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he plays his flamenco guitar

knowing who you are,

seducing his singer

to bring her

from bleak harbour masts

to his contrasts.

he knows the equations

of her close flirtations

and doesn’t judge her glances

for wanting what romance is-

vibrating in voices and strings

of fornicating feelings.

her prose photosynthesis

illuminates his

shades that colour mountains

and drops of wishes in mosaic fountains-

she loves the Picasso from his pen

and horse smell like Andalucian men

her reversed body senses

inside his defences-

as her sea wind

billows in his revealing

Avalon through the mist,

sweet loved, firm kissed.


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



love is,
all is-
light and dark,
shade and shadow,
crater under rainbow.
tramp or truffle you chance to meet
and take your time to share and eat;
a mythical ark
in-out skylark,
so fluttery butterfly in buddleia stomach
that wakes you up
more muttery in your head-
with jade of jealousy
and truest thread
come concave and convex,
mirrored and mouthed in images and text
with-without key,
but only borrowed
today and tomorrowed
and after that, what will be-
something ethereal
deaths’ music can’t serial,
alone, then together
in its own weather
sensual and free.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 2nd August, 2010. All Rights Reserved.




we’ve left the well-footed


the rutted

and rebutted


of shadows cast

by towered glass.


opened closed curtains

for fusty moths,

chanted white spells with Wiccan’s


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


smelling of cinnabar

and his cigar,


like whirling


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 …




i have disconnected self

from the wire of the world

retreated to this unmade croft

of wild grass and savage stone

moored mountains

set in sea

blue black green grey

dyed all the colours of my mood

and liquid language-

to climb rocks

instead of rungs

living with them

moving around their settlements

of revolutionary random place

for simple solitary glory.

i am reduced again

to elements and matter

that barter her body for food

teasing and turning

her flesh to take words and plough.

rapid rain

slaps the skin

on honest hands

strongly gentle

while sowing seeds

the way i touch my lover

in the talk of my tobacco smoke:

now she knows

she tastes

like all the drops

of my dreams

falling on the forest

of our Lothlorien.


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




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,


and domestic,


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


doing the same.


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




i listen

to your love beads glisten

in the flotsam

of my room-


we make them

from samurai sword folds

at forge and loom

in the mess of thrown off clothes.


so many smoke me kisses

at portal doors,

and mithril wishes

on primitive floors-


take us back again

through heath and fen

to imitate

lost landscape-



and circle

sky and stone

outside and home-


in love in less

with your heavenliness,

and loneliness

durable under duress.


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




ask those

who grow old-

some fruits are nicer

when they’re riper.

you don’t stop

the clock

on the one who chose

you to hold-

her pomegranate

is still your sonnet

of sepia feelings and flesh,

sensuously sweet and fresh.


although the mirror never lies,

it shows the beauty that lives

as it dies

and gives

it’s own reflection

of your perfection

to me

then and now,

each memory


by the lenses



by your words

and curves

in my senses.


our dance,

that thrilled

in it’s intricate

tango on the floor,

is still filled

with time intimate


and more-

talking rubicon of reason,

in layer, upon layer of season

so sedimentary

since you entered me-

and i consumed

your silky mesh

of pink perfumed

pomegranate flesh.


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




these are my wasted


the open pout of pussy never tasted


and head without a crown

hanging down.


i watch fate,

unsure of what her template

makes of me

glancing back at fallen beauty.


will she like the way i tingle

in her socket,

or my salad tongue

of tales singing heathen songs-

about strange

pagan customs,

crofting the floor

and her velour

surely meant-

that jingle

in her pocket

like loose change

fondled then spent.


i can make more

compatible combustions

out of


and love,

than those musical Etruscans-

whose heirs, have seduced each majority

into peaceful poverty,

by adding abstractions to its face-

altering nature’s position and place

evolving for minority.


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2012 from his book POMEGRANATE FLESH. All Rights Reserved.




i hate magnolia and beige-

you are in my time,

but mine, is the crime

in your change.


nature regenerates

without us herself,

but my self

without you, waits.


i know you meet me

all the way

in how you say-



and take to mind

my awkward

seeing forward

is wisdom kind.


being real, is conceding

we are open

and not token

when revealing-


how quiet beauty and healed scars,

survived each battle, to enjoy desires

here, now, around these fires

watching stars,


whose incandescent powers,

so flourescent

and omnipresent

mirror ours.


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




a sensual spoken

strawberry cut open



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


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.






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.


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




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


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 2012. From his book Pomegranate Flesh. All Rights Reserved.




young, or old-

love lines

pastel painted,

know times

of ambiguous gold

and seams of red

become related

and run through sky,

then set in perfections

below fields-

where lying down

allows their imperfections

to be revealed.


moods purify

any black grey white silences that try

to hide and wait in thunder,

before flashing

and fading

above us under

a sheltering tree

embracing obliviously.


we can follow

different times

when lightening lines.

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




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.

thats 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.


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2012. From his book POMEGRANATE FLESH. All Rights Reserved.





2 thoughts on “SELECTED POEMS from POMEGRANATE FLESH by Strider Marcus Jones

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