Lothlorien Poetry Journal Volumes 1-8 Available from

Edited by Strider Marcus Jones

Lothlorien Poetry Journal Volume 8

Echoes Dancing with Shadows

January – Mid February 2022

Lothlorien Poetry Journal Volume 8 (lulu.com)

American poet Carl Sandburg said “poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance. ” Lothlorien Poetry Journal Volume 8, features 74 internationally renowned poets and fiction writers as scintillating Echoes Dancing with Shadows including 2022 Pushcart Prize winner – Kurt Fuchs.

“Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance” –

                                                         Carl Sandburg

“Rather, I think one should write, as nearly as possible, as if he were the first person on earth and was humbly and sincerely putting on paper that which he saw and experienced and loved and lost; what his passing thoughts were and his sorrows and desires.”

– Neal Cassady to Jack Kerouac

“If you believe you’re a poet, then you’re saved.” – Gregory Corso

“I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn’t know who I was—I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I’d never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn’t know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn’t scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost. I was halfway across America, at the dividing line between the East of my youth and the West of my future.” – Jack Kerouac

“And for just a moment I had reached the point of ecstasy that I always wanted to reach, which was the complete step across chronological time into timeless shadows, and wonderment in the bleakness of the mortal realm.” – Jack Kerouac

The POETS/AUTHORS

Margaret Kiernan

Fred Johnston

Lisa Marguerite Mora

Peter Knight

John Drudge

Karen Mooney

Michael Igoe

Catherine Arra

Julian Matthews

Afiah Obeneewaa Grace Danquah

Adrian David

Susan Tepper

Greg Patrick

Yuu Ikeda

Terry Wheeler

Pragya Suman

Rustin Larson

Imelda O’Reilly

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Antonia Alexandra Klimenko

Steve Klepetar

Brittany Hause translations of Ricardo James Freyre

Peter F. Crowley

Fiona Perry

Paul Demuth

Lynn White

Eric Burgoyne

Sana Tampeen Mohammed

Ernesto P. Santiago

Debbie Robson

Gary D. Maxwell

Mandy Beattie

Gale Acuff

Mona Bedi

Sam Barbee

Kushal Poddar

Kim Malinowski

Julian O. Long

Rowena Newman

Heath Brougher

Hibah Shabkhez

Ken Gosse

Margaret Kiernan

Nicholas Alexander Hayes

Debbie Robson

Kurt Luchs

RC deWinter

Douglas V. Miller

David Ades

Alan Catlin

Ursula O’Reilly

Peter Magliocco

Dmitriy Galkovskiy

John Grey

Richard M. Ankers

Wayne F. Burke

Dana Trick

Ethan Vilu

Duane Vorhees

Les Wicks

David Alec Knight

Adele Ogier Jones

James Miller

Angel Edwards

Christopher Barnes

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia

Daniel Nemo

Doris Wei Tan

GJ Hart

Ngozi Olivia Osuoha

Adrian David

Sunil Sharma

Joe Sebastian

Mohibul Aziz

Bhuwan Thapaliya

Salim Yakubu Akko

Editorial Poems by Strider Marcus Jones                             

Lothlorien Poetry Journal Volume 7

Beat Cafe

November – December 2021

Lothlorien Poetry Journal Volume 7 (lulu.com)

Lothlorien Poetry Journal Volume 7 – Beat Cafe, features the outstanding poetry and fiction of over 60 poets and authors from our virtual Beat Cafe with their own modern day take on dystopian reality and fantasy. These internationally renowned poets and authors continue the revolutionary legacy of the original Beat Generation poets and authors and bring their own original take on twenty-first century life and society.

Discover poems of enchantment, fantasy, fairy tale, folklore, dreams, dystopian, flora and fauna, magical realism, romance, and anything hiding deep in-between the cracks. Cover Image – Ed van der Elsken – Bohemian Life in Paris 1950-52 “It’s a sort of furtiveness … Like we were a generation of furtive. You know, with an inner knowledge there’s no use flaunting on that level, the level of the ‘public’, a kind of beatness – I mean, being right down to it, to ourselves, because we all really know where we are – and a weariness with all the forms, all the conventions of the world … It’s something like that. So I guess you might say we’re a beat generation.” ― Jack Kerouac “It really was a whole generation who were listening to Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Thelonious Monk, Ella Fitzgerald, Sonny Rollins, James Moody, Fats Navarro and, a little bit later on, Mongo Santamaría and Chuck Berry, and these dozen or so guys gave them a voice. They led the way. They wrote what a whole generation wanted to read. The time was right and they seized the day by writing about their lives. They travelled, they got into scrapes, they got arrested, they got wasted … and they wrote about it. Isn’t that something?” ― Karl Wiggins, Wrong Planet – Searching for your Tribe Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life. — Jack Kerouac Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It’s that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that’s what the poet does. — Allen Ginsberg Artists to my mind are the real architects of change, and not the political legislators who implement change after the fact. — William S. BurroughsBiographical Notes

The Poets & Fiction Authors

Cait O’Neill McCullagh  Tom Bakelas  J.S. Watts  R.T. Castleberry  

Antonia Alexandra Klimenko  John D. Robinson  Janice D. Soderling  Greg Patrick 

Carrie Magness Radna   David Booth  Dr. Ajanta Paul  James Eric Watkins  

Mark Blickley  Mark Saba  Piergiorgio Viti  Angel Edwards  John Drudge  

Margaret Kiernan  Steve Klepetar  Ursula O’Reilly  John Dorsey  Gaynor Kane  

Alec Solomita  Susan Tepper   Johnny Francis Wolf  Oriana Ivy  David L. O’Nan 

Elizabeth Marino  GJ Hart  Lilija Valis  Richard Wayne Horton  RC deWinter 

Bruce Morton  Hedy Habra  Robert (Roibeard) Shanahan  Lorraine Caputo  

Dennis Villelmi (Williamson)  Oonah V. Joslin  Shine Ballard  Grace Danquah 

Jason Ryberg  Sister Louella Hickman  Andre F. Peltier  John Doyle  Karen Kerekes

