Welcome to Lothlorien Poetry Journal. Submissions Open.



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:



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

His poetry blogs are:



Join him on Facebook



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,


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. 


i must have broken every scripture

thinking about the sculpture

of your face

your blossom face.

modelled in skin

with bones hid in


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.


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.


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.


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.

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