Delighted to have my poem The Dance published in Adfectus: Poetry Anthology by Exeter Publishing. My thanks to the editors.

THE DANCE
STRIDER MARCUS JONES

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 shamans
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.

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. Find him at: https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/

file:///C:/Users/Strider/Downloads/Adfectus.pdf

Thrilled to have 5 of my poems published on the wonderful Ink Pantry poetry blog. My thanks to editor Deborah Edgeley.

Poetry Drawer: She is a Suffragette: A Woman Does Not Have To Wait: The Two Saltimbanques: Hopper’s Ladies: Oviri by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on  by Deborah Edgeley

She is a Suffragette

her hair tumbles
blowing like unfurled cotton
through unforgotten
fumbles
in vegetation
of our own
interpretation
of each other
in the dark.

my desk grown
out of a tree sown
from my lover
where i carved these words in the bark
sitting in her branches
knowing what life is
all about
as i look out
of wooded windows

and absorb it’s shows
as it goes
through each obscenity
of extreme supremacy-
a woman must not let
a man forget
she is a suffragette
in her soul and under his blanket
so never kept

or chatteled forever
to the custom weather
of his debt.

A Woman Does Not Have To Wait

under the old canal bridge you said
so i can hear the echoes
in your head
repeating mine
this time
when it throws
our voices from roof into water
where i caught her
reflection half in half out of sunshine.
that’s when i hear Gerschwin
playing his piano in you
working out the notes
to rhapsody in blue
that makes me float
light and thin
deep within
through the air
when you put your comforts there.
Waits was drinking whisky from his bottle
while i sat through old days with Aristotle
knowing i must come up to date
because a woman does not have to wait.

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.

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.

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.

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 reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. He is also the founder, editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal.

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany; Serbia; India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.

Delighted to have my poem The Word Love published in Crossways Literary Magazine. My thanks to editor David Jordan and poetry editor Anne Daly.

https://crosswaysmagazine.com/issues/

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.

Delighted to have three of my poems published on Poetry In Surrey Libraries blog. My thanks to editors Neil Richards and J M. Gale.

https://npdsurrey.wordpress.com/2021/05/20/stone-jar-by-strider-marcus-jones/

Stone Jar by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on May 20, 2021 by jmgale

have seat
stone jar
with heart old as peat;
you’ve come this far-
seen history shoot itself
to repeat the past
but nothing else
is made to last-
why weep
and fast,
while others sleep
and blast
this sorrow
from the same face tomorrow-
and what fool am i to keep
thinking that the thinkers
will remove the old ways blinkers-
and speak.

https://npdsurrey.wordpress.com/2021/05/23/soupy-potions-by-strider-marcus-jones/

Soupy Potions by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on May 23, 2021 by jmgale

sleep old name;
erase this lame
membrane of days-
where tracks of trust
go to dust
and empty in-out trays,
crack like blowed skin
under amphetamine
sun, remembering
how promises persist
in metaphores of mist-

and that box of rumours
the neighbours hold, like chocolate tumours
behind lace curtains-
knew your rock
fired the clay and shaped his pot
to aroused assertions-
then the moon-tide quickening
and coming in,
like soupy potions thick and thin,
front to back
on constellation grainy black.

Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com

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. His poetry has also been published in numerous publications around the world.

The Vase by Strider Marcus Jones

https://npdsurrey.wordpress.com/2021/05/28/the-vase-by-by-strider-marcus-jones/

Image by Lubos Houska from Pixabay

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.

Thrilled to have my Orwellian poem On the Other Side of the Room’s Window published in Dreich Magazine’s themed chapbook ISMISMS. Thank you Jack Caradoc editor supreme.

https://hybriddreich.co.uk/dreich-themes/

ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE ROOM’S WINDOW

Dried coffee rings on the bedside table,

Where the martyr stubs his cigarette,

And disregards the opened volume

Of T.S.Eliot.

On the other side of the room’s window,

Buses shake past,but can’t be seen;

And when he calls for freedom,

The world spouts semen and war machines.

Cameras in the streets outside,

Watch this enemy within:

But how many Winston Smiths,

Are writing notes, and sneaking gin?

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 cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. He is also the founder, editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany; Serbia; India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.

Delighted to have my poem I Want To Bend Time published in Dreich Magazine’s themed issue SC-FI. My thanks to brilliant editor Jack Caradoc.

https://hybriddreich.co.uk/dreich-themes/

I WANT TO BEND TIME

I want more time
To ponder life,
For understanding
In the cosmic soup.

I want to bend time
To travel backwards and forwards,
To see what was and what will be
To fathom actions and consequences.

I want to unmould time
From how we shape it,
To be free of it
Unchained to think.

I want to teleport
To the past and now and on from here,
Faster than light
In the nothingness it takes to make a thought:

To find the answer-
To where we come from
To who we are
To why we are here

And where we are going
To be free from time.

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 cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. He is also the founder, editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany; Serbia; India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.

Thrilled to have my poem The Word Love (from my book Aspects of Love) published in the Issue 11 print edition of Crossways Literary Magazine, Cork, Ireland. My thanks to poetry editor Anne Daly.

https://crosswaysmagazine.com/

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

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/strider…

http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_s…

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_…

Read poems from his books with reviews and comments onhttp://www.wattpad.com/user/striderma.



Delighted to have three poems included in the *Impspired* Volume 5 print anthology. These poems were originally published online in *Impspired* Issue 9. Sincere thanks to Steve Cawte for publishing these poems. Contact Steve at impspired@gmail.com to order directly from him, or use the following links to order from Amazon.

UK & Ireland – https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/191413026X

US – https://www.amazon.com/dp/191413026X

*Impspired* – http://www.impspired.com

   SUMMER WIND

  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 isn’t 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. 



  WHEN THE ROAD FORKS

  soft scented ring
 on straightened bow,
 the joy you bring
 inside me now-
 
 the candle burning, slowly down,
 the mirror showing more of you-
 arched back and shoulders golden brown,
 hips rock, hair tumbling too-
 
 as hope and passion rise and fall
 in symmetry and space,
 the perfect beauty of it all,
 enraptures face and place-
 
 and be it now, or beyond this,
 with gentle hands and loves soft kiss-
 to trace your smile and touch your thoughts,
 still, after this, when the road forks.


 
  ADUMBRATE LOVES SHALLOWS

  goddess of the moon
  fusion of light and shadow,
  come now, light my room-
  make darkness shrink and narrow.
 
  gravitate to me
  awake inside un-natural light,
  half written, half unknown i be
  eclipsed in doubt, but inward bright.
 
  bring your blooms to this fallow bed
  alone in fates sad stare,
 wrap me in your ethereal thread,
 to reset time and covet care.
 
  adumbrate loves shallows
  in my sanctum core,
 where the pastels fade and pallow
 without depth and shade on dwindling shore. 


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 cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.




Delighted to have 10 of my Haiku in Dreich Magazine’s chapbook of Senryu & Haiku titled: ‘River Willow’. My thanks to editor Jack Caradoc.





ancient lay lines
illuminate oral lore
a global stone grid


black coffee swirling
in a spiral galaxy
stargate in a cup


obelisk to sky
glyphs and hypogean
can we crack the code


leaves are falling
the circle of life and death
undertaker crows


honeysuckle grows
around the arch of midnight
into the wormhole


a trodden nettle
still offers herself to bees
and us to make tea

curious magpies
search ploughed field for baubles
sunlight glints on them


faded photographs
moments hanging on the wall
futures blank behind


cherry blossoms bloom
then fall in wind and rain on
human chameleons

red chrysanthemums
show fractals of clarity
time sows mutations



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, he is the creator and editor of Lothlorien Poetry Journal. His five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

                                       

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany; Serbia; India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.

Thrilled to have my poem Pyramid Prison published by Piker Press on 26th April, 2021. My thanks to editor Sand Pilarski.

http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=8260

Pyramid Prison

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 altar 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 the founder, editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
He 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 cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His work has been published in over 150 poetry journals, magazines, reviews and anthologies in the USA, Canada, England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, France, Germany, Spain, Australia, India and South Africa including : Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice and Piker Press.
He is the author of five books of poetry:
Pomegranate Flesh, Wooded Windows, Mavericks, Inside Out and Aspects Of Love.
The links to his books can be found below.

For his published poetry books: Aspects Of Love; Inside Out; Mavericks; Wooded Windows and Pomegranate Flesh see:
http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/strider…

http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_s…

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_…

Thrilled to have my two poems Here I Am The Same and Rejecting Ovid published in Issue 7 of the Melbourne Culture Corner on 2nd April, 2020. My thanks to the editors of this wonderful magazine.

HERE I AM THE SAME

here i am the same

sitting in the dark with you

turning out the stars

that won’t do.

from the dimmed grain

light of coffee bars

they look so infinitely plain

against the black backdrop

countless where time can’t stop.

once,

everyone has a once-

they lit the canopy

on that journey

now only

tickets of buses and trains

and notes that grew out of numbers and names.

around midnight,

i mull them with moonlight

and stand out in their youth

from this heavy slated roof

i’ve settled under

and wonder

will i ever find

another time to penetrate

and fascinate

your body with my mind.

REJECTING OVID



the fabulous beauty of your face-
so esoteric,
not always in this place-
beguiles me.

it’s late, mesmeric
smile is but a base,
a film to interface
with the movements of the mind behind it.

my smile, me-
like Thomas O’Malley
the alley
cat reclining on a tin bin lid
with fishy whiskers-

turns the ink in the valley
of your quills
into script,
while i sit
and sip

your syllables
with fresh red sepals of habiscus,
rejecting Ovid
and his Amores
for your stories.


Strider Marcus Jones
Is the founder, editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
He 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 cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His work has been published in over 150 poetry journals, magazines, reviews and anthologies in the USA, Canada, England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, France, Germany, Spain, Australia, India and South Africa including : Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice and Piker Press.
He is the author of five books of poetry:
Pomegranate Flesh, Wooded Windows, Mavericks, Inside Out and Aspects Of Love.
The links to his books can be found below.

For his published poetry books: Aspects Of Love; Inside Out; Mavericks; Wooded Windows and Pomegranate Flesh see:
http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/strider…

http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_s…

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_…

Delighted to have five of my poems published on Poetry In Surrey Libraries blog. My thanks to editors Neil Richards and J M. Gale. https://npdsurrey.wordpress.com/?s=strider+marcus+jones

MIRROR, MIRROR by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on March 11, 2021 by jmgale

Image by Bobby Louvre from Pixabay 

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.