 Peter Lilley  Cheryl Snell  Ken Gosse  John Knoll  Ursula O’Reilly  Douglas V. Miller

Michael H. Brownstein  Rustin Larson  John Guzlowski  Adrian David  Meg Freer 

Dr Suleman Lazarus  Lynda Tavakoli  Kenneth Hickey  Robert Nisbet

Editorial Poem by Strider Marcus Jones

Lothlorien Poetry Journal Volume 6

Druids of Cernunnos – October – November 2021

“Once, poets were magicians. Poets were strong, stronger than warriors or kings — stronger than old hapless gods. And they will be strong once again.” ―Greg Bear.
Lothlorien Poetry Journal is a contemporary literary journal featuring free verse/rhyming/experimental poetry, short stories, flash fiction, video poems and occasional interviews with poets. Journey with us on the road to poems that linger and haunt https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/
In Druids of Cernunnos – Volume 6 of Lothlorien Poetry Journal, I am honoured to feature the work of more than seventy renowned poets and authors from the USA, Canada, Australia, India, Ireland, England, and most of Europe and South America. Like Druids, Poets are guardians of our past, present and future. This volume brings you mesmeric poems and stories of fantasy and folklore, dystopia and nature, with magical realism and anything hiding deep in-between the cracks about relationships and most aspects of life. Enjoy reading this superb eclectic collection by some of the finest contemporary poets and fiction writers.
Lothlorien Poetry Journal nominates for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Help spread the beauty of Lothlorien Poetry Journal. Submit, follow, join the site and invite your friends. Copyright 2021. All Rights Reserved. The artists have reserved their right under Section 77 Of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the authors of their work. Cover image – a black and white photograph of a Druid of Cernunnos.

Details

Publication DateJan 11, 2022 Language English ISBN9781716010835 Category Poetry Copyright All Rights Reserved – Standard Copyright License Contributors.

Edited by: Strider Marcus Jones

Specifications

Pages244BindingPaperbackInterior ColorBlack & WhiteDensionsCrown Quarto (7.44 x 9.68 in / 189 x 246 mm)
Thank you to the following esteemed poets and authors for your superb poetry and stories in Lothlorien Poetry Journal Volume 6 – Druids of Cernunnos. You have my sincere respect and appreciation. I am honoured to publish your work. ~ Strider 

The POETS/AUTHORS 

Steve Klepetar Oonah V. Joslin Ivan de Monbrison Heather Cameron Jeremy Scott Mary Ellen Talley John Drudge Christine Tabaka Stephen Guy Mallett Antonia Alexandra Klimenko Robert (Roibeard) Shanahan Subraman David Russell Angel Edwards Adrian David Temani Nkalolang John Grey Adele Ogier Jones David L O’Nan Ursula O’Reilly Prince A McNally Margaret Kiernan Keith Hoerner Mona Bedi Scott Thomas Outlar M A Blickley Philip Dodd Sissy Pantelis Nathan Anderson Michael Lee Johnson Grant Tarbard Stephen House Dana Trick Vijay Nair GJ Hart Lara Dolphin J B Hogan Shelly Blankman John Patrick Robbins Lynda Tavakoli Ken Gosse Rose Mary Boehm Paul Edward Costa Jeanna Ni Riordain Alec Solomita David Parsley Lathalia Song Yash Seyed Bagheri J D Nelson Emma Jo Black John Drudge Mihaela Melnic A E Reiff Moe Seager Jyoti Nair George Sandifer – Smith Amrita Valan Kofi Fosu Forson Amita Paul Ryan Quinn Flanagan Candice Kelsey Edward Lee Jonel Abellanosa Stephen A Rozwenc Steven Deutsch S.C. Flynn Marie C. Lecrivain Silk Joshua Martin Margaret Kiernan Terry Wheeler Sandy Rochelle Alan Catlin Tricia Knoll R. Bremner Heather Sager

Lothlorien Poetry Journal Volume 5

Metropolis Drift August – September 2021

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“Once, poets were magicians. Poets were strong, stronger than warriors or kings — stronger than old hapless gods. And they will be strong once again.” ―Greg Bear.

Lothlorien Poetry Journal is a contemporary literary journal featuring free verse/rhyming/experimental poetry, short stories, flash fiction, video poems and occasional interviews with poets. Journey with us on the road to poems that linger and haunt https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/

In Metropolis Drift – Volume 5 of Lothlorien Poetry Journal, I am honoured to feature the work of seventy-seven renowned poets and authors from the USA, Canada, Australia, India, Ireland, England, and most of Europe and South America, bring you mesmeric poems and stories of fantasy and folklore, dystopia and nature, with magical realism and anything hiding deep in-between the cracks about relationships and most aspects of life.

 Lothlorien Poetry Journal nominates for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Help spread the beauty of Lothlorien Poetry Journal. Submit, follow, join the site and invite your friends. Copyright 2021. All Rights Reserved. The artists have reserved their right under Section 77 Of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the authors of their work.

Cover image – a black and white photograph of lovers in Paris caught up in Metropolis Drift.

Maria: “We shall build a tower that will reach to the stars!” Having conceived Babel, yet unable to build it themselves, they had thousands to build it for them. But those who toiled knew nothing of the dreams of those who planned. And the minds that planned the Tower of Babel cared nothing for the workers who built it. The hymns of praise of the few became the curses of the many – BABEL! BABEL! BABEL! – Between the mind that plans and the hands that build there must be a Mediator, and this must be the heart.

