Dyslexia 4

Chains of ink laid onto the page, what they say is hard to gauge. Mixed up brain always the same; mixed capitals and lower case fall to the paper with diminishing grace. Letter after letter word after word the sentences chase.

Grammar so grim, hiding within the limes on the page, the result of the war I wage. Full stops and commas missed out quotes, extra spaces in inks long laces, pure genius appears in places. Always persistent never consistent but trying oh so hard.

Lost in stories of dragons and demons so gory, knowing the shine will be removed from the glory as I edited the story. Spelling, the telling sign of how my brain was designed. It didn’t matter that I finished on time, the presentation was the crime.

©All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2018

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 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

Life’s a Beach

Buckets and spades and dark sun shades, deck chairs form a promenade. Children in hats play in the sand digging with anything including their hands. Mum’s and dads and aunties and uncles’ grandads and nans all sit around the beach watching the children just in reach.

Sand castles and ice creams, fizzy drinks, bags of chips to linger on the hips. It’s a day at the beach in the hot roasting sun, nice place to be when the week is done. Rest and relaxation and a bit of fun especially when the shopping is done.

There is no tide no place for to hide, but there are some fairground rides, we travelled not far not even by car, and you will never guess where we are. The beach is not by the sea no cockles and winkles for your tea, the beach isn’t miles away you don’t need a caravan to come and play. For this is a beach on my market square, couldn’t believe it’s was right there, so after shopping it’s onto the fair then the kids build castles and throw sand everywhere, hat on my head I’m on a deckchair, relaxing my body without a care.

© All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Entry to your Heart

Where is the entrance to your heart one way in one way out and I don’t know where to start, let alone till death us do part? Chat to you, walk in the park, wine and dine you, the dating lark, but deep within you hold it all in, tucked away in its warm safe cabin. Not daring to venture out, it can’t take another clout. Any explorer you ignore keeping secrets and strangers apart.

Tired of questions of robbers of heart, borrow your feelings and depart leaving them scattered all over your heart. Silence is your wall you build high so it won’t fall, crashing down like tears of a clown vulnerable and broken, used, yet another token.

Smash and grab, or knock on the entrance for ever and a day, thick barricade keeps me at bay, nothing to say, it’s safer that way; leaving the hurt locked away, hoping someday it may decay taking the anger and dismay. The exit is open for explorers to run away, exit from your heart before we even start. Tell me darling what is the key to unlock the door for you and me, so your true colours in a rain bow we see, sharing the pot of gold just between you and me.

Senses #4

The taste of your lipstick as our lips meet and tongues flick.
The taste of your hand, as I kiss it like sand.
The taste of salt as I kiss away the tears.

The taste of food laying on a table, providing you are able.
The taste of beer on a hot summer day, relaxing and fooling in the hay.
The taste of summer as fresh as fruit salad.

Let me taste the spring water running through the hills.
Let me taste fresh bread, made from the flour ground in the mills.
Let me taste the seasons and long charming days.

Senses #3

Touching your body with all its curves, soft gentle skin to match your linen.
Touching the soft cotton of your dress my finger and thumb your hemline caress.
Touching the silk of your sheets, nicely laid with little pleats.

Touching your hand, I feel so grand, soft and warm a beautiful form.
Touching your cheek, soft as you speak.
Touching your face, a warm embrace,it feels like lace.
Touching your lips,your eyelids dip,as I use my mouth to take a sip.
Touching your soul, you as a whole, I’m slowly losing control.