food – Rhythm of the Ink

Oct 14, 2018Nov 1, 2020 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, bomb, cold, death, doubt, lost, love, neighbourhood, poem, Poetry, poets, tears, Uncategorized, words

Would You ?

When you hear that mother cry, would you stop and find out why? Or would you just walk on by? When that man in the doorway is high, would you bother or carry on by? When that man needs food for the day and has nowhere but the street to lay, would you stay and pass the time of day? Would you turn the other way?

When a heart is breaking would you bother about the making? Would you walk by and leave a child to die and not hear their desperate cries without shedding a tear from your eye? When bombs hit far-off lands, do you try to wash your hands and hope you never go anywhere near those desert sands? When the rains don’t come upon another man’s plains, is all you can do is say he is to blame?

Would you love and cry and hold a man’s hand as he dies, or would you leave him to die alone. In whose name do you walk by too scared to even try? Is it that you don’t really care so long as you are still there? What if it was you, would you expect helpers all in a queue? Would you cope with being alone no friends no family no one at home? If you stand on top of that building, waiting to jump, would you hope someone will ask you why or would you expect them to just walk by.

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 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.