Metropolis – Directed by Fritz Lang 1927

Thank you to the following esteemed poets and authors for your superb poetry and stories in Lothlorien Poetry Journal Volume 5 – Metropolis Drift. You have my sincere respect and appreciation. I am honoured to publish your work. ~ Strider 

 The POETS/AUTHORS 

Antonia Alexandra KlimenkoSteve KlepetarMihaela MelnicJohn DrudgeTobi AlfierJohn DoyleMarianne SzlykJim Lewis (j. lewis)beamTim HeerdinkJeana JorgensenMarc di SaverioMargaret KiernanGJ HartSusan TepperKen GosseLisa ReynoldsMichael J. LeachAngel EdwardsJ.D. NelsonSherzod ArtikovJoan McNerneyAlec SolomitaKathryn Ann HillMichael Lee JohnsonHazel StorrNick NewmanPea Flower TomiokaAlan CatlinDana TrickGary BillsAdi RaturiAndrew Cyril MacdonaldJoe SebastianLauren ScharhagDavid EstringelRC deWinterSterling WarnerEllen ChiaMoe SeagerRose Mary BoehmPhilip Dean BrownIulia GhergheiIvan de MonbrisonMargaret Adams BirthJohn DoyleAdele Ogier JonesGiovanni MangianteElana WolffMarc di SaverioGinger Covert CollaLuis Cuauhtemoc BerriozabalCharlotte CosgroveJohn DrudgeSarah RobinTyler LetkemanBob BeagrieLouis KasatkinAmita Sarjit AhluwaliaTom MontagSusan TepperLynn LongRandy BarnesAntonia Alexandra KlimenkoMargaret KiernanGreg PatrickBen DouglassSusan TepperR.W. StephensHowie GoodJohn DoyleZvi A. SeslingUrsula O’ReillyStark HunterGeoff SawersJohn Patrick RobbinsPaul Ilechko

Editorial Poem by Strider Marcus Jones                                        

Lothlorien Poetry Journal Volume 4

Sentient Souls

“Once, poets were magicians. Poets were strong, stronger than warriors or kings — stronger than old hapless gods. And they will be strong once again.” ―Greg Bear Lothlorien Poetry Journal is a contemporary literary journal featuring free verse/rhyming/experimental poetry, short stories, flash fiction, video poems and occasional interviews with poets. Journey with us on the road to poems that linger and haunt https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/ In Sentient Souls – Volume 4 of Lothlorien Poetry Journal, seventy-seven renowned poets and authors bring you mesmeric poems and stories of fantasy and folklore, dystopia and nature, with magical realism and anything hiding deep in-between the cracks. Lothlorien Poetry Journal nominates for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Help spread the beauty of Lothlorien Poetry Journal. Submit, follow, join the site and invite your friends. Copyright 2021. All Rights Reserved. The artists have reserved their right under Section 77 Of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the authors of their work. Cover black and white photograph by Markus Zaiser ISBN 978-1-7948-8738-1

Editorial Poem by Strider Marcus Jones                                           

Thank you to the following esteemed poets and authors for your superb poetry and stories in Lothlorien Poetry Journal Volume 4 – Sentient Souls. You have my sincere respect and appreciation. I am honoured to publish your work. ~ Strider The POETS/AUTHORS John Drudge Rose Mary Boehm John Doyle Sara Clancy D. R. James Elle Renee Morgan Steve Klepetar Margaret Kiernan Bruce McRae Catherine Arra Ken Gosse Miriam Sagan Tohm Bakelas Adele Ogier Jones John Grey Amrita Valan Danny D. Ford Mihaela Melnic Jason de Koff Gulchehra Asronova Louis Kasatkin Angel Edwards Michael La Bombarda Yuu Ikeda Alec Solomita Susan Tepper Johanna Antonia Zomers Sheila Tucker Tom Montag Afiah Obenewaa Adrian David Andrena Zawinski Greg Patrick Ursula O’Reilly R. W. Stephens pj johnson Stephen House Patricia Walsh Scott C. Kaestner RC de Winter Stephen Anderson Kathryn Ann Hill Chris Campbell Linda Imbler Catfish McDaris Jana Hunterova & Mark Blickley Nicholas Alexander Hayes Agnes Vojta Alan S. Kleiman Cornelia Smith Fick Math Jones Candice James Michael J. Leach Sadie Maskery Richard D. Houff Josie Di Sciascio-Andrews Rustin Larson Lilija Valis Nodirabegim Ibrokhimova Chad Norman Kaci Skiles Laws Shelby Stephenson Rafaella Del Bourgo Jonel Abellanosa Lynn White Lawrence Moore Aysegul Yildirim Sherzod Artikov Michael Igoe Geoffrey Prince Chae Paterson

Lothlorien Poetry Journal Volume 3

Flowers in Stones May – June 2021

Lothlorien Poetry Journal is a contemporary literary journal featuring free verse/rhyming/experimental poetry, short stories, flash fiction, video poems and occasional interviews with poets. Journey with us on the road to poems that linger and haunt https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/ Discover poems of enchantment, fantasy, fairy tale, folklore, dreams, dystopian, flora and fauna, magical realism, romance, and anything hiding deep in-between the cracks. Lothlorien Poetry Journal nominates for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Help spread the beauty of Lothlorien Poetry Journal. Submit, follow, join the site and invite your friends. Volume 3 of Lothlorien Poetry Journal features 240 pages of scintillating poetry and fiction from 61 world renowned poets and authors living in the U.S.A., Canada, Australia, England, Ireland, Peru and many more countries where poetry is a literary force for seed change in society. Enjoy this exciting blend of poetic styles and the sharing of cultural diversity that brings us all closer together in our rapidly changing world. If you like contemporary world poetry, this book is perfect reading for poets and fiction writers and those new to both genres. It is an excellent resource of teaching materials for teachers and students alike and will inspire the reader to enjoy writing poetry and fiction with confidence.

lorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/ 

https://www.facebook.com/groups/236144291357538/?multi_permalinks=402594858045813

Editorial Poem by Strider Marcus Jones

 

