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, chocoholic, chocolate, flash fiction, love, pig, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

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 anxiety, Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, Mental Health, poem, Poetry, short story

Anxiety

Secret feelings flash in your head, mulling over all that was said. Blaming yourself, filled with dread, head still running lying in bed. Insecure low demure, long road to get a cure. Want to run, but legs on stun, no let up when darkness comes. Anxious to please, the day I want to seize. Heart beats fast, sweating palms, why won’t my feelings calm.

Antidepressants, there’s still no effervescence, side effects not pleasant. Counselling room once a week, finding it hard to speak, stony silence, eyes gaze internal struggle it’s such a muddle, would prefer a cuddle. Reading books about black dogs and fog, read someone’s blog.

Mental health label of stealth, stigma seen as an enigma, dangerous person, things with you will only worsen. Media hype a load of tripe, branding all for actions of a group so small. See me as I am, not as the only man, talk to me like I’m all right, honestly, I don’t bite. Help me from this dark shadow into the light, where I can be me and feel alright.

 

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

I Wonder

I wonder what it feels like to put my arms around you when I’m feeling blue, tucked up under the covers just me and you. I wonder what it would be like to hold your hand as we walk barefoot across the sand. I long to stare in to your eyes and hear contented sighs. I wonder what it would be like to feel your bare skin, to laugh and joke while drinking whiskey or gin. I long to see the sunlight glinting in your hair, and imagine what you feel like when I am not there.

I wonder if you dream as well and if you would really care, I long to see your inner side and your artistic flare. I yearn to see the moon light flicker off your dress, to ask you on a date and hope that you say yes.

I wonder if I feature in your dreams at night, I never thought I ever would but now I think I might. And do you see my name and wonder if we would be right, is it just a pipe dream in the cold harsh reality of light. Would you return my phone call and send messages of love, written with your fair hand in a silky glove?

I guess what I’m asking is would you feel love, could we be together like two snow-white doves, when the dark days come around would our love still be sound. I often sit and wonder what it would be like to go out for a day, sunbathing in a field nibbling on some hay. Finally, I wonder if you would even look up when I say I want to sip from your cup.

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

Lilly the Pig

lilly the pig is small for a pig and wears a wig. Lilly the pig who wears a wig and is a bit small for a pig, likes eating flies, pies and fries and washing them down with something sweet. Lilly the pig wearing a wig and a bit small for a pig, lies around in the pig pound, soaking up the sun, but there is nothing she likes more than a bun resting on her tum.

Now Lilly the pig with a wig is a bit short for a pig, loves to dig in the farmer’s hay rig, now and then having a swig of gin, which makes Lilly the pig in her wig a bit small for pig, take a big swig and fall off the rig. Lilly the pig in a wig a bit small for a pig, drunk as a skunk rolling around under a rig unable to dig.

Now, Lilly the pig in the wig a bit small for a pig, learnt to drive when she was five, she borrows a car from Mr mar. Off to see family to give them a surprise, Lilly the pig in her wig a bit small for a pig with sunglasses that match her wig, smoking a cig, off to see family and go to a gig. Lilly the pig in sunglasses and wig and a bit small for a pig, dances around at the rock gig until Lilly the pig in sunglasses and wig still a bit small for a pig, trips over the lighting rig, the room goes dark it’s no lark, Lilly the pig in her sunglasses and wig a bit small to be a pig, on her back with the lighting rig in the dark, catches a spark and now, she has forgotten where she parked.

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, 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 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, 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.