Delighted to have my sensual poem Fractals of Clarity published in Ramingos Porch online Magazine. My thanks to the editors.

https://ramingoblog.wordpress.com/2020/09/28/the-ramingos-porch-fractals-of-clarity-a-poem-by-strider-marcus-jones/

THE RAMINGO’S PORCH – “FRACTALS OF CLARITY” A POEM BY STRIDER MARCUS JONES

FRACTALS OF CLARITY

how can i forget
the way she sucks me
while she smokes my cigarette-
tongue strokes
tip pokes
softly round the rim
then deeper in.

the sensual symmetry
of close caressing
fondle messing
with her hair
and gentle bobbing of head
up-down-there,

so much love
i hold, in my hands
between my legs,
sliding out and in
rubbing circles round
the sea sound
collar of her quim.

we make self similarity
in fractals of clarity
lying back,
looking into each other
picking out stars in sky black
drapes that cover

what this does
to us.


Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his fifth book Pomegranate Flesh

Poet with five published books. My books and poetry links: https://amazon.com/Mavericks-Mr-Strider-Marcus-Jones-ebook/dp/B00NLKPE3O/ref=sr_1_4?dchild=1&keywords=strider+marcus+jones&qid=1588612979&sr=8-4…

http://lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusjones1…

https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com

https://wattpad.com/user/stridermarcusjones…

Thrilled to have my two poems The Green Man and Henge published in A Too Powerful Word online magazine. My thanks to editor Danijela Trajković.

https://atoopowerfulword.wixsite.com/magazine/post/strider-marcus-jones?fbclid=IwAR3hOLCph7kQ4mTofopwlaDKil-CE0ZUWftdmGztKC2brVi86uKrBBhyRuo

THE GREEN MAN

i have the green man

growing in his tree

feet to earth

hands in sky

head with heart.

prophetic and pagan

his persuasion

is asking me to be

like the mother who gave me birth-

but now,

even how

we go to die

is apart.

his eyes

behind his hair

both stare

at Babylonians

becoming Old Bostonians

changing us from Custodians

leaving the DreamTime

to work in line.

my door,

is always open

in case he comes back in

running half broken

father mine from the mill dripping

stale sweat

on the hearth floor

but i don’t forget

him shaping his words and hands

everywhere he sits and stands

so selfless to let me see

how to set my own mind free-

break the blames that blind you

and liberty will find you;

real truth, is not what everyone knows

but in their echoes

unspoken shadows.

HENGE

in these, so close, contented fields
of thoughts and flesh caressed
by limbs and lute phonetic phrases
in this dark loop of days,

i want what more reveals-
the undercoat of faith undressed
to nature without cages
exposing pagan aspects and its ways,

to behold what light conceals
in blue and grey stone thoughts that smiles suppress,
through the henge of seasons phases
in the centre of your circle as it plays.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between forests, mountains, cities and coasts playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude. His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India and Switzerland in numerous publications including mgv2 Publishing Anthology; Dreich Magazine; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard e-Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; The Poet Magazine; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; A New Ulster/Anu; Outburst Poetry Magazine; The Galway Review; The Honest Ulsterman Magazine; The Lonely Crowd Magazine; Danse Macabre Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic Arts; Don’t Be Afraid: Anthology To Seamus Heaney; Dead Snakes Poetry Magazine; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine.




Delighted to have my two poems Velvet Tangerine and Calculus in Dreich Magazine’s themed chapbook ‘Famous’. My thanks to its wonderful editor Jack Caradoc.

VELVET TANGERINE

i was drinking tea with Dali
in an underworld cafe,
arguing down his table
on General Franco’s hand-
when The Persistence Of Memory
that melts my pocket watch
made time less rigid-
so i fell with names and numbers
into old obsidian dreams-
where your long legs pointed
from six to twelve,
then nine to three
when you bent them-
for me to play and pleasure
each exotic segment
of your velvet tangerine.
Dali left the table
to meet Picasso in Paris,
while my benzedrine mind replaced-
the soft and spent infinity of your face.

CALCULUS

Darwin can’t explain the missing link,
and science, did not invent the goal
of faith in how we think-
but Newton keeps us
sane to find the whole
gravity and reason for our role-
in calculus.

science beyond ours does exist,
in un-deciphered hieroglyphs
and alchemy’s of metals
malleable like petals
on spaceships
crashed in Roswell, gone
to Area 51.

like Dedalus, who prayed too good
through Dublin’s streets
of saints and sinners,
while whores exchanged their treats
for cash, from winners and beginners-
i walked towards the priesthood,
but woke up wet with wood.

i realised, Carlisle was right in saying:
no lie can live forever-
that the Gods we make together
praying-
don’t care or intervene
in human fate and actions-
so Spinoza’s God is seen,

in the orderly reactions
of the universe-
creating life, and waiting hearse-
but metaphors of doubt persist
on the road to armageddon,
for if physics shapes all of this-
what shapes these cloths of heaven?


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his second book Inside Out


I am delighted to have my poem The Two Saltimbanques included in the Dreich themed chapbook ‘Ekphrastic’. Dreich is a Scottish poetry press, named after Scotland’s most iconic word, as voted for by the good people of that country. My thanks to editor Jack Caradoc.

THE TWO SALTIMBANQUES

when words don’t come easy

they make do with silence

and find something in nothing

to say to each other

when the absinthe runs out.

his glass and ego

are bigger than hers,

his elbows sharper,

stabbing into the table

and the chambers of her heart

cobalt clown

without a smile.

she looks away

with his misery behind her eyes

and sadness on her lips,

back into her curves

and the orange grove

summer of her dress

worn and blown by sepia time

where she painted

her cockus giganticus

lying down

naked

for her brush and skin,

mingling intimate scents

undoing and doing each other.

for some of us,

living back then

is more going forward

than living in now

and sitting here-

at this table,

with these glasses

standing empty of absinthe,

faces wanting hands

to be a bridge of words

and equal peace

as Guernica approaches.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his fifth book Pomegranate Flesh

https://www.lulu.com/en/gb/shop/strider-marcus-jones/pomegranate-flesh/paperback/product-162yy8p8.html

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Pomegranate-Flesh-Strider-Marcus-Jones/dp/1291117318/ref=sr_1_7?dchild=1&keywords=strider+marcus+jones&qid=1601049102&s=books&sr=1-7

https://www.amazon.com/Pomegranate-Flesh-Strider-Marcus-Jones/dp/1291117318/ref=sr_1_3?dchild=1&keywords=strider+marcus+jones&qid=1601049439&s=books&sr=1-3

Really chuffed to have my poem Fading Sphinx published in dyst Literary Journal Issue 3 on 24th September, 2020. My thanks to editor Rosey Ravelston.

https://dystjournal.net/dyst/issue-3

FADING SPHINX

another beautiful eye

reflects lifes lie,

when you look into its face

and see a better place

close by.

without that circle round its dream,

everything is seen

to separate unequally in two

and drift apart blown through

old sky.

the why, where and when

does not matter then,

as it dissipates

into other fates

making old orders die.

in all the residue

of what we knew,

a fading sphinx, casting contemporary

shadows, rises, temporary

but still drops by

elsewhere, in the flawed foundations

of younger civilizations,

building their own

mountains of shaped stone

where polished lenses spy.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his fourth book Wooded Windows

Thrilled to have my poem The Patterns published in Issue 1 of Kitchen Sink Magazine. My thanks to the editors.

https://www.kitchensinkmagazine.com/

The Patterns ~ Strider Marcus Jones


somewhere
in everywhere
everybody
happens
in the patterns,
like flocks
of rocks
gathered to the lobby
of Saturn’s
rings,
graded
and sorted
into ugly and beautiful
useful
things;
all something
out of nothing
but not absolute nothing:
it seems matter
that Mad Hatter
and plectrums of light
make tunes of self similarity settle and fight
repeating this same existence
without remembered resistance.

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant
from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and
Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books
of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal
a maverick, moving between forests, mountains, cities and coasts
playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.

Delighted to have my poem Summer Wind published in Trouvaille Review on 15th September, 2020. My thanks to the editors.

https://www.trouvaillereview.org/home/summer-wind-by-strider-marcus-jones

Summer Wind by Strider Marcus Jones

you remind me of the rhythms in myself-

no house to play to

or the sound in someone else-

that drives their dreams

in simple scenes.

your music, is the motion of the waves

soul troubled too-

by yesterdays,

searching for a sigh that isnt wrong

to be its song.

your meadow, is a harvest shimmering

in light and hue,

in summer wind,

waiting, for a stranger passing through-

to settle in its simmering.

taste the rain

and take it in you,

long for it to come again-

meanings grow when fates continue

to reach for reasons, and remain.


Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between forests, mountains, cities and coasts playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.

Really chuffed to have eight poems published in Literary Yard e-Journal on 13th September, 2020. My thanks to the editors.

‘My old socks’ and other poems by Strider Marcus Jones

BY AUTHOR ON  • ( LEAVE A COMMENT )

MY OLD SOCKS

my old socks
sheath the feet
that fill my boots
to walk on land.

hard hands, sweating like peat,
still break rocks
in imprisoned heat
born trapped roots
in dynasties of the damned.

the faded thread-
diminishes in duty until dead
while famous patterns
conceal what really happens-

their reasons behind closed doors
gain ignorant applause
for wars
and poverty

rising from floors
of serial
imperial
cruel pomposity.

###

THOSE LEAVES ON THE PAVEMENT

from bud to life to death
membranes of breath
rustle
and hustle
for water and wind
in self similarity
without clarity
doing the wrong thing.

each tree, is its own fate
landing in landscape
rooted in class
morphing into towers of steel and glass-
those leaves on the pavement
rejected with resentment
turning brown
no history written down.

some of those leaves
are people we know-
but who perceives
why we let them go,
after mistakes
into what waits
with nothing to show
when time shakes.

###

I WANT WHAT ORDINARY OTHERS WANT

i want
what others want-
synchronicity
and simplicity
in life of free will-
sharing some land
i can work with my hands
no more slave still-

time trapped.
lines tapped.
steps tagged.
voice gagged.

this elite mafia
of Orwell and Kafka
has built Metropolis
on old Acropolis-
reducing proles
to zombie roles
in constitutions
of constructed evolutions,

with blood to dust faiths
riding like dark wraiths
bullets shredding
bombing and beheading

the innocents
and dissidents
to steal their lot
and not share what you’ve got.