Lothlorien Poetry Journal Volume 2 Bard Songs and Tales                                                    

Lothlorien Poetry Journal Volume 2 – Bard Songs and Tales

March 2021 – April 2021

Edited by Strider Marcus Jones Paperback

Lothlorien Poetry Journal is a literary journal featuring free verse/rhyming/experimental poetry, short stories, flash fiction, video poems and occasional interviews with poets. Journey with us on the road to poems that linger and haunt https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/ Discover poems of enchantment, fantasy, fairy tale, folklore, dreams, dystopian, flora and fauna, magical realism, romance, and anything hiding deep in-between the cracks. Lothlorien Poetry Journal nominates for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Help spread the beauty of Lothlorien Poetry Journal. Submit, follow, join the site and invite your friends. Copyright 2021. All Rights Reserved. The artists have reserved their right under Section 77 Of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the authors of their work. Cover Image – Pete Seeger Banjo, Annie Leibovitz. ISBN 978-1-300-15598-0 “If you have the words, there’s always a chance that you’ll find the way.” ― Seamus Heaney, Stepping Stones: Interviews with Seamus Heaney.

Details

Publication DateAug 25, 2021LanguageEnglishISBN9781300155980CategoryPoetryCopyrightAll Rights Reserved – Standard Copyright LicenseContributorsEdited by: Strider Marcus Jones, By (author): Kevin M Hibshman, By (author): Lynda Tavakoli, By (author): Michael Lee Johnson, By (author): Lilija Valis

Specifications

Pages252BindingPaperbackInterior ColorBlack & WhiteDimensionsCrown Quarto (7.44 x 9.68 in / 189 x 246 mm)


Lothlorien Poetry Journal’s second published volume of poetry and prose features the exceptional poetry and fiction of 72 internationally renowned poets and fiction authors. Join us on our journey in Bard Songs and Tales. Be moved and inspired by their sublime individual poetic voices from every continent and discover that there is more to life that unites us than divides us..~ Strider

The Poets:

 

Kevin M. Hibshman Lynda Tavakoli Michael Lee Johnson Lilija Valis Joe Kidd Antonia Alexandra Klimenko Peter Magliocco RC deWinter John Drudge Jessica Stilling Kushal Poddar Margaret Kiernan John Grey Adele Ogier Jones Brian Rihlmann Kashiana Singh Donny Winter Pam Muller Stephen House Mary Grace van der Kroef Christopher Barnes Heather McQueen David Callin Patricia Walsh Steve Klepetar Jyoti Nair Moe Seager Bern Butler Jon Bennett Anabell Donovan Tom Montag Katherine Suto G.J. Hart Maisie Russel Terry Wheeler Iolanda Leotta William Derge Susan Tepper Glen Wilson Julie Stevens David Butler Pratibha Castle Kevin Ahern Christina Martin Laszlo Aranyi Dana Trick Stephen Paul Wren Allison Grayhurst Ken Gosse Tim Goldstone Catherine Zickgraf James Walton Joan Leotta J.D. Nelson Angel Edwards John Maxwell O’Brien Roisin Browne Oz Hardwick Gordon Ferris Richard D. Houff John Patrick Robbins Gerard Sheehy Rie Sheriden Rose Paul Koniecki Judith Skillman Robert Pegel Benjamin Adair Murphy Catherine Strisik Alec Solomita Afiah Obenewaa Gregory Brendan Patrick Anca Vlasopolos

Lothlorien Poetry Journal Volume 1 – The Fellowship of the Pen

Selected Submissions from January and February 2021 

Paperback and E-book Now Available at Lulu.com

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Edited by Strider Marcus Jones

Lothlorien Poetry Journal is a literary journal featuring free verse/rhyming/experimental poetry, short stories, flash fiction, video poems and occasional interviews with poets. Journey with us on the road to poems that linger and haunt https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/ Discover poems of enchantment, fantasy, fairy tale, folklore, dreams, dystopian, flora and fauna, magical realism, romance, and anything hiding deep in-between the cracks. Lothlorien Poetry Journal nominates for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Help spread the beauty of Lothlorien Poetry Journal. Submit, follow, join the site and invite your friends. Copyright 2021. All Rights Reserved. The artists have reserved their right under Section 77 Of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the authors of their work. Cover Image – Arno Rafael Minkkinen Self-portrait, Foster’s Pond, 2000. ISBN 978-1-008-90450-7 “There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven’t met ” Yeats.

Details

Publication Date7/14/2021LanguageEnglishISBN9781008904507CategoryPoetryCopyrightAll Rights Reserved – Standard Copyright LicenseContributorsBy (author): Lauren Scharhag, Steve Klepetar, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Attracta Fahy, Antonia A Klimenco, J S Watts, Scott Thomas Outlar, Lorraine Caputo, John W Sexton, Louise Ceres, Moe Seager, Christine Tabaka, John Drudge, Denise O’Hagan, Edited by: Strider Marcus Jones

Specifications

Pages228BindingPaperbackInterior ColorBlack & WhiteDimensionsCrown Quarto (7.44 x 9.68 in / 189 x 246 mm)

Lothlorien Poetry Journal’s first published volume of poetry and prose features the work of sixty three internationally renowned poets and authors. Join us on our journey in The Fellowship of the Pen. Be moved and inspired by their individual poetic voices from every continent on Earth and discover that there is more to life that unites us than divides us. 

