Across the Aisle

Their eyes met in wonder lust, trying to avoid each other’s gaze on the bus. She looked down, as if to frown, he took his time, before looking away. She looked up briefly and gave a smile, he caught it from across the Aisle. He bowed his head as if to ignore, but, knew he wanted to explore.

He returned his head to her glance with a smile, thinking he missed her attention by a mile? She clocked it out the corner of her eye, the look on her face was rye. She uncrossed her legs to fold them the other way, he saw the body language saying come to play. He stared at her fine legs, and wondered would she join him in bed. She knew the message was read but, saw his face full of dread.

As she was getting off the bus he turned his head to watch her leave with nothing said. But, she had a plan and dropped her number in his hand. He texted her to say hi! She responded, suggested he get off the bus, so, he alighted without asking why. Behind him he heard a sigh, she was waiting, the end was nigh. Their lips met with a passion so high, this love had started to fly.

 

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

The Runner

Chilling fog across peat bogs howling dogs on timber logs. Loosing footings stumble and fall the eerie sound of the owl call. Cold and wet, on the run, no happy days no fun or laughs just big over coats and scarves. On into the dense echo of the fog, bordering rancid bog. Light up ahead, fill with dread hunter force wanting you dead.

Change direction, into a stream, back over tracks, to cover the scent, turn around and head back up the ground, listening to the baying of hounds. Running on empty bumbling and fumbling. Memory still sharp, thinking straight, moving on at a doubled rate.

Silence prevails, lost the tail, temporary derail. Into a culvert, under a bridge, look at the map, quick power nap, then back on feet, system to beat, hunter Force turns up the heat. Come low on the hill then way up high, grey cloud sheets up in the sky, all the runner can spy. Then, in the distance, headlights, the runner has made it to the end on that long winter night.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Sea Float

Floating in the sea, head and body calm legs scurrying, hurrying, kicking, keeping me afloat, waves lift my weightless waterlogged load. Free floating bobbing in harmony with the waves, salty moisture penetrating my lips cold numbness of the sea extracting heat from my head to my feet, sun warming my face, life moving at a slow pace. No panic no fear just floating here.

I spy no land and swim to nowhere, just treading water in the tranquility of mystic mire, in the middle of somewhere, daylight fading, sun setting on distant horizon. Night is still with the rush of the sea, moon glistening light show, just for me. Night makes me weary, I try to stay awake, keeping my head from going below the wake. Soon, I drift into disturbed sleep, waking at the cold of waves from the deep, hitting my face in this tranquil place.

Day light breaks early, painting its yellow glow on the sea below, warming the air on the horizon as its warmth rises. Body numb with cold, shivering out of control. I start to slide under every large wave, cool relief from the sun’s burn. I slowly go lower and lower no panic no regret just cold and wet. Head right under in deep dark yonder, what will be I wonder. From each wave, I re-emerge, sunlight glistening on Sea surge. Then finally one more wave takes me down to a dark murky grave. No breathing no heaving, just gentle glide to the depths of the sea where my body can hide, until one day its washes up on a beach on a morning tide.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

A Stranger In Town

The tall dark stranger rode into town to find some where to put his weary head down. He alighted his horse and tied it of course as he headed for the local saloon. This mighty man, propped at the bar, ordered a Jack Daniels in his jar. With his tilted Stetson over his face he downed the sour mash in a dash, then the barman topped him up another whiskey in his cup. Then in from the street came cool hand Pete.

He wore two guns and stood seven feet one, not the sort of man you shake hands with when you meet. Pete was like a cat with nine lives, shot at many a time by passers-by, all of them bit the dust on the floor as Pete’s guns roared, now everyone trembles when he walks through the door.

Now before cool hand Pete could reach the bar for his seat the stranger in the corner pulled back his poncho and dropped him without rising to his feet. You could hear a pin drop as the stranger finished his last drop. He headed to the swinging bar doors never glancing back at the floor. On his horse he climbed, rode out of town as the clock chimed. No one knew who that stranger was, or why he shot cool hand Pete. But no one cared, only that unknown stranger was the one that dared

 

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

A Poet’s About

I can manipulate words into shapes make them dance on the page like mighty apes. I can send love and caress, whisper sweet words about butterflies and birds. I can talk about the absurd, tell you the gossip I have overheard. I can tell of oceans washing over your body, of cleansing rains or even booked drains. I can set it on the plains, or flying high in airplanes.

I can cut you disrupt you, I can savage and beat you, make you cry, spin you a lie. I can be a spy, a bomber dropping words from a high, sending them like guided missiles right into where you lie. I can bring you to your knees, tell tales of your pleas. I can bring Satan to ride through your mind scaring you with visions of every kind.