###

HOPPER’S LADIES

you stay and grow
more mysterioso
but familiar
in my interior-
with voices peeled
full of field
of fruiting orange trees
fertile to orchard breeze
soaked in summer rains
so each refrain all remains.

not afraid of contrast,
closed and opened in the past
and present, this isolation of Hopper’s ladies,
sat, thinking in and out of ifs and maybes
in a diner, reading on a chair or bed
knowing what wants to be said
to someone
who is coming or gone-

such subsidence
into silence
is a unilateral curve
of moments
and movements
that swerve
a straight lifetime
to independence
in dependence
touching sublime
rich roots
then ripe fruits.

we share their flesh and flutes
in ribosomes and delicious shoots
that release love-
no, not just the fingered glove
to wear
and curl up with in a chair,
but lovingkindness
cloaked in timeless
density and tone
in settled loam-
beyond lonely apartments in skyscrapers
and empty newspapers,
or small town life
gutting you with gossips knife.

###

THIS TENTATIVE RAFT

my muse
i choose
the intense interlude
of mood

longing in the swim
of flesh and skin
to show contentment
is the rest meant
after making love
holding all above.

passion rocking and swaying
finds ordinary ways of playing
back and out
those constant streams about
tranquill conversations
flowing in situations.

this tentative raft
is piloted deeper and daft
surviving hidden sandbars
under unreachable stars-

not to gain
fortune and fame
but to be different
than the same
life inside walls and doors
behind closed curtains on false floors.

###

THE DOOR

the door
between skyfloor
topbottom

is rankrotten

portalbliss
or abjectabyss.

it contains conversations
confrontations,
hiding loves two-ings
in lost ruins-

shuts us inside ourself
with or without someone else.

we,
the un-free,
disenfranchised poor
have no bowl of more-
only pain
on the same plain
as before,
homeless
or in shapeless boxes,
worked out, hunted, like urban foxes-
outlaws on common lands
stolen from empty hands.

files on us found
from gathering sound
where mutations abound
put troops on the ground.

###

THE DANCE

pull the roof off
knock the walls down
touch the forest
climb those mountains
and smell the sea
again.

watch how life
decomposes
in death
going back to land
to reform and be reborn
as something and someone else.

there’s no great secret to it all.
no need to overthink it through

food and shelter
fire and shamens
clothes and coupling
used to be enough
with musicians
artists
and poets
interpreting the dance.

then warriors with armies
religions with god
and minds buying and selling
stole the landscape
and changed time.

smash the windows
break down the doors
melt the keys
rub evil words from their spells
and puncture the lungs of their wheels

before they kidnap you from bed
call you dissident
hold you without charge
wheel you out on a stretcher
from waterboard torture
for years
without trial
in Guantanamo Bay.

they are selling
the sanctuary
we made
with our numbers
bringing back chains
making some of us slaves
outside the dance
in the five coloured rings
making winners
and losers
holding flags and flames.

###

THE CUP

a smelted celebration
of victory
and carnal coronation
moulded in dark history-
the chalice divine
to inhuman crime
blessing unjust law
and futile war.

mine, holds the coffee
i pour into me,
or sometimes tea
when i want to see
who are different
in the present.

upturning the cup
and turning it such
to read the leaves-
a gypsy’s
lore and ancient blood
has always understood-

who and what
controls the plot,
keeps us in the base and dregs
looking up, without the legs
to climb the slippery clay
into dark deceit
counterfeit
deception and decay.

take back how to think,
stand at your own sink
and wash away
this cold custodian,
old Eton and Bostonian
suited slick affray-

of corporate hoodies
and big house bullies
hunting and shooting
laughing and looting,
smeared in oils that anoint
herding us to the vanishing point.

###

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

Absolutely delighted to have my poem: Does Her Far Beauty Know published in Cajun Mutt Press on 14th September, 2020. My thanks to editor, James D. Casey IV.

https://cajunmuttpress.wordpress.com/2020/09/14/cajun-mutt-press-featured-writer-09-14-20/

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 09/14/20

James D. Casey IV

DOES HER FAR BEAUTY KNOW

does her
far beauty know
where my thoughts go
without her
when i walk
in lush rain lashing down-

squatting in enclosed fields
of remote wheat and barley
around told feudal cities and towns-
to talk
to fate and how it feels
to be emptied entirely
of hopes sounds-

these evolutions
fill rich men’s purses
and revolutions
are poor universes
that try to bend
the unequal
to be equal
without end.

does her
far beauty know
where my thoughts go
with her
when i walk
in lush rain lashing down-

soaked in moments come to this
paradise and precipice
belonging
bonding
thoughts

serendipitous
blowing into us-

gives shelter to the self
of us and other else-
unlike bare rooms we rent
to leave behind
when change moves us to fit
into it-
with only our echo and scent
of passion and mind.

©2020 Strider Marcus Jones All rights reserved.

Honoured to have my poem Pyramid Prison published by Dissident Voice on September 13th, 2020. My thanks to Poetry editor Angie Tibbs.

Pyramid Prison

by Strider Marcus Jones / September 13th, 2020

in detritus metronomes
of human habitation
the ghost of Shelley’s imagination
questions the elemental,
experimental
chromosomes
and ribosomes
of DNA,
reverse engineered
that suddenly appeared
as evolution yesterday.

her monster mirrors dark wells
of monsters in our smart selves,
the lost humanity and oratory
that fills laboratory
test tubes
with fused
imbued
genes
to dreams
of flat forward faster
distinction
to disaster
and barbarism’s
ectopic extinction.

this is our pyramid prison,
where all souls
and proles
climb the debased
opposite steps of extremism,
like Prometheus Unbound,
defaced
sitting around
the crouching sphinx
abandoned by missing links.

free masons of money and wars,
warp the alter of natural laws,
so reason withers
and wastelands rust-
no longer rivers
of shared stardust

in the equal symphony of spheres
in space,
filling our ears
with subwoofer bass,
definitive
primitive
medieval
evil
waste.

Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. Read other articles by Strider Marcus.

This article was posted on Sunday, September 13th, 2020 at 8:03am and is filed under Poetry.


Delighted to have my poem Old Flowers published in Poppy Road Review (May 22nd, 2020)from my book Wooded Windows. https://poppyroadreview.blogspot.com/2020/05/old-flowers-by-strider-marcus-jones.html

OLD FLOWERS

old flowers

bloom in the after hours

trailing scent-

and their words still drawn

fill the night and dawn

the way they went.

new to ours,

coffee shops and church clock towers

remember those times spent

in warm

touchings born

out of movement.

tempting rain showers

in silent bane’s empty hours

shuffle and lament-

the thoughts swarm

and mind-bed warm

coupling of consent.

Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick playing his saxophone in warm solitude. 

https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ 

Thrilled to have my poem The Two Saltimbanques published in The Ekphrastic Review on 4th August 2020.

https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/the-two-saltimbanques-by-strider-marcus-jones

Picture

The Two Saltimbanques, by Pablo Picasso (Spain) 1960

The Two Saltimbanques

when words don’t come easy
they make do with silence
and find something in nothing
to say to each other
when the absinthe runs out.

his glass and ego
are bigger than hers,
his elbows sharper,
stabbing into the table
and the chambers of her heart
cobalt clown
without a smile.

she looks away
with his misery behind her eyes
and sadness on her lips,
back into her curves
and the orange grove
summer of her dress
worn and blown by sepia time

where she painted
her cockus giganticus
lying down
naked
for her brush and skin,
mingling intimate scents
undoing and doing each other.

for some of us,
living back then
is more going forward
than living in now
and sitting here-

at this table,
with these glasses
standing empty of absinthe,
faces wanting hands
to be a bridge of words
and equal peace
as Guernica approaches.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between forests, mountains, cities and coasts playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude. His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India and Switzerland in numerous publications including mgv2 Publishing Anthology; And Agamemnon Dead; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; A New Ulster/Anu; Outburst Poetry Magazine; The Galway Review; The Honest Ulsterman Magazine; The Lonely Crowd Magazine; Section8Magazine; Danse Macabre Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic Arts; Don’t Be Afraid: Anthology To Seamus Heaney; Dead Snakes Poetry Magazine; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine; Syzygy Poetry Journal Issue 1 and Ammagazine/Angry Manifesto Issue 3.

Really chuffed to have my poem Where Words Go published in Neuro Logical Literary Magazine. My thanks to the editors.

https://www.neurologicalliterarymagazine.com/post/where-words-go-mark-jones

Where words go – Strider Marcus Jones

I want to go

Where words go

After we say them

And settle on their receivers thought

To ease their mind if caught,

And warm their heart throughout.

I want to roam about

Where words hang out

When no one hears them,

And watch them enter someone else

Invisible with stealth

To make them hope or doubt.

I want to be a word

Profound or absurd

And be adopted or rejected.

Bio:

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

Thrilled to have my poem Salted Slug published in the excellent online Rusty Truck Magazine. My thanks to editor Scot D Young.

SALTED SLUG

your words stung,
and hung
me upside down, inside out,
to watch you
swan turned shrew-
hairbrush out all memory and meaning,
from those fresco pictures on the wet plaster ceiling-
that my Michaelangelo took years to paint,
in glorious colours, now flaked and full of hate.

the lights of our plaeides went out,
with no new songs to sing and talk about-
suspended there
inside sobs of solitude and infinite despair-
like soluble syllables of barbiturates
in exhaust fumes of apology and regrets.

you left me prone-
to hear deaths symphony alone,
split and splattered, opened on the floor,
repenting for nothing, evermore-
like a salted slug,
curdled and curled up on the rug-
to melt away
while you spoon and my colours fade to grey.

the heart of truth-
intact in youth,
fractures into fronds of lies and trust,
destined to become a hollow husk-
but i found myself again in hopes congealing pools
and left the field of fools
to someone else-
and put her finished book back on its shelf.


I am delighted to have my poem An Old Man’s Overcoat included in the Dreich chapbook ‘Family’. Dreich is a Scottish poetry press, named after Scotland’s most iconic word, as voted for by the good people of that country. My thanks to editor Jack Caradoc. https://hybriddreich.co.uk/dreich-themes/

AN OLD MAN’S OVERCOAT

summer wore

an old man’s overcoat

again

this year

roaming emptied streets,

children and neighbours chatting

gone,

reflecting

his reflection

in reflections

where sky meets walls

trapping the watchers

inside curtained windows

behind closed doors

and holes in floors holding pools.

modern mirages of money

infiltrating stone circles,

pass through standing bones

like ring wraiths

possessing the solstice

of reason and meaning

in Us being here,

while my old man, changes his God

dying as he lived

in his house,

skeleton and skin

going to meet the awesome silent ashes

of the man he was

when last summer wore

an old man’s overcoat.