The Poets: 

J S Watts Steve Klepetar Lauren Scharhag John Drudge Antonia Alexandra Klimenco Gopal Lahiri Adele Ogier Jones John Grey Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon DAH Louise Ceres Michael Minassian Simra Sadaf Moe Seager Patricia Walsh Scott Thomas Outlar Yuu Ikeda J D Nelson Fotoula Reynolds Terry Wheeler Denise O’Hagan Max Heinegg Attracta Fahy Stephen House Lorraine Caputo Ryan Quinn Flanagan Laily Mahoozi Christopher Cadra Christine Tabaka G J Hart Lynda Tavakoli Prithvijeet Sinha Elizabeth Mercurio Robert ( Roibeard ) Shanahan Christina Martin Tim Heerdink Isobel Granby Poul Lynggaard Damgaard Jeanna Ni Riordain Tom Montag Susan Tepper John Patrick Robbins Angel Edwards John W Sexton Soodabeh Saeidnia Jonathan Butcher Patricia Nelson Michael Durack Kathryn Crowley Roger Haydon Sultana Raza Januario Esteves Margaret Kiernan Grant Tarbard Greg Patrick Marie C Lecrivain Steven Fortune Iulia Gherghei Arik Mitra Lisa Reynolds Ken Gosse Bruce Morton Will Nuessle

Editorial Poem by Strider Marcus Jones

Really chuffed to have 10 of my poems published in and be interviewed by editor Hezekiah Scretch in Issue 10 of Fleas on the Dog online. Congratulations to all the poets and authors in this brilliant issue and to editors Tom, Charles, Joey, Hezekiah, Janet, Richard and Rob.

https://fleasonthedog.com/

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1opoems = (5) poems + 5 = TEN poems…..
By Strider Marcus Jones


WHY I LIKE IT: Poetry Editor HEZEKIAH writes… Strider Marcus Jones plays on words
like an inveterate, pathological lyre as he bows and strums us, plucking me, at least, from my
melancholy melodies, monotonous monotones and doggerel doldrums with his mellifluous meter
and tone. (I spitefully longed to eliminate at least one of his ten poems, but woe is me.) His
imagery is imaginatively immersing; his phrasing and figures of speech overflowing; and, his
symbolism, story, syntax and sound spill over the page with cascading cadence in a most
spellbinding scintillating style. (Besides, he owes me money and cheats at cards.) Here is a
sampling of the scoundrels verse: “to watch you / swan turned shrew- / hairbrush out all
memory and meaning,” “the heart of truth- / intact in youth,” A “Savage” homage to Gauguin:
“beauty and syphilis happily cohabit,” “inseminating womb / selected by pheromones”
(Presumably referring Paul’s pursuits after he left the banking business.) Lots more gems here,
but don’t underlook ‘IN THE COME AND GO, I MIND YOU’ If I understand anything about inyou-end-oh, the double entendres are delightful… Nice tribute to Tolkien in there somewhere too
for you LOTR devotees. Strider’s light, slight-of-hand writing is as masterful as his pockets are
shallow and his head is swelled…
(Spacing is poet’s own.)HS


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 Michelangelo took years to paint,
in glorious colours, now flaked and full of hate.
the lights of our Pleiades went out,
with no new songs to sing and talk about

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.


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 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


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.


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.


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
there’s 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.


MIRROR, MIRROR


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 COMET OF HER WORDS


he sheds his matelessness
and shapeless
statelessness
undormed
to lie with her undressed
in woods earth warmed.
after drinking
and thinking
in the hollow trunk of an ancient tree
she reads
his tea
leaves

and he hears
her nature in the pattern
of her years,
saying now we happen
and the comet of her words
weaves its sentences
in his,
let’s go of bleakness
walking through wilderness
light footsteps in senses.


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.


LOOKING IN LOVE’S GLASS


looking in love’s glass
at what we have drank
and haven’t drank
to quench our thirst
slow and fast
not the first
not the last-
beauty is flesh
is your womanliness
and i find
your mind
grows branches into mine
we climb

so compatible
and indelible,
to others forgettable
crashed dream
on screen

we know
we go
out of scene.


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.


What inspires you?


Salford – my home town. My working class Irish and Welsh roots. My Muse and Children. The
natural and industrial landscape. Archaeology. Astronomy. Social history. The struggle to
overcome adversity and oppression. Contemporary poet, musician and artist friends. Trying to
play more than three notes on my saxophone and clarinet. Working on my next poem.


Who are some writers you admire?


Adding to those previously mentioned – e e cummings, Bukowski, Brian Aldiss, Chaucer,
Marlowe.


What is your writing process?


I write most days with pen on A4 paper folded into quarters. Strings of ideas and phrases. Any
time of day, but I prefer the evening and through the night. Some poems survive the first draft.
Others go through minor edits to language, theme and structure. Some get butchered and others
are sent to hibernate until I return to them.


AUTHOR 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.

https://img1.wsimg.com/blobby/go/9a0949f4-1d2a-4a7c-b9fb-a96b9b6bd861/downloads/I_2%20_Interview%20Poetry%20Editor%20Hezekiah%20Scretch%20.pdf?ver=1636847122656

INTERVIEW—Issue 10 (Poetry)
Poetry Editor Hezekiah Scretch with Strider
Marcus Jones

Greetings, O Glorious Bard!
Tom and Charles asked (or was it badgered) me to select the poet of my choice for the Poetry
Interview to be published in Issue 10 (November) and you were the one.
If you’d be interested in participating I’ve some questions for you about your poetry and your
writing in general. I am brashly smitten by your work and all I want to do is read more, more and
more.
Answer as you please. There is no word count so your answers can be as long or a short as you
like. I would need them no later than October 31 ( if I’m not to end up in the dog house with its
flea-infested mat). Looking forward to hearing from you.


HS: Can you describe what aspect of your nature draws you to write poetry?


SMJ: I have always been sensitive to people and my surroundings and often sense things before
they happen. My father thought I had inherited this mild psychic reaction to things and situations
around me from my Gypsy grandmother. Perhaps, and with the forward looking Aquarian in me
and my two Piscean fishes – one swimming through radical and unnatural changes into the
future, the other time travelling back into the past, writing poetry has been my natural form of
expression about the interconnectedness of Life, Nature, Science and the Arts.
I believe that most things are sentient – the universe, people, animals, bees, the mountains,
forests, bodies of water, air and land. In the distant past, we understood this and that the
symbiotic relationships once formed co-existed with each other. Through the quest for progress
and profit, humankind has lost its way, thinks it is smart enough to go it alone and rule like
usurping Gods over everything else. Myths and Legends exist as warnings from the past.
Humankind wants the power and discards everything else. I explore these metaphysical
relationships when I write poetry and feel their influence on the world.


