Delighted to have 5 poems published in Literary Yard Journal online on July 6th, 2021. My thanks to the editors.

‘I know your notes’ and other poems

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By: Strider Marcus Jones

I KNOW YOUR NOTES

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

and Mr Blue
sky
with eggy eye
subliminally sends Otis

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

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

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

###

LIFE IS FLAMENCO

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

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

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

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

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

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

###

NURTURING EACH NOTE

lying back into
you
i share a smoke
all sucked out and stroked
thick cummings swallowed
by you
followed
my drinking sips
from licks
of lips
and clit.
our closeness
breaks the darkness
open
and such things
in touchings
spoken
compose coupled music in the throat
nurturing each note.

in here we hide
under His sheet shroud
from the unsettled crowd
of happenings outside-
top down tycoons and bankers,
royalty and political cankers
seedy greedy opulence driving past
needy kettled poor pandemics
to banquets rustling markets cash
supporting famine and eugenics.

###

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 table cloth-
just enough to break up bread in thick barley broth.

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

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

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

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

watched by sinister sentinels-
while scratched tubular bells,
summon all to sunday service
where invisible myths exist-

to a shamed flower
with supernatural power
come the hour.

###

NO ROADS

with no roads on our map of conversation,
we began
without plan,
and climbed, into the branches of imagination,
past the twigs and leaves-
those apothecaries
of lost libation,
into houred improvisation-
through its desert wanting rain
after years of stasis,
in a slow camel train
searching for that oasis-
with moving dunes
and negative runes
fending off the grey
in a charmed, nomadic way.
happen then, that this cold acoustic tune,
met your luteful lagoon
of mosaical notes-
and the baton moved,
as was proved
round the wheel with ambient spokes,
conducting without rules
our forgotten fools.
somehow,
go now,
through the eye of words,
to the heart of this rhythm
and the scion of its schism;
then home, like migrating birds
into separate nests-
for now, love rests.

###

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.

###

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.

Thrilled to have my poem Does Her Far Beauty Know published at The Piker Press online. My thanks to Editor Sand Pilarski.

http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=8770

Does Her Far Beauty Know

does her
far beauty know
where my thoughts go
without her
when i walk
in lush rain lashing down —

squatting in enclosed fields
of remote wheat and barley
around told feudal cities and towns —
to talk
to fate and how it feels
to be emptied entirely
of hopes sounds —

these evolutions
fill rich men’s purses
and revolutions
are poor universes
that try to bend
the unequal
to be equal
without end.

does her
far beauty know
where my thoughts go
with her
when i walk
in lush rain lashing down —

soaked in moments come to this
paradise and precipice
belonging
bonding
thoughts
serendipitous
blowing into us —

gives shelter to the self
of us and other else —
unlike bare rooms we rent
to leave behind
when change moves us to fit
into it —
with only our echo and scent
of passion and mind.


Article © Strider Marcus Jones. All rights reserved.
Published on 2021-09-06
Image(s) are public domain.

Delighted to have 3 poems published online in Poetry Life & Times. My thanks to Editor Robin Ouzman Hislop.

3 Poems by Strider Marcus Jones. CUBIST GHETTOS, et al.,

 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

 
(i)
 
CUBIST GHETTOS
 
I think
To shrink
The distance
Of resistance
Inside self
To all else-
 
Knowing
Showing
Vulnerability
In the mystery
Leaves what is closed
Openly exposed-
 
To explanation
Under examination
When there isn’t one
That hasn’t gone
Until roof floor and sky door
Are no more-
 
Only roulette rubbles
Of drone troubles
Imprisoning
Reasoning
In cubist ghettos
Wearing jazz stilettos-
 
Flashing flamingo legs
To pink paradise harlem heads
While new trees grow up mute
And ripen with strange fruit
Some whites too this time
A drowned boy me and mine.
 
 
(ii)
 
CLOUDS OF CHAOTIC CROWDS
 
Smitten-
Bitten
Like Faustus-
Leave the house dust
With fool’s gold
Unsold.
This conveyor belt lair
A castle in the air
For Dante’s dreams of doubt
To wander about
In, with voices that pretend
To be a different friend-
Oh my, what a frame,
Too big to blame
And beyond a simple say
To save and stay-
So, close the dungeon door
To be what you were before
And walk away
Into the clouds
Of chaotic crowds
Falling as rain
On sterile plain.
 
 
(iii)
 
DOES HER FAR BEAUTY KNOW
 
does her
far beauty know
where my thoughts go
without her
when i walk
in lush rain lashing down-
 
squatting in enclosed fields
of remote wheat and barley
around told feudal cities and towns-
to talk
to fate and how it feels
to be emptied entirely
of hopes sounds-
 
these evolutions
fill rich men’s purses
and revolutions
are poor universes
that try to bend
the unequal
to be equal
without end.
 
does her
far beauty know
where my thoughts go
with her
when i walk
in lush rain lashing down-
 
soaked in moments come to this
paradise and precipice
belonging
bonding
thoughts
serendipitous
blowing into us-
 
gives shelter to the self
of us and other else-
unlike bare rooms we rent
to leave behind
when change moves us to fit
into it-
with only our echo and scent
of passion and mind.
 
 

 
 
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. He is also the founder, editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/
 
His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany; Serbia; India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; A New Ulster; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Piker Press; oppy 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; & Poetry Life and Times,Artvilla.com.
 
 https://www.artvilla.com/plt/3-poems-by-strider-marcus-jones-cubist-ghettos-et-al/
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Thrilled to have my poem The Two Saltimbanques (Picasso) published in Issue 11 of the excellent Melbourne Culture Corner Magazine. My thanks to Lead Editor Steven Pearman.

https://melbourneculturecorner.com/blog/

THE TWO SALTIMBANQUES (Pablo Picasso)

when words don’t come easy
they make do with silence
and find something in nothing
to say to each other
when the absinthe runs out.
his glass and ego
are bigger than hers,
his elbows sharper,
stabbing into the table
and the chambers of her heart
cobalt clown
without a smile.
she looks away
with his misery behind her eyes
and sadness on her lips,
back into her curves
and the orange grove
summer of her dress
worn and blown by sepia time
where she painted
her cockus giganticus
lying down
naked
for her brush and skin,
mingling intimate scents
undoing and doing each other.
for some of us,
living back then
is more going forward
than living in now
and sitting hereat this table,
with these glasses
standing empty of absinthe,
faces wanting hands
to be a bridge of words
and equal peace
as Guernica approaches.