Delighted to have 3 of my poems published in The Poet Magazine, Summer 2020 Anthology: On The Road Volume 2. My thanks to editor Robin Barratt and congratulations to all the other fine poets featured in this excellent anthology.

https://www.thepoetmagazine.org/our-collections

VISIGOTH ROVER


i went on the bus to Cordoba,
and tried to find the Moor’s
left over
in their excavated floors
and mosaic courtyards,
with hanging flowers brightly chamelion
against whitewashed walls
carrying calls
behind gated iron barsbut they were gone
leaving mosque arches
and carved stories
to God’s doors.
in those ancient streets
where everybody meets;
i saw the old successful men
with their younger women again,
sat in chrome slat chairs,
drinking coffee to cover
their vain love affairsand every breast,
was like the crest
of a soft ridge
as i peeped over
the castle wall and Roman bridge
like a Visigoth rover.
soft hand tapping on shoulder,
heavy hair
and beauty older,
the gypsy lady gave her clover
to borrowed breath,
embroidering it for death,
adding more to less
like the colours fading in her dress.
time and tune are too planned
to understand
her Trevi fountain of prediction,
or the dirty Bernini hand
shaping its description.


BOOTS OF HARLEY


this universe has no centre
and you’re not there.
this sun is only sunny on the hood –
its light can’t bend more benter
to be fair
as time stops running rings in wood.
the floorboards creak
and pictures speak
when I stand in empty corners making room,
for ghosts that want to have my seat
when they come in from the street
after riding like Valhalla under sun and moon.
summer shoes,
with beards of barley
in their soley grooves –
still think they’re boots of Harley
on electro glide down highway avenues –
with a woman’s arms around my waist
singing Bob Marley
and promising me her taste.
foot down. legs braced –
rocking back the headboard on the bed and base
in the hanging of her breasts
where my head would rest,
her lips a vanished beauty of the past –
explode
unload
to this contrast –
that turns its empty pages in my head
unlit, as I lie in bed,
running out of Kerouac road –
i feel the beat
and go to sleep
with some more story told.


WORDING WITH A WISE OLD SHAMAN


i danced around the monolith
on the dark side of the moon –
and waited for the face to speak on Mars:
there was no one in on earth to share it with
in the gloomthey were going round in circles in their cars.
hiking out in Arizona.
sleeping underneath the stars;
got wording with a wise old shaman in a bar –
and he said: ‘we have lost who we are.’
who we are, and where we come from.
what to do, and where to go –
unite the crystal skulls of wisdom
for knowledge that we used to know.
back inside my human body,
all things here are still the same –
time to smoke and drink some coffee,
then a walk in the rain –
before I glide the astral plaine.

Really Chuffed to have two poems – This Fibbing Sun and Two Misfits, published in Kalopsia Literary Journal. My thanks to the editors.

this fibbing sun by Strider Marcus Jones


when this fibbing sun
dips below this planted plate
of fields—
and waits
to bob back up tomorrow:
solitude, sucks the color
out of crimson clouds
and stars begin their motions
over night’s black curtain.
this dance of being born—
to live and die
in sacred elements
swirling in dust and gas,
in beauty and folly
that repeats itself;
to what purpose
does this engine and design
make civilizations form then fade
with gods and demons?
this ship
of consciousness
in matter
has a stowaway
on board
decoding cyphers
in connections.


two misfits by Strider Marcus Jones


it was no time
for love outside—
old winds of worship
found hand and mouth
in ruined rain
slanting over cultured fields
into pagan barns
with patched up planks
finding us two misfits.


i felt the pulse
of your undressed fingers
transmit thoughts
to my senses—
aroused by autumn scents
of milky musk
and husky hay
in this barn’s faith
handfasting
we climbed the rungs to civilization


and found a bell
housed inside a minaret—
where monk and muezzin
shared its balcony
chanting together for peace—
this holy music was only the wind
blowing through the weathervane,
but we liked its tone to change its time.


About the Author


Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry (https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/) reveal a maverick, moving between forests, mountains, cities, and coasts, playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.

Thrilled to have my poem Mirror, Mirror published in the wonderful Trouvaille Review on 11th July, 2020. My thanks to the editors.

https://www.trouvaillereview.org/home/mirror-mirror-by-strider-marcus-jones

Mirror, Mirror by Strider Marcus Jones

mirror, mirror,

in the hall

age comes to us all,

and looks wither

through the play

of years slipped away,

away

in the lapsed lingo of street

and road,

where tangents meet

and move with innocence

up summits of experience

told,

whose fruits we eat

then weep

when they implode.

these reflections

in this autumn of adventurous directions,

mean more

standing in the door

of ebb and flow

watching people come and go

wearing introspections

of what they know

after listening to a stranger’s small confessions

on midnight radio.

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between forests, mountains, cities and coasts playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.

Delighted to have four poems published in the excellent Dreich Magazine Issue 6, June 2020. My thanks to its inspired editor Jack Caradoc. Love my four contributor copies. Well worth submitting to. https://hybriddreich.co.uk/dreich-6/

THE SAMARITAN MACHINE

this field pond

is only my

dissolved

imagination-

thought drops

of summer rain

making fractal ripples

drumbeat on skin.

a portal shared

with cawing crows

reveals

who scams and snoops and shoots

in contract conversations.

this windsong

of Virginia Creeper,

ruling Bear and Wolfsbane

rustling in black bamboo

trusts its Samaritan Machine

telling it who to redact

in this imposed

dystopian

equilibrium

of dumbed-down masses

worshipping Carousel.

THE MAD HATTER HIDING IN DARK MATTER

in our house

i binned the radio

for playing Strauss-

left the suited rodeo

of casino Faust

and shot the gentry shooting grouse.

into the wild garden

without spun jargon

we went

through rusting arch of rose dissent

onto the precipice of peace

where slush borders grip and grease

like usurping techtonic plates

shapeshifting smaller states.

their innocents bombed and dispossessed

join our shoaled oppressed

of obedient possessed-

while The Mad Hatter

hiding in Dark Matter-

says blame them, instead of Strauss

in suits playing casino Faust

and enslaving gentry shooting grouse.

SUBMISSIVE IN SUB-HUMAN HERDS

everything

has its end

in its beginning-

so why pretend

expanding

to defeat-

we’ve made it bad

so just shag

with who you have

and eat.

never mind the fear

of being no one here

in the crowd-

the real nobody’s

are those somebody’s

grown large

in their mirage

and loud.

rise up. be true-

the land is green not blue

and they’ve stolen it from you

to shoot stags and birds

and ride over you with legal words

submissive in sub-human herds.

BOOTS OF HARLEY

this universe has no center

and you’re not there.

this sun is only sunny on the hood-

its light can’t bend more benter

to be fair

as time stops running rings in wood.

the floorboards creak

and pictures speak

when I stand in empty corners making room,

for ghosts that want to have my seat

when they come in from the street

after riding like Valhalla under sun and moon.

summer shoes,

with beards of barley

in their soley grooves-

still think they’re boots of Harley

on electro glide down highway avenues-

with a woman’s arms around my waist

singing Bob Marley

and promising me her taste.

foot down. legs braced-

rocking back the headboard on the bed and base

in the hanging of her breasts

where my head would rest,

her lips a vanished beauty of the past-

explode

unload

to this contrast-

that turns its empty pages in my head

unlit, as I lie in bed,

running out of Kerouac road-

i feel the beat

and go to sleep

with some more story told.

Really chuffed to have my erotic poem Telepathic Lotus published in 1870 Poetry Magazine. Thankye editor, Jack Henry. https://eighteenseventy.poetry.blog/2020/06/20/telepathic-lotus-by-strider-marcus-jones/

J H
telepathic lotus, by strider marcus jones
hot ride
in you,
quick quim
cum too,
shaft slide
deep wide,
grip him
veined blue.
deep throat
with smoke,
moans moat
invoke,
tongue like a limpet
on your moon-
crescent lit
syrup spoon.
rocked round your rim
four fingers in,
soft stroke
your high note
in drab dusk
and damp dawn-
through its musk
warm swarm.
boudoir-4669610_960_720

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

Delighted to have five poems published in Strands Lit Sphere. My thanks to editor, Jose Varghese.

https://strandspublishers.weebly.com/lit-sphere/five-poems1238163


Five Poems6/10/20201 CommentPoetry ~ Strider Marcus Jones​ 

OVIRI ( The Savage – Paul Gauguin in Tahiti )
 
woman,
wearing the conscience of the world-
you make me want
less civilisation
and more meaning.
drinking absinthe together,
hand rolling and smoking cigars-
being is, what it really is-
fucking on palm leaves
under tropical rain.
beauty and syphilis happily cohabit,
painting your colours
on a parallel canvas
to exhibit in Paris
the paradox of you.
somewhere in your arms-
i forget my savage self,
inseminating womb
selected by pheromones
at the pace of evolution.
later. I vomited arsenic on the mountain and returned
to sup morphine. spread ointments on the sores, and ask:
where do we come from.
what are we.
where are we going.
~

IT’S SO QUIET
 
it’s so quiet
our eloquent words dying on a diet
of midnight toast
with Orwell’s ghost-
looking so tubercular in a tweed jacket
pencilling notes on a lung black cigarette packet-
our Winston, wronged for a woman and sin
re-wrote history on scrolls thought down tubes
that came to him
in the Ministry Of Truth Of Fools
where conscience learns to lie within.
not like today
the smug-sly haves say and look away
so sure
theres nothing wrong with wanting more,
or drown their sorrows
downing bootleg gin
knowing tomorrows
truth is paper thin
.
at home
in sensory
perception
with tapped and tracked phone
the Thought Police arrest me
in the corridors of affection-
where dictators wear, red then blue, reversible coats
in collapsing houses, all self-made
and self-paid
smarmy scrotes-
now the Round Table
of real red politics
is only fable
on the pyre of ghostly heretics.
they are rubbing out
all the contusions
and solitary doubt,
with confusions
and illusions
through wired media
defined in their secret encyclopedia-
where summit and boardroom and conclave
engineer us from birth to grave.
like the birds,
i will have to eat
the firethorn
berries that ripen but sleep
to keep
the words
of revolution
alive and warm
this winter, with resolution
gathering us, to its lantern in the bleak,
to be reborn and speak.
~

CHILDHOOD FIRES
 
late afternoon
winter fingers
nomads in snow
numb knuckles and nails
on two boys
in scuffed shoes
and ripped coats
carrying four planks of wood
from condemned houses
down dark jitty’s
slipping on dog shit
into back yard
to make warm fires
 
early evening
dad cooking neck end stew
thick with potato dumplings and herbs
on top of bread soaked in gravy
i saw the hole in the ceiling
holding the foot that jumped off bunk beds
but dad didnt mind
he had just sawed the knob
off the banister
to get an old wardrobe upstairs
and made us a longbow and cricket bat
it was fun being poor
like other families
 
after dark
all sat down reading and talking
in candle light
with parents
silent to each other
our sudden laughter like sparks
glowing and fading
dancing in flames and wood smoke
unlike the children who died in a fire next door
then we played cards
and i called my dad a cunt
for trumping my king
but he let me keep the word
~