HS: The breadth of your writing is replete with classical references and metaphysical
reflections; do you find such profound thoughts intrusive in your day-to-day life and feel obliged
to exercise them on the page…avoiding costly therapy sessions?


SMJ: I am not a classics scholar and knew nothing about my metaphysical reflections until a
novelist friend pointed them out to me. I write what I feel and sense, often in fluid stream of
consciousness. I hate punctuation – it looks like dirty marks in a poem – when you think and the
lines come in your mind, you don’t think capital letter, comma full stop. The run on lines, line
breaks and where the thought ends are the natural punctuation and rhythm in my poems. I like to
leave the reader some freedom to interpret this in their own way. Classical references, I have
absorbed subconsciously on life’s road sometimes pop into my head as I write. I don’t know
how, or why and I am just as likely to reference Monty Python underpants, Thomas O’Malley
the Alley Cat, Tom Waits and whisky, Monk’s jazz or Picasso’s and Hopper’s paintings and
Birlini’s sculptures in a serious or comical way. I don’t find them intrusive in my day-to-day life
– more like old friends meeting up in a café cos it’s been a while. I don’t know any poets who
can afford therapy sessions. A therapist would need a therapist after a consultation with a poet.


HS: Do you set scheduled time aside to write your poetry? Or, like a saxophone, you just pick it
up when the mood striker joneses you?


SMJ: I prefer to be a free spirit, not a robot. I have no set times to write, but am a nighthawk –
love the quiet hours to write or play my sax and clarinet badly.


HS: Can you attribute your muse in part to your legal training, blowing into brass instruments,
civil service or some other tragic event?


SMJ: Like most people, I absorb what life throws at me and try to stay strong. I am not afraid to
change the road I’m on and have done so when the road forks in this lifetime. My muse has a
will of her own and the urge to write just occurs. I don’t know how, or why. It just happens at
any time and place, so I always have a pen and scrap of paper in my pocket with other man-junk
to scrawl down the idea or opening lines. My legal training and civil service work has given me a
forensic way of thinking mellowed by listening to Jazz and tooting my sax.


HS: Who do you like to read or have been influenced by in your writing?


SMJ: From the past – Chaucer, Tennyson, Shelley, Keats, , Blake, W.B. Yeats, Auden, Langston
Hughes, Hart Crane, Sexton, Plath, Kerouac, Heaney, Lorca, Orwell, Dickens, Tolkien,
Steinbeck, Heller, Donaldson, P.D. James, Ian Rankin, Vonnegut, Dostoyevsky, Rilke, Rumi,
e.e.cummings, Neruda..so many.
From now – They know who they are. I have published their work in Lothlorien Poetry Journal.


HS: Do you as often labour over lines or do they more so flow as you go once the spirit moves
you?


SMJ: Most poems start off as a thought or idea coiled tight, like a clock spring or ball of string. I
don’t force the process. The subconscious finds the thread, thinks it through and the poem begins
to unravel on the page. When I was younger, I tended to let it just pour out and the poem was
what it was. I did not have the craft or discipline to edit it. I have lugged around a hold-all full of
journals and notebooks, with over 800 poems I wrote between the age of 13-25. Bad poems with
some half decent ideas that make me cringe and want to burn them. Since then, I have tended to
care about the poems since they care about the world and the people in it. Now, I can labour for
days and in some cases years, over lines and words and structure, crossing out words and whole
lines until they feel right now and after I have popped my clogs. Butchering your own work feels
barbaric in the moment, but enhances your poetic voice and the honest impact of a poem on the
reader.


HS: Last question. How do you feel about growing old?


MSJ:
“yéni ve lintë yuldar avánier”
-“the years have passed like swift draughts”


Peace, Love and Light,
Strider


Lovely work, Thanks for an illuminating interview!
Hezekiah Scretch
Poetry Editor/FOTD

Delighted to have my poem Dark Drawn Man published by The Piker Press on 11th November, 2021.My thanks to editor Sand Pilarski.

http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=8769

Dark Drawn Man
 Strider Marcus Jones
     
 
 

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.






Article © Strider Marcus Jones. All rights reserved.
Published on 2021-11-08
Image(s) are public domain.

Thrilled to have my poem The Portal in the Woods published at The Piker Press online. My thanks to Editor Sand Pilarski.

http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=8767

The Portal in the Woods
 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 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.






Article © Strider Marcus Jones. All rights reserved.
Published on 2021-10-11
Image(s) are public domain.

Delighted to have 3 Poems published in Dreich Magazine 10 Season 3. Congratulations to all those included and my thanks to Editor Jack Caradoc.

SPANGLED IN MY CELTIC CROSS

put your remark

in the breach

of my heart

and reach

to my head.

make love to my core,

in the land of my lore

this said-

in fields in summer

in woods in the fall-

with you, then me, under

it all-

the sensual cloud

calling wild out loud-

then bodies spent

on the grass all bent

talking in mulchey tones

scenting tree bark and squelchy moss with pheromones.

naked tall bones

hiding in robes of silver birches,

walk with random tribes of bluebells

bringing us to pagan churches-

where we leave offerings

for mineral blessings

on trickling rocks-

like hat bells

and single socks.

at the base,

we looked up at Arthur or Merlin’s face,

trying to rewind

and prime

our supernatural clocks

to that forgotten time

we can’t replace,

but only got

the echo of physical and mental mines

under this surface.

no more homes

gather round the circle stones-

no more druid dreads

to connect our disconnected threads

up on Alderley Edge-

and as we wandered back down

to get on the train out of town,

i felt my ear-ring

while I was thinking-

and found a ribbon of moss

spangled in my celtic cross.