THE LATITUDE OF LOVE by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on March 18, 2021 by jmgale

Source: Wikimedia

the latitude of love
paddles an imperial pedalo
in someone’s waters-
and i had to go
native in a foreign land
to understand
where my own backward blood
has brought us.

in the mosque
in the mihrab
in Cordoba,
no one is lost
as Christian and Arab
respect how they cross over.

inside:
the scallop shell,
with its white marble hood
and cathedral bell
above ancient wood,
keeps everyone equal and safe from hell-
but outside:
other forces blow the people and their pedalo.

THE OTHER SELF by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on March 21, 2021 by jmgale

Image by Tumisu from Pixabay 

the other self
abstracted in the press
of turned down pages,
gets mucked up in the mess
and shows how unlaminated age is.
if nothing else-
these nude notes
being played behind the curtain
where the stage is,
by soloist strings
and hermit woodwinds-
are far hopes
of uncertain
opening chords
calling out
to the duet
i haven’t come to yet.
and afterwards,
if all those afterwards
could talk and kiss and spout,
there would be
no more misery
move it out.

THIS NOW MY THOUGHTS by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on March 26, 2021 by jmgale

Image by esudroff from Pixabay 

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.

THE PATTERNS by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on March 31, 2021 by jmgale

Image by Craig Melville from Pixabay 

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 former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. 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.

His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine and Dissident Voice.

Delighted to have my poem Children of the Revolution published in Piker Press on 15th March, 2021. My thanks to editor Sand Pilarski.

http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=8263

Children of the Revolution

voices
make their choices
in the game —
to remain
loyal, or abstain
and stunt reputation
for self gratification.

get real
profits of career soon heal
the sacrifice of bold ideal —
when the grey suits in the system
say: preserving status quo, is the wisdom
in this play. other tunes, are moments of fame —
memorable then forgotten in the main
stagnating stream of politics,
where embedded institutions share the same
out of tune,
out of reach hot air balloon
playing unmusical licks
treading us down in the gravity
of tribal tricks
with ghost notes
wearing uniforms of haved normality
in the foreground
and background
with loaded guns inside
and outside
their tunic coats —
ready to suppress any massed intention
of Bastille insurrection.

you don’t have the right to repeal my name,
or make me think and do the same
as you.
your way, is extinction —
only seconds
as time reckons,
a philosophy founded on myths,
twisted in technological trysts
tuned to suit you.

Article © Strider Marcus Jones. All rights reserved.
Published on 2021-03-15
Image(s) are public domain.

Thrilled to have two of my Japanese Haiku published online in Cold Moon Journal. My thanks to editor Roberta Beach Jacobson.

https://coldmoonjournal.blogspot.com/2021/03/by-strider-marcus-jones_8.html

https://coldmoonjournal.blogspot.com/2021/03/by-strider-marcus-jones.html

By Strider Marcus Jones

black coffee swirling

in a spiral galaxy

stargate in a cup

Strider Marcus Jones at March 08, 2021

By Strider Marcus Jones

honeysuckle grows

around the arch of midnight

into the wormhole

Strider Marcus Jones at March 07, 2021

Strider Marcus Jones – is the founder, editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogs…. He is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford/Hinckley, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry are modern, traditional, mythical, sometimes erotic, surreal and metaphysical http//www.lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusj…. He is a maverick, moving between forests, mountains and cities, playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain 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.

Lothlorien Poetry Journal
https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogs…

For his published poetry books: Aspects Of Love; Inside Out; Mavericks; Wooded Windows and Pomegranate Flesh see:
http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/strider…

http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_s…

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_…

Read poems from his books with reviews and comments on http://www.wattpad.com/user/striderma.

..Join him on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/stridermarcu
His poetry blogs are:

http://http://poetrybystridermarcusjo…

http://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordp…

Thrilled to have three of my poems published in the Western Voices 2021 Issue of Setu Magazine. My thanks to editors Sunil Sharma, Anurag Sharma and Scott Thomas Outlar.

Strider Marcus Jones: Poetry (Western Voices 2021)

Bio: Strider Marcus Jones is the founder and Editor of Lothlorien Poetry Journal: https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogs… 

A poet, law graduate, and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales, he is also a  member of The Poetry Society. His five published books of poetry reveal a maverick moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in over 150 literary publications worldwide including Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; and Dissident Voice. More about his work can be found here:

https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/

THE MADRIGAL OF VOICES

the madrigal of voices

somewhere, in its choices,

chooses and rejoices

back to me-

collecting frozen wood,

from the crofts and slums, of old childhood-

sat here, on this chair

in the numb night air.

now, your moonbeams kiss

the winter of me. stirs

ripples on its pond skin

back to the begin.

unpicks the threaded wish

of passion’s positive remark-

while sleep fights

these luminous lights

of limp daggers-

laughing in the dark.

somehow, its root

of subdued jasmine and tropical jute,

reaches that closed chamber of your core-

and thoughts transmute,

woven to the nature of its lore.

negativity narrows

when i stroke in your shallows-

forward as before;

but staying in tomorrows,

i enter and endure.

WHAT EVERYBODY AND NO ONE KNOWS


when you are broken
like a once loved doll,
and those spurs, that still hurt, have spoken
you blind with methanol-
the mental heather
that holds it all together,
finds you on its well-worn path
and in the aftermath,
walking alone
it takes you home-
through the Spanish orange groves
where old men sit with expired widows
thinking silently i suppose
what everybody and no one knows.
then musical scripts
of hidden songbirds play and mix
with secret symbols of illuminati
in the terracotta garden
for my ghost at its own party
of father’s day stardom,
while my prince and princess
smile at me, with their mother’s Maltese eyes-
in their more, i am less
but keep my loss disguised.
this is their day to me-
their prose
in how it goes-
like lambas bread
in what is said
as we journey.

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.


Western Voices 2021 :: Setu, February 2021

Delighted to have my two poems Grains of Sand and Wooded Windows translated into French by Rebecca Morrison on her website ILLUMINATIONS GALERIE DE L’ART ET DE LA POÉSIE.

STRIDER MARCUS JONES

BY ILLUMINATIONSGALERIE

Strider Marcus Jones – est un poète, diplômé en droit, et ancien fonctionnaire de Salford, en Angleterre, avec de fières racines celtiques en Irlande et au Pays de Galles. Membre de La société de poésie d’Angleterre, ses cinq recueils de poésie publiés révèlent un franc-tireur, se déplaçant entre les villes, jouant de son saxophone dans des salles enfumées. https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com

Sa poésie a été publiée aux États-Unis, au Canada, en Australie, en Angleterre, en Écosse, en Irlande, au Pays de Galles, en France, en Espagne, en Allemagne; Serbie, en Inde et en Suisse dans de nombreuses publications dont : The Piker Press; Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.

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 reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany, Serbia, India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: The Piker Press; Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.

Les grains de sable

imaginer
traverser le Sahara
avec les touareg;
dormir
sous un seul vaste dais d’étoiles,
consolé par les constellations
qui a jadis regardaient
les forêts anciennes
et les montagnes érodées par le vent
plus vieux que ceux-ci ici maintenant.
tout se répète—
les lits de la rivière et les rochers
retour à la mer,
où des étrangers temporaires
s’assoient comme Robinson Crusoé
sur des plages bruyantes ratissées par des tracteurs
dans des odeurs de sel et des moules non-trouvées
regarder les vagues,
penser à l’intérieur d’eux
aller et venir
comme des amis dont on a peur
comme la nature se réaccorde
ignorant notre signification
devenant des grains de sable.

Grains of Sand

imagine
crossing the Sahara
with the Tuareg;
sleeping
under one vast canopy of stars,
consoled by constellations
that once looked down
on ancient forests
and wind worn mountains
older than these here now.
it all repeats itself—
the river beds and rocks
return to the sea,
where temporary strangers
sit like Robinson Crusoe
on loud, tractor-raked beaches
in smells of salt and missed mussels
watching the waves,
thinking inside them
coming and going
like friends to be afraid of—
as nature retunes herself
ignoring our significance
becoming grains of sand.

Les fenêtres en bois

Alors que cette longue vie avance lentement
je reviens
regarder à travers les fenêtres en bois.
en avant ou en arrière, les empires et les régimes restent
dans les pyramides du pouvoir
massacrer les irréprochables pour un gain glorieux.
soldats féodaux tirant des fusils
et des oiseaux sans ailes lâchant des missiles autoguidés
sur les mères, les pères, les filles, les fils,
suivent des ordres plus élevés
pour moderniser les civilisations anciennes
répéter ce que l’histoire nous a appris.
à leur tour, leurs tours de système de classe et d’argent
va s’effondrer et s’écraser
au-dessus d’Ozymandias.
hé maintenant, bois d’hiver saisissent sans feuilles
et nous y entraînant.
glissade d’amour en jours
à travers les vagues de chaleur estivales
et vieux voies forestiers
avec nous lécher
puis dégoulinant
et coller
chanter des chansons wiccan
embrassé dans les liens païens
vivions lumière, aimé longtemps,
doigts peignant des runes sur la peau
retour au début
quand la liberté n’était pas péché.

Wooded Windows

as this long life slowly goes
i find my self 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.
loveslide 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.

Delighted to have my poem Hopper’s Ladies published in Issue 1 of Bloom Literary Magazine. My thanks to editor Nika Jordan Rose. https://redpenguinbooks.com/bloom-lit-magazine/

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.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

Delighted to have 10 poems published in Issue 8 of Fleas On The Dog. My thanks to Poetry Editor Hezekiah Scretch and Senior Editor Tom Ball.

https://fleasonthedog.com/

https://img1.wsimg.com/blobby/go/9a0949f4-1d2a-4a7c-b9fb-a96b9b6bd861/downloads/P%5EN7%20_10%20Poems_%20by%20Strider%20Marcus%20Jones.pdf?ver=1615051582446

TEN (10) poemS poems poems poems

By Strider Marcus Jones


WHY I LIKE IT: Poetry Editor HEZEKIAH writes… Strider Marcus Jones refines a language all his own. While the arrested of us employ our word into service to project our modest biddings, communicating as best we can. His are formed to dance, prance, pluck and strum. Singing and swinging as though they are truly enjoying his penetrating, orphic-like process; happy in their work as they leap and bound off the pages and back. Revealing
themselves as they spring from his distinct and galvanizing lexicon, anxiously awaiting to be called into action, to snap to attention, and rejoice in a festival of words and featured imagery. But don’t settle for my pitch, screwballs mostly throw junk—spin googlies. Not Jones, he’s all cricket, he’ll bowl you over with lithe precision and lightning tempo.