I can make you laugh until you cry leave you feeling on a high, I can have fun and be daft, writing again and again, draft after draft until I get a laugh. I can talk of autumnal leaves or sunshine and rainbows and the gold to which they lead. I can get a message across and make you look at life, I’m the boss, no rules to follow just jewels to swallow and let me wallow. Cos, I am a poet not everyone knows it. But I am a rhymer, perfect timer. I write short, I write long rhyming like the chorus of a song. I am a danger a word arranger, fact or fiction I can make it stranger. Mess with the poet and they will let you know it.

 

©All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Mice

A little mouse lived in a hole in a little old house, yes, Barrister the mouse, being a typical mouse loved cheese, of which he had plenty, it came up to his knees. Now barrister the mouse who lived in the hole in the little old house, met a lady mouse called Alice. Alice came from the other side of town and declared the hole her home palace, but she had to confess with no Malice, that she hated cheese, and in order to please she would have to be served cake. So there they were two mice in a hole in the small house, filled with cheese and cake.

A year or so past after they married, when three baby mice hurried and scurried, little white mice not once, twice but thrice. Now, those little mice didn’t like cheese or cake, but drank tea and one took coffee. Soon aunty Jennifer mouse came to stay, she tidied all the stuff away now Jennifer mouse didn’t care for cheese or cake or tea or coffee, but she adored spam, in a can, she brought loads, in a pram.

Then, uncle John came to stay, he brought enough luggage for more than a day, He brought jars of pickles and chutney too, the smell of them made everyone go phew! Then one day there was a knock at the door, surely there could not be anymore. It was cousin Dean from Milton Keynes, how could they fit him into the den with all of them? Now, Dean did not know how long he would stay, was it a week or a day? The mice emptied the hole; of cheese and cake, tea and coffee and spam in the pram, even uncle’s pickles were gone so that Dean could stay for long. Now, Dean was a modern mouse, at no cheese he did not grouse, for now the only thing they eat in the house is beans on toast.

©All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Your Choice

All alone, nowhere to call home, sofa surfing, nomadic loafer. Anger rises no surprises, hounded by your past, how long will it last? Used by all, scarred as you fall, free for all society maul. Making bad calls.

History shaped you; pounded you and raped you, brought you to your knees, just wanted to please, now life of sleaze that disagrees. Once again on your knees, not praying to a god. but, struggling so on you plod. No job, not the type to rob. Life taken and shaken, future forsaken. Life of drugs replaces the hugs. Anger smashes love crushing olive branches from a dove.

Advice not taken, path mistaken, lonely walk to who knows where, flitting from place to place as people care until you scare, then you are not welcome there. No money to hold your flat, selling this and that, surviving the only way, you know how, living in the here and now, no routes just any old how.

Take your chances on the streets, soon if not now. You can beat this turn it around pick your life up off the ground. Only you can live this life and only you can change your mind. Recognise when people are being kind and don’t upset with your constant whine. It’s up to you to put that life behind.

 ©All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

 

Permeable

Solid ground not permeable from liquid and drudge, needing much rain to turn to sludge. Saturation of moisture softens the surface, takes away the debris, refreshing the life and changing its flow where it ends is not for us to know. The more water falls the softer the surface gets, until it blends into its very core, opening ever spore. Softening every cell its own unique well.

Layer upon layer stripped away, deposited across vast expanse forming stacks of loam and sludge, deposited where ever it roams the ground to intermingle and permeate, to infiltrate into the heart, the centre the core, of its new-found host, better able to handle this intruder, extruder earth mover. Deposited until it is time for it to complete its journey: dissipating, dissolving ever evolving until once again the water runs clear.

Minerals, rock and solid stock, channel the residue to drains and plains where it’s absorbed again, pure and clean lubricating the scene, too little to saturate or change its hosts state just making it more adaptable more resilient to the flood of liquid to decay its surface, dissolving as part of this cycle ever-revolving. Waiting for the molecules to freeze, creating a hard-exterior, baking, drying, disappearing at midday when the sun is high, able to cope, more to come from this flood of stained life, sodden water streaming life creating and altering with its blunt knife.

©All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Love That Is

One step closer to complete love, the love that lasts and defines you, it’s hue absorbs you takes your breath away enthralls you. Love that will crawl to you no matter how hard struggling over ever yard, just to be by your side, being part of this roller coaster ride.

Love that commits with pride, that will never hide, love that’s knowing, seed sowing so it goes stronger, lasts longer chained to lovers under the covers, blossoming fruit, made to suit. Never looting, always routing, sometimes disputing, but never abusing.

Love like tomorrow, a love never borrowed, hollowed, mellowed. A love that is fierce intense makes sense. Love that makes no difference what you drive or rent, whether you borrow or how much you lent. Love that lets you be heard, to venture, to be angry and spent. Love that holds its arms out, pulls you away, knows what to say with no delay. A love for every day and every way; a love that’s implied without having to say. Love that is here to stay

©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