Lost on a Mountain Top

Wandering, lost in the mountains, thin air slowing breathing as much as it dares. Lost in rock and boulder and crag, energy beginning to lag. Pain in my body, fog in my mind, a way out I try to find. Every step becomes a grind close to the edge of lost with time. Busting my spirit to drag my body, occupying my mind with thoughts of hot toddy.

Stumbling, exhausted, every step of the way, trying to find a landmark to show me the way. Night falls on rock sprawl, into my sleeping bag I crawl. Fully clothed with hat and gloves cold tries to take me from the ones I love. No sleep in the night, no end to pain in sight, running knowledge in my brain until first light. Cup of tea and bite to eat, my body craves more of the heat. Deserted ridge no one shall we meet, weary body stumbles to its feet. Reluctant steps one by one taking whatever will come. Then in the valley I see some cars, I must let them know I’m not far, as I shout, the words come out and echo around the outcrop. Did they hear, will they soon be here? I sit on a rock, this is where I stop stuck on a mountain, not knowing how to get off this rocky top.

Then, to my surprise, I see a pair of big eyes and a wet nose, where he came from I don’t know. He sits by me keeping me warm, barking my presence to the rescue team, like a horn. Soon, I was surrounded and with questions hounded, before I was led off the mountain and thoroughly grounded. Glad to be down, in the warm and dry, small tears in my eyes as I have a cry, don’t ask me why, but I’m now down, off this high.

 

©All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Descimated

Shape shifters flitting in the shadows, alleyway to doorway they stalk their prey, anyone who after curfew strays. Dogs bark in the fog of destruction, wasted planet of dis function, disfigured mammals roam the streets, looting what’s left to eat.

Black cars roll up and down the street; counting the numbers of people in retreat, the mas unprovisioned stampede to nowhere just a place in time, that didn’t heed the warning signs. Vapor spurts from disused silos, the kind of place where no one goes, what went on there, only a few know, we just remember the blinding glow.

Children piled two deep in the street as what is left of their mothers weep, while shape shifters creep taking bodies on the cheap, People of gods pray in the street to have mercy on the crops and wheat. radio signals crackle to life, some have made it and kept their lives, no music to stream just recalled screams of a world on its knees.

Streets of deserted homes, fires still burn at the edge of the street, no water for the flames to meet, just an unsettling intense heat. More metal falls from the sky mushroom clouds, flashes burning the eye. in the distance, a baby cries its last tears, it probably won’t make it out of here. Men in masks arrive to burn those are not alive. Riding the streets an epidemic risk the actions are brutal and very swift.

It’s time to leave this forsaken place and take my chances in a land of waste. Hiding by day and scouting by night, making use of anything that I find, using whatever comes to mind, constantly watching for signs of life, or attacks from behind. no one is kind, they are all for themselves, smashing windows and looting shelves, lawless and powerless the rule of mob. No home, no food, no job; just trying to survive, to thrive in this wasteland barely alive.

©All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

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

Missing

You are missing, gone from sight, we are all worried about your plight, no trace of you, just simply disappeared, no note no reason why you are not here. Did you take flight and leave for a reason, did you think we would see it as treason? We’re you taken and driven away one day, where is the ransom note? you never took your coat. Are you wandering as a lost soul, are you in bits or is your mind whole? We have looked and appealed on TV for you to come home and live happily, but, to no avail, no happy ending to this tragic tale. Are you alive or living in a dive.

Maybe you left the country and are living pretty comfy? Maybe you are dead that’s what many have said, but I have put that thought at the back of my head, I don’t want to deal with that dread.

Did you choose to go? maybe you have plans I don’t know, maybe, you are just going with the flow somewhere that you don’t know. Days tick by very slow, weeks and months come and go, yet we still live in hope that someday you will show. I hope you turn up before we both go, it would be tragic if we didn’t know.