MAVERICKS

you taste of cinnamon and fish
when you wish
to be romantic-
and the ciphers of our thoughts
make ringlets with their noughts
immersed in magic-
like mithril mail around me
stove dark forest, pink flesh sea
touchings tantric-
make reality and myths
converge in elven riffs
of music, so we dance it-
symbols to the scenes
of conflict, mavericks in dreams
that now sit-
listening to these pots and kettles
blackening on the fire
of rhetoric and murderous mettles-
before we both retire
to our own script.


TWO MISFITS

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
we climbed the rungs of civilisation
so random in our exile-

and found a bell
housed inside a minaret-
with priest and muezzin
sharing its balcony-
summoning all to prayer
with one voice-
this holy music, was only the wind
blowing through the weathervane,
but we liked its tone to change its time.


THE BLOOD THAT MAKES US BLACK

imagine yourself,
in a photo-fit picture
with every nothing that’s new-
minus in health,
quoting icons and scripture
under the whole black and blue.

optimum dreams
turn out fake in the mirror
facing what’s been like fallen heroes-
in so many scenes
like a ghost who is giver
passing on wisdom, who knows-

the blood that makes us black
of two from one,
is schooled by fungus fortunes
and faiths old hat
to be sold on-
like tamed-trained gangs, making golden dunes.


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.

THAT BLACKSMITH FELLOW

crumpling

crumbling

heart

war thump

peace pump

stall start

cave hunting

and gathering

in groups

to farms with crops

and hoofed live stocks

drink beer, eat meat and soups.

that blacksmith fellow,

with fire and forge, hammer and bellow,

is still the alchemist-

malleous like his mettles

when everybody settles

into civil lists.

in us now,

the subliminal plough

sets our furrows footsteps-

so summer’s run and winter’s plod,

with, or without god

in and out of upsets.

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.

THIS IS THE FIELD

this is not the field

for truth to grow in.

its furrowed lips are sealed

with knowing

nothing can sing

in the wrong wind.

the crop is stunted

self expression blunted

opinion gagged

and head sagged

waiting for the final blow

from the farmer’s shadow.

the field hands

cut to His commands

and every leathered face

has served in its place

like all the others, for centuries

in these peasant penitentiaries,

without bolting

or revolting

in union, except for the Tolpuddle few,

who knew what to do

but were jailed, or transported

and thwarted.

WATER AND MIST

let the world do what it does,

and when the desert

comes for us

we will be water-

sow the seeds of new ideas

replace the wars and fears

of decadent thrones

spying on the homes

of those they slaughter.

bring on the people’s revolution,

that returns our stolen

land into our hands

from these swollen

fat cats, with their final solution

and fascist FEMA plans.

let the world do what it does,

and when the guns

are turned on us

we will be mist-

eclipsing everything they’ve done

when we resist.

strike them like ghosts

in the halls of their hosts,

topple their temples of sin-

dissolve all their banks,

then their missiles and tanks,

leave no corrupted survivor-

cleanse what’s within

for a new way to begin

by severing each head from this hydra.

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 our self

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.

MIND’S AND MUSK

so now

we both came

to this same

branch and bough-

no one else commutes

from different roots.

me carrying Celtic stones

with runes on skin over bones-

and you, in streams

on evicted land

trashed ancients panned-

our truth dreams

under star light crossing beams.

in here, there is no mask

of present building out the past

with gilded Shard’s of steel and glass

shutting out who shall not pass.

the tree of life breathes

a rebel destiny believes-

we are minds and musk

no more husks and dust.


THE POET SPEAKS: I like the company of people but prefer solitude. I like to listen to people talk, the way they see it and say it. For me, poetry spans our past, present and future. These poems, and those in my books, are about the themes of love, relationships, peace, war, racial, economic and sexual equality, cultural integration, poverty, mythical romance, the magic of childhood and experience of growing old as a Bohemian maverick. The strings of chance and consequences meld with music and art in Spinoza’s orderly chaos of the universe.

Life is hard and uncertain for most of us now, but also rare in our corner of the universe, so I strive to express my own understanding of it. Thinking time is my creative cove. My English teacher, Anne Ryan inspired me to write poetry when I was thirteen. The poems have grown with me and reflect much of who I am now. Some poems sleep for years. Mere jumbles of words, themes and rhythms in subconscious gaseous clouds. Their form and meaning evolve in
Spinoza’s orderly chaos. Other poems just happen, triggered by a single word or phrase, a sound, smell, or shape that relates to something from our past, present, or future. Writing a good poem makes me feel like the artist who can paint, or the musician who can play – joy in creating something that others enjoy and feel inspired to try doing themselves.


My first poetical influences were the Tin Pan Alley lyricists and composers like Sammy Cahn, Cole Porter and Rogers and Hart. I love the fun, rhythm and interplay between lyrics and music. Bob Dylan, Tom Waits and Leonard Cohen influence my poetry in the same way, allowing me to experiment with metaphor, form and rhythms.


Relationships and love are one of the main themes in my poetry. Two books which have travelled with me through life are Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy and Tess Of The D’urbervilles by Thomas Hardy. Tolkien’s Lord Of The Rings trilogy is a big influence on some of my work. My favourite poets who have influenced my work include: Shelley, Keats, Yeats, Auden, Dylan Thomas, Bishop, Szymborska, Langston Hughes, Plath, Art Crane, Larkin, Forough Farrokhzad, Neruda, Rumi and Heaney.


AUTHOR’S 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 forests, mountains, cities and coasts playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.

Delighted to have my two poems Exotic Birds and Life Is Flamenco published online in Poetry Life and Times. My thanks to editor Robin Hislop.

EXOTIC BIRDS & LIFE IS FLAMENCO. Poems by Strider Marcus Jones https://www.artvilla.com/plt/exotic-birds-life-is-flamenco-poems-by-strider-marcus-jones/

EXOTIC BIRDS & LIFE IS FLAMENCO. Poems by Strider Marcus Jones

 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

(i.)
 
EXOTIC BIRDS
 
i love the substance
of eccentric style
in your beauty-
the enchanting glance
of old fashioned romance
in your smile
that softly soothes me
after the external joust dust
of modernity
settles
on precious metals
sought by Faustus
stealing gas and oil
from African soil.
i love the dink
in the middle of your back
where my fingers sink
when i trace and track
the road of your spine
in perfect sync
of mind with mine.
i last, near and far
in your scented clouds of cinnabar,
singing, with you, want you, words
like intoxicating exotic birds-
ready to leave poisonous suburbs
to disturbed self and same
arrogant and vain
vices and vines
embracing abyss in eclipsed times.
 
(ii.)
 
LIFE IS FLAMENCO
 
why can’t i walk as far
and smoke more tobacco,
or play my Spanish guitar
like Paco,
putting rhythms and feelings
without old ceilings
you’ve never heard
before in a word.
 
life is flamenco,
to come and go
high and low
fast and slow-
 
she loves him,
he loves her
and their shades within
caress and spur
in a ride and dance
of tempestuous romance.
 
outback, in Andalucien ease,
i embrace you, like melted breeze
amongst ripe olive trees-
dark and different,
all manly scent
and mind unkempt.
 
like i do,
Picasso knew
everything about you
when he drew
your elongated arms and legs
around me, in this perpetual bed
of emotion
and motion
for these soft geometric angles
in my finger strokes
and exhaled smokes
of rhythmic bangles
to circle colour your Celtic skin
with primitive phthalo blue
pigment in wiccan tattoo
before entering
vibrating wings
through thrumming strings
of wild lucid moments
in eternal components.
 
i can walk as far
and smoke more tobacco,
and play my Spanish guitar
like Paco.
 

 
 
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 cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
——————————————
His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany; Serbia; India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: The Piker Press; Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.
 
 
 
 

Welcome to Lothlorien Poetry Journal. Submissions Open.

https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/

https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/p/submission-guidelines.html

Editor Strider Marcus Jones

Strider Marcus Jones
Is the founder, editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
He 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 cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His work has been published in over 150 poetry journals, magazines, reviews and anthologies in the USA, Canada, England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, France, Germany, Spain, Australia, India and South Africa including : Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice and Piker Press.
He is the author of five books of poetry:
Pomegranate Flesh, Wooded Windows, Mavericks, Inside Out and Aspects Of Love.
The links to his books can be found below.

For his published poetry books: Aspects Of Love; Inside Out; Mavericks; Wooded Windows and Pomegranate Flesh see:
http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/strider…

http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_s…

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_…

Read poems from his books with reviews and comments onhttp://www.wattpad.com/user/striderma.

His poetry blogs are:

http://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordp…

https://poetrybystridermarcusjones.blogspot.com/?view=timeslide

Join him on Facebook
https://www.facebook.com/stridermarcu…

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/15762249-mavericks

LOTHLORIEN

i’m come home again

in your Lothlorien

to marinate my mind

in your words,

and stand behind

good tribes grown blind,

trapped in old absurd

regressive reasons

and selfish treasons.

in this cast of strife

the Tree Of Life

embraces innocent ghosts,

slain by Sauron’s hosts;

and their falling cries

make us wise

enough to rise

up in a fellowship of friends

to oppose Mordor’s ends

and smote this evil stronger

and longer

for each one of us that dies.

i’m come home again

in your Lothlorien,

persuading

yellow snapdragons

to take wing

and un-fang serpent krakens,

while i bring

all the races

to resume

their bloom

as equals in equal spaces

by removing

and muting

the chorus of crickets

who cheat them from chambered thickets,

hiding corruptions older than long grass

that still fag for favours asked.

i’m come home again

in your Lothlorien

where corporate warfare

and workfare

on health

and welfare

infests our tribal bodies

and separate self

in political lobbies

so conscience can’t care

or share

worth and wealth:

to rally drones

of walking bones,

too tired

and uninspired

to think things through

and the powerless who see it true.

red unites, blue divides,

which one are you

and what will you do

when reason decides.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. Pomegranate Flesh. 

POURING OUT AND IN

i must have broken every scripture

thinking about the sculpture

of your face

your blossom face.

modelled in skin

with bones hid in

expressions

and confessions-

understanding them

i feel again

impressions of your senses

aroused when sensual steam condenses

on quivering quill and quim

pouring out and in.

smoking in the dark-

still floating, on the pillows, you used to arch

giving up to me

quaffing thirstily-

then, i stand glowing

with sweat like a god

from the peat bog

lovelust growing

mo anam chara

mo ghra.Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. Wooded Windows.