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

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

https://www.neurologicalliterarymagazine.com/

Where words go


I want to go
Where words go
After we say them
And settle on their receivers thought
To ease their mind if caught,
And warm their heart throughout.
I want to roam about
Where words hang out
When no one hears them,
And watch them enter someone else
Invisible with stealth
To make them hope or doubt.
I want to be a word
Profound or absurd
And be adopted or rejected.

Mark Jones: Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from
Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry
Society, his five published books of
poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between
cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. He is also the founder, editor and publisher of
Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/

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

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

Stone Jar by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on May 20, 2021 by jmgale

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

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

Soupy Potions by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on May 23, 2021 by jmgale

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

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

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

A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has also been published in numerous publications around the world.

The Vase by Strider Marcus Jones

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

Image by Lubos Houska from Pixabay

standing silent proud,
alone, or in a crowd
life glazed mood and skin
outside and in-
for you, i think out loud
and take you in-
where thoughts abound reversible
and convertible-
where saying being wrong
reaches out beyond
the natural need to win.
moulded by my hands
to this shape that understands;
its cloth of clay holds you warm,
a mummer masked in costumes storm-
react with its receptacle of reason
for sorting truths from treason,
but you don’t need to have a season
to put your flowers into me-
swaying here, in wind and wild, as born so be.

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





ancient lay lines
illuminate oral lore
a global stone grid


black coffee swirling
in a spiral galaxy
stargate in a cup


obelisk to sky
glyphs and hypogean
can we crack the code


leaves are falling
the circle of life and death
undertaker crows


honeysuckle grows
around the arch of midnight
into the wormhole


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

curious magpies
search ploughed field for baubles
sunlight glints on them


faded photographs
moments hanging on the wall
futures blank behind


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

red chrysanthemums
show fractals of clarity
time sows mutations



Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, he is the creator and editor of Lothlorien Poetry Journal. His five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

                                       

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

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

MIRROR, MIRROR by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on March 11, 2021 by jmgale

Image by Bobby Louvre from Pixabay 

mirror, mirror,
in the hall
age comes to us all,
and looks wither
through the play
of years slipped away,
away
in the lapsed lingo of street
and road,
where tangents meet
and move with innocence
up summits of experience
told,
whose fruits we eat
then weep
when they implode.
these reflections
in this autumn of adventurous directions,
mean more
standing in the door
of ebb and flow
watching people come and go
wearing introspections
of what they know
after listening to a stranger’s small confessions
on midnight radio.

THE LATITUDE OF LOVE by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on March 18, 2021 by jmgale

Source: Wikimedia

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

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

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

THE OTHER SELF by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on March 21, 2021 by jmgale

Image by Tumisu from Pixabay 

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

THIS NOW MY THOUGHTS by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on March 26, 2021 by jmgale

Image by esudroff from Pixabay 

this now my thoughts
open at the image of your name
won’t be revealing
the secrets they explain-
do you do the same
on these out walks
remembering the rain
drop fractals on us feeling.

back we go again,
without preachers
or bad teachers,
harvest high with hope
just us and frayed strands
of poetry and bands
on this bridge of notes
our mind spans.

in give we’ve got
the bloom of this plot
in garden to river
shaping start and stop
the melting clock
of body quake then quiver
through the Dreamtime day night
and soul spirit lit by landscape light.

we climb the Orange Rock
to revert back far
but have no Gaelic croft
to live in who we are.
it has changed hands
until the purpose of these lands
shoots dissenting music out of birds
and sucks all truth from ancient words

so existence is
another language.

THE PATTERNS by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on March 31, 2021 by jmgale

Image by Craig Melville from Pixabay 

somewhere
in everywhere
everybody
happens
in the patterns,
like flocks
of rocks
gathered to the lobby
of Saturn’s
rings,
graded
and sorted
into ugly and beautiful
useful
things;
all something
out of nothing
but not absolute nothing:
it seems matter
that Mad Hatter
and plectrums of light
make tunes of self similarity settle and fight
repeating this same existence
without remembered resistance.

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

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

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

Strider Marcus Jones: Poetry (Western Voices 2021)

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

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

https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/

THE MADRIGAL OF VOICES

the madrigal of voices

somewhere, in its choices,

chooses and rejoices

back to me-

collecting frozen wood,

from the crofts and slums, of old childhood-

sat here, on this chair

in the numb night air.

now, your moonbeams kiss

the winter of me. stirs

ripples on its pond skin

back to the begin.

unpicks the threaded wish

of passion’s positive remark-

while sleep fights

these luminous lights

of limp daggers-

laughing in the dark.

somehow, its root

of subdued jasmine and tropical jute,

reaches that closed chamber of your core-

and thoughts transmute,

woven to the nature of its lore.

negativity narrows

when i stroke in your shallows-

forward as before;

but staying in tomorrows,

i enter and endure.

WHAT EVERYBODY AND NO ONE KNOWS


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

IN THE TALK OF MY TOBACCO SMOKE

i have disconnected self

from the wire of the world

retreated to this unmade croft

of wild grass and savage stone

moored mountains

set in sea

blue black green grey

dyed all the colours of my mood

and liquid language-

to climb rocks

instead of rungs

living with them

moving around their settlements

of revolutionary random place

for simple solitary glory.

i am reduced again

to elements and matter

that barter her body for food

teasing and turning

her flesh to take words and plough.

rapid rain

slaps the skin

on honest hands

strongly gentle

while sowing seeds

the way i touch my lover

in the talk of my tobacco smoke:

now she knows

she tastes

like all the drops

of my dreams

falling on the forest

of our Lothlorien.


Western Voices 2021 :: Setu, February 2021

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

Woken From The Deep | Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on by sammicoxwriter

In death we die, and go to lie,

Beneath the ground, until we’re found,

And passed around

From museum to museum,

Where people push and cry:

“Move your head! We wanna see him.”

