Tiny River

Tiny river trickling along the narrow channel, meandering along like a lazy camel. Twisting and turning down the mountainside looking for a path to take, somewhere to hide.

Slipping silently over moss-covered rock, gathering momentum picking up the pace reaching out to fill the cavernous space. Smoothing the rock face as it starts to race to the edge of oblivion to the side of its fate. Over the edge, the fine cascade dropping to the granite below in its continuous harmonious flow.

Gouging canyons, white water torrent, exploding cauldron of froth, descending into the distance sweeping debris away, casting its load aside as it hurries down to meet its death, absorbed by the ferocious vastness of the ocean.

© All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2018

Bubbles

Bubbles floating in the air, young eyes stand and stare. rainbows popping in the air. Smokey bubbles burst with a puff wispy white against the backdrop of night.

Bubbles floating at every height, children running jumping with all their might. Little faces full of glee playing with bubbles until its time for tea.

Linking bubbles making new shapes, over the ground they make their escape. Then comes the biggest bubble of all, gently blown until it falls, still that pack of bubbles entertains and enthrals.

© All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2018

Cold as Ice

Cold as ice, no fun no vice. Locked in your mind-set, stiffened, rigid. No give no play not tempted to stray.

Comfortable land of certainty, no joy, no glee. Tunnel vision, ahead you see, bypass emotion the attraction of the ocean. No emotion, icy steel, always on an even keel.

Wounds fester, never heal, underneath that ice-cold layer that never peels. Time squeals, yearning to bellow into deep voice, but the heat of the moment hits the ice-cold layer, never thawing.

Bleak winter’s cold tears seep into the molten core, deepening the coldness, never to melt like before, never to leave those rocks so bare, so sore. Fossilised emotions on the frozen wastes of time.

© All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2018

Serial Killer

In the shadows of the night, hidden from the moon light by the dark, stands a man cloaked in black. His blade sends a glint of light as the beams from the moon bounce back. This man of darkness is not here to fight.

Dark destroyer, killer in the street, not the kind of guy you want to meet. Yet dark is the alley where he strikes the blow and crimson life does flow. This man you never know. Never seeing his eyes, he attacks from behind. Leaving you oozing in blood and mud and street crud. Life ebbing out of your body and clouding your mind.

Into the night the stranger goes, where he is, no one knows, he could be your friend or just your foe. laying there dying in the street, a passer-by crying at your feet. Wondering how many other victims he will cheat and carve them up like pieces of meat.

Months pass and there are no leads to the man who makes innocents bleed, then, from the shadows he strikes again another victim savagely slain, blood spreading across the ground washed to the drain with the rain, soaking the ground.

Serial killer again and again no motive nothing to gain. He kills again and again, communities terrified they will end up the same. Streets deserted no children playing games. He lurks in alleys out of sight waiting and watching people pass in the night stalking his next victim then fading into the night.

© All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2018

Touch Me

Slowly touch me, caress my body with your fingers, let this tingling feeling linger. Let this feeling resonate like the voice of a singer. Feel me shudder as sweet words I utter and free my mind from daily clutter. Just concentrating on where you choose to wallow, savouring each and every hollow.

Calming my spirit, my racing heart, that sensation I love right from the start. You move in patterns as though it is some kind of art, this feeling is tearing me apart. I want to touch you caress and hold you, but I never want this feeling to depart. So, I lay there just admiring the painter applying her art.

Then comes the climax there is no holding back as you find the erogenous pathway and I struggle to hold my emotions at bay. Until finally I must let go, to show you what you have done, the final rush of feeling, the moan, the sigh as I realise that the end of this feeling is nigh.

© All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2018

 

 

Venomous Poet

Venom spitting poet, on paper with ink he sows it spitting, words in sheep like herds, serving aces changing faces. Firing bullets like cannon balls smashing into walls, angry sage of the modern age firing fury onto blank page.

Take no prisoners please or offend, word Smith creating fire to send, rewriting lines that twist and bend, strengthening the message they send. Melodic movements spitting ink like blades cutting an ice rink. Building the verse row by row, winding up and letting go, machine gun speed to sow the seed talking of killing, Satan and greed.

The poet slices up the verse written like a witch’s curse, voodoo doll of prose and verse, vicious words, ideas absurd, mighty ink trying to be heard. Warrior poet slaying demons, recalling of lines like a sermon. Writing poet struggling to grow, it starts to slow as ideas go, losing his flow in tales of woe. Ammunition all spent no quarter lent, message clearly sent.

© 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