MAVERICKS

you taste of cinnamon and fish
when you wish
to be romantic-
and the ciphers of our thoughts
make ringlets with their noughts
immersed in magic-
like mithril mail around me
stove dark forest, pink flesh sea
touchings tantric-
make reality and myths
converge in elven riffs
of music, so we dance it-
symbols to the scenes
of conflict, mavericks in dreams
that now sit-
listening to these pots and kettles
blackening on the fire
of rhetoric and murderous mettles-
before we both retire
to our own script.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. Mavericks.

EVENSTAR

i wait
and listen
for the faint fall
of her footsteps
and the soft lilt
of her ethereal voice
that hangs in the air
to the shape and sound
of musical notes
that move like Degas’ dancers
around the thoughtful beauty
of her fabulous face
to become lucid
with loves weight
but weightless and warm once worn
as their essence enters me.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. Inside Out.

FALLING FOR YOU

so far back
deep in the magma of you,
with thoughts i lack
suddenly coming too.

so far back
in your words and feelings hue,
your molten track
a furnace of fire anew.

the pleasures foretold
in this word unglued,
now mine to behold
falling for you.

come love, etch your runes
onto sensuous skin,
and make my empty waiting rooms
ripple with longing.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. Aspects of Love.

Delighted to have my poems Convict Chains 15th February, 2021 and Childhood Fires 18th January, 2021 published online in The Piker Press Magazine. My thanks to editor Sand Pilarski.

Convict Chains

rich man and peasant understand
coins change hand,
despite the Magna Carta
we must all barter
to live —

only communists give
nothing
something
sometimes —
same crimes.

so, when reason rains,
i drag my convict chains
to the barrow bog
and cut peat
in feral fog
where motives meet.

six feet down,
sucked back five thousand years
the old town
settlement appears
in full formation
of chattel,
cattle
and battle
still at station
preserved
to serve.

around
the round
late night fires,
power plays and lust desires
hearth home homogenous
in Mars and Venus
making love in animal skins
wearing the same sins.

on the long walk home,
some alone
and those together,
believe never
can be changed
and are called strange.

Article © Strider Marcus Jones. All rights reserved.
Published on 2021-02-15
Image(s) are public domain.

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 jitties
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 didn’t 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


Article © Strider Marcus Jones. All rights reserved.
Published on 2021-01-18
Image(s) are public domain.
Strider Marcus Jones – is the founder, editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogs…. He is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford/Hinckley, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry are modern, traditional, mythical, sometimes erotic, surreal and metaphysical http//www.lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusj…. He is a maverick, moving between forests, mountains and cities, playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain 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.

Happy to have my poem Old Cafe published on Poetry in Surrey Libraries blog on 25th January, 2021. My thanks to editors J M. Gale and Neil Richards.

https://npdsurrey.wordpress.com/2021/01/25/old-cafe-by-strider-marcus-jones/

OLD CAFE by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on January 25, 2021 by jmgale

Image by Nuno Lopes from Pixabay 

a rest, from swinging bar
and animals in the abattoir-
to smoke in mental thinks
spoken holding cooling drinks.

counting out old coppers to be fed
in the set squares of blue and red
plastic table cloth-
just enough to break up bread in thick barley broth.

Jesus is late
after saying he was coming
back to share the wealth and real estate
of capitalist cunning.

maybe. just maybe.
put another song on the jukebox baby:
no more heroes anymore.
what are we fighting for-

he’s hiding in hymns and chants,
in those Monty Python underpants,
from this coalition of new McCarthy’s
and it’s institutions of Moriarty’s.

some shepherds sheep will do this dance
in hypothermic trance,
for one pound an hour
like a shamed flower,

watched by sinister sentinels-
while scratched tubular bells,
summon all to sunday service
where invisible myths exist- to a shamed flower
with supernatural power
come the hour.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/messymind/


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 cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany; Serbia; India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.

Thrilled to have my poem In The Notes Of My Guitar published on Poetry in Surrey Libraries blog on 20th January, 2021. My thanks to editors J M. Gale and Neil Richards.

https://npdsurrey.wordpress.com/2021/01/20/in-the-notes-of-my-guitar-by-strider-marcus-jones/

IN THE NOTES OF MY GUITAR by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on January 20, 2021 by jmgale

Image by Monica Volpin from Pixabay

i discover who you are
in the notes of my guitar-
love songs
sad songs,
good wronged
grown back songs,
plucking soft and strong
in nowhere
for somewhere
to belong.
chords fill the space
around the beauty of your face,
with lyrics in the breeze
on this road of serendipity,
where silver trees
mark the way to go, and be.


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 cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany; Serbia; India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.

Thrilled to have my poem Life Is Flamenco published on Poetry in Surrey Libraries blog on 17th January, 2021. My thanks to editors J M. Gale and Neil Richards.

https://npdsurrey.wordpress.com/2021/01/17/life-is-flamenco-by-strider-marcus-jones/

LIFE IS FLAMENCO by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on January 17, 2021 by jmgale

Image by Lenny21 from Pixabay 

why can’t i walk as far
and smoke more tobacco,
or play my spanish guitar
like Paco,
putting rhythms and feelings
without old ceilings
you’ve never heard
before in a word.

life is flamenco,
to come and go
high and low
fast and slow-

she loves him,
he loves her
and their shades within
caress and spur
in a ride and dance
of tempestuous romance.

outback, in Andalucien ease,
i embrace you, like melted breeze
amongst ripe olive trees-
dark and different,
all manly scent
and mind unkempt.

like i do,
Picasso knew
everything about you
when he drew
your elongated arms and legs
around me, in this perpetual bed
of emotion
and motion
for these soft geometric angles
in my finger strokes
and exhaled smokes
of rhythmic bangles
to circle colour your Celtic skin
with primitive phthalo blue
pigment in wiccan tattoo
before entering
vibrating wings
through thrumming strings
of wild lucid moments
in eternal components.

i can walk as far
and smoke more tobacco,
and play my spanish guitar
like Paco.


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 cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany; Serbia; India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.

Delighted to have my poem I Know Your Notes published on Poetry in Surrey Libraries blog on 15th January, 2021. My thanks to editors J M. Gale and Neil Richards.

https://npdsurrey.wordpress.com/2021/01/15/i-know-your-notes-by-by-strider-marcus-jones/

I KNOW YOUR NOTES by by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on January 15, 2021 by jmgale

Image by simisi1 from Pixabay 

sat with you,
reflections bond
over the pond
of summer solstice,

and Mr Blue
sky
with eggy eye
subliminally sends Otis

into ribbons and ripples
of hair and faces,
through sensual trickles
in hidden places

that glances bring
on summer wind.
i know your notes
tacking on water like paper boats,

and the rigging string
vibrating
through notches in the mast
so love and living last.


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 cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany; Serbia; India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.

Really chuffed to have my poem He Plays His Flamenco Guitar published on the Poetry in Surrey Libraries blog on 12th January, 2021. My thanks to editors J M. Gale and Neil Richards. https://npdsurrey.wordpress.com/2021/01/12/he-plays-his-flamenco-guitar-by-strider-marcus-jones/

HE PLAYS HIS FLAMENCO GUITAR by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on January 12, 2021 by jmgale

Image by Edwin Valencia from Pixabay 

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

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 cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany; Serbia; India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.

Delighted to have my poem The Dance published online by Dissident Voice. My thanks to the editors.

The Dance

by Strider Marcus Jones / February 7th, 2021

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 shamans
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.

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, February 7th, 2021 at 8:03am and is filed under Poetry.


Pleased to have my short poems Woken from the Deep and Life’s Truth published online in Whispers and Echoes Magazine on January 27th, 2021 and February 1st, 2021. My thanks to Editor Sammi Cox.

Woken From The Deep | Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on by sammicoxwriter

In death we die, and go to lie,

Beneath the ground, until we’re found,

And passed around

From museum to museum,

Where people push and cry:

“Move your head! We wanna see him.”

Oh Ra. It’s no fun being a mummy-

When you’re woken from the deep:

So when they put the lights out,

I’ll just go back to sleep.

Life’s Truth | Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on by sammicoxwriter

Life’s a foaming cobbled

Stream of peoples lives,

And loves a fragrant fantasy

We can’t deny:

Strife’s a bitter apathy

We can’t escape,

And war’s a grim reality

We choose to make.


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 reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany; Serbia; India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: The Piker Press; Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.

Delighted to have 3 poems published in Impspired Magazine, Issue 9 on 1st February, 2021 along with some great poets. My thanks to brilliant editor Steve Cawte on this amazing magazine.

SUMMER WIND

 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 isn’t 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.
 

WHEN THE ROAD FORKS

 soft scented ring
 on straightened bow,
 the joy you bring
 inside me now-
 
 the candle burning, slowly down,
 the mirror showing more of you-
 arched back and shoulders golden brown,
 hips rock, hair tumbling too-
 
 as hope and passion rise and fall
 in symmetry and space,
 the perfect beauty of it all,
 enraptures face and place-
 
 and be it now, or beyond this,
 with gentle hands and loves soft kiss-
 to trace your smile and touch your thoughts,
 still, after this, when the road forks.
 

ADUMBRATE LOVES SHALLOWS

 goddess of the moon
 fusion of light and shadow,
 come now, light my room-
 make darkness shrink and narrow.
 
 gravitate to me
 awake inside un-natural light,
 half written, half unknown i be
 eclipsed in doubt, but inward bright.
 
 bring your blooms to this fallow bed
 alone in fates sad stare,
 wrap me in your ethereal thread,
 to reset time and covet care.
 
 adumbrate loves shallows
 in my sanctum core,
 where the pastels fade and pallow
 without depth and shade on dwindling shore.

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 cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.
 
 

Delighted to have my poem The Latitude of Love published in Dreich Magazine’s themed chapbook – Things to do with love. My thanks to brilliant editor Jack Caradoc.

THE LATITUDE OF LOVE

the latitude of love

paddles an imperial pedalo

in someone’s waters-

and i had to go

native in a foreign land

to understand

where my own backward blood

has brought us.

in the mosque

in the mihrab

in Cordoba,

no one is lost

as Christian and Arab

respect how they cross over.

inside:

the scallop shell,

with it’s white marble hood

and cathedral bell

above ancient wood,

keeps everyone equal and safe from hell-

but outside:

other forces blow the people and their pedalo.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. From his fourth book Wooded Windows.

