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.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

 

A Good Man

Life should be so simple for a good man, who should have lots of fans. He bothers not about convention what’s more important is his intervention. From violence and insults he chooses abstention, very rarely the centre of attention. Deep down he fights his demons, which to others he seldom mentions. For he is a man of good intentions, of many kind deeds too many to mention.

Yet when he does good and helps the neighbourhood it’s never reciprocal when he is in need and his heart starts to bleed and help he needs, he is left on his own and no one wants to know. This man, would do anything for any one, now look at how he is repaid, when he is down and glum.

He is tired and spent, fed up of being a gent of being used then abused, that’s not the spirit in which it was meant. That man who offered his all and asked nothing in return, who will never learn as he is driven by genuine concern. Look back at your memories, he will not be there, as he helped you when you were in despair, now you look past him as if he is not there, until, you need him again and more of his compassion to spare.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

 

Killing Machines

Motors quietly spring into life, propelling the killing machines like clockwork scythes, wreaking havoc and trouble and strife, knowing no value of human life. Robotic motions showing no emotion, just forward motion to the enemy they march, through water and mud and railway arches the machines come alive to dominate the world they strive.

Chopping and flailing, and shooting at will, humans cut down like butter, blood oozing through the gutter, yet not a word do they utter, not a murmur or stutter, just bodies adding to the carnage of death and clutter. Those machines of death marauding in a land of weak feeble tribes.

Metal networks of destruction; death of a race, unrelenting, uncaring, unfeeling, charge of the death machines. Hour upon hour the country they scour more bodies pile up by the hour. East to west, North to South, machines push on to continue their rout. Then, as if they had finished with the earth, they all disappear into the sea, leaving a sneak preview of what the world would soon be.

 

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

View from the Shadows

In the lonely shadows I hide, watching two worlds collide, scared to venture outside. I live with pride, that I am not part of what’s going on outside, part of the animalistic joyride, of sheep that swim with the tide. I’m happy in this lonely place where I hide.

Some nights I have cried and to find a reason I have tried, but no reasons come to mind, why people should hurt fellow man kind. The actions of hate are just outside my gate, no sign it will dissipate. People shouting cussing each other and their mother, no respect for each other nor religion or colour.

I look from my hide out, from my long lonely shadows, safe behind strong doors and windows. Watching the animals to and fro as the battle scars sows, where it ends, who wins, no one knows, just hatred row on row. Tear gas and burning cars, sticks and stones, co-ordinated on mobile phones. I still hide, all alone, watching the hatred roll down the road until it is back out of site mistakenly thinking that’s the end of the fight.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

 

Obscured Light

The bright sun gives way slowly, to a dark grey creeping moon, darkness will be here soon. Rays of light flicker from the ever-advancing moon, changing the shape of the sun, as coldness descends, on a summers day, when the moon and sun are both out to play.

The moon blackens as it continues its journey across the face of the sun, obscuring light as though night time has sprung. Crowds form on sun drenched mounds, waiting for the moon to complete its rounds. Dark glasses and pinhole cameras to stop optic burn, as mums and dads and children watch this spectacle, of which, in school they learned. 

A full on Solar Eclipse, sun forming shapes of ellipse, until, all that is left is the cold and dark, with the hue of the odd sun beam raising a spark. Then, from the dark, the sun starts to emerge from the edge of the moon, right on the verge, shimmering heat rays as the day starts to burst into colour, slowly heating the ground as the sun slides around. No sudden burst of celestial light, just slow evaporation of the night, until day is restored in full sunlight.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

 

Empty Vessel

Inside this tin shell, there is no heaven or hell, just a void, a dark space inside, where my soul goes to hide, it feels so long ago that this inside died, leaving no trace, only ice, in this dark place. I looked long ago for life in this deserted cell, but, found only my heart, cold as ice, cryogenic island hanging in the vastness of this empty shell, no stories will it tell.

Before the wasteland; came the anger, the hurt, the torment that had nowhere to venture, but ripped the inside as it sat and cried. Made the mojo go, feelings come and go like a yo-yo. Slowly drifting, running out, leaking feelings, all over the place, until there are no more to seep onto the floor, just a heart to seize and freeze.

Contemplate a thaw, to open that door and let those demons and feelings return to this tin shell start to burn and swell, to thaw my heart making a fresh start, new blood racing to my heart. Yet deep within, it knows not how to fill the void, can’t let go of how life has always been. Deep inside, where darkness and claustrophobia reside, there will always be a space so wide, full of darkness, for me to hide.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

 

Absurd Words

Give a poet a word, something quite absurd like lemon curd, OK that’s two words. What can be done with lemon curd, that uses and twists and turns words, that makes them rhyme in perfect time. Poets can play with its use, turning it to radioactive slime; using it as a cleaning product to get rid of dirt and grime. Letting it run through their hands like alien sticky slime, but, then there is a favorite of mine, slap it on hot buttered toast and eat them one at a time.

Give a poet a word or a phrase and they will play for days and days, fitting it in poems, different ways, but sometimes their mind will go blank and at the paper they will stare, until a new idea comes to bare, something abstract they might dare to write, with flare that will ignite passion, no word ration.

Then one day someone will say, bet they can’t write one about this. The poet will writhe and twist and turn and discern, using everything they have learned. Oh, how they wish they had never started, when will it end, it will drive them round the bend. Suddenly, the penny drops and out of nowhere an idea flops. Ink drops start to flow as the poem starts to grow and grow, it just ebbs and flows, this heady prose, where it stops no one knows.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017