QUANTUM IN SPACETIME

sorrow sings

like medicine in me,

bewitching strings

of melancholy;

heavying fate

like a paperweight-

crushing cryptically.

emotions close

round your briar rose-

ham actors in a dream,

with parts to play

on this Broadway-

sit back, unfold the scene.

given what you know,

besame, besame mucho-

through quantums years in spacetime’s strings

we make each moments grain of sand-

evolve from past to present in our hand

to give this now new meanings.

WILD HORSES

Horses play
Run ragged, roam free,
And after today
Remember me.

Horses run,
And trot, and gait,
Have your fun-
Before its too late:

For time is faster
Even than you-
You can’t outlast her
And mankind too.

Tell the rabbits
And birds and dogs without cares,
To hide their habits-
The world’s not theirs:

For man the hunter
And ender of life,
Is killing the world
With technologies knife.

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 over 200 publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Melbourne Culture Corner and Literary Yard Journal.

Really Chuffed to have my poem – I Follow You Into Night – published in Cajun Mutt Press. My thanks to wonderful editor James Dennis Casey IV.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 10/18/21

James D. Casey IV

I FOLLOW YOU INTO NIGHT

i sense you in summer wind
and try to redefine
the Other ring
that binds us
in this tormenting
show of come and go.

in the sentence of a sound
i hear your pain
then turn its fate
to break the blame
mending happenings
and broken strings.

footfalls confide
shadows duet in our divide
on a bridge of dark persuasions
i follow you into night
through corridors uncurtained
dreams and surreal scenes.

time’s corrugated face
marks motions set to mimic
leaned upon the balcony of fate
where rites and runes evoked her scent
to hear the music in her ways
smile and quicken upon his gaze.

©2021 Strider Marcus Jones All rights reserved.

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

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Thrilled to have my poem Clouds of Chaotic Crowds published on Mad Swirl Blog. My thanks to editor M H. Clay.

CLOUDS OF CHAOTIC CROWDS by Strider Marcus Jones

Smitten-
Bitten
Like
Faustus-
Leave the house dust
With fools 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.

October 13, 2021

Delighted to have 5 poems featured in Fevers of the Mind. My thanks to Poet and Editor David O’Nan. Most appreciated.

Skip to content

Fevers of the Mind

FEVERS OF THE MIND

Writing, Poetry, Short Stories, Reviews, Art Contests

Poetry Showcase by Strider Marcus Jones

Bio:

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 over 200 publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Melbourne Culture Corner and Literary Yard Journal.

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.


OLD CAFE

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 tablecloth-
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 its institutions of Moriarty's.
 
some shepherd 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.


POMEGRANATE FLESH

ask those
who grow old-
some fruits are nicer
when they're riper.
you dont 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
its own reflection
of your perfection
to me
then and now,
each memory
taken
by the lenses
somehow,
preserved
by your words
and curves
in my senses.

our dance,
that thrilled
in its intricate
tango on the floor,
is still filled
with time intimate
romance
and more-
talking rubicon of reason,
in layer, upon layer of season
so sedimentary
since you entered me-
and i consumed
your silky mesh
of pink perfumed
pomegranate flesh


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.


I'M GETTING OLD NOW

i'm getting old now-
you know,
like that tree in the yard
with those thick cracks
in its skin bark
that tell you
the surface of its lived-in secrets.
my eyes,
have sunk too inward
in sleepless sockets
to playback images
of ghosts-
so, make do with words
and hear the sounds
of my years in yourself.

childhood-
riding a rusty three-wheel bike
to shelled-out houses bombed in the blitz,
then zinging home zapped in mud
to wolf down chicken soup
over lumpy mashed potato for tea-
with bare feet sticking on cold kitchen lino
i shivered watching the candle burn down
racing to finish a book i found in a bin-
before Mam showed me her empty purse
and robbed the gas meter-
the twenty shillings
stained the red formica table
like pieces of the man's brains
splattered all over the back seat
of his symbolic limousine
as i watched history brush out her silent secrets.





More bio: 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.  Check out the first 3 issues of the Lothlorien Journal see the website listed above for more & to order. 

Thrilled to have five poems published in the excellent Ink Pantry Poetry Drawer online. My thanks to editor Deborah Edgeley.

Poetry Drawer: Mavericks: The Blood That Makes Us Black: In Maid’s Water: The Head in his Fedora Hat by Strider Marcus Jones
Posted on  by Deborah Edgeley

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.


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.


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.


Minds 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 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 a flow
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 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.

You can find more of Strider’s work here on Ink Pantry.

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_…

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.

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 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.

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

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

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

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…

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.


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

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.

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

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

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

http://www.wattpad.com/story/1880383-40-poems-from-pomegranate-flesh-by-strider-marcus

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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http://www.wattpad.com/story/90625-9-poems-from-aspects-of-love-by-strider-marcus

THE WORD LOVE

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

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

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

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

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

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

NINETY NINE PERCENT IN TENTS

in the compound of this room

we make our tent

with revolution’s loom

knitting a firmament

that challenges corrupt times

with solemn slogans

to plutarch totems

simply marked on cardboard signs.

resistance kindles in the dark

and breathes new poetry and art

like a cultural tsunami

elites can’t beat with armies.

these sincere spears

of human spheres

stand soft spoken,

peaceful, but not broken

like disciples in fabric domes

chanting social justice tomes

while Jesus circles existential

throwing speculators from the temple.

we don’t need money in our tent

to make each other feel so spent-

only the sea shore, forest and mountains

to trickle streams and spurt fountains,

unlocking love when the cradle rocks

the secret rhythm of intimate clocks.