Chuffed to have my short poem Metal Mania published in the January 2021 issue of First Literary Review-East. My thanks to editor Cindy Sostchen-Hochman.

http://www.rulrul.4mg.com/?fbclid=IwAR2BWXwZp7WpR5C9Rs-CLjEntzjVVrgX37msvkdDgfcnUwq9vSmCqVe5Nhc

Metal Mania

Metal mania

In twisted sculpture;
Welded gods
With scornful eyes—
Inhabit the space of neon galleries
Amused by all the gossip and lies
Oozing from
In the know la de das
Who soak their boredom
In high-class bars.

                                                         —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 cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

Welcome to Lothlorien Poetry Journal founded by poet, editor and publisher Strider Marcus Jones. Submissions OPEN.

https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/

https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/p/submission-guidelines.html

https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/p/editor-strider-marcus-jones.html

1.  Submissions are always open and free.  Lothlorien Poetry Journalpublishes periodically throughout the year.
     * Poems:  Include 1-5 poems in the body of your email or attached as a word doc in font  Times New Roman 12-14 point, 150 lines or less. I also consider Haiku, Senyru and Tanka (minimum 5 each) and video poetry readings. Title your submission – eg. Poetry Submission by John Smith and  send to LothlorienPoetryJournal@outlook.com. Also include a brief bio of 200 words or less and your photo.
OR
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Delighted to have 3 poems published in Literary Yard e-Journal on December 31st, 2020. My thanks to the editors.

‘We move the wheel’ and other poems by Strider Marcus Jones

BY AUTHOR ON  • ( 1 COMMENT )

By: Strider Marcus Jones

WE MOVE THE WHEEL

we move the wheel
that turns through each mistake,
giving motion
to the roles we chime
until both trickle out of time
like brittle steel
that rusts and breaks
into lapsed devotion.

less, or more,
you imagined it was sure
sharing the road
with you,
treading under dark, grey and blue
sky, wondering where it went going
to unfold
in fates wind blowing
fondling your full face
to some top-to-bottom place.

we have moved the wheel,
only to reveal
our high Metropolis
is still the same Acropolis
of extremes and obscenes
spreading gangrenous genes.

we have separated Dream from Time
and live in mirages
like Bacchus and Libera
duped in an era
condoning crime,
altering the images
of it’s illustrious self
stealing the wealth
of massed, divided synergies.

###

THE HERMIT

off rink
i think
and sit
like a hermit
but time
isn’t mine
to design.
the images erased
from memory in this cave
reverses the lathe
of shaped corruption
to avoid self destruction.
to an unseen, individual,
prime residual
unlit spark in the integral
strum of strings
that turns in revolutions rings,
the equal hands on the cosmic clock,
plays rhythms we know
but have forgot,
neither quick or slow,
but just so, with natures tow.
this solitary Eden,
paradise without our seed in
beneath the clouds of atmosphere,
alters with us here
overthrowing Older Orders without consent
in the deafening, silent firmament
and near
in conditioned fear.

###

I WANT TO BEND TIME

I want more time
To ponder life,
For understanding
In the cosmic soup.
I want to bend time
To travel backwards and forwards,
To see what was and what will be
To fathom actions and consequences.
I want to unmould time
From how we shape it,
To be free of it
Unchained to think.
I want to teleport
To the past and now and on from here,
Faster than light
In the nothingness it takes to make a thought:
To find the answer-
To where we come from
To who we are
To why we are here
And where we are going
To be free from time.

###

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 reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

Thrilled to have my poem Fallen Lintels published in Oddball Magazine on January 6th, 2021. My thanks to editor Chad Parenteau and photographer Jennifer Matthews.

Photography © Jennifer Matthews

Fallen Lintels

it was summertime
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.

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 reveal a maverick, moving between forests, mountains, cities and coasts playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.

Poet/Photographer Jennifer Matthews’ poetry has been published in Nepal by Pen Himalaya and locally by the Wilderness Retreat Writers Organization, Midway Journal, The Somerville Times, Ibbetson Street Press and Boston Girl Guide. Jennifer was nominated for a poetry award by the Cambridge Arts Council for her book of Poetry Fairy Tales and Misdemeanors. Her songs have been released nationally and internationally and her photography has been used as covers for a number of Ibbetson Street Press poetry books and has been exhibited at The Middle East Restaurant, 1369 Coffeehouses, Sound Bites Restaurant in Somerville and McLean Hospital.

Lovely to have my poem Composers and Mistakes published in Nymphs Literary Journal on January 4th, 2020. My thanks to editor Julia Retkova.

https://nymphspublications.com/new-blog/composers-and-mistakes-by-strider-marcus-jones

NymphsPUBLICATIONSABOUTSUBMISSIONS

‘Composers and Mistakes’ by Strider Marcus Jones

when I see the evening,

with it’s ordinary sounds and shapes

so full of unbelieving

composers and mistakes

coming in-

something wakes,

and I begin.

what I can’t affect

is getting colder

as I grow older,

retreating inside-

I could be your wreck

if I was bolder

and called you over,

over this side-

through the honeysuckle arch of midnight,

moon like a lid bright

shield in the sky;

on the grass

where footsteps last

in this light-

making a cast

where you walked by.


665272_10151223197318189_405679816_o (1).jpg
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 cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

January 4, 2021

Delighted to have 5 of my poems published in Issue 131 of Danse Macabre online Magazine on 4th January, 2020. My thanks to the editors.

https://dansemacabreonline.wixsite.com/neudm/strider-marcus-jones-131

Em5AHjmW4AAj5OK.jpeg

Strider Marcus Jones

Poetry

The Portal in the Woods

Seeing somnambulist sunrise

Through open window

Touch your face

After love rides

On moon tides

In ebb and flow

At tantric pace-

Love resides

Tasted

No asides

Wasted

Spices of the flesh

Soaking rooms in Marrakesh

How I ate your truffle in Zanzibar

While you smoked my long cigar.

Back home-

Tribes of bloods

And druids roam

Seeking out the overgrown

Portal in the woods

Where we hondfast

In this present of the past

Dance chanting

In stone bone circles

Like ooparts

Practicing

Magical arts

Settling

What chaos hurtles-

Reconnecting rhythms

In living and dead

To those algorithms

In nature’s head.

We are rustic-

Romantic

In land and sky

The  air  fire  water

To warriors who slaughter

If Us or Them must die.

We wake

For clambake

Pleasure

In a cauldron lake

Of limbs together

Then cut sods of peat

From the bog under our feet

Exposing the pasts

That never last.

Cubist Ghettos

I think

To shrink

The distance

Of resistance

Inside self

To all else-

Knowing

Showing

Vulnerability

In the mystery

Leaves what is closed

Openly exposed-

To explanation

Under examination

When there isn’t one

That hasn’t gone

Until roof floor and sky door

Are no more-

Only roulette rubbles

Of drone troubles

Imprisoning

Reasoning

In cubist ghettos

Wearing jazz stilettos-

Flashing flamingo legs

To pink paradise Harlem heads

While new trees grow up mute

And ripen with strange fruit

Some whites too this time

A drowned boy me and mine.

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.

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.

 

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 loving kindness

cloaked in timeless

density and tone

in settled loam-

beyond lonely apartments in skyscrapers

and empty newspapers,

or small town life

gutting you with gossip’s knife.

Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from England with deep Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry are modern, traditional, mythical, sometimes erotic, surreal and metaphysical. When not writing, he can be heard playing his saxophone and clarinet (just ask his neighbours). 

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India and Switzerland in numerous publications including DM; 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; Section 8 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.

https://dansemacabreonline.wixsite.com/neudm/copy-of-entr%C3%A9e-dm-130

Thrilled to have my poem ‘I Want What Ordinary Others Want’ Published in dyst Literary Journal Issue 4 in December 2020. My thanks to editor Rosey Ravelston.

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.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. All Rights Reserved.

Delighted to have 3 poems published in Dreich Magazine Extra 2 ‘Winter’ edition in December 2020. My thanks to editor Jack Caradoc.

THE PATH, THE FENCE, THE FIELDS

we walk by the river
talking inside ourselves,
like rhapsodies in two reflections-
different, but the same.

the path, the fence, the fields-
unknown obstacles that stare
through then, and now, beyond-
have heard love chime before.

ahead the river breaks
going separate ways,
but we stick to the same side
in the willow woods

and farms of flooded fields-
with ascension stroking
each reaction
phosphorous in the rain.

SO IT GOES


when i look back
in a moment
of quiet acquired dignity
that comes to some
with age,
it is with patience,
for i was much the same
when everything seemed bigger
than it was
as uncertainty
wore the other shoe to confidence
and followed it step for step.

the energy of youth
that often acts
without respect and understanding-
to bluff and blag its way
in fashion and musical rebellion-
skips like stones
on the ponds of those who have it all
from Parliaments revolution-
but their ripples wane
through treacled trends
in this dumbed down democracy
soothed by drugs and drink.

apathy watches and laughs
at these new roundheads and royals-
jigging their booty
to tunes composed
by capitalist cavaliers-
wearing each despotic Emperor’s new clothes,
and a known assassins kiss of death
waits for anyone who questions-

so it goes.

MEPHISTOPHELES IS NOT ABOUT

this coffee is hot-

but paradise is cold,

and Mephistopheles is not

about, tempting me with gold

and pouting pleasures of the flesh

with their alluring mesh-

so Morpheus to hold

in broken secrets being told.

this dreamer in his underwear,

parts from the bottle, and leaves it there-

some touched,

not much

with stale camembert-

no fun alone,

moving around inside, unknown-

disturbed from bed to chair.

it synchronizes well,

how past and present both compel

a sleep on understanding-

the beat of love with sand in

the texture of its taste,

trapped in silence,

waxed to waste-

with nothings nonsense

in its face.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. All Rights Reserved.

Really chuffed to have 3 poems published in Necro Magazine, Issue 4, Winter 2020 – Culture. My thanks to the editor Ruben Baca.

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.

TWO MISFITS

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
we climbed the rungs of civilisation
so random in our exile-

and found a bell
housed inside a minaret-
with priest and muezzin
sharing its balcony-
summoning all to prayer
with one voice-
this holy music, was only the wind
blowing through the weathervane,
but we liked its tone to change its time.


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 our self

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.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. All rights reserved.