Oh Ra. It’s no fun being a mummy-

When you’re woken from the deep:

So when they put the lights out,

I’ll just go back to sleep.

Life’s Truth | Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on by sammicoxwriter

Life’s a foaming cobbled

Stream of peoples lives,

And loves a fragrant fantasy

We can’t deny:

Strife’s a bitter apathy

We can’t escape,

And war’s a grim reality

We choose to make.


Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/

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

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

SUMMER WIND

 you remind me of the rhythms in myself-
 no house to play to
 or the sound in someone else-
 that drives their dreams
 in simple scenes.
 
 your music, is the motion of the waves
 soul troubled too-
 by yesterdays,
 searching for a sigh that isn’t wrong
 to be its song.
 
 your meadow, is a harvest shimmering
 in light and hue,
 in summer wind,
 waiting, for a stranger passing through-
 to settle in its simmering.
 
 taste the rain
 and take it in you,
 long for it to come again-
 meanings grow when fates continue
 to reach for reasons, and remain.
 

WHEN THE ROAD FORKS

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

ADUMBRATE LOVES SHALLOWS

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

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 


Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.
 
 

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

THE LATITUDE OF LOVE

the latitude of love

paddles an imperial pedalo

in someone’s waters-

and i had to go

native in a foreign land

to understand

where my own backward blood

has brought us.

in the mosque

in the mihrab

in Cordoba,

no one is lost

as Christian and Arab

respect how they cross over.

inside:

the scallop shell,

with it’s white marble hood

and cathedral bell

above ancient wood,

keeps everyone equal and safe from hell-

but outside:

other forces blow the people and their pedalo.

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

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

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

Metal Mania

Metal mania

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

                                                         —Strider Marcus Jones

Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate, and former civil servant from Salford, England, with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

Delighted to have 3 poems published in Literary Yard e-Journal on December 31st, 2020. My thanks to the editors.

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

BY AUTHOR ON  • ( 1 COMMENT )

By: Strider Marcus Jones

WE MOVE THE WHEEL

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

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

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

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

###

THE HERMIT

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

###

I WANT TO BEND TIME

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

###

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

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

Photography © Jennifer Matthews

Fallen Lintels

it was summertime
with flowers colouring the pantomime
in feudal fields
as i walked on flat wheels
with your humming bird in my head
from the tropical warm of your bed-
where we bent the grass again
and made the rain
that doesn’t come from clouds
dampen skin rumpled shrouds.

i watched your beauty glisten sweetly
while i held you like Bernini
before you went to work
flaked in bark of silver birch
naked chalice south
and siren priestess mouth
of pagan church.

you were converting fussy ghosts
and their sullen hosts
from bribed tribes
walking past without guides-
some, so inverted and duped
like shades with every ethic stooped
labouring like quislings
under Darwinist siblings-
slowly drifting back to druid stones
that serve us more than glorious domes,
more equal in each equinox
of chaos turning natures clock.

i know, i ramble for reasons
to make sense of changing seasons-
and find none
where i am one-
only fallen lintels on the floor
like broken words that speak no more
at sunrise and sunset
remembering what we forget.

Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between forests, mountains, cities and coasts playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.

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

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

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

NymphsPUBLICATIONSABOUTSUBMISSIONS

‘Composers and Mistakes’ by Strider Marcus Jones

when I see the evening,

with it’s ordinary sounds and shapes

so full of unbelieving

composers and mistakes

coming in-

something wakes,

and I begin.

what I can’t affect

is getting colder

as I grow older,

retreating inside-

I could be your wreck

if I was bolder

and called you over,

over this side-

through the honeysuckle arch of midnight,

moon like a lid bright

shield in the sky;

on the grass

where footsteps last

in this light-

making a cast

where you walked by.


665272_10151223197318189_405679816_o (1).jpg
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

January 4, 2021

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

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

Em5AHjmW4AAj5OK.jpeg

Strider Marcus Jones

Poetry

The Portal in the Woods

Seeing somnambulist sunrise

Through open window

Touch your face

After love rides

On moon tides

In ebb and flow

At tantric pace-

Love resides

Tasted

No asides

Wasted

Spices of the flesh

Soaking rooms in Marrakesh

How I ate your truffle in Zanzibar

While you smoked my long cigar.

Back home-

Tribes of bloods

And druids roam

Seeking out the overgrown

Portal in the woods

Where we hondfast

In this present of the past

Dance chanting

In stone bone circles

Like ooparts

Practicing

Magical arts

Settling

What chaos hurtles-

Reconnecting rhythms

In living and dead

To those algorithms

In nature’s head.

We are rustic-

Romantic

In land and sky

The  air  fire  water

To warriors who slaughter

If Us or Them must die.

We wake

For clambake

Pleasure

In a cauldron lake

Of limbs together

Then cut sods of peat

From the bog under our feet

Exposing the pasts

That never last.

Cubist Ghettos

I think

To shrink

The distance

Of resistance

Inside self

To all else-

Knowing

Showing

Vulnerability

In the mystery

Leaves what is closed

Openly exposed-

To explanation

Under examination

When there isn’t one

That hasn’t gone

Until roof floor and sky door

Are no more-

Only roulette rubbles

Of drone troubles

Imprisoning

Reasoning

In cubist ghettos

Wearing jazz stilettos-

Flashing flamingo legs

To pink paradise Harlem heads

While new trees grow up mute

And ripen with strange fruit

Some whites too this time

A drowned boy me and mine.

The Forest of Forgets


i don’t do remembers, or regrets,
not knowing, i belong in what comes next-
without the edge and angle of pretext,
find me in the forest of forgets-

watching your perfections dance and breathe
in my fires flames then read out gypsy leaves;
imagining your whispers in the wind and trees-
before they fade, and fall, and leave.

back inside the house, picture rails
of love hang empty
from bent hooks, that promised plenty,
leaving frameless tales in musty trails-

to dusty cabinets of more
trinkets and traces-
whose duality displaces
sky and floor.