WOODED WINDOWS
 
as this long life slowly goes
i find myself returning
to look through wooded windows.
forward or back, empires and regimes remain
in pyramids of power
butchering the blameless for glorious gain.
feudal soldiers firing guns
and wingless birds dropping smart bombs
on mothers, fathers, daughters, sons,
follow higher orders
to modernise older civilisations
repeating what history has taught us.
in turn, their towers of class and cash
will crumble and crash
on top of ozymandias.
hey now, woods of winter leafless grip
and fractures split
drawing us into it.
love slide in days
through summer heat waves
and old woodland ways
with us licking
then dripping
and sticking
chanting wiccan songs
embraced in pagan bonds
living light, loving long,
fingers painting runes on skin
back to the beginning
when freedom wasn’t sin.
~

IN THE COME AND GO, I MIND YOU

in the middle, where i find you,
i wriggle in behind you
all the way.

in the come and go, i mind you,
what we were is reconciled, you
let it stay.

this template, for being tender,
is our state to remember
into grey;

beyond the time of soil and ember,
into nothingness’s timbre-
be it, play.
~Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between forests, mountains, cities and coasts playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude. 
His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India and Switzerland in publications including The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Galway Review; The Lonely Crowd Magazine.
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Delighted to have 2 poems in Impspired Magazine Volume Two. Thankye editor Steve Cawte. https://impspired.com/2020/06/04/strider-marcus-jones/

 Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate andex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick playing his saxophone in warm solitude.

 His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India and Switzerland

TAKING OFF MY COAT

each evening
is like taking off my coat.
i sit down
apart from the day
and nothing happens.
i let silence sing
her supernatural note-
in the air, i drown
in how the lonely play
as reality slackens.
curdling in a chair
with arms of broken branches
that used to be
and went somewhere
in circumstance and chances-
now greying, like wild hair
at the end of all its dances
with the gravity
gone from its romances-
i feel time's weight
compress the emptiness of fate,
into some sort of nothing
that held my hand,
and left me something-
to understand.

ON TONQUIN BEACH

moods turn with seasons
shades and sounds;
thoughts walk through reasons
ups and downs.

come sit
by the fireside
close to me,
soft fit
and confide,
watch the sea-

splashing feet break blue water
on Tonquin beach,
tall firs fill a quarter
of sight and reach-

waves wash over shoreline,
a soothing sound,
combing thoughts from time
gives them ground
to mingle and mischief
the mind into mire,
like a selfish thief-
that plays with selfless desire.

Time speaks to his daughter
through this release,
while loves lore restores her
masked belief.

Inside Out by Strider Marcus Jones

https://inbetweenhangovers.wordpress.com/2016/09/02/inside-out-by-strider-marcus-jones/

Inside Out – Love Poem by Strider Marcus Jones

the soft scent
thought and taste,
inside out
of you,
is more meant
face to face,
formed out
of knowings new.

the when and wait
of it
phase and age can’t brown,
set to the fate of it
time ticks down,

softening temptations
lips to elevate
with elements of emotion,
whose vibrations
syncopate
when happenings motion-

a simple thread
of thought,
to leave its bed
and become caught,
in the welcomings you weave
that beckon and believe.

Strider Marcus Jones
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry http//www.lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusj…. reveal a maverick moving between forests, mountains, cities and coasts playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude. His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India and Switzerland in numerous publications.

Just started submitting poems again after a two year break. This is the perfect home for one of my favourite poems. Thankye to all at The Rye Whiskey Review. https://ryethewhiskeyreview.blogspot.com/2020/04/the-head-in-his-fedora-hat-by-strider.html?showComment=1588086353064#c6562627403360076815

Tuesday, April 28, 2020

THE HEAD IN HIS FEDORA HAT by Strider Marcus Jones

a lonely man,
cigarette,
rain
and music
is a poem
moving,
not knowing-
a caravan,
whose journey does not expect
to go back
and explain
how everyone’s ruts
have the same
blood and vein.

the head in his fedora hat
bows to no one’s grip,
brim tilted into the borderless
plain
so his outlaw wit
can confess
and remain
a storyteller,
that hobo fella
listening like a barfly
for a while
and slow-winged butterfly
whose smile
they can’t close the shutters on
or stop talking about
when he walks out
and is gone.

whisky and tequila
and a woman, who loves to feel ya
inside
and outside
her
when ya move
and live as one,
brings you closer
in simplistic
unmaterialistic
grooved
muse Babylon.

this is so,
when he stands with hopes head,
arms and legs
all aflow
in her Galadriel glow
with mithril breath kisses
condensing sensed wishes
of reality and dream
felt and seen
under that
fedora hat
inhaling smoke
as he sang and spoke
stranger fella
storyteller.

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between forests, mountains, cities and coasts playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.
His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India and Switzerland in numerous publications including mgv2 Publishing Anthology; And Agamemnon Dead; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; A New Ulster/Anu; Outburst Poetry Magazine; The Galway Review; The Honest Ulsterman Magazine; The Lonely Crowd Magazine; Section8Magazine; Danse Macabre Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic Arts; Don’t Be Afraid: Anthology To Seamus Heaney; Dead Snakes Poetry Magazine; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine; Syzygy Poetry Journal Issue 1 and Ammagazine/Angry Manifesto Issue 3.

– April 28, 2020Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to FacebookShare to Pinterest

THE KEEPER – Love Poem from Inside Out by Strider Marcus Jones

THE KEEPER

you warm the bone in me,
pump blood through stone in me,
pluck strings unknown in me-
whose notes dissolve the screams
of ghosts that blacken dreams.

proud pictures of the past,
fall out of photographs-
some fade, but others last-
and we become the present in their place-
vibrating beads on strings of symmetry in space.

unravel in my head-
fuse fact and fiction with your timbre thread,
more than moves in blankets on tomorrows bed,
wet with cum and joyful tears-
the keeper, not the tenant of my years.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 2009. INSIDE OUT. All Rights Reserved.

SELECTED POEMS from INSIDE OUT by Strider Marcus Jones

Strider Marcus Jones's..Poem/Poetry Videos On YouTube
inside out back cover 2

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusjnes1

http://www.wattpad.com/story/30815-15-poems-from-my-second-book-inside-out-by-strider

CALCULUS – SELECTED POEMS from INSIDE OUT by Strider Marcus Jones

CALCULUS

Darwin can’t explain the missing link,
and science, did not invent the goal
of faith in how we think-
but Newton keeps us
sane to find the whole
gravity and reason for our role-
in calculus.

science beyond ours does exist,
in un-deciphered hieroglyphs
and alchemy’s of metals
malleable like petals
on spaceships
crashed in Roswell, gone
to Area 51.

like Dedalus, who prayed too good
through Dublin’s streets
of saints and sinners,
while whores exchanged their treats
for cash, from winners and beginners-
i walked towards the priesthood,
but woke up wet with wood.

i realised, Carlisle was right in saying:
no lie can live forever-
that the Gods we make together 
praying-
don’t care or intervene
in human fate and actions-
so Spinoza’s God is seen,

in the orderly reactions
of the universe-
creating life, and waiting hearse-
but metaphors of doubt persist
on the road to armageddon,
for if physics shapes all of this-
what shapes these cloths of heaven?

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones INSIDE OUT 2009. All Rights Reserved.

SELECTED POEMS from INSIDE OUT by Strider Marcus Jones

Strider Marcus Jones's..Poem/Poetry Videos On YouTube
inside out back cover 2

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusjnes1

http://www.wattpad.com/story/30815-15-poems-from-my-second-book-inside-out-by-strider

THIS NOW MY THOUGHTS – Love Poem from WOODED WINDOWS by Strider Marcus Jones

THIS NOW MY THOUGHTS

this now my thoughts

open at the image of your name

won’t be revealing

the secrets they explain-

do you do the same

on these out walks

remembering the rain

drop fractals on us feeling.

back we go again,

without preachers

or bad teachers,

harvest high with hope

just us and frayed strands

of poetry and bands

on this bridge of notes

our mind spans.

in give we’ve got

the bloom of this plot

in garden to river

shaping start and stop

the melting clock

of body quake then quiver

through the Dreamtime day night

and soul spirit lit by landscape light.

we climb the Orange Rock

to revert back far

but have no Gaelic croft

to live in who we are.

it has changed hands

until the purpose of these lands

shoots dissenting music out of birds

and sucks all truth from ancient words

so existence is

another language.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his book WOODED WINDOWS. 2011. All Rights Reserved.

WOODED WINDOWS by Strider Marcus Jones

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusjones1%5B/embed%5D

http://www.wattpad.com/story/1031729-14-poems-from-wooded-windows-by-strider-marcus%5B/embed%5D

Mavericks: Love & Other Poesms Kindle Edition by Mr Strider Marcus Jones (Author)

Essentially, these poems are about Man and Woman and Love. Romantic and sometimes intimate, they leave their own footsteps in the rural and industrial landscape of today which resonate our profound need to love and be loved, a need that transcends all attempts to homogenise us into one cultural identity. In these poems romance, chivalry and passion come to life. The Ranger’s mind enjoys its exile in the golden forest of Lothlorien wandering through the Pre Raphaelite images. His mythical and mystical ideals, fuse with our thirst for realism and the alienation of pod life in this matrix of Metropolis. Love is more than a singles bar at the end of a hard working week. It is real and tangible, and like life, it makes mistakes. In these poems of love remembered, love now and love to be, exile ends and life begins again.. Strider

THE FOREST OF FORGETS

i don’t do remembers, or regrets,

not knowing, i belong in what comes next-

without the edge and angle of pretext,

find me in the forest of forgets-

watching your perfections dance and breathe

in my fires flames then read out gypsy leaves;

imagining your whispers in the wind and trees-

before they fade, and fall, and leave.

back inside the house, picture rails

of love hang empty

from bent hooks, that promised plenty,

leaving frameless tales in musty trails-

to dusty cabinets of more

trinkets and traces-

whose duality displaces

sky and floor.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his book MAVERICKS. 4th August, 2009. All Rights Reserved.

Colm Herron5.0 out of 5 stars This flawless collectionReviewed in the United Kingdom on 13 April 2016Format: Kindle EditionVerified PurchaseI draw a deep breath before I put words to my feelings of awe on reading this flawless collection of poems. Mavericks is the best I’ve read of this amazing wordsmith Strider Marcus Jones. His love poetry takes my heart away. His wondrous words about love, deep sensual love, make nonsense of the universal stampede for sex relief and show that stampede to be a sad and lonely thing.

