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

Sun Haze

The sun rises in my eyes it’s always true and never lies, just hangs there in the sky. Blinding light, power to make you sneeze, struggle for breath and start to wheeze. It heats you up lifts your mood ultra violet It extrudes, exploding heat rays give way to atmospheric haze. Oh how I love these long hot days, barbecues and children play, to hot for indoors to stay.

Not mid summer it’s only May making the most of each sunny day. Evenings turn to chill, sitting out late is a lovely thrill, cooling down with long cold drinks, sun sets in orange red skies as glasses clink. Water seams a cold relief but cooling from the sun is only brief.

Off to bed to rest my weary head to hot to sleep, lay on the bed in a sweaty heap, until the early morning when through the curtains the sun once again does creep, after its short night sleep. Down stairs I must go to sit in the garden all alone hearing the owl and the chorus of birds, bleating of sheep in fields in herds. But all is peaceful and no one stirs.

The power of the sun is immense and warm it’s not gone much past dawn as the new day is born. Then comes the storm, thunder and lightning, crashing rain, washing the air on its route to the drain. In the aftermath of the storm comes a cool fresh air cleansing the day making it easier for the heat to bare. Oh how I love those long hot days, but soon will come winter and it will all be a haze.

​Pinball Day

I feel like a pin ball, bounced into an arena where there are obstacles to trip and bounce you around, pounded from pillar to post not really knowing the host. Flashing lights make it seem so bright, but, when you bounce back its far from right. For a minute you are winning and all your points start to add up, then you realise you are sold a pup, your are catapulted back up the board to where you started. 
Progress is slow, why don’t they know, when you get to the end the barriers won’t let you go cos they only throw and give you a new way to go. Then in a hole, trying to get out and even then you get ejected with naught. 

Then hit the wall and hope you fall in the right place, it’s a disgrace, concentration on their face you are just part of the rat race, never able to play an ace. Points racking up stroke of luck gets you out of the muck, then straight down the middle into a hole to be catapulted straight back out, with a clout, you want to shout, to do it all over again. It’s always the same totally insane. 

The Piper

The piper stands so very tall, kilt and pipes at first light, on the battle field he leads soldiers lines. He pipes them ahead, wailing bagpipes scream a tune warning armies the Scots are coming soon. Guardsmen in a platoon fight and charge to his tune, played into battle from first light to noon. The mighty brave piper marches across the battle field his pipes his only weapon, no sword, gun or shield.

As they near the enemy, the pipes quicken time, almost daring to rhyme. Then the piper is cut down in a hale of fire, dropped still piping in all his attire, brave hero leading men across the mire.  As the piper hits the ground shouts go out from all around a Scottish army rises up,  heads for the enemy as they have taken their cup. Wild savages, ravage the kaki clad enemy.

No soldier feeling fear, never wondering why he is here, charging up the hill very austere, enough anger for the piper who fell, who has no tale to tell. On top of that hill where men will kill, will forever be the resting place of the hero with no face, who piped the pace with courage and grace that lonely soldier in a shallow grave, still playing Scotland the brave.

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.


Lost in a cave underground, over a hill and under a mound. Darkness is my biggest fear and everything that I can hear. I am unarmed no gun nor spear, just me and the cave and plenty of fear. Dark cloaks me so I cannot see, my lantern is dead it’s just dark and me. Moving forward as fast as I dare, not knowing where, not going back further down there

I crawl along on my hands and knees feeling all the rocks and gullies. One wrong move and I’m over the edge, perched upon a tiny ledge. Water dripping on my head, oh how I want to be in my warm bed. Ice cold rock so slippery and wet, I haven’t gone 10 feet yet.

Spiders webs entwine my face, I wave them away with great haste. Time stands still at this slow pace, dirt and grime all over my face. Then up ahead, did I see light? I rub my eyes to check I am right. My knees are so raw, my hands are so cold, I’ve been here for hours, I hope someone has told.

Echoes and scurrying all around as rats and insects run on the ground. I push on up the ledge, not daring to get to near the edge. The light gets brighter the hole may be big, I cannot scurry as I am too big. I lay on my stomach as the roof closes in, through the letterbox I wriggle in. I can see light ultra-bright streaming in from a height.

I hall myself up with all my mite, heading towards the beam that cuts the night. Lighter and brighter the cave starts to get, I get excited and start to fret, I need to calm down I’m not out yet. The last part of the ledge is full of grime but I can stand up and make better time. I head to the light as fast as I dare, wondering if anyone will be there.



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.