Delighted to have 5 of my poems published in The Aurora Journal, Winter 2020 Volume on 28th December, 2020. My thanks to the editors.

https://www.theaurorajournal.org/the-journal-1

I WANT WHAT ORDINARY OTHERS WANT

Strider Marcus Jones

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.

THE CUP

Strider Marcus Jones

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

my dearest holds the coffee
i pour into me,
or sometimes tea
when i want to see
who is 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.

THE DANCE

Strider Marcus Jones

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 the 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 shamans.
clothes and coupling
used to be enough
with musicians
artists
and poets
interpreting the dance.

then warriors with armies,
religions with god,
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 DOOR

Strider Marcus Jones

the door
between skyfloor,
topbottom,

is rankrotten,

portalbliss,
abjectabyss.

it contains conversations,
confrontations,
hiding loving two-ings

in lost ruins-

it 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.

HOPPER’S LADIES

Strider Marcus Jones

you stay and grow more mysterious
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. but

gutting you
with gossip’s knife.

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 cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany; Serbia; India, and Switzerland in numerous publications including Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.

Stunned and humbled by this perceptive 5 star review of my 5th book Pomegranate Flesh on Goodreads by author M T Ceres. Thankyou. Most appreciated.

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/16083164-pomegranate-flesh

Pomegranate Flesh

 

Pomegranate Flesh

by Strider Marcus Jones (Goodreads Author) 4.60  ·   Rating details ·  10 ratings  ·  6 reviewsRead 40/75 poems, and reviews from this book free on wattpad http://www.wattpad.com/story/1880383-…

IN THIS BOOK

i’ve set so many fires
in the deepest desires
on this road
and am close
to what they hold-
the most
for human love
and equal revolution
without the bloody fist and glove
of brutal evolution.
see, how gold cartel caravans
and religions in corrupt polarity
have usurped the pagan
shrines of all humanity-
making us serfs again
in unframed Lothlorien,
in chains that were strings,
ciliced by mortifications mesh,
while our mind and limbs
long for love’s pomegranate flesh.

The poems in this collection show Strider’s gift of being able to weave words into creative and surprising configurations. He manipulates words to do his will, taming them with his love for the sounds, rhythms and cadence of language. The result is poetry that is fresh, wild, sensual, and new. His poetry lulls the reader into hypnotic and sensual trances with imaginative renderings of lush landscapes of the mind, body,and nature. Pomegranate Flesh is a wonderful compilation of poems, resonating with a poet’s passion for life, love, and language.

The Pomegranate is the national fruit and symbol of Armenia. It represents fertility, abundance and marriage. One ancient custom widely accepted in ancient Armenia was performed at weddings. A bride was given a pomegranate fruit, which she threw against a wall, breaking it into pieces. Scattered pomegranate seeds ensured the bride future children.

http://www.lulu.com/shop/strider-marc…

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Paperback, First Edition, 128 pagesPublished October 10th 2012 by Lulu PressISBN1291117318 (ISBN13: 9781291117318)Edition LanguageEnglishOther EditionsNone foundAll Editions | Add a New Edition | Add an Alternate Cover Edition | Combine…Less DetailEdit Details

FRIEND REVIEWS (10) 5.00 average rating

Jul 13, 2020M.T. Ceres rated it – it was amazing

This was a gift from my daughter because it contains one of my all time favourite poems, ‘Lothlorien’, and what a poem this is.
The words skip and dance hypnotically to create a poem that has a real epic feel to it – I could honestly read a book of Lothlorien – the rhythm feels soporific, but suddenly a line will appear that punches you right in your conscience. A wonderful weave of fantasy and reality with tension between the natural in terms of tribe and habitat with the unnatural in terms of politics and corporate corruption. Reads like a song, reminds me of the tempo of some classical epics like the Ancient Mariner.

There are so many poems I loved in Pomegranate Flesh, notably the title poem but another absolute favourite was ‘Childhood Fires’ for its honesty, descriptive power and the well crafted positioning of the poets background in terms of class and family. In my opinion, this is a well delivered slice of social history in poetic form, that avoids caricature due to the poets skill in painting a picture with words, that evoke strongly poignant memory. Stylistically, for me, it was evocative of Ken Loaches ‘Kes’. Timeless and Northern. A brilliant poem.

 

Over the moon to have my poem The Ascent of Money published online on by Cajun Mutt Press on 25th December, 2020. My thanks to its brilliant editor James D. Casey IV.

https://cajunmuttpress.wordpress.com/2020/12/25/cajun-mutt-press-featured-writer-12-25-20/

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 12/25/20

James D. Casey IV

THE ASCENT OF MONEY

the stars are those
we have forgotten
both living and dead,
floating in clustered constellations
not labouring in rows-
with hair growing grey
and teeth going rotten
singing songs, God’s godless pray.
harvesting crops.
chants drowned in clocks
of tobacco and cotton,
the peasants and slaves of civilised nations
duped by liberty
in recent history-
dug out canals, made railways and roads
out of tarmac to tread-
into factories
like tribal junkies
hooked on cheap gin and beer instead
of joining the cholera’s watery dead-
ten to a room in a slum and led-
like human batteries,
sleeping without moonlight
on sarsen stones,
or druid voices in their homes-
where thoughts have no dreams or flight,
just sleep, recharge, get bled.
you have to be poor,
to think utopia
can be something real-
not to exploit or steal
that ambrosia aura of women and children and men
for the spoken wages of despair-
that suck you in,
glad but grim
when time’s clock punches that card by the door
and mass myopia
conditions all to labour, keyboard and pen
for food and shelter with a roof and fourth wall
shanty made out of cardboard, wood and tin
in sunny Sao Paolo, where the samba rain leaks in
while orphaned children beg and play
eating the forage of capitalist waste
dodging death squads night and day
imitating Socrates at football to hope to taste
what’s inside the cold, glistening towers
casting invisible powers
behind the smoked glass and soldiers of stone
leaving blood and bleached bone
from over there-
where the ascent of money doesn’t care
about it all
because its infinity is small.

©2020 Strider Marcus Jones All rights reserved.

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.

Delighted to have my poem Minds and Musk published in The Open Culture Collective Volume 2 – Identity. My thanks to the editors.

https://toccollective.wixsite.com/tocc/identity-tocc-download

Minds and Musk

poem by Strider Marcus Jones

so now
we both came
to this same
branch and bough-
no one else commutes
from different roots.
me carrying Celtic stones
with runes on skin over bones-
and you, in streams
on evicted land
trashed ancients panned-
our truth dreams
under star light crossing beams.
in here, there is no mask
of present building out the past
with gilded Shard’s of steel and glass
shutting out who shall not pass.
the tree of life breathes
a rebel destiny believes-
we are minds and musk
no more husks and dust.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. All Rights Reserved.

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 can be viewed at https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/

Happy to have 5 poems published online in Five Willows Literary Review on 20th December, 2020. My thanks to editor Koon Woon.

https://www.fivewillowsliteraryreview.com/2020/12/marcus-jones-portal-in-woods-seeing.html

Strider Marcus Jones

THE PORTAL IN THE WOODS

Seeing somnambulist sunrise

Through open window

Touch your face

After love rides

On moon tides

In ebb and flow

At tantric pace-

Love resides

Tasted

No asides

Wasted

Spices of the flesh

Soaking rooms in Marrakesh

How I ate your truffle in Zanzibar

While you smoked my long cigar.

Back home-

Tribes of bloods

And druids roam

Seeking out the overgrown

Portal in the woods

Where we hondfast

In this present of the past

Dance chanting

In stone bone circles

Like ooparts

Practicing

Magical arts

Settling

What chaos hurtles-

Reconnecting rhythms

In living and dead

To those algorithms

In natures head.

We are rustic-

Romantic

In land and sky

The  air  fire  water

To warriors who slaughter

If Us or Them must die.

We wake

For clambake

Pleasure

In a cauldron lake

Of limbs together

Then cut sods of peat

From the bog under our feet

Exposing the pasts

That never last.

CUBIST GHETTOS

I think

To shrink

The distance

Of resistance

Inside self

To all else-

Knowing

Showing

Vulnerability

In the mystery

Leaves what is closed

Openly exposed-

To explanation

Under examination

When there isn’t one

That hasn’t gone

Until roof floor and sky door

Are no more-

Only roulette rubbles

Of drone troubles

Imprisoning

Reasoning

In cubist ghettos

Wearing jazz stilettos-

Flashing flamingo legs

To pink paradise Harlem heads

While new trees grow up mute

And ripen with strange fruit

Some whites too this time

A drowned boy me and mine.

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.

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.

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.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. All Rights Reserved.


Honoured to have my poem “A Shaman Speaks” published in Issue 7 of Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal on 16th December, 2020. My thanks to editor Mysti S. Milwee.

https://sequoyahcherokeeriverjournal.wordpress.com/2020/12/16/sequoyah-cherokee-river-journal-7/

A SHAMAN SPEAKS

Bird sun-dance
On blue water:
Eagle fly
Free in sky.

Salt flats basin
Great white sea
Bare of grass
And prairie tree.

Shadow That Comes Inside
Says the white-man’s wasting kiss,
Grows because he does not know,
Where the center of the Earth is.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. All Rights Reserved.

ISSUE 7

From the Editor: Mysti S. Milwee

Congratulations to all my fellow brothers and sisters that have contributed to Issue 7 of Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal. Warmest Welcome, y’all have a “uwoduhi adanvto” (beautiful spirit). Issue 7 highlights a rather diverse beautiful collection of Poetry and Prose; Collaborations in Art and Poetry; Photography and Art Photography that transcends with beauty evoking nature, beauty, animals, and Native American culture. The Cover Art “HARVESTING THE FALL” is rendered by the Editor and is an ekphrastic collaboration with poetess Venus Jones. I hope you all enjoy and share the beauty of this issue with fellow poets and creatives in the world. Thank you for contributing!

Congratulations to the following fellow contributors for Issue 7:

* Venus Jones & Editor Mysti S. Milwee

* Winston Derden

* Tali Cohen Shabtai

* Kathryn Kuklinski

* Carl Scharwath & Annette Nasser (Collaboration)

* Nivedita Karthik

* Stacy Savage

* Ermira Mitre Kokomani

* Joshua Corwin

* Strider Marcus Jones

* Marc Carswell

Really chuffed to have five of my poems published in Academy of the Heart and Mind Literary Magazine on 5th December, 2020. My thanks to the editor..

https://academyoftheheartandmind.wordpress.com/2020/12/05/become-transhuman-and-other-poems/

ACADEMYOFTHEHEARTANDMINDFICTIONPOETRY

Become Transhuman and Other Poems

By Strider Marcus Jones

Become Transhuman

mop my stain
of thoughts
from their existence,
before they grow too old
and follow me,
into disrepair
and rigid ways-
but leave one drop
of luminous ribosome
to feed its reason
if i choose to let mortality
become transhuman,
then i, so acting shaped
to mime and mummer
like a paradise peacock
in a rainy coat of chaos-
would delete myself
born blind, gone wise.