The Head in His Fedora Hat

a lonely man,

cigarette,

rain

and music

is a poem

moving,

not knowing-

a caravan,

whose journey does not expect

to go back

and explain

how everyone’s ruts

have the same

blood and vein.

the head in his fedora hat

bows to no one’s grip,

brim tilted into the borderless

plain

so his outlaw wit

can confess

and remain

a storyteller,

that hobo fella

listening like a barfly

for a while

and slow-winged butterfly

whose smile

they can’t close the shutters on

or stop talking about

when he walks out

and is gone.

whisky and tequila

and a woman, who loves to feel ya

inside

and outside

her

when ya move

and live as one,

brings you closer

in simplistic

unmaterialistic

grooved

muse Babylon.

this is so,

when he stands with hopes head,

arms and legs

all aflow

in her Galadriel glow

with mithril breath kisses

condensing sensed wishes

of reality and dream

felt and seen

under that

fedora hat

inhaling smoke

as he sang and spoke

stranger fella

storyteller.

 

Hopper’s Ladies

you stay and grow

more mysterioso

but familiar

in my interior-

with voices peeled

full of field

of fruiting orange trees

fertile to orchard breeze

soaked in summer rains

so each refrain all remains.

not afraid of contrast,

closed and opened in the past

and present, this isolation of Hopper’s ladies,

sat, thinking in and out of ifs and maybes

in a diner, reading on a chair or bed

knowing what wants to be said

to someone

who is coming or gone-

such subsidence

into silence

is a unilateral curve

of moments

and movements

that swerve

a straight lifetime

to independence

in dependence

touching sublime

rich roots

then ripe fruits.

we share their flesh and flutes

in ribosomes and delicious shoots

that release love-

no, not just the fingered glove

to wear

and curl up with in a chair,

but loving kindness

cloaked in timeless

density and tone

in settled loam-

beyond lonely apartments in skyscrapers

and empty newspapers,

or small town life

gutting you with gossip’s knife.

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

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India and Switzerland in numerous publications including DM; mgv2 Publishing Anthology; And Agamemnon Dead; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; A New Ulster/Anu; Outburst Poetry Magazine; The Galway Review; The Honest Ulsterman Magazine; The Lonely Crowd Magazine; Section 8 Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic Arts; Don’t Be Afraid: Anthology To Seamus Heaney; Dead Snakes Poetry Magazine; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine; Syzygy Poetry Journal Issue 1 and Ammagazine/Angry Manifesto Issue 3.

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

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

I WANT WHAT ORDINARY OTHERS WANT

i want

what others want-

synchronicity

and simplicity

in life of free will-

sharing some land

i can work with my hands

no more slave still-

time trapped.

lines tapped.

steps tagged.

voice gagged.

this elite mafia

of Orwell and Kafka

has built Metropolis

on old Acropolis-

reducing proles

to zombie roles

in constitutions

of constructed evolutions,

with blood to dust faiths

riding like dark wraiths

bullets shredding

bombing and beheading

the innocents

and dissidents

to steal their lot

and not share what you’ve got.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. All Rights Reserved.

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

IN MAID’S WATER

we’ve left the well-footed

road,

the rutted

and rebutted

road

of shadows cast

by towered glass.

opened closed curtains

for fusty moths,

chanted white spells with Wiccan’s

goths;

left pictured

rooms and halls-

become un-scriptured

hills and squalls-

in maid’s water

pouring down her

erect chalk man,

like a wild gypsy,

love tipsy

partisan,

smelling of cinnabar

and his cigar,

swirling

like whirling

clouds

while the changed wind howls.

TWO MISFITS

it was no time
for love outside-
old winds of worship
found hand and mouth
in ruined rain
slanting over cultured fields
into pagan barns
with patched up planks
finding us two misfits.

i felt the pulse
of your undressed fingers
transmit thoughts
to my senses-
aroused by autumn scents
of milky musk
and husky hay
in this barn’s faith
we climbed the rungs of civilisation
so random in our exile-

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


THE DOOR

the door

between skyfloor

topbottom

is rankrotten

portalbliss

or abjectabyss.

it contains conversations

confrontations,

hiding loves two-ings

in lost ruins-

shuts us inside our self

with or without someone else.

we,

the un-free,

disenfranchised poor

have no bowl of more-

only pain

on the same plain

as before,

homeless

or in shapeless boxes,

worked out, hunted, like urban foxes-

outlaws on common lands

stolen from empty hands.

files on us found

from gathering sound

where mutations abound

put troops on the ground.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. All rights reserved.

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

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

I WANT WHAT ORDINARY OTHERS WANT

Strider Marcus Jones

i want
what others want–
synchronicity
and simplicity
in life of free will–
sharing some land
i can work with my hands
no more slave still.

time trapped.
lines tapped.
steps tagged.
voice gagged.

this elite mafia
of Orwell and Kafka
has built Metropolis
on old Acropolis,

reducing proles
to zombie roles
in constitutions
of constructed evolutions,

with blood to dust faiths
riding like dark wraiths
bullets shredding
bombing and beheading

the innocents
and dissidents
to steal their lot
and not share what you’ve got.

THE CUP

Strider Marcus Jones

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

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

upturning the cup
and turning it such
to read the leaves–
a gypsy’s lore
and ancient blood
has always understood–

who and what
controls the plot,
keeps us in the base and dregs
looking up, without the legs
to climb the slippery clay
into dark deceit
counterfeit
deception and decay.

take back how to think,
stand at your own sink
and wash away
this cold custodian,
old Eton and Bostonian
suited slick affray–

of corporate hoodies
and big house bullies
hunting and shooting
laughing and looting,
smeared in oils that anoint
herding us to the vanishing point.

THE DANCE

Strider Marcus Jones

pull the roof off
knock the walls down
touch the forest
climb those mountains
and smell the sea
again.

watch how life
decomposes
in death.

going back to the land
to reform and be reborn
as something and someone else.

there’s no great secret to it all.
no need to overthink it through.

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

then warriors with armies,
religions with god,
minds buying and selling
stole the landscape
and changed time.

smash the windows,
break down the doors.
melt the keys,
rub evil words from their spells
and puncture the lungs of their wheels

before they kidnap you from bed,
call you dissident,
hold you without charge,
wheel you out on a stretcher
from waterboard torture
for years,
without trial,
in Guantanamo Bay.

they are selling
the sanctuary we made
with our numbers,
bringing back chains,
making some of us slaves.
outside, the dance
in the five coloured rings
making winners
and losers,

holding flags and flames.