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

Peter Brook’s The Mahabharata

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

SELECTED POEMS from INSIDE OUT by Strider Marcus Jones

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

VELVET TANGERINE 

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

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

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

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

https://www.wattpad.com/3559761-14-poems-from-wooded-windows-by-strider-marcus

BOOTS OF HARLEY

this universe has no center

and you’re not there.

this sun is only sunny on the hood-

its light can’t bend more benter

to be fair

as time stops running rings in wood.

the floorboards creak

and pictures speak

when I stand in empty corners making room,

for ghosts that want to have my seat

when they come in from the street

after riding like Valhalla under sun and moon.

summer shoes,

with beards of barley

in their soley grooves-

still think they’re boots of Harley

on electro glide down highway avenues-

with a woman’s arms around my waist

singing Bob Marley

and promising me her taste.

foot down. legs braced-

rocking back the headboard on the bed and base

in the hanging of her breasts

where my head would rest,

her lips a vanished beauty of the past-

explode

unload

to this contrast-

that turns its empty pages in my head

unlit, as I lie in bed,

running out of Kerouac road-

i feel the beat

and go to sleep

with some more story told.

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

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

https://www.wattpad.com/3559608-14-poems-from-wooded-windows-by-strider-marcus

LOVE IS STRIPPED TO SHARING BREAD

we were kissing

and dancing

to a kitchen song,

talking with our wine

and smoking bong;

then you pushed your pierced pin

of forged fire

further in

the groove of my desire

with your tongue.

later,

up the creaking wooden escalator-

“let me do you” i said

peeling back your petals

with my voice:

love is stripped to sharing bread

abroad-in plain rooms-where Nora and Joyce

reject precious metals.

it brings to craggy green cliffs

that STILL talk-

of two minds, in the sea born mist

of one thought-

why should four legs walk

under clouds adrift.

glum damp rock moss cups

when we go to ground

under body musk

and pagan sound-

the meaning of the hour

when lit lusts flower

fills the air

everywhere

at last

and the future does not imitate the past.

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

 

THE HEAD IN HIS FEDORA HAT by Strider Marcus Jones

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

THE HEAD IN HIS FEDORA HAT

a lonely man,

cigarette,

rain

and music

is a poem

moving,

not knowing-

a caravan,

whose journey does not expect

to go back

and explain

how everyone’s ruts

have the same

blood and vein.

the head in his fedora hat

bows to no one’s grip,

brim tilted into the borderless

plain

so his outlaw wit

can confess

and remain

a storyteller,

that hobo fella

listening like a barfly

for a while

and slow-winged butterfly

whose smile

they can’t close the shutters on

or stop talking about

when he walks out

and is gone.

whisky and tequila

and a woman, who loves to feel ya

inside

and outside

her

when ya move

and live as one,

brings you closer

in simplistic

unmaterialistic

grooved

muse Babylon.

this is so,

when he stands with hopes head,

arms and legs

all aflow

in her Galadriel glow

with mithril breath kisses

condensing sensed wishes

of reality and dream

felt and seen

under that

fedora hat

inhaling smoke

as he sang and spoke

stranger fella

storyteller.

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

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

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

IN THE TALK OF MY TOBACCO SMOKE

i have disconnected self

from the wire of the world

retreated to this unmade croft

of wild grass and savage stone

moored mountains

set in sea

blue black green grey

dyed all the colours of my mood

and liquid language-

to climb rocks

instead of rungs

living with them

moving around their settlements

of revolutionary random place

for simple solitary glory.

i am reduced again

to elements and matter

that barter her body for food

teasing and turning

her flesh to take words and plough.

rapid rain

slaps the skin

on honest hands

strongly gentle

while sowing seeds

the way i touch my lover

in the talk of my tobacco smoke:

now she knows

she tastes

like all the drops

of my dreams

falling on the forest

of our Lothlorien.

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

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

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

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

HE PLAYS HIS FLAMENCO GUITAR

he plays his flamenco guitar

knowing who you are,

seducing his singer

to bring her

from bleak harbour masts

to his contrasts.

he knows the equations

of her close flirtations

and doesn’t judge her glances

for wanting what romance is-

vibrating in voices and strings

of fornicating feelings.

her prose photosynthesis

illuminates his

shades that colour mountains

and drops of wishes in mosaic fountains-

she loves the Picasso from his pen

and horse smell like Andalucian men

her reversed body senses

inside his defences-

as her sea wind

billows in his revealing

Avalon through the mist,

sweet loved, firm kissed.

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

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

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

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

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

GET A COPY

Paperback, First Edition, 162 pages

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

WOODED WINDOWS by Strider Marcus Jones ~ Book ~ Poetry

  Image

Wooded Windows

Paperback, 162 Pages
    
The poems in this book reflect on my journey through life, love, the Arab Spring and Occupy Movement. As a socialist and one of the 99%, this book is about love, social revolution and the eternal struggle for equality and justice. In these poems, I look into and out of the wooded windows of the past, present and future and become romantic and erotic, political and spiritual. I am a pagan peasant in this poverty and paradise, chained to the same land in serfdom, but trying to climb the tree of life and reach the branches of freedom.

POMEGRANATE FLESH by Strider Marcus Jones ~ Book Poetry

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

POMEGRANATE FLESH

Paperback, 128 Pages
    
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 the gold cartel caravan
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.
Strider Marcus Jones
 
“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.”
By Connie Calomeni
Front cover photograph designed by Lauretta Pearson

Books are available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusjones1

©Strider Marcus Jones

MAVERICKS by Strider Marcus Jones ~ Book Poetry

MAVERICKS FRONT COVER FOR WATTPAD JPEG   FBE3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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 ~

MAVERICKS (book)

http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/mavericks/5524020?showPreview

Books are available at http://www.lulu.com Strider Marcus Jones Poetry Books.

©Strider Marcus Jones
 
 

 

INSIDE OUT by Strider Marcus Jones ~ Book Poetry

Strider Marcus Jones's..Poem/Poetry Videos On YouTube

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

©Strider Marcus Jones