We hear of sightings all the time, we think we get near and you will be fine, but it turns out not to be you, just someone like the picture they drew. Alone at night in our bed we run through all the scenarios in our heads trying to work out where you might be, and why on that day you weren’t home for tea. Then comes the call we wanted to hear, yet the one we had come to fear. Your voice we wanted to hear for just over a year. The tone on the phone is not yours, it says they found you then there’s a pause. The next voice we hear is yours.

©All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Rita

Rita lays in bed, memories of younger days running through her head, she can’t get up, so reminisces to help the time go by, tears in her eyes as she roles back the years. She is waiting to be got up washed and dressed, Carers are late again causing her distress. Every day it is the same, on her own all night long no water no food feeling so lame. she rues the day she got old, the way she must live and she feels the cold. Carers come and knock the door, she wishes she could tell them she doesn’t need them anymore. Short of time, they can’t stay too long, with the system something must be wrong. Strip wash as quick as they can, is this how you would treat your gran. Cup of tea, no food, no time, it would be a crime. Left on her own, with pendent and phone, in four walls that she calls home.

She looks forward to the next visit, which will be soon, but, no one appears at noon, hunger pangs griping her stomach, she dares not complain, she should be grateful the morning people came. Three o’clock, they are late again sandwich and tea, she wishes they would stay, she tries a plea, they are off as soon as they came, short of staff and travelling again.

Last visit of the day, microwaved dinner on the tray, she is put to bed at eight o’clock, they can’t do it any other way, no matter how much she pays, she still must look forward to short lonely days. Night time is long, sleep is sporadic, she reflects on her life and her husband deceased who would have showered her at least. She longs to be with him, where ever he is, he’s truely missed.

Morning strikes and sunbeams drift in to the room. Carers knock at eight o’clock, they are early to put on her socks. They let themselves in and poke their head in on Rita hoping to greet her. There is no answer, they start to stare, her worn out body is in bed, but the spirit has fled, all they could do is stand and stare wishing they were not there. Rita’s soul stands in the room looking down like the moon seeing the reactions of those who care, now they have come early and she is not there.

 

©All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Aftermath

No homes, no aid from a government decayed, food and clothes and shelter a community has paid, where was the establishment to come to their aid, to put lives back together, they lost everything they made. Ten pounds per person, the insult worsens, where is the money donated by other human persons?

A room for the night warm and safe, is that too much to ask; when if you miss a holiday flight, hotels abound; four hundred people with nowhere to live, the irony is profound. The scandal of abandonment, leave them to rot, community cohesion has decided not. Government officials make their excuses home they go to a warm bed and behave like recluses, there are no reasonable excuses.

Subclass comes to the for rocking the country to its core, too big a gap between rich and poor, all because you draw the short straw. Victorian values heaped on the poor. This should not be happening not even in war what do we pay or taxes for. Kill all the subclass make them weak, don’t give them houses they desperately seek. Rich man’s world turned upside down by a blaze in a block on the other side of town.

©All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Spider’s Web

Tangled up in a spider’s web, not knowing how to break free, never knowing why me. Hating myself and feeling so weak, nobody listens when I try to speak. Assertiveness doesn’t work everyone thinks I’m just a berk. Telling me what they gonna do and expect me to say I love you. I rue the day I had to send you away but we had tried and stood by you, come what may. But being abused by you every day was something I could not cope with on any day. You pushed to the limit, no one could win it.

Memories rekindled, life running on a spindle, memories I did not want to have, you were acting like a chav, no life did we have. Pushing buttons to get the rise, you couldn’t see the pain in my eyes. You blame me for your situation, yet you never learned, we all tried to help you but discerned, as every relationship you burned.

Threats of violence persist as though you have stuck me with a knife and continue to twist. Now you hate me, yet you say you still want to see. Getting your act together, yet you never want to change. Your life went downhill, I had no magic pill, now I just had to stop you getting killed.

When you have changed and got back on track, then I will consider asking you back, but if you show me no respect then you know what to expect. For we are kin through and through and I never stopped worrying about you. Oh, how I wish we were not caught in this spider’s web.