THE DOOR

Strider Marcus Jones

the door
between skyfloor,
topbottom,

is rankrotten,

portalbliss,
abjectabyss.

it contains conversations,
confrontations,
hiding loving two-ings

in lost ruins-

it shuts us inside ourself
with or without someone else.

we,
the un-free,
disenfranchised poor
have no bowl of more-
only pain.
on the same plain
as before,
homeless,
or in shapeless boxes,
worked out, hunted, like urban foxes–
outlaws on common lands,
stolen from empty hands.

files on us found
from gathering sound
where mutations abound
put troops on the ground.

HOPPER’S LADIES

Strider Marcus Jones

you stay and grow more mysterious
but familiar,
in my interior-
with voices peeled full of field
of fruiting orange trees,
fertile to orchard breeze,
soaked in summer rains,
so each refrain all remains.

not afraid of contrast,
closed and opened in the past
and present, this isolation of Hopper’s ladies,
sat, thinking in and out of ifs and maybes
in a diner, reading on a chair or bed.
knowing what wants to be said to someone
who is coming or gone,

such subsidence into silence
is a unilateral curve of moments
and movements that swerve
a straight lifetime to independence,
in dependence, touching sublime rich roots,
then ripe fruits.

we share their flesh and flutes.
in ribosomes and delicious shoots that release love.
no, not just the fingered glove. to wear
and curl up with in a chair,
but lovingkindness.

cloaked in timeless
density and tone,
in settled loam,
beyond lonely apartments in skyscrapers
and empty newspapers,
or small town life. but

gutting you
with gossip’s knife.

Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate, and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

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

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

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

Pomegranate Flesh

 

Pomegranate Flesh

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

IN THIS BOOK

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

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

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

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

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

FRIEND REVIEWS (10) 5.00 average rating

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

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

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

 

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

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

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 12/25/20

James D. Casey IV

THE ASCENT OF MONEY

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

©2020 Strider Marcus Jones All rights reserved.

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between forests, mountains, cities and coasts playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India and Switzerland in numerous publications including mgv2 Publishing Anthology; And Agamemnon Dead; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; A New Ulster/Anu; Outburst Poetry Magazine; The Galway Review; The Honest Ulsterman Magazine; The Lonely Crowd Magazine; Section8Magazine; Danse Macabre Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic Arts; Don’t Be Afraid: Anthology To Seamus Heaney; Dead Snakes Poetry Magazine; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine; Syzygy Poetry Journal Issue 1 and Ammagazine/Angry Manifesto Issue 3.

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

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

Minds and Musk

poem by Strider Marcus Jones

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

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. All Rights Reserved.

Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry can be viewed at https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/

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

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

THE DOOR by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on November 25, 2020 by jmgale

Image by Tumisu from Pixabay 

the door
between skyfloor
topbottom

is rankrotten

portalbliss
or abjectabyss.

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

shuts us inside our self
with or without someone else.

we,
the un-free,
disenfranchised poor
have no bowl of more-
only pain
on the same plain
as before,
homeless
or in shapeless boxes,
worked out, hunted, like urban foxes-
outlaws on common lands
stolen from empty hands.

files on us found
from gathering sound
where mutations abound
put troops on the ground.


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones


Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

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

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

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

FORAGE IN ME by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on November 22, 2020 by jmgale

Image by Peggy Choucair from Pixabay 

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


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

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

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

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

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

Two Poems – Strider Marcus Jones

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

AFP PHOTO/Nicholas ROBERTS

The Ascent of Money

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

The Dance

pull the roof off
knock the walls down
touch the forest
climb those mountains
and smell the sea
again.

watch how life
decomposes
in death
going back to land
to reform and be reborn
as something and someone else.

there’s no great secret to it all.
no need to overthink it through

food and shelter
fire and shamens
clothes and coupling
used to be enough
with musicians
artists
and poets
interpreting the dance.

then warriors with armies
religions with god
and minds buying and selling
stole the landscape
and changed time.

smash the windows
break down the doors
melt the keys
rub evil words from their spells
and puncture the lungs of their wheels

before they kidnap you from bed
call you dissident
hold you without charge
wheel you out on a stretcher
from waterboard torture
for years
without trial
in Guantanamo Bay.

they are selling
the sanctuary
we made
with our numbers
bringing back chains
making some of us slaves
outside the dance
in the five coloured rings
making winners
and losers
holding flags and flames.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex-civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between forests, mountains, cities, and coasts playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India, and Switzerland in numerous publications including mgv2 Publishing Anthology; Dreich Magazine; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard e-Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; The Poet Magazine; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; A New Ulster/Anu; Outburst Poetry Magazine; The Galway Review; The Honest Ulsterman Magazine; The Lonely Crowd Magazine; Danse Macabre Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic Arts; Don’t Be Afraid: Anthology To Seamus Heaney; Dead Snakes Poetry Magazine; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine.

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

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

Hot Rod

 ~ FRED SHRUM

fast and furious

archangel in paint and chrome

brings me home

purring megaphonious

combusting with sav and sap

that i glimpse

peeking into warm grill chintz

then she lifts her corset bonnet

and lets me touch her glinting bones

secreting home spun

pheromones

attracting, like moon and sun-

mysterious

and mnemonic

old senses,

fallow and fenced

soon become drenched

quiller and squirter

in that linguistic converter

glow mapping

overlapping

slowly blown

in the metronome

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. Find him on Twitter at @StriderPoet

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

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

NINETY NINE PERCENT IN TENTS

in the compound of this room

we make our tent

with revolution’s loom

knitting a firmament

that challenges corrupt times

with solemn slogans

to plutarch totems

simply marked on cardboard signs.

resistance kindles in the dark

and breathes new poetry and art

like a cultural tsunami

elites can’t beat with armies.

these sincere spears

of human spheres

stand soft spoken,

peaceful, but not broken

like disciples in fabric domes

chanting social justice tomes

while Jesus circles existential

throwing speculators from the temple.

we don’t need money in our tent

to make each other feel so spent-

only the sea shore, forest and mountains

to trickle streams and spurt fountains,

unlocking love when the cradle rocks

the secret rhythm of intimate clocks.