Like the true Celt that he is, Jones puts the language of the invaders to his own use by tempering it in the fire of his passion for words, words that tell of the true meaning of love. Which is? Ah. I think it’s what we receive if we give well enough. But this modern day Robert Browning has much much more than that to tell us.

And now I have to read all his words again.

Rebecca Anne Banks5.0 out of 5 stars Mavericks, a study in New Age Renaissance poetic alchemy.Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 3 August 2016Format: PaperbackByline: Subterranean Blue Poetry (www.subterraneanbluepoetry.com)

Title of Book: Mavericks

Author: Strider Marcus Jones

Publisher: Strider Marcus Jones

Date of Publication: 2009

Page Count: 69

“It’s been seven hours and fifteen days
Since u took your love away
I go out every night and sleep all day
Since u took your love away”
– from Nothing Compares 2 U by Sinead O’Connor

Lovelorn Summer heat and the Celtic beat . . . Mavericks by Strider Marcus Jones is a study in the alchemy of New Age Renaissance poetics and language. Strider Marcus Jones lives in Paris. He is a Poet/Musician/Law Graduate/retired Civil Servant born in Salford England, his family originally from Ireland and Wales. He is widely published online, in journals and in anthologies. Poet Jones has written 5 books of poetry, Mavericks is the first book of poetry This Writer has reviewed for him.

This poetry is an event in love themes, romance, sometimes sexual imagery, often expressing want and not. Perhaps the violence of ended covenants, as if the undertoad of Western culture raises it’s Medusa’s head. Woven into the Celtic lyric lilt are nature images, flowers, jasmine, leaves, trees, berries the landscape of forest walks in poetry. The original use of language as music, new allusions and sometimes original words create an art nouveau poetic experience.

“STAYING IN THE JASMINE

i’m falling,

falling into jasmine,

someone, who is, has been

put back on the shelf.

i’m calling,

calling from the jasmine,

sounding, like i have been

part of someone else:

not as the me, i used to be,

who did the doubts, of in and out,

not knowing, what i was about

hiding behind stealth

a favourite raindrop in the sun was he,

coming down and straight back up, without

a word when finding others out

suspicions kept inside this self.

i’m stalling,

stalling in the jasmine,

knowing who was, is seen

as more than something else.

i’m staying,

staying in the jasmine,

making truer roots, than these have been

out of something else.”

The entire presentation is magical, using various forms of rhyme creating cadence, discord and mystery. The Poet is the alchemist, through various experiments with rhyme stirring the pot, in search of the perfect poem. The poetry presents different forms of rhyme, from rhyming couplets to end of lines a – b – a rhyme schemes, internal rhymes, repetitive words, amongst others, that regularly flow through each poem. It is a rich cadence, considered, sophisticated, creating a whole earth affect. It’s danger is to fall into over familiarity, it’s height is a magical take on poetic dance which it achieves more often than not, as if on the wings of peace.

“BARK

what’s the point of crying into me

but i can see,

to set you free.

don’t you know

i did this long ago,

by turning songs off the radio.

silence is the bark

around my ark,

i wear it on, to eat the dark

and to keep out the images

of once shared symmetries,

standing, like stone circle cemeteries

in the open air, made

for the wind and rain to fade,

for the sun’s bleach and icy blade

to erase it all,

to forget its fall,

to remove its face, from beauty’s wall.”

Staring in the face of free verse Modernism, the return to beauty with the Post-Moderns and now the return to rhyme in the New Age. As if the rebirth of civilization with the ease of information flow, the Holy Spirit tenets, in the Online Society is calling the Poet into higher climes of romance and the quest for karmic purity, the quest for the ideal, in all things peace. His influences are largely Celtic Poets, Seamus Heaney, W.B. Yeats, Robert Frost as well as Sylvia Plath and Pablo Neruda. Evolving from the Modernist, “God is dead” post WW II epoch into the era of dance with the introduction of regular rhyme, it is as if the poetry is evolving into the Internet journey of Zen and home.

“THE VASE

standing silent proud,

alone, or in a crowd

life glazed mood and skin

outside and in

for you, i think out loud

and take you in

where thoughts abound reversible

and convertible

where saying being wrong

reaches out beyond

the natural need to win.

moulded by my hands

to this shape that understands;

its cloth of clay holds you warm,

a mummer masked in costumes storm

react with its receptacle of reason

for sorting truths from treason,

but you don’t need to have a season

to put your flowers into me

swaying here, in wind and wild, as born so be.”

This poetry speaks of hope and dance as the lyric rhythm, trees in summer breezes that move against the sky. Fantastical New Age Celtic poetry, Mavericks by Strider Marcus Jones.

Genre: Poetry, New Age

TWO BEADS – Love Poem from INSIDE OUT by Strider Marcus Jones

TWO BEADS

in some quixotic place,
there is the figure and the face,
whose mind transcends that secret space-
in me.

she winds new memories
like ribbons round the helix threads of destiny-
altering perceptions, light and sound
when i turn around-
and find her watching me.

two beads, bound by natures mime,
consent to dance a tango on the silent strings of time,
oblivious to other fruits, that ripen on the vine-
eventually.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 2009. INSIDE OUT. All Rights Reserved.

SELECTED POEMS from INSIDE OUT by Strider Marcus Jones

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EXISTENTIAL SYMPHONY – Love Poem by Strider Marcus Jones from WOODED WINDOWS

EXISTENTIAL SYMPHONY

the sensual awakenings

and moist warmings

of coupled mornings

when you lie down on your back

and i drink you

like sweet water from my hat-

but more than this, you

mean more to me than that-

the mind glue

undersaid

is moresaid

because the mass and volume

spills out of these conventional rooms

we shed-

it never doubts

that all within us, is ours without

the frills

of impossible possessions

that fills

love and bares it’s confessions.

i is flip flapped

and tongue smacked

by the time lapsed

music of your words

that sing and fly

low and high

like tantric birds.

sex me your beauty boolie boobs

to way with

and your pouty southy mouth

that loves to give

me head in all your moods-

that ice in long vermouth

and sober drunken truths

of ageless youth.

i have taken

each note

of your existential symphony

inside me

but not forsaken

the infinite strings of marxist hope,

where individuality

can still be

individual

and not residual,

unlivable

bonds that broke

when alienation spoke.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his book WOODED WINDOWS. 2011. All Rights Reserved.

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IN MAID’S WATER – Love Poem by Strider Marcus Jones from Pomegranate Flesh

IN MAID’S WATER

we’ve left the well-footed

road,

the rutted

and rebutted

road

of shadows cast

by towered glass.

opened closed curtains

for fusty moths,

chanted white spells with Wiccan’s

goths;

left pictured

rooms and halls-

become un-scriptured

hills and squalls-

in maid’s water

pouring down her

erect chalk man,

like a wild gypsy,

love tipsy

partisan,

smelling of cinnabar

and his cigar,

swirling

like whirling

clouds

while the changed wind howls.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2012. From his book Pomegranate Flesh. All Rights Reserved.

In Maid’s Water is also published in issue 5 of Catweazle magazine …http://catweazleclub.com/?page_id=484

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Love Poem-Eight Treasures Of Simple Pleasures by Strider Marcus Jones. Copyright Reserved..wmv

A sensual love poem about being yourself and not what others try to make you.

EIGHT TREASURES OF SIMPLE PLEASURES

a sensual spoken

strawberry cut open

thought

brought

me to your secret place

with my face.

in the altered mirage

that history presents,

your even visage

and words have sounds and scents

that repair

the despair

and remake vanity’s varnished vase

with plain consents

until the figures in the patterns and the glaze

reconfigure what has happened and are swayed

to be themself

and not the mould of someone else.

i come back to you

in the porcelein white and blue

of Ming and Xiantzi

rustic and romancy

bearing eight treasures

of simple pleasures:

heart’s love life’s soul

passions blood mind whole

and wisdom instead of blindness

to share a kingdom with unselfish kindness.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 1st June, 2012. All Rights Reserved.

FALLEN LINTELS~Love Poem by Strider Marcus Jones. Copyright & All Rights Reserved

A Pagan Love Poem from http://www.lulu.com/shop/strider-marc…

FALLEN LINTELS

it was summer time

with flowers colouring the pantomime

in feudal fields

as i walked on flat wheels

with your humming bird in my head

from the tropical warm of your bed-

where we bent the grass again

and made the rain

that doesn’t come from clouds

dampen skin rumpled shrouds.

i watched your beauty glisten sweetly

while i held you like Bernini

before you went to work

flaked in bark of silver birch

naked chalice south

and siren priestess mouth

of pagan church.

you were converting fussy ghosts

and their sullen hosts

from bribed tribes

walking past without guides-

some, so inverted and duped

like shades with every ethic stooped

labouring like quislings

under Darwinist siblings-

slowly drifting back to druid stones

that serve us more than glorious domes,

more equal in each equinox

of chaos turning natures clock.

i know, i ramble for reasons

to make sense of changing seasons-

and find none

where i am one-

only fallen lintels on the floor

like broken words that speak no more

at sunrise and sunset

remembering what we forget.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 14th April 2012. All Rights Reserved.

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THE WORD LOVE – Love Poem from ASPECTS OF LOVE by Strider Marcus Jones

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THE WORD LOVE

if i could take
the word love,
and give to it
the sound of how
you speak,
then look inside
its shell
and find you-
living out the years
like you belong:

i would wear
its shape and substance
in the shadow
of myself,
and hold it in my
empty hand
to not feel so alone-
then raise it to
my lips and taste
its phrase and something more-

as i head home,
along that rutted road
of fallow fields
and ancient tracks,
through what was, and is now,
and might become-
while posing pines,
stand and hang in quiet air
absorbing spoken thoughts
like silent sentinels.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. ASPECTS OF LOVE. 2009. All Rights Reserved.

NINETY NINE PERCENT IN TENTS from WOODED WINDOWS by Strider Marcus Jones

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NINETY NINE PERCENT IN TENTS

in the compound of this room

we make our tent

with revolution’s loom

knitting a firmament

that challenges corrupt times

with solemn slogans

to plutarch totems

simply marked on cardboard signs.

resistance kindles in the dark

and breathes new poetry and art

like a cultural tsunami

elites can’t beat with armies.

these sincere spears

of human spheres

stand soft spoken,

peaceful, but not broken

like disciples in fabric domes

chanting social justice tomes

while Jesus circles existential

throwing speculators from the temple.

we don’t need money in our tent

to make each other feel so spent-

only the sea shore, forest and mountains

to trickle streams and spurt fountains,

unlocking love when the cradle rocks

the secret rhythm of intimate clocks.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 4th November, 2011. All Rights Reserved.

