are spent but in side you don’t relent. Tough it out sulk and pout., hoping more words will fall out.

Maximum effort little return, I carry on in discern. Mulling over my decisions brain and heart in collision, shooting each other with derision. Each one wants to give up the mission. Some will say it’s weak, or that I am just meek. Reassurance and truth is all I seek. To know that truly my work is great and people really do appreciate, not feeling bad and alienate. Wish I could believe myself when I wake in the morning and say I’m great.

 

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Deserted Street

Men and boys say good bye all know the reason why. Called up to serve in a war they don’t deserve on the front line, not reserves. Whole Streets fighting together as a regiment. Swathes of streets empty of men who will never return. Desolate streets no dads to greet, no sons to hug mums, just dear Johns, to all the friends you meet.

Workers side by side, they all came for the same ride, work as a team one unbreakable seam, and go down with a scream. Waste of men and boys who will never know life, but briefly met strife. No guns fired or fixed Bayonet charge, the enemy is still at large. Longing for home, their bed and clean sheets, seeing their families again and walking down those deserted streets.

In their heads, their family implanted safe return not taken for granted. Over the top their turn to drop, an entire street, downed by men from an unpronounceable town. Leaving heart ache in a deserted English Street. Mothers cry, children wonder why, when the officer drops by house after house on the same Street, tears and sadness at each one they meet, finally leaving the deserted Street.

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

Magic Weaver

Lost in your shadow, your billowing love, free as a bird, not pure as a dove. Come find me tonight, in the dim candle light, open your mind and dictate my plight. Make me tingle and writhe in pleasure, let me feel your warmth and caress in good measure. Run your fingers through my hair, down my body and anywhere you dare. Let passion flare, you won’t scare.

Tempt me with your fruit, make my passage to it an easy route. Caress my body with your lips, work your magic with your hips, make me scream in your magic dreams. Love me until I am coming apart at the seams, until I can take no more, but pleasure screams. When you think my body has had enough, come find me again a little rough.

Send me to heaven, open the gate, don’t make me anticipate. Lay with me in the afterglow, my body twitching, sending a signal of contentment so you know, you have been responsible for setting me alight and making me feel high as a kite. I want to weave magic with you every night.

 

 

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

Bomber

Why do you kill hurt and maim, it’s not done in my name, making children die and families cry, so you can be a martyr up in the sky? Yet you are fake, you need a shake, there is no excuse to cause a wake. No motive, no greed, just false belief that makes lives so brief, you can’t justify and live a lie, why should innocents die?

Children sing and dance and have a good time, but you sir are no martyr, you just commit crime, you murder young people then kill yourself, a coward, a cheat a killer by stealth. It’s all about your beliefs and yourself, you are not worthy of death, you are like bad breath, floating away after the main play, not stopping to see the pain.

You are not insane, they have washed your brain to make you think its ok to cause death and pain, for the many people you have slain. So many times, we see this act and here the excuses how lame. But on your family, on your country and on you, you have brought only shame.

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Chocolate

Smooth as silk, sugar and milk. Cold from the fridge melt in the heat, feels good to eat. Melt on the fingers, in the throat it lingers. Addictive a fix a heady mix, little parcels, slabs or sticks. Milk, white and dark it all creates a spark. Cooking or spreading or grating chocolate heaven.

It’s the quick snack or even a six-pack. The box that nan sent as the present, full of coloured centres packed in little trays, it only lasts a couple of days. Chocolate changes your mood a real comfort food, to refuse would be rude. Belgium Swiss and American to, which one are you? Nuts and caramel Turkish delight, soft centre or hard one is just right, heavy and light.

Eat in the day or the middle of the night any time it’s just right, in it’s wrapper bold and bright. Chocolate cake and brownies too maybe even a chocolate fondue. Take it in a picnic on a visit to the zoo, send to your beau to say I love you, special occasions or just cos you’re bored, chocoholic many bars you hoard. If you have a spat or even loose the cat, getting yourself in a right state chocolate is your soul mate.

 

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

Teenage Gangsters

Hanging around on street corners with you fighting hound. Looking for an incentive to maim and pound as your mates all gather round. Bandana over your face, hood up to hide as you know you are a disgrace. You want to rule your turf think you are in charge on this earth.

You are no Gangster or a prankster you are just a thug, being a mug. Uncover your face and show us your case and get your life up to pace. If you were a real Gangster you would be dead a bullet through your head.

You pick on the vulnerable, to make you look big, hoping people will fear you in the black gear. Distribute drugs for dealer thugs and skinning up to keep up. Off your face with drugs and drink you start trouble before you blink. Cannabis makes you stink, you’re not the hard Gangster that you think.

Teenage wannabee, laughing at authority, hanging with your mates seeking your own fates. Knives in pockets, killing is a badge of honour, then pop another pill you can’t cope with the thrill. Up in court tell them you snort and that’s why you don’t behave as you ought. Sent to prison your esteem has risen. Now you think you are a proper Gangster but soon find in prison you are a little boy, just their toy. Don’t cry for your mum cos she can’t come to your defence, you won’t repent until a real Gangster makes you heaven-sent.

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

Witches Coven

witches coven

Witches gather as a coven plotting deeds by the dozen, making spells from potions and smells, ready to cast them on boys and girls. Black clad with rickety hands, long crooked noses not smelling of roses. Each witch chops, the ingredients to mix the elixir, potions of death and one that will fix you. Eye of bat, leg of toad, they won’t break this practice code.

They chant and cast their spells as the caldron boils and swells. Off on their broomsticks to create hell. Wizened old ladies with secrets to tell, magic potions and sinister spells, lots of things to buy and sell.

When their work is done, before the rise of the sun, they scurry away to their own little hovels, they settle in bed with a spell book or novel.

 

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, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, short story

Shadow of Doom

horsemen2

 

In the dark and desolate land, I felt someone take my hand. I shuddered and my heart quickened as their grip on me thickened. I’m rooted to the spot turning cold from hot. Shadows engulf me, darkening the night, they left me wondering, as I could not fight. Fear was here and I dare not peer at your face, I’m just rooted in this one place.

Pull me forward with a start, beats missing from my heart. Walk me to the valley of death, an ill wind blows like your breath. In the valley of skeletons and skulls the fear and pain will finally annul, vailing me in your cloak, squeezing me tight, while I choke.

The world is black and the end is near, why did you bring me here? no light is present and this is not pleasant, all I can see is the moon’s crescent. Then as the life ebbs out of me, suddenly, you make me see.

For I will return not as an angel but as the devil, ready to devour and to dishevel. This is the end of the angel in me, now I have Satan riding with me, watching death and destruction with glee. The horsemen of the apocalypse and one of them is me.

Riding my mount with great speed, of the earth I must feed. Destroying with waves from the sea, fire and brimstone set light to the trees, death and destruction for all to see what happens when you mess with Satan and me.

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.