THAT BLACKSMITH FELLOW

crumpling

crumbling

heart

war thump

peace pump

stall start

cave hunting

and gathering

in groups

to farms with crops

and hoofed livestocks

drink beer, eat meat and soups.

that blacksmith fellow,

with fire and forge, hammer and bellow,

is still the alchemist-

malleous like his mettles

when everybody settles

into civil lists.

in us now,

the subliminal plough

sets our furrows footsteps-

so summer’s run and winter’s plod,

with, or without god

in and out of upsets.

THE DIVISION BELL

they have civilised

the language of hatred

and corruption-

turned it into condensed

subliminal codes

to be absorbed

passively

and aspired to

through elite worship.

this softening,

that swims in intercourse

with Oppositions

and Self mandates

its wars and poverty-

hides the bodies

from presentations

where the Smile and Fist

work together.

there is no Division Bell

that Speaks and Moves

with and for

the majority

marching past outside-

like Natives

carrying their bags of belongings,

being screened and moved

from lush lands

early into cemeteries

or onto cattle trains

out to desert Reservations.

the Doors

of cold centuries

blow open,

and we see

how Treaties

are still Broken and Abused-

by those we entrust

who have turned

the Globe of Everything

we are meant to Share

into something Bought and Sold

all Right to be Owned and Inherited.

most sheep don’t Mass for much-

just a patch of grass to graze

and a shack to shag and sleep in-

a few, have their own field

and privately furnished rooms,

but when they all adore

w and k’s first tour

on the front page and tv news

for twelve days of conditioning,

or letch and leer over the tits on page three-

the Universal Flaw in Their Rule and Law

makes them troll and bay for this culling of people-

until it comes for them.

OUR CHILDREN ARE MAKING A REVOLUTION

in this static show

of status quo

political voices

make their choices

in the game

but most remain

loyal or abstain

and stunt their reputation

for self gratification

raping the have nots

with subtle riots

of troughed opinion

like glove puppets of elite dominion.

these suits of higher suits

who keep the masses murmers mute

ignore the real ground

crumbling round

financial towers of glass and steel

whose machinations illegally steal

the oxygen of dreams

from street streams.

this summer cities burned

and some plasma tv’s got returned

by groups

in operatic loots

but i remember them

stealing rice and bottled water

while Number 10

shouted Order! Order!

so they nabbed jazzy trainers to fit in

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

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

not even a scoop

of the soup

from the glimmering pot

of silver and gold

simmering on your stove.

then came the justice of oligarchy’s retribution

sending these children to jail

while the bankers and hackers own trail

of looting and intrusion

went unpunished or was given bail.

our children are making a revolution

and live in a language

that we can’t damage

above our rhetoric and contaminated bones

on their ipods and mobile phones

in their own wisdom

and fields of vision

making new tunes

and runes

without the rules

of serfdoms fools

and privileged jewels.

THE DANCE

pull the roof off

knock the walls down

touch the forest

climb those mountains

and smell the sea

again.

watch how life

decomposes

in death

going back to land

to reform and be reborn

as something and someone else.

there’s no great secret to it all.

no need to overthink it through

food and shelter

fire and shamans

clothes and coupling

used to be enough

with musicians

artists

and poets

interpreting the dance.

then warriors with armies

religions with god

and minds buying and selling

stole the landscape

and changed time.

smash the windows

break down the doors

melt the keys

rub evil words from their spells

and puncture the lungs of their wheels

before they kidnap you from bed

call you dissident

hold you without charge

wheel you out on a stretcher

from waterboard torture

for years

without trial

in Guantanamo Bay.

they are selling

the sanctuary

we made

with our numbers

bringing back chains

making some of us slaves

outside the dance

in the five coloured rings

making winners

and losers

holding flags and flames.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

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

https://theracketsf.com/

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

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

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


late afternoon
winter fingers
nomads in snow
numb knuckles and nails
on two boys
in scuffed shoes
and ripped coats
carrying four planks of wood
from condemned houses
down dark jitty’s
slipping on dog shit
into back yard
to make warm fires
early evening
dad cooking neck end stew
thick with potato dumplings and herbs
on top of bread soaked in gravy
i saw the hole in the ceiling
holding the foot that jumped off bunk beds
but dad didn’t mind
he had just sawed the knob

off the banister
to get an old wardrobe upstairs
and made us a longbow and cricket bat
it was fun being poor
like other families
after dark
all sat down reading and talking
in candle light
with parents
silent to each other
our sudden laughter like sparks
glowing and fading
dancing in flames and wood smoke
unlike the children who died in a fire next door
then we played cards
and i called my dad a cunt
for trumping my king
but he let me keep the word

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

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

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

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

CUBIST GHETTOS

I think

To shrink

The distance

Of resistance

Inside self

To all else-

Knowing

Showing

Vulnerability

In the mystery

Leaves what is closed

Openly exposed-

To explanation

Under examination

When there isn’t one

That hasn’t gone

Until roof floor and sky door

Are no more-

Only roulette rubbles

Of drone troubles

Imprisoning

Reasoning

In cubist ghettos

Wearing jazz stilettos-

Flashing flamingo legs

To pink paradise Harlem heads

While new trees grow up mute

And ripen with strange fruit

Some whites too this time

A drowned boy me and mine.

THE PORTAL IN THE WOODS

Seeing somnambulist sunrise

Through open window

Touch your face

After love rides

On moon tides

In ebb and flow

At tantric pace-

Love resides

Tasted

No asides

Wasted

Spices of the flesh

Soaking rooms in Marrakesh

How I ate your truffle in Zanzibar

While you smoked my long cigar.

Back home-

Tribes of bloods

And druids roam

Seeking out the overgrown

Portal in the woods

Where we handfast

In this present of the past

Dance chanting

In stone bone circles

Like ooparts

Practicing

Magical arts

Settling

What chaos hurtles-

Reconnecting rhythms

In living and dead

To those algorithms

In natures head.

We are rustic-

Romantic

In land and sky

The  air  fire  water

To warriors who slaughter

If Us or Them must die.