VISIGOTH ROVER~Poem by Strider Marcus Jones~Travels in Spain from his book WOODED WINDOWS

SELECTED POEMS from WOODED WINDOWS by Strider Marcus Jones

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VISIGOTH ROVER

i went on the bus to Cordoba,

and tried to find the Moor’s

left over

in their excavated floors

and mosaic courtyards,

with hanging flowers brightly chamelion

against whitewashed walls

carrying calls

behind gated iron bars-

but they were gone

leaving mosque arches

and carved stories

to God’s doors.

in those ancient streets

where everybody meets;

i saw the old successful men

with their younger women again,

sat in chrome slat chairs,

drinking coffee to cover

their vain love affairs-

and every breast,

was like the crest

of a soft ridge

as i peeped over

the castle wall and Roman bridge

like a Visigoth rover.

soft hand tapping on shoulder,

heavy hair

and beauty older,

the gypsy lady gave her clover

to borrowed breath,

embroidering it for death,

adding more to less

like the colours fading in her dress.

time and tune are too planned

to understand

her Trevi fountain of prediction,

or the dirty Bernini hand

shaping its description.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his book WOODED WINDOWS. 2011. All Rights Reserved.

Peter Brook’s The Mahabharata

Peter Brook’s original 1985 stage play “The Mahabharata” was 9 hours long, and toured around the world for four years. In 1989, it was reduced to under 6 hours for television. The Mahabharata is one of the two major Sanskrit epics of ancient India, the other being the Ramayana. Traditionally, the authorship of the Mahabharata is attributed to Vyasa. Without being directly related to them, the Mahabharata derives many of its philosophical concepts from the Vedas. The Mahabharata tells of Prince Arjuna and his four brothers Yudhishthira, Bhima and the twins Nakula and Sahadeva, all married to the same woman, Draupadi. They are known as the Pandavas, the sons of Pandu, who was king of Hastinapur in North India and himself the son of Ambalika and Vyasa. After the death of their father, the Pandavas grow up at the court of their uncle, the blind King Dhritarashtra, who has become the new ruler. There is always great rivalry between the Pandavas and the Kauravas, the one hundred sons of Dhritarashtra. Eventually the old king gives his nephews some land of their own but his eldest son, Duryodhana is jealous of their success. He challenges Yudhisthira, the eldest Pandava, to a game of dice in which he loses everything. The Pandavas are then forced to surrender their land and go into exile for thirteen years. On their return, the old king is unable to persuade his son Duryodhana to restore their heritage, and in spite of efforts at reconciliation by Sanjaya, Dhritarashtra’s charioteer; by Bheeshma, his wise counselor; and even by Lord Krishna himself, war cannot be averted. The rival hosts face each other on the field of Kurukshetra. When Prince Arjuna surveys the battlefield, he is overwhelmed with sorrow at the futility of war and it is at this point that The Bhagavad Gita, the “Song of the Lord,” begins. The teachings of The Bhagavad Gita (https://spaceandai.com/project/the-ba…) are spoken by the divine Lord Krishna, who is acting as the prince’s charioteer. They are overheard by Sanjaya and reported back to King Dhritarashtra. When Krishna has finished speaking to Arjuna, the two armies engage. The battle lasts eighteen days and by the end of it nearly all of the warriors on both sides are dead save Krishna and the five Pandavas. The Mahabharata – Channel Four Television, the Brooklyn Academy of Music, Les Productions du 3ème Etage; produced by Michel Propper; directed by Peter Brook B.R. Copra’s Mahabharat (English subtitles) https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list… The Ancients: Vyasa and The Mahabharata by Wes Cecil https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-wIQ_… Genetics and the Origin of Ancient Indian Civilization https://spaceandai.com/project/geneti…

SELECTED POEMS from MAVERICKS by Strider Marcus Jones

https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/selected-poems-from-mavericks-by-strider-marcus-jones/

THIS THEATRE OF SHOW

i want to go

where love songs grow,

on the radio

into someone’s heart.

i want to know

if i play too slow,

and fade before the glow

can flame and spark.

i mend a dream,

distill it, to mountains seen

through mind and eyes potcheen,

lotioned by loves mark;

with tongue dabbing gleam

in fast flowing stream

of sweet nectarine

from sun up through sun dark.

i want your glow

in the thoughts i know,

before they dim down low

and depart-

this theatre of show

above and below,

where we all act to know

our own part.

so many vines

in the times

i know,

grape, but fail to flower.

i taste their wine

in its summertime,

but show

i am just a shower.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones MAVERICKS. 2010. All Rights Reserved.

THE FOREST OF FORGETS

i don’t do remembers, or regrets,

not knowing, i belong in what comes next-

without the edge and angle of pretext,

find me in the forest of forgets-

watching your perfections dance and breathe

in my fires flames then read out gypsy leaves;

imagining your whispers in the wind and trees-

before they fade, and fall, and leave.

back inside the house, picture rails

of love hang empty

from bent hooks, that promised plenty,

leaving frameless tales in musty trails-

to dusty cabinets of more

trinkets and traces-

whose duality displaces

sky and floor.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his book MAVERICKS. 4th August, 2009. All Rights Reserved.

SELECTED POEMS from MAVERICKS by Strider Marcus Jones

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Native American Sleep Music: canyon flute & nocturnal canyon sounds, sleep meditation

The Native American Flute can transport one to a more relaxed and calm state, especially after listening for 10 minutes or more. This feeling is known as the ‘alpha’ state, a state during which your brain is pulsing at a lower rate than your mental and emotional fluctuations. (Price, Creating and Using the Native American Love Flute, 1994). One of the most impactful ways to develop this alpha state, is by focusing on the breath. During our daily activities this can be a challenge, as due to our busy lives, our minds end up operating mostly in the ‘beta’ state. In this state, your conscious mind is dominant and your subconscious mind can’t break through to help you out, as it can when you are asleep. So, people who are able and trained to maintain a prolonged alpha state can deal with life much more effectively than people who are usually in beta (Price, Creating and Using the Native American Love Flute, 1994). In this way, native flute can lead you to develop more coordination, intuition, and intelligence. One of the main reasons for this is because listening to the flute encourages one to sit and ‘be with the breath’.

SELECTED POEMS from INSIDE OUT by Strider Marcus Jones

https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/selected-poems-from-inside-out-by-strider-marcus-jones/

VELVET TANGERINE 

i was drinking tea with Dali 
in an underworld cafe, 
arguing down his table 
on General Franco’s hand- 
when The Persistence Of Memory 
that melts my pocket watch 
made time less rigid- 
so i fell with names and numbers 
into old obsidian dreams- 
where your long legs pointed 
from six to twelve, 
then nine to three 
when you bent them- 
for me to play and pleasure 
each exotic segment 
of your velvet tangerine. 
Dali left the table 
to meet Picasso in Paris, 
while my benzedrine mind replaced- 
the soft and spent infinity of your face. 

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones INSIDE OUT 2009. All Rights Reserved.

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THE DIVISION BELL ~ Poem from Book Wooded Windows By Strider Marcus Jones

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THE DIVISION BELL

they have civilised

the language of hatred

and corruption-

turned it into condensed

subliminal codes

to be absorbed

passively

and aspired to

through elite worship.

this softening,

that swims in intercourse

with Oppositions

and Self mandates

it’s wars and poverty-

hides the bodies

from presentations

where the Smile and Fist

work together.

there is no Division Bell

that Speaks and Moves

with and for

the majority

marching past outside-

like Natives

carrying their bags of belongings,

being screened and moved

from lush lands

early into cemeteries

or onto cattle trains

out to desert Reservations.

the Doors

of cold centuries

blow open,

and we see

how Treaties

are still Broken and Abused-

by those we entrust

who have turned

the Globe of Everything

we are meant to Share

into something Bought and Sold

all Right to be Owned and Inherited.

most sheep don’t Mass for much-

just a patch of grass to graze

and a shack to shag and sleep in-

a few, have their own field

and privately furnished rooms,

but when they all adore

w and k’s first tour

on the front page and tv news

for twelve days of conditioning,

or letch and leer over the tits on page three-

the Universal Flaw in Their Rule and Law

makes them troll and bay for this culling of people-

until it comes for them.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 2nd July, 2011. All Rights Reserved.








NO ROADS ~ Poem by Strider Marcus Jones SPARKBRIGHT MAGAZINE ISSUE 5, 2010

https://www.wattpad.com/825315-14-poems-from-wooded-windows-by-strider-marcus

NO ROADS

with no roads on our map of conversation,

we began

without plan,

and climbed, into the branches of imagination,

past the twigs and leaves-

those apothecaries

of lost libation,

into houred improvisation-

through its desert wanting rain

after years of stasis,

in a slow camel train

searching for that oasis-

with moving dunes

and negative runes

fending off the grey

in a charmed, nomadic way.

happen then, that this cold acoustic tune,

met your luteful lagoon

of mosaical notes-

and the baton moved,

as was proved

round the wheel with ambient spokes,

conducting without rules

our forgotten fools.

somehow,

go now,

through the eye of words,

to the heart of this rhythm

and the scion of its schism;

then home, like migrating birds

into separate nests-

for now, love rests.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 12th November, 2009. All Rights Reserved. 

This poem has been published in SPARKBRIGHT MAGAZINE ISSUE 5, WINTER 2010 and will be in my next book. Here is the link http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.sparkbright.org%2F&h=8af20

BOOTS OF HARLEY ~ Poem By Strider Marcus Jones from Book Wooded Windows

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BOOTS OF HARLEY

this universe has no center

and you’re not there.

this sun is only sunny on the hood-

its light can’t bend more benter

to be fair

as time stops running rings in wood.

the floorboards creak

and pictures speak

when I stand in empty corners making room,

for ghosts that want to have my seat

when they come in from the street

after riding like Valhalla under sun and moon.

summer shoes,

with beards of barley

in their soley grooves-

still think they’re boots of Harley

on electro glide down highway avenues-

with a woman’s arms around my waist

singing Bob Marley

and promising me her taste.

foot down. legs braced-

rocking back the headboard on the bed and base

in the hanging of her breasts

where my head would rest,

her lips a vanished beauty of the past-

explode

unload

to this contrast-

that turns its empty pages in my head

unlit, as I lie in bed,

running out of Kerouac road-

i feel the beat

and go to sleep

with some more story told.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 14th November, 2010. Copyright And All Rights Reserved.

