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

Life Machine

I know you are there, all I can do is stare at the inside of my mind. I’m still alive, to tell you I strive, but, I can’t make you see I’m still alive. No movement I make, you hope I awake, laying here is not the person you know, I look like a fake. Tears in your eyes as you start to cry fearing that I have died. I feel you squeeze my hand, I want to squeeze back but I’m paralysed, trying to find a way back.

This wretched machine keeps humming, keeping this piece of debris running, wires and tubes from my body protrude, my life support, my food. I’ve seen the light, the tunnel of flight, but I have fought to stay here with all my might. I want to tell you I’m alright, that I will continue the fight until I can be with you again tucked up in the moon light.

I still see the day and know everything you say and do, I’m watching everyone and every move, I know how you feel, how the kids are, I even know you banged the car. I wish I could open my eyes and see where you are.

Days of rolling around in my own brain, powerful drugs that kill the pain, its driving me insane. In my mind, I wrote a poem for you, I hope one day I will be able to read it aloud too. I see you are weary, you need sleep too, come lay with me until the day is new.

©All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Markey Mark Symmonds army, Blog, Blogger, bomb, Boots, flash fiction, lost, love, poem, Poetry, political, short story, Uncategorized, underground

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, 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.

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

Little Boy Soldier

Little boy soldier what have they told ya? Kalashnikov on your shoulder, ten or eleven not much older. Did they tell you that you might die and stop you from having a cry and did they tell you the truth about why? It won’t hurt you won’t die and if you do you will be a martyr up in the sky, carrying a gun makes you bolder even though you might not get older.

Why must you die living a lie, no chance to give peace a try. No emotion, no regret, just hardened beliefs kept. Little boy soldier, this gun is no toy it will only kill and destroy men or little boys, it doesn’t care which at the flick of a switch. Running with the boys playing big boys games little boy soldiers a country’s shame

Little boy soldier huge weight on your shoulders, does your mum approve, what have they told her? Where will you go when they come for you? Can you kill them before they get you? Little boy soldier lay down your guns until you are older and can take the burden on your shoulders. Go home to mum while she can still hold ya. Tell her you don’t want to be a little boy soldier marching around with a gun on your shoulder. Never again do you want to see men die, without a tear coming to your eye. Little boy soldier please please cry and ask this cruel world why?

 

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

Beautiful Day

20080619095031_blowing_windWind blows through shimmering trees, blossom flies up to the sky with the bees. freshly cut grass makes you sneeze, children playing with dirty knees trees turn green for as far as the eye can see.

Birds pick at insects and worms before departing on isotherms. the wind lifts them to the sky on their wings, carrying food and shiny things, to their nest where babies sing.

Blow the clouds across the sky, where aeroplanes fly. Look at the shapes floating way up high, soon, this beautiful day will be done and the night will be nigh.

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

Apache

apacheA big wind fills the sky dropping out of the storms eye, dust cloud to shroud, ready to deploy its lethal crowd. Down goes the ramp to start the decamp, thirty men fresh out of camp. Out they go to and froe; left and right into the night covering the arcs in case of a fire fight.

Heads down and up goes the storm, big wind lifts to the skies, clouds of dust, sting the eyes. Night goggles down its green all around, now they can see the role of the ground. Up on their feet, they start to move out, talking in sign, no need to shout.

Then comes the crack of enemy fire, a large explosion from a trip wire. Everyone’s down returning fire, movement up ahead, five hundred men wanting to fill them with led. Grenades and rockets crash to the ground bullets are seen whizzing around. The enemy is to big they have brought to few men for this gig. The order is given to give ground, back they start running, boots and hearts pound.

Every man running into the night trying to avoid capture they know their plight. Into ditches left and right, zero sights for the impending fire fight. The radio operator gets on the wire asking headquarters to send some hell fire. One by one the bodies fall then comes the deadliest sound of all. Click, click the ammunition is spent and in the enemy hardly a dent. More and more the enemies might, hammers at the men on the run in the night.

Up goes the order to stand and fight they know this would be their last night. Fix bayonets prepare to charge eyes wide open the battle is large. Next comes the order to engage the enemy, 30 angry men with fire in their belly, charge. One by one they are cut down, the last man falls as he reaches the crown of the hill, to the noise of the apache ready to kill.

The apache strafes with all its might, hellfire missiles light up the night, Hundreds of soldiers run with fright but no one is safe from Satan’s might. It comes in for another pass sweeping the grass left to right. Then the ground becomes still, off goes the apache back over the hill, back to base with news of their kill. Graves are dug and bodies tagged and put in the ground small wooden crosses lay all around this killing ground.

 

 

Markey Mark Symmonds poem, Poetry, Uncategorized

Graveyard

cemetery_overview1

In the ground row by row stand headstones and crosses some with names and couples and heroes, some plots of people we don’t know. Adults and children who will never grow but who’s memories will never go. Young and old death makes no distinction all of them laid in the cold.

People come and pay their respects leaving flowers, windmills and candles, for some a visit is too much to handle.

The lawn is kept so neat and tight, lights shimmer in the dark of the night. Each grave tells a story of darkness and light holding back the tears is a bit of a fight but you have to keep the grave looking just right.

You talk to your loved one but they don’t respond, just leave you with memories now they are gone. Although they are dead and have gone away visions of better days’ flicker through your head, replaying scenes of happiness and dread and all those words never said.

Peaceful and tranquil the graveyard becomes, full of sisters and brothers; dads and mothers. Quiet contemplation maybe a prayer anything to make you feel they are still there.