We wake

For clambake

Pleasure

In a cauldron lake

Of limbs together

Then cut sods of peat

From the bog under our feet

Exposing the pasts

That never last.

CLOUDS OF CHAOTIC CROWDS

Smitten-

Bitten

Like Faustus-

Leave the house dust

With fool’s gold

Unsold.

This conveyor belt lair

A castle in the air

For Dante’s dreams of doubt

To wander about

In, with voices that pretend

To be a different friend-

Oh my, what a frame,

Too big to blame

And beyond a simple say

To save and stay-

So, close the dungeon door

To be what you were before

And walk away

Into the clouds

Of chaotic crowds

Falling as rain

On sterile plain.

DARK DRAWN MAN

dark drawn man

in two – legged sedan,

Diogenes least

the more i am.

a worn down crease-

opens

like blotched butterfly wings,

that drop in tokens

on imaginings-

lost, but living

through drought and giving.

dark drawn man

of wiccan, glam

rock and folk-

who likes a smoke;

hermit and ham,

sometimes a dam

for the waterfall

of it all-

bohemian and gothic,

romantic, hypnotic,

un-photographic

hates cam.

dark drawn man

whose thought beats flam

on sticks

of words

his focus and blurs

without tricks

of prussian blue

and cadmium red

the way Modigliani drew

his mistress on his bed.

Sophocles was right!

the darkest days, catch chinks of light-

running out of Ram,

but love is who i am.

TRAPPED IN MANUFACTURED TIME

so lost schooled-

but not a fool,

stands in cold sunshine

on golden heath

where no kings rule

and ancestors of cottons thief,

make poor ends meet for dirty dime-

trapped in manufactured time.

he sits

and fits

in the shadows of its shades

and lines

on Cribden hill-

where clouds spill

like wire brillowed blinds,

imagining a wintered witch

composing pagan spells and rhymes

with bones like martyred blades,

whose burned marrow curses

industrialists and tokened slaves-

to believe a full purse is

how life measures made.

the trees are gone,

and wandering tribes,

who worked and gathered everything as one-

now live down in gas warmed hives,

in settled serfdom’s

truths and lies.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

BIO

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

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

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India and Switzerland in numerous publications including mgv2 Publishing Anthology; And Agamemnon Dead; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; A New Ulster/Anu; Outburst Poetry Magazine; The Galway Review; The Honest Ulsterman Magazine; The Lonely Crowd Magazine; Section8Magazine; Danse Macabre Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic Arts; Don’t Be Afraid: Anthology To Seamus Heaney; Dead Snakes Poetry Magazine; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine; Syzygy Poetry Journal Issue 1 and Ammagazine/Angry Manifesto Issue 3.

I am delighted to have my poem The Two Saltimbanques included in the Dreich themed chapbook ‘Ekphrastic’. Dreich is a Scottish poetry press, named after Scotland’s most iconic word, as voted for by the good people of that country. My thanks to editor Jack Caradoc.

THE TWO SALTIMBANQUES

when words don’t come easy

they make do with silence

and find something in nothing

to say to each other

when the absinthe runs out.

his glass and ego

are bigger than hers,

his elbows sharper,

stabbing into the table

and the chambers of her heart

cobalt clown

without a smile.

she looks away

with his misery behind her eyes

and sadness on her lips,

back into her curves

and the orange grove

summer of her dress

worn and blown by sepia time

where she painted

her cockus giganticus

lying down

naked

for her brush and skin,

mingling intimate scents

undoing and doing each other.

for some of us,

living back then

is more going forward

than living in now

and sitting here-

at this table,

with these glasses

standing empty of absinthe,

faces wanting hands

to be a bridge of words

and equal peace

as Guernica approaches.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his fifth book Pomegranate Flesh

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Really chuffed to have my poem Fading Sphinx published in dyst Literary Journal Issue 3 on 24th September, 2020. My thanks to editor Rosey Ravelston.

https://dystjournal.net/dyst/issue-3

FADING SPHINX

another beautiful eye

reflects lifes lie,

when you look into its face

and see a better place

close by.

without that circle round its dream,

everything is seen

to separate unequally in two

and drift apart blown through

old sky.

the why, where and when

does not matter then,

as it dissipates

into other fates

making old orders die.

in all the residue

of what we knew,

a fading sphinx, casting contemporary

shadows, rises, temporary

but still drops by

elsewhere, in the flawed foundations

of younger civilizations,

building their own

mountains of shaped stone

where polished lenses spy.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his fourth book Wooded Windows

Delighted to have my poem Old Flowers published in Poppy Road Review (May 22nd, 2020)from my book Wooded Windows. https://poppyroadreview.blogspot.com/2020/05/old-flowers-by-strider-marcus-jones.html

OLD FLOWERS

old flowers

bloom in the after hours

trailing scent-

and their words still drawn

fill the night and dawn

the way they went.

new to ours,

coffee shops and church clock towers

remember those times spent

in warm

touchings born

out of movement.

tempting rain showers

in silent bane’s empty hours

shuffle and lament-

the thoughts swarm

and mind-bed warm

coupling of consent.

Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick playing his saxophone in warm solitude. 

https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ 

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.

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

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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

TWO BEADS – Love Poem from INSIDE OUT by Strider Marcus Jones

TWO BEADS

in some quixotic place,
there is the figure and the face,
whose mind transcends that secret space-
in me.

she winds new memories
like ribbons round the helix threads of destiny-
altering perceptions, light and sound
when i turn around-
and find her watching me.

two beads, bound by natures mime,
consent to dance a tango on the silent strings of time,
oblivious to other fruits, that ripen on the vine-
eventually.