LOVE IS STRIPPED TO SHARING BREAD ~ Poem By Strider Marcus Jones

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LOVE IS STRIPPED TO SHARING BREAD

we were kissing

and dancing

to a kitchen song,

talking with our wine

and smoking bong;

then you pushed your pierced pin

of forged fire

further in

the groove of my desire

with your tongue.

later,

up the creaking wooden escalator-

“let me do you” i said

peeling back your petals

with my voice:

love is stripped to sharing bread

abroad-in plain rooms-where Nora and Joyce

reject precious metals.

it brings to craggy green cliffs

that STILL talk-

of two minds, in the sea born mist

of one thought-

why should four legs walk

under clouds adrift.

glum damp rock moss cups

when we go to ground

under body musk

and pagan sound-

the meaning of the hour

when lit lusts flower

fills the air

everywhere

at last

and the future does not imitate the past.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 26th May, 2011. All Rights Reserved.

 

THE HEAD IN HIS FEDORA HAT by Strider Marcus Jones

https://www.wattpad.com/8500065-40-poems-from-pomegranate-flesh-by-strider-marcus

THE HEAD IN HIS FEDORA HAT

a lonely man,

cigarette,

rain

and music

is a poem

moving,

not knowing-

a caravan,

whose journey does not expect

to go back

and explain

how everyone’s ruts

have the same

blood and vein.

the head in his fedora hat

bows to no one’s grip,

brim tilted into the borderless

plain

so his outlaw wit

can confess

and remain

a storyteller,

that hobo fella

listening like a barfly

for a while

and slow-winged butterfly

whose smile

they can’t close the shutters on

or stop talking about

when he walks out

and is gone.

whisky and tequila

and a woman, who loves to feel ya

inside

and outside

her

when ya move

and live as one,

brings you closer

in simplistic

unmaterialistic

grooved

muse Babylon.

this is so,

when he stands with hopes head,

arms and legs

all aflow

in her Galadriel glow

with mithril breath kisses

condensing sensed wishes

of reality and dream

felt and seen

under that

fedora hat

inhaling smoke

as he sang and spoke

stranger fella

storyteller.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones, October 2012 from his book POMEGRANATE FLESH www.lulu.com All Rights Reserved.

IN THE TALK OF MY TOBACCO SMOKE – New Pagan Poem by Strider Marcus Jones

https://www.wattpad.com/32606740-40-poems-from-pomegranate-flesh-by-strider-marcus

IN THE TALK OF MY TOBACCO SMOKE

i have disconnected self

from the wire of the world

retreated to this unmade croft

of wild grass and savage stone

moored mountains

set in sea

blue black green grey

dyed all the colours of my mood

and liquid language-

to climb rocks

instead of rungs

living with them

moving around their settlements

of revolutionary random place

for simple solitary glory.

i am reduced again

to elements and matter

that barter her body for food

teasing and turning

her flesh to take words and plough.

rapid rain

slaps the skin

on honest hands

strongly gentle

while sowing seeds

the way i touch my lover

in the talk of my tobacco smoke:

now she knows

she tastes

like all the drops

of my dreams

falling on the forest

of our Lothlorien.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2012. From his book Pomegranate Flesh. All Rights Reserved.

http://www.lulu.com/shop/strider-marcus-jones/pomegranate-flesh/paperback/product-20444424.html

HE PLAYS HIS FLAMENCO GUITAR~Love Poem by Strider Marcus Jones 63K 317 92

https://www.wattpad.com/6539872-40-poems-from-pomegranate-flesh-by-strider-marcus

HE PLAYS HIS FLAMENCO GUITAR

he plays his flamenco guitar

knowing who you are,

seducing his singer

to bring her

from bleak harbour masts

to his contrasts.

he knows the equations

of her close flirtations

and doesn’t judge her glances

for wanting what romance is-

vibrating in voices and strings

of fornicating feelings.

her prose photosynthesis

illuminates his

shades that colour mountains

and drops of wishes in mosaic fountains-

she loves the Picasso from his pen

and horse smell like Andalucian men

her reversed body senses

inside his defences-

as her sea wind

billows in his revealing

Avalon through the mist,

sweet loved, firm kissed.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones, 11th October 2010. All Rights Reserved.

POMEGRANATE FLESH – Poem by Strider Marcus Jones

https://www.wattpad.com/30513471-40-poems-from-pomegranate-flesh-by-strider-marcus

POMEGRANATE FLESH

ask those

who grow old-

some fruits are nicer

when they’re riper.

you don’t stop

the clock

on the one who chose

you to hold-

her pomegranate

is still your sonnet

of sepia feelings and flesh,

sensuously sweet and fresh.

although the mirror never lies,

it shows the beauty that lives

as it dies

and gives

it’s own reflection

of your perfection

to me

then and now,

each memory

taken

by the lenses

somehow,

preserved

by your words

and curves

in my senses.

our dance,

that thrilled

in it’s intricate

tango on the floor,

is still filled

with time intimate

romance

and more-

talking rubicon of reason,

in layer, upon layer of season

so sedimentary

since you entered me-

and i consumed

your silky mesh

of pink perfumed

pomegranate flesh.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2012. From his book Pomegranate Flesh. All Rights Reserved.

http://www.lulu.com/shop/strider-marcus-jones/pomegranate-flesh/paperback/product-20444424.html

Anna Akhmatova (In Our Time)

Melvyn Bragg and guests discuss the work, ideas and life of the Russian poet whose work was celebrated in C20th both for its quality and for what it represented, written under censorship in the Stalin years. Her best known poem, Requiem, was written after her son was imprisoned partly as a threat to her and, to avoid punishment for creating it, she passed it on to her supporters to be memorised, line by line, rather than written down. She was a problem for the authorities and became significant internationally, as her work came to symbolise resistance to political tyranny and the preservation of pre-Revolutionary liberal values in the Soviet era. The image above is based on ‘Portrait of Anna Akhmatova’ by N.I. Altman, 1914, Moscow With Katharine Hodgson Professor in Russian at the University of Exeter Alexandra Harrington Reader in Russian Studies at Durham University And Michael Basker Professor of Russian Literature and Dean of Arts at the University of Bristol Producer: Simon Tillotson.

Langston Hughes Reads Langston Hughes [1994] / full album

Tracklist: 01. (00:00) One Way Ticket 02. (00:43) Introduction to “The Negro Speaks of Rivers” 03. (08:49) The Negro Speaks of Rivers 04. (09:36) I Went to Columbia 05. (11:18) Puzzled 06. (11:59) Eventually I Found Work (Commentary) 07. (16:18) Trumpet Player 08. (17:35) The Very First Poem that I Sold (Commentary) 09. (18:36) I Sort of Went Backwards (Commentary) 10. (21:45) Ballad of the Gypsy 11. (22:35) Kid Sleepy 12. (23:13) Southern Mammy Songs 13. (24:01) Migrant (the poem ends at [25:22] and he comments it) 14. {27:49) Mama and Daughter 15. (28:38) Sylvester’s Dying Bed 16. (29:45) There Are Certain Desadvantages (Commentary) 17. (31:02) We Are the American Heartbreak (Commentary) 18. (33:00) Intern at Provident Hospital 19. (34:49) In My Poetry (Commentary) 20. (36:38) Merry-Go-Round 21. (37:09) Ku-Klux-Klan 22. (37:46) The South 23. (38:53) Mulatto 24. (40:27) Out of Work 25. (41:16) The Explanation of Our Times 26. (44:06) Dinner Guest Me 27. (44:52) Cultural Exchange all tracks by Langston Hughes. all rights reserved to soundmark.

Wooded Windows by Strider Marcus Jones (Goodreads Author) it was amazing 5.00 · Rating details · 6 ratings · 3 reviews

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/15762164-wooded-windows

Read 14/75 poems and reviews from this book free on wattpad http://www.wattpad.com/story/1031729-…

The poems in this book reflect on my journey through life, love, the Arab Spring and Occupy Movement. As a socialist and one of the 99%, this book is about love, social revolution and the
eternal struggle for equality and justice. In these poems, I look into and out of the wooded windows of the past, present and future and become romantic and erotic, political and spiritual. I am a pagan peasant in this poverty and paradise, chained to the same land in serfdom, but trying to climb the tree of life and reach the branches of freedom.

GET A COPY

Paperback, First Edition, 162 pages

Aspects of Love: Selected Love Poems Kindle Edition by Mr Strider Marcus Jones (Author)

Colm Herron5.0 out of 5 stars This held my heart and mind and body in thrall28 September 2014Verified PurchaseThis remarkable collection of poems about sexual love begins explosively, some might say orgasmically, with a short poem called Midnight Bouquet. And all the way through these packed pages to the words

Who cares?
I do, I
For you, dark hair, almond eyes, wet-warm

it held my heart, my body and my mind in thrall. In many ways Strider Marcus Jones is a modern-day Gerard Manley Hopkins (that coined word WET-WARM is one of many many examples). Except that Hopkins was a gentle and devout Catholic priest penned in by his vow of chastity and fear of sex and qualms about his sexual orientation and Jones is a modern man who has no inhibitions about putting down on paper the sheer beauty of sexual love. Hopkins was sensuous rather than sensual, a man who sublimated his sexual energy into his genuine love of God and nature and conservation to write many of the most beautiful and revolutionary poems in the history of literature. Jones on the other hand is both sensual and sensuous and shows us the joys and heartaches of love with every fibre of his considerable poetic talent.

Robert Frost interview + poetry reading (1952)

Frost tells of his boyhood in San Francisco and his father’s participation in local politics; his family’s move to New England when he was still a boy, following his father’s death; the poet’s own political views, including his mixed opinions about Republicans; the importance of adversity in the development of art forms; his belief that poetry will likely always suffer from neglect; and his dim view of foundations supporting and rushing to the rescue of art, potentially rendering art a by-product. Frost also reads two of his poems: “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” and “The Drumlin Woodchuck.”

Inside Out Kindle Edition by Mr Strider Marcus Jones (Author)

In these poems about love, life and human conflict, the world is seen from the Inside Out. We are mortal beads, acting on the strings of time. In moments of epiphany, all becomes transparent. Dublin’s likeable whores, swap wisdom’s with old philosophers, while poems about the Cold War, Gaza, CND and life question our spirituality with whispers from Shamen and the Sacred Feminine. Heroes, like JFK, Martin Luther King, Lenin and Che, meet death too soon and find their truths have been betrayed by a society which is now too compounded and complex, but they left us seeds of hope to use, if we don’t destroy their infant shoots. The Love poems here, are always romantic and real and sometimes erotic and mystical.They hold everything together with their gentle glueing of emotions. Each thought becomes a grain of sand, that joins its brothers and sisters on the beach, so the whole, makes us what we are, while the tides of time, take us where we are going..Strider.