When The Day Breaks Down

when the day breaks down,
i look rain drowned
like that hole in the ground
trapped road where i wait
floating in the pool of fate.
which way is sound.
back
is gone,
and forward
the unfound
wild track
moves on.
sideways
yours and my ways
shout
then separate out
in pieces of broken pre-Raphaelite plate
and coffee stained passages of forgotten Blake,
now ornaments
of visionary discontents-
i removed when
to begin again.

Doing Nothing

doing nothing
is a way
of doing something
with the day
if you leave it open.
just think,
what was, has been
a long drink
from the same stream
and you are not broken.
love flown and fled
shared who you are,
happened, was said
but only so far
sound spoken.

Broken Line

i keep seeing you forever,
but forever
isn’t time;
its now
is only never,
and its plough
isn’t mine:
but those fields, were not faking
in the wind and rain
of mime-
when giving, was worth taking
to remember the same
soft swaying, then making
broken line-
on loves ketch,
so ebbed and etched
in sips of moated wine,
whose sober stillness
of fathoms reflect-
this nearness
each dominion can't confine.

Grains of Sand

imagine
crossing the Sahara
with the Tuareg;
sleeping
under one vast canopy of stars,
consoled by constellations
that once looked down
on ancient forests
and wind worn mountains
older than these here now.
it all repeats itself-
the river- beds and rocks
return to the sea,
where temporary strangers
sit like Robinson Crusoe
on loud, tractor raked beaches
in smells of salt and dog shit
watching the waves,
thinking inside them
coming and going
like friends to be afraid of-
as nature retunes herself
ignoring our significance
becoming grains of sand.

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 cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

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.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. All Rights Reserved.

Thrilled to have four of my poems published online in Lion and Lilac Arts Magazine, Issue 3. My thanks to Chief Editor Tolu’ A Akinyemi.

www.lionandlilac.org/2020/12/01/four-poemsstrider-marcus-jones/

NOTES ON SCRAPS OF SCREEN PAPYRUS

notes on scraps of screen papyrus,

symbol songs

of our belongs-

inspire us

in the coffee smokes of day

where the fire was

in humid heats ash tray-

inside us

far away.

the new consensus

doesn’t show

nomads

in the census

of its blow

whose glow glad

the past they left too slow:

and the falling

befalling

where we now need to go-

misfits

the steps

of the face fits

in this trough

of peaks and parapets.

so, we want wildly

the wilderness that isn’t fear-

cut off,

empty,

smiley,

pallet clear-

the colours changed

so rearranged

and us not here.

SYMPHONIC WASTE

a quiet night.

even the candle flame isn’t flickering-

think I’ll just blow out its light

and turn down the radio bickering.

symphonic waste

between the two

goes back space

for what is true-

and the same discontented self

dismantles every shelf

of previous obsessions

contaminated with old confessions.

then your persuasions

window walks

in panes of pillow talk-

inside this how,

in here, in now-

where no mortal elements

can darken our consoled consents

with ribbons of ripped repents

that leave membranous scars:

and when they do,

they are no more than me, or you-

everyone is subservient to the stars.

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.

COMPOSERS AND MISTAKES

when I see the evening,

with its ordinary sounds and shapes

so full of unbelieving

composers and mistakes

coming in-

something wakes,

and I begin.

what I can’t affect

is getting colder

as I grow older,

retreating inside-

I could be your wreck

if I was bolder

and called you over,

over this side-

through the honeysuckle arch of midnight,

moon like a lid bright

shield in the sky;

on the grass

where footsteps last

in this light-

making a cast

where you walked by.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his books Pomegranate Flesh and Wooded Windows.

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 warm solitude.

—————————————————————–

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine.

Delighted to have my poem She Is A Suffragette published on Surrey Libraries Poetry Blog on 29th November, 2020. My thanks to Editor J M Gale.

https://npdsurrey.wordpress.com/2020/11/29/she-is-a-suffragette-by-strider-marcus-jones/

SHE IS A SUFFRAGETTE by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on November 29, 2020 by jmgale

Photo by Johannes Rapprich from Pexels

her hair tumbles
blowing like unfurled cotton
through unforgotten
fumbles
in vegetation
of our own
interpretation
of each other
in the dark.

my desk grown
out of a tree sown
from my lover
where i carved these words in the bark
sitting in her branches
knowing what life is
all about
as i look out
of wooded windows

and absorb it’s shows
as it goes
through each obscenity
of extreme supremacy-
a woman must not let
a man forget
she is a suffragette
in her soul and under his blanket
so never kept

or chatteled forever
to the custom weather
of his debt.


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

From his fifth book Pomegranate Flesh

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 cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany; Serbia; India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.

Delighted to have the first of five poems: The Dance published by The Piker Press on 23rd November, 2020. My thanks to Editor Sand Pilarski.

http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=8264

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 shamans
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.

Article © Strider Marcus Jones. All rights reserved.
Published on 2020-11-23
Image(s) are public domain.

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 cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
                                        ——————————————
His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany; Serbia; India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: The Piker Press; Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.

 

Delighted to have my poem The Door published on Surrey Libraries Poetry Blog on 25th November, 2020. My thanks to Editor Neil Richards.

https://npdsurrey.wordpress.com/2020/11/25/the-door-by-strider-marcus-jones/

THE DOOR by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on November 25, 2020 by jmgale

Image by Tumisu from Pixabay 

the door
between skyfloor
topbottom

is rankrotten

portalbliss
or abjectabyss.

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

shuts us inside our self
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.


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 cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany; Serbia; India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.

Thrilled to have my poem Forage In Me published on Surrey Libraries Poetry Blog. My thanks to Editor Neil Richards.

https://npdsurrey.wordpress.com/2020/11/22/forage-in-me-by-strider-marcus-jones/

FORAGE IN ME by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on November 22, 2020 by jmgale

Image by Peggy Choucair from Pixabay 

forage in me
amongst the dunes
still damp in sun and wind
as the tide retreats-
for driftwood
and strange shaped pebbles.
where have they been,
these abandoned voices,
with colours
and textures,
wild
and domestic,
moving
and rooted,
sooting and scenting the air-
being engraved
by beauties and conflicts,
uncovering how love is only rented
jumping ship
when it sights new land.
inner changes,
have not changed anything
out there;
and when what moved in
is all moved out,
we can sometimes sit
in this displaced time,
with drifting belongings
and pebbled thoughts,
aware of strangers
moving slower than the clouds
deliberately
doing the same.


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 cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany; Serbia; India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.

Forage In Me is one of the 75 poems from my fifth book Pomegranate Flesh available to purchase on:

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

Delighted to have my two poems – The Ascent Of Money and The Dance published online in Albany Poets, New York State on 18th November, 2020. My thanks to the editors. https://albanypoets.com/2020/11/two-poems-strider-marcus-jones/#

Two Poems – Strider Marcus Jones

Posted by Albany Poets | Nov 18, 2020 | New Poetry

AFP PHOTO/Nicholas ROBERTS

The Ascent of Money

the stars are those
we have forgotten
both living and dead,
floating in clustered constellations
not labouring in rows-
with hair growing grey
and teeth going rotten
singing songs, God’s godless pray.
harvesting crops.
chants drowned in clocks
of tobacco and cotton,
the peasants and slaves of civilised nations
duped by liberty
in recent history-
dug out canals, made railways and roads
out of tarmac to tread-
into factories
like tribal junkies
hooked on cheap gin and beer instead
of joining the cholera’s watery dead-
ten to a room in a slum and lead-
like human batteries,
sleeping without moonlight
on sarsen stones,
or druid voices in their homes-
where thoughts have no dreams or flight,
just sleep, recharge, get bled.
you have to be poor,
to think utopia
can be something real-
not to exploit or steal
that ambrosia aura of women and children and men
for the spoken wages of despair-
that suck you in,
glad but grim
when times’ clock punches that card by the door
and mass myopia
conditions all to labour, keyboard and pen
for food and shelter with a roof and fourth wall
shanty made out of cardboard, wood and tin
in sunny Sao Paolo, where the samba rain leaks in
while orphaned children beg and play
eating the forage of capitalist waste
dodging death squads night and day
imitating Socrates at football to hope to taste
what’s inside the cold, glistening towers
casting invisible powers
behind the smoked glass and soldiers of stone
leaving blood and bleached bone
from over there-
where the ascent of money doesn’t care
about it all
because its infinity is small.

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.

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, 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 poem Hot Rod published in Skyway Journal on 17th November, 2020 under Americana. My thanks to editor Fred Shrum.

https://skywayjournal.wordpress.com/2020/11/17/hot-rod/

Hot Rod

 ~ FRED SHRUM

fast and furious

archangel in paint and chrome

brings me home

purring megaphonious

combusting with sav and sap

that i glimpse

peeking into warm grill chintz

then she lifts her corset bonnet

and lets me touch her glinting bones

secreting home spun

pheromones

attracting, like moon and sun-

mysterious

and mnemonic

old senses,

fallow and fenced

soon become drenched

quiller and squirter

in that linguistic converter

glow mapping

overlapping

slowly blown

in the metronome

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 reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. Find him on Twitter at @StriderPoet

Find him online at https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/

Delighted to have 5 poems published in Pawners Paper online. My thanks to the editors. https://www.pawnerspaper.com/2020/11/ninety-nine-percent-in-tents-that.html

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.

THAT BLACKSMITH FELLOW

crumpling

crumbling

heart

war thump

peace pump

stall start

cave hunting

and gathering

in groups

to farms with crops

and hoofed livestocks

drink beer, eat meat and soups.

that blacksmith fellow,

with fire and forge, hammer and bellow,

is still the alchemist-

malleous like his mettles

when everybody settles

into civil lists.

in us now,

the subliminal plough

sets our furrows footsteps-

so summer’s run and winter’s plod,

with, or without god

in and out of upsets.

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

its 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.

