Really chuffed to have my poem Where Words Go published in the Neuro Logical Literary Magazine Anthology 2020-2021. My thanks to the editors.

https://www.neurologicalliterarymagazine.com/

Where words go


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.

Mark 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. He is also the founder, editor and publisher of
Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/

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

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 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.

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.

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.

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

SELECTED POEMS from WOODED WINDOWS by Strider Marcus Jones

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VISIGOTH ROVER

i went on the bus to Cordoba,

and tried to find the Moor’s

left over

in their excavated floors

and mosaic courtyards,

with hanging flowers brightly chamelion

against whitewashed walls

carrying calls

behind gated iron bars-

but they were gone

leaving mosque arches

and carved stories

to God’s doors.

in those ancient streets

where everybody meets;

i saw the old successful men

with their younger women again,

sat in chrome slat chairs,

drinking coffee to cover

their vain love affairs-

and every breast,

was like the crest

of a soft ridge

as i peeped over

the castle wall and Roman bridge

like a Visigoth rover.

soft hand tapping on shoulder,

heavy hair

and beauty older,

the gypsy lady gave her clover

to borrowed breath,

embroidering it for death,

adding more to less

like the colours fading in her dress.

time and tune are too planned

to understand

her Trevi fountain of prediction,

or the dirty Bernini hand

shaping its description.

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

SELECTED POEMS from MAVERICKS by Strider Marcus Jones

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

THIS THEATRE OF SHOW

i want to go

where love songs grow,

on the radio

into someone’s heart.

i want to know

if i play too slow,

and fade before the glow

can flame and spark.

i mend a dream,

distill it, to mountains seen

through mind and eyes potcheen,

lotioned by loves mark;

with tongue dabbing gleam

in fast flowing stream

of sweet nectarine

from sun up through sun dark.

i want your glow

in the thoughts i know,

before they dim down low

and depart-

this theatre of show

above and below,

where we all act to know

our own part.

so many vines

in the times

i know,

grape, but fail to flower.

i taste their wine

in its summertime,

but show

i am just a shower.

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

THE FOREST OF FORGETS

i don’t do remembers, or regrets,

not knowing, i belong in what comes next-

without the edge and angle of pretext,

find me in the forest of forgets-

watching your perfections dance and breathe

in my fires flames then read out gypsy leaves;

imagining your whispers in the wind and trees-

before they fade, and fall, and leave.

back inside the house, picture rails

of love hang empty

from bent hooks, that promised plenty,

leaving frameless tales in musty trails-

to dusty cabinets of more

trinkets and traces-

whose duality displaces

sky and floor.

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

SELECTED POEMS from MAVERICKS by Strider Marcus Jones

MAVERICKS FRONT COVER FOR WATTPAD JPEG
8528_145021578188_740153188_2594660_3614184_n

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http://www.wattpad.com/story/90631-10-poems-from-mavericks-by-strider-marcus-jones

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

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

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

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