Mavericks: Love & Other Poesms Kindle Edition by Mr Strider Marcus Jones (Author)

Essentially, these poems are about Man and Woman and Love. Romantic and sometimes intimate, they leave their own footsteps in the rural and industrial landscape of today which resonate our profound need to love and be loved, a need that transcends all attempts to homogenise us into one cultural identity. In these poems romance, chivalry and passion come to life. The Ranger’s mind enjoys its exile in the golden forest of Lothlorien wandering through the Pre Raphaelite images. His mythical and mystical ideals, fuse with our thirst for realism and the alienation of pod life in this matrix of Metropolis. Love is more than a singles bar at the end of a hard working week. It is real and tangible, and like life, it makes mistakes. In these poems of love remembered, love now and love to be, exile ends and life begins again.. Strider

Miles Davis with John Coltrane- March 21, 1960 Olympia Theatre, Paris

March 21, 1960 Olympia Theatre, Paris, France Miles Davis Quintet: Miles Davis (tpt); John Coltrane (ts); Wynton Kelly (p); Paul Chambers (b); Jimmy Cobb (d) 1st set All of You (C. Porter) So What (M. Davis) On Green Dolphin Street (N. Washington-B. Kaper) 2nd set Walkin’ (R. Carpenter) Bye Bye Blackbird (R. Henderson-M. Dixon) ‘Round Midnight (B. Hanighen-C. Williams-T. Monk) Oleo (S. Rollins) The Theme (M. Davis) Concert recording, broadcast by Europe-1

Kiss of Death (1947) Victor Mature, Brian Donlevy, R. Widmark | Crime, Film-Noir

After a jewel robbery Nick Bianco, one of the perpetrators, caught. He is silent about his accomplices. When he learns after three years of imprisonment that his wife is dead, his children are in the orphanage and his accomplices are probably not innocent, he unpacks. After his release begins a dangerous cat and mouse game: He faces a psychopathic killer.

Thankye to The Bees Are Dead for publishing my poem The Samaritan Machine Re Person Of Interest-US TV Series http://www.thebeesaredead.com/poetry/samaritan-machine-strider-marcus-jones/

the-samaritan-machine-person-of-interest-tv-series

THE SAMARITAN MACHINE – STRIDER MARCUS JONES

 

this field pond
is only my
dissolved
imagination-
thought drops
of summer rain
making fractal ripples
drumbeat on skin.
a portal shared
with cawing crows
reveals
who scams and snoops and shoots
in contract conversations.
this windsong
of Virginia Creeper,
ruling Bear and Wolfsbane
rustling in black bamboo
trusts its Samaritan Machine
telling it who to redact
in this imposed
dystopian
equilibrium
of dumbed-down masses
worshipping Carousel.

The Samaritan Machine – Strider Marcus Jones

 **PUBLICATION ANNOUNCEMENT**
‘The Samaritan Machine’
Strider Marcus Jones has graced us yet again with one of his surrealist dreamscapes. Juxtaposing the urban, and tenuously justified, murderous machinations of ‘Person of Interest’ with the exotic flora of three continents, Strider shows us that not all horror comes in aesthetically displeasing forms. That travesty happens on the sunniest of days, during the warmest of rains, amidst the call of birds, and often takes advantage of a society stupefied by the elegance and/or distractions encircling them, again and again and again.
http://www.thebeesaredead.com/…/samaritan-machine-strider-…/

Really chuffed to have a poem in The Recusant http://www.therecusant.org.uk/

frame-old-car-junkyard-black-white-left-open-hood-volunteer-crop-weeds-62912865

Strider Marcus Jones
Weeds Left

weeds left,
wilt in the sun
without work and water.
their seeds
are the wild flowers,
waiting for volcanic wind
and ash to fall,
so the fertile cinders
can colonise herbaceous borders
ending the old age
of selfish sediment
treading it down
in molecules of time.
another Marxist
dons his trench coat
and tears pages from his red book
planting the old words
of revolution
in minds of homogenous compost.
over-privileged gallows begin to swing.
bullets sweat in their chambers
waiting for the right heads.

Strider Marcus Jones © 2016

http://www.therecusant.org.uk/#/strider-marcus-jones-poem/4593300107

The Bees Are Dead: **PUBLICATION ANNOUNCEMENT** Well, it’s not very often that you’ll see a rhyming poem on a hip-and-happening, politically conscious, pessimistically grey-scale webzine such as The Bees Are Dead. But. ‘The Mad Hatter Hiding in Dark Matter’ is a masterpiece of timing and chiming that manages to click its fingers to the beat of dystopian dissonance. Strider Marcus Jones serves us bombs and the disparity of privilege in pill-form, helping us to wash it down with a cup of steaming farce and surrealism. Best read aloud. http://www.thebeesaredead.com/…/mad-hatter-hiding-dark-mat…/

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THE MAD HATTER HIDING IN DARK MATTER

 

in our house

i binned the radio

for playing Strauss-

 

left the suited rodeo

of casino Faust

and shot the gentry shooting grouse.

 

into the wild garden

without spun jargon

we went

 

through rusting arch of rose dissent

onto the precipice of peace

where slush borders grip and grease

 

like usurping tectonic plates

shapeshifting smaller states.

their innocents bombed and dispossessed

 

join our shoaled oppressed

of obedient possessed-

while The Mad Hatter

 

hiding in Dark Matter-

says blame them, instead of Strauss

in suits playing casino Faust

 

and enslaving gentry shooting grouse.

 

The Mad Hatter Hiding in Dark Matter – Strider Marcus Jones

 

 

 

Gloopy Bitumen by Strider Marcus Jones

In Between Hangovers

don’t wait for me,
i’ve got to go
before the treason
on the grassy knoll

that broke a generations
golden dream,
becomes sanguinary
back to stream.

each time a hero comes-
he falls,
God made a Black man King-
uniting races, breaching walls

to make just history
begin,
all gunned down
but seeds sown in.

Marx and Engels
told the truth,
while Che and Lenin
gave it youth-

but power picks, the scabs of politics,
infesting minds and skin-
silencing subversive lips
in shoals of gloopy bitumen.

riding
on the back of Eagle,
imitating
acting legal-
two Brothers
of the Gold and Blood,
homogenise
the neighbourhood;

but Others
shun these hand me downs,
and gather
in Their fields and towns-

questioning
this status quo-
with lores and lost philosophies
to mend this Age we break and sow.

Strider Marcus Jones Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant…

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Chuffed to have some of my love poems in The Children of Orpheus Anthology – Edited by Rebecca Anne Banks and Bruce Kauffman https://www.amazon.com/Children-Orpheus-Rebecca-Anne-Banks/dp/1539563235/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1477253511&sr=8-1&keywords=strider+marcus+jones

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The Children of Orpheus Anthology features the writings of Adrian Ernesto Cepeda, Stephen Bett, Strider Marcus Jones, Zo-Alonzo Gross, Alexia Zakariya, Jeevan Bhagwat, Gregg Dotoli, Michael Thomas Allen, Mercedes Webb-Pullman, Cassy Welburn, Sarah Brown Weitzman, Bekah Steimel, Megan Merchant, Elizabeth Beck, Lila Hope-Simpson, Su Zi, Jennifer Footman, Judy Hall, Kenneth Kesner, Psalm A Praise, Edilson A. Ferreira, Rebecca Anne Banks. The Children of Orpheus poetry anthology was lovingly edited by Rebecca Anne Banks and Bruce Kauffman. The Anthology is available at Amazon Station. Proceeds from the Anthology sale will be donated to the Chez Doris Drop-In Centre for Women in Montreal. http://www.subterraneanbluepoetry.com “for those subterranean blues”

 

Red Sky by Strider Marcus Jones

In Between Hangovers

i forgot to put my image in a photograph.
it was walking with a crowd inside a dream;
humming songs, that once turned on a phonograph
who have left this herd, unseen-
to its shadows of indifference
and coats pulled-to in self defence,
searching for omnipotence-
red sky too intense.

do i stay, or go now?
work it out for me?
what is left to grow now?
to make, and be?

black doors in the distance,
let in specific light,
while opposites of resistance
limbo in twilight-

like wicks without matches,
living in opaque eyed hatches
and wired stone-
drawing heavy bolts and nervous latches
for pawn heroes, in cold dispatches,
now splinters of bone,
not coming home.

Strider Marcus Jones Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five…

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The Secret Self by Strider Marcus Jones

In Between Hangovers

go on, fly
in cobolt sky
doing things you can’t say
random anyway-
out of sounds and words
above the hounds and herds.

see beyond
cold concrete stood on clay,
inside absurd wronged
images dismay-
and cast off doubt about
the mask we wear without:

for what is self-
displayed to others on a shelf
to touch and read the label,
or buy and taste with pleasure on feasts table-
while holding back
the secret self, for someone we lack.

Strider Marcus Jones Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry http//www.lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusj…. reveal a maverick moving between forests, mountains, cities and coasts playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude. His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India…

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Inside Out by Strider Marcus Jones https://inbetweenhangovers.wordpress.com/2016/09/02/inside-out-by-strider-marcus-jones/

 

the soft scent thought and taste, inside out of you, is more meant face to face, formed out of knowings new. the when and wait of it phase and age can’t brown, set to the fate of it time tick…

Source: Inside Out by Strider Marcus Jones

Midnight Bouquet by Strider Marcus Jones https://youronephonecall.wordpress.com/2016/08/31/midnight-bouquet-by-strider-marcus-jones/

i lay still watching her my desire and delight while she covered my cock in chocolate with soft silent strokes- like Modigliani painting a nude. my fingers glistened in the lamps gloaming light wit…

Source: Midnight Bouquet by Strider Marcus Jones

Delighted to have a poem in the April 2016 Double Anthology edition of Crack The Spine http://www.crackthespine.com/2016/04/double-anthology-release.html

XII-Cover

Double Anthology Release!

Bonnie Jo Stufflebeam, Cheryl Smart, Marléne Zadig, Ralph Monday, Geoffrey Miller, D Ferrara, Howard Brown, Lori Gravley, Robert Kerbeck, Tim Suermondt, Mary Renzi, Strider Marcus Jones, Tim Tomlinson, King Grossman, Sharon Kurtzman, Steven Fortune, Frazer Merritt, Frank Watson, Michael Brasier, Stuart Friebert, Carolyn D. Elias, Windy Lynn Harris, Suzanne O’Connell, Katharine Monger, Leslee Wright, Caseyrenée Lopez, Alan Semrow, Donna L. Emerson, Cécile Barlier, M. M. Adjarian, Joseph Fonseca, Charles Edward Brooks