OUR CHILDREN ARE MAKING A REVOLUTION

in this static show

of status quo

political voices

make their choices

in the game

but most remain

loyal or abstain

and stunt their reputation

for self gratification

raping the have nots

with subtle riots

of troughed opinion

like glove puppets of elite dominion.

these suits of higher suits

who keep the masses murmers mute

ignore the real ground

crumbling round

financial towers of glass and steel

whose machinations illegally steal

the oxygen of dreams

from street streams.

this summer cities burned

and some plasma tv’s got returned

by groups

in operatic loots

but i remember them

stealing rice and bottled water

while Number 10

shouted Order! Order!

so they nabbed jazzy trainers to fit in

as a boydad took nappies for his son to shit in.

it was a grain of gravy from the pile you’ve got

not even a scoop

of the soup

from the glimmering pot

of silver and gold

simmering on your stove.

then came the justice of oligarchy’s retribution

sending these children to jail

while the bankers and hackers own trail

of looting and intrusion

went unpunished or was given bail.

our children are making a revolution

and live in a language

that we can’t damage

above our rhetoric and contaminated bones

on their ipods and mobile phones

in their own wisdom

and fields of vision

making new tunes

and runes

without the rules

of serfdoms fools

and privileged jewels.

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 shamans

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.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

Really chuffed to have my poem Childhood Fires published in The Racket Journal. My thanks to wonderful editor Noah Sanders. A fantastic journal.

https://theracketsf.com/

file:///C:/Users/Strider/AppData/Local/Packages/microsoft.windowscommunicationsapps_8wekyb3d8bbwe/LocalState/Files/S0/8301/Attachments/JOURNAL%20NO.%2027%20%20FULL[12883].pdf

C h i l d h o o d F i r e s

S T R I D E R M A R C U S JONES


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 didn’t 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

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

Really chuffed to have my poem Poets In The Backfield published in The Beatnik Cowboy. My thanks to brilliant editor Chris Butler.

https://beatnikcowboy.com/

Strider Marcus Jones

 ~ LEAVE A COMMENT

POETS IN THE BACKFIELD

Stay a while?
The subliminal cuts are coming through
These days of deadly boredom,
And poets in the backfield
Writing
Something
Interesting.

Hardy, would not like today,
Life’s become an angry play;
And our deoxyribonucleic acid
Carries no imagination,
That’s not already put there
By a rival TV station.

I can hear you saying,
Yes, but we have the right to choose:
A colour and a ball of string-
Or poets in the backfield
Writing
Something
Interesting.

You said:
“The Golden Bird eats Fish
In South America
And most of the peasants let him,
Because of Bolivar.”
Yet, millions starved in Gulag camps,
And Czechs cried fears when Russian tanks,
Thundered through their traumoid streets
Pretending not to be elite.
As one old soldier put it:
“The West and East preach different dreams,
But ride the same black limousines.”

Stay a while?
These sheets are cold
Without your sighing skin;
And this poet in the backfield
Is writing
Nothing
Interesting.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his second book Inside Out https://www.lulu.com/en/gb/shop/strider-marcus-jones/inside-out/paperback/product-1v85mddp.html

VISIGOTH ROVER by Strider Marcus Jones

Poetry in Surrey Libraries

Photo by Hernán Piñera

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…

View original post 26 more words

Delighted to have my two poems Broken Omnibus and Ethnicity Blends published in The Poet Magazine, AUTUMN 2020 Issue- Poetry on the theme of A NEW WORLD from poets around the world. My thanks to Editor Robin Barratt.

https://www.thepoetmagazine.org/autumn-2020—a-new-world

BROKEN OMNIBUS

in
out
about

another
day
of centrifugal

do
and
doubt

at home
in town
going down.

so out
the sun
like some

great
worshipped one
looks on

this
primitive
petri dish

thinking
back to the
beginning

one time
thinning
bliss

in opus
of ordinal
opulence-

such unfurled pus
unevenly spread
like jam on coronation crust

seduced by alchemy’s golden thread
to Mephistopheles sun splashed bed
but seeking exodus

with the Creator
back to nature
in broken omnibus.

ETHNICITY BLENDS

hear that rain
swell the brain
contagious

like a plain
Auschwitz train
outrageous

looking back, we did the same,
coming forward, we do it again,
ethnicity blends to save us.



Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his second book Inside Out

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





Chuffed to have my poem My Old Socks published in the October 2020 issue of Litterateur Redefining World. My thanks to the editors.

https://litterateurrw.com/#:~:text=Litterateur%20Redefining%20World%2C%20a%20monthly,to%20submissions%20throughout%20the%20year.

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.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

Really chuffed to have my poem Back To Its Root published in Issue 2 of Madness Muse Press on 4th October, 2020. My thanks to editor John Compton.

BACK TO ITS ROOT

the back bone crumbles in its frame
twisted and curved inside its vine-
upwards, it craves the warm sunshine,
aware that mortality is vain.

back to its root-
abort an echo with male voice,
giving its mother a tough choice-
o seductive flute.

a lonely child-
different to its brothers,
distant from others-
growing in the wild.

peek down memory tubes-
to poverty collecting wire and wood
for food and fire where slum streets stood
with imaginary friend, the talking morphine soothes.

into now, the past, the pain-
thoughts tumours clot the blood;
know your own knots inside the wood-
and change to remain, but keep the grain.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his second book Inside Out

https://www.lulu.com/shop/strider-marcus-jones/inside-out/paperback/product-5266487.html

Delighted to have 3 poems published in Impspired Magazine, Issue 7 on October 1st, 2020. My thanks to editor Steve Cawte on such a brilliant magazine.



HOT ROD
 
fast and furious
archangel in paint and chrome
brings me home-
purring megaphonious,
combusting with sav and sap
that i glimpse
peeking into warm grill chintz-
then she lifts her corset bonnet
and lets me touch her glinting bones
secreting home spun
pheromones
attracting, like moon and sun-
mysterious
and mnemonic
old senses,
fallow and fenced
soon become drenched
quiller and squirter
in that linguistic converter-
glow mapping,
overlapping,
slowly blown
in the metronome.
 
 
 
KNOTS IN STRINGS
 
so what
if knots
in strings
bring an end to things
that were.
 
i can undo her
tapestry
make it gone
and move what measures on
powers infinity.
 
found in mound and moat
elements made unmade
sink and float
convex and concave
dance a burning wave.
 
spiny gorse
not in bloom
sits inside a horse
to be taken in, rape from giving
creates a living tomb.

BLOOD AND VOW

the past plough

through this continuum

cannot be denied

and I am tied

to its dead

equilibrium

by blood and vow

once two backs

lips wide

whose broken thread

fooled polygraph tracks

even her eyes lied

as she did the devil’s dance

with chance and circumstance

mortal bribed

she was only doing

what other men do to women

so how could I not be forgiving

love is umbilical

and cynical

for all its miracle

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

Thrilled to have 5 poems published in Our Poetry Archive V-6 No.7: OCTOBER 2020. My thanks to the editors.

https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2020/10/strider-marcus-jones.html

CUBIST GHETTOS

I think

To shrink

The distance

Of resistance

Inside self

To all else-

Knowing

Showing

Vulnerability

In the mystery

Leaves what is closed

Openly exposed-

To explanation

Under examination

When there isn’t one

That hasn’t gone

Until roof floor and sky door

Are no more-

Only roulette rubbles

Of drone troubles

Imprisoning

Reasoning

In cubist ghettos

Wearing jazz stilettos-

Flashing flamingo legs

To pink paradise Harlem heads

While new trees grow up mute

And ripen with strange fruit

Some whites too this time

A drowned boy me and mine.

THE PORTAL IN THE WOODS

Seeing somnambulist sunrise

Through open window

Touch your face

After love rides

On moon tides

In ebb and flow

At tantric pace-

Love resides

Tasted

No asides

Wasted

Spices of the flesh

Soaking rooms in Marrakesh

How I ate your truffle in Zanzibar

While you smoked my long cigar.

Back home-

Tribes of bloods

And druids roam

Seeking out the overgrown

Portal in the woods

Where we handfast

In this present of the past

Dance chanting

In stone bone circles

Like ooparts

Practicing

Magical arts

Settling

What chaos hurtles-

Reconnecting rhythms

In living and dead

To those algorithms

In natures head.

We are rustic-

Romantic

In land and sky

The  air  fire  water

To warriors who slaughter

If Us or Them must die.

We wake

For clambake

Pleasure

In a cauldron lake

Of limbs together

Then cut sods of peat

From the bog under our feet

Exposing the pasts

That never last.

CLOUDS OF CHAOTIC CROWDS

Smitten-

Bitten

Like Faustus-

Leave the house dust

With fool’s gold

Unsold.

This conveyor belt lair

A castle in the air

For Dante’s dreams of doubt

To wander about

In, with voices that pretend

To be a different friend-

Oh my, what a frame,

Too big to blame

And beyond a simple say

To save and stay-

So, close the dungeon door

To be what you were before

And walk away

Into the clouds

Of chaotic crowds

Falling as rain

On sterile plain.

DARK DRAWN MAN

dark drawn man

in two – legged sedan,

Diogenes least

the more i am.

a worn down crease-

opens

like blotched butterfly wings,

that drop in tokens

on imaginings-

lost, but living

through drought and giving.

dark drawn man

of wiccan, glam

rock and folk-

who likes a smoke;

hermit and ham,

sometimes a dam

for the waterfall

of it all-

bohemian and gothic,

romantic, hypnotic,

un-photographic

hates cam.

dark drawn man

whose thought beats flam

on sticks

of words

his focus and blurs

without tricks

of prussian blue

and cadmium red

the way Modigliani drew

his mistress on his bed.

Sophocles was right!

the darkest days, catch chinks of light-

running out of Ram,

but love is who i am.

TRAPPED IN MANUFACTURED TIME

so lost schooled-

but not a fool,

stands in cold sunshine

on golden heath

where no kings rule

and ancestors of cottons thief,

make poor ends meet for dirty dime-

trapped in manufactured time.

he sits

and fits

in the shadows of its shades

and lines

on Cribden hill-

where clouds spill

like wire brillowed blinds,

imagining a wintered witch

composing pagan spells and rhymes

with bones like martyred blades,

whose burned marrow curses

industrialists and tokened slaves-

to believe a full purse is

how life measures made.

the trees are gone,

and wandering tribes,

who worked and gathered everything as one-

now live down in gas warmed hives,

in settled serfdom’s

truths and lies.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

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.

                                        ——————————————

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.

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

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

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

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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

POETRY SOCIETY JPEG BOOK COVER FOR POETRY SOCIETY MEMBER BOOK SHELF

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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 m