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

SELECTED POEMS from INSIDE OUT by Strider Marcus Jones

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

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

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http://www.wattpad.com/story/30815-15-poems-from-my-second-book-inside-out-by-strider

EXISTENTIAL SYMPHONY – Love Poem by Strider Marcus Jones from WOODED WINDOWS

EXISTENTIAL SYMPHONY

the sensual awakenings

and moist warmings

of coupled mornings

when you lie down on your back

and i drink you

like sweet water from my hat-

but more than this, you

mean more to me than that-

the mind glue

undersaid

is moresaid

because the mass and volume

spills out of these conventional rooms

we shed-

it never doubts

that all within us, is ours without

the frills

of impossible possessions

that fills

love and bares it’s confessions.

i is flip flapped

and tongue smacked

by the time lapsed

music of your words

that sing and fly

low and high

like tantric birds.

sex me your beauty boolie boobs

to way with

and your pouty southy mouth

that loves to give

me head in all your moods-

that ice in long vermouth

and sober drunken truths

of ageless youth.

i have taken

each note

of your existential symphony

inside me

but not forsaken

the infinite strings of marxist hope,

where individuality

can still be

individual

and not residual,

unlivable

bonds that broke

when alienation spoke.

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

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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

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

FALLEN LINTELS~Love Poem by Strider Marcus Jones. Copyright & All Rights Reserved

A Pagan Love Poem from http://www.lulu.com/shop/strider-marc…

FALLEN LINTELS

it was summer time

with flowers colouring the pantomime

in feudal fields

as i walked on flat wheels

with your humming bird in my head

from the tropical warm of your bed-

where we bent the grass again

and made the rain

that doesn’t come from clouds

dampen skin rumpled shrouds.

i watched your beauty glisten sweetly

while i held you like Bernini

before you went to work

flaked in bark of silver birch

naked chalice south

and siren priestess mouth

of pagan church.

you were converting fussy ghosts

and their sullen hosts

from bribed tribes

walking past without guides-

some, so inverted and duped

like shades with every ethic stooped

labouring like quislings

under Darwinist siblings-

slowly drifting back to druid stones

that serve us more than glorious domes,

more equal in each equinox

of chaos turning natures clock.

i know, i ramble for reasons

to make sense of changing seasons-

and find none

where i am one-

only fallen lintels on the floor

like broken words that speak no more

at sunrise and sunset

remembering what we forget.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 14th April 2012. All Rights Reserved.

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

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

SELECTED POEMS from WOODED WINDOWS by Strider Marcus Jones

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VISIGOTH ROVER

i went on the bus to Cordoba,

and tried to find the Moor’s

left over

in their excavated floors

and mosaic courtyards,

with hanging flowers brightly chamelion

against whitewashed walls

carrying calls

behind gated iron bars-

but they were gone

leaving mosque arches

and carved stories

to God’s doors.

in those ancient streets

where everybody meets;

i saw the old successful men

with their younger women again,

sat in chrome slat chairs,

drinking coffee to cover

their vain love affairs-

and every breast,

was like the crest

of a soft ridge

as i peeped over

the castle wall and Roman bridge

like a Visigoth rover.

soft hand tapping on shoulder,

heavy hair

and beauty older,

the gypsy lady gave her clover

to borrowed breath,

embroidering it for death,

adding more to less

like the colours fading in her dress.

time and tune are too planned

to understand

her Trevi fountain of prediction,

or the dirty Bernini hand

shaping its description.

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

NO ROADS ~ Poem by Strider Marcus Jones SPARKBRIGHT MAGAZINE ISSUE 5, 2010

https://www.wattpad.com/825315-14-poems-from-wooded-windows-by-strider-marcus

NO ROADS

with no roads on our map of conversation,

we began

without plan,

and climbed, into the branches of imagination,

past the twigs and leaves-

those apothecaries

of lost libation,

into houred improvisation-

through its desert wanting rain

after years of stasis,

in a slow camel train

searching for that oasis-

with moving dunes

and negative runes

fending off the grey

in a charmed, nomadic way.

happen then, that this cold acoustic tune,

met your luteful lagoon

of mosaical notes-

and the baton moved,

as was proved

round the wheel with ambient spokes,

conducting without rules

our forgotten fools.

somehow,

go now,

through the eye of words,

to the heart of this rhythm

and the scion of its schism;

then home, like migrating birds

into separate nests-

for now, love rests.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 12th November, 2009. All Rights Reserved. 

This poem has been published in SPARKBRIGHT MAGAZINE ISSUE 5, WINTER 2010 and will be in my next book. Here is the link http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.sparkbright.org%2F&h=8af20

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.

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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.

Anna Akhmatova (In Our Time)

Melvyn Bragg and guests discuss the work, ideas and life of the Russian poet whose work was celebrated in C20th both for its quality and for what it represented, written under censorship in the Stalin years. Her best known poem, Requiem, was written after her son was imprisoned partly as a threat to her and, to avoid punishment for creating it, she passed it on to her supporters to be memorised, line by line, rather than written down. She was a problem for the authorities and became significant internationally, as her work came to symbolise resistance to political tyranny and the preservation of pre-Revolutionary liberal values in the Soviet era. The image above is based on ‘Portrait of Anna Akhmatova’ by N.I. Altman, 1914, Moscow With Katharine Hodgson Professor in Russian at the University of Exeter Alexandra Harrington Reader in Russian Studies at Durham University And Michael Basker Professor of Russian Literature and Dean of Arts at the University of Bristol Producer: Simon Tillotson.

Langston Hughes Reads Langston Hughes [1994] / full album

Tracklist: 01. (00:00) One Way Ticket 02. (00:43) Introduction to “The Negro Speaks of Rivers” 03. (08:49) The Negro Speaks of Rivers 04. (09:36) I Went to Columbia 05. (11:18) Puzzled 06. (11:59) Eventually I Found Work (Commentary) 07. (16:18) Trumpet Player 08. (17:35) The Very First Poem that I Sold (Commentary) 09. (18:36) I Sort of Went Backwards (Commentary) 10. (21:45) Ballad of the Gypsy 11. (22:35) Kid Sleepy 12. (23:13) Southern Mammy Songs 13. (24:01) Migrant (the poem ends at [25:22] and he comments it) 14. {27:49) Mama and Daughter 15. (28:38) Sylvester’s Dying Bed 16. (29:45) There Are Certain Desadvantages (Commentary) 17. (31:02) We Are the American Heartbreak (Commentary) 18. (33:00) Intern at Provident Hospital 19. (34:49) In My Poetry (Commentary) 20. (36:38) Merry-Go-Round 21. (37:09) Ku-Klux-Klan 22. (37:46) The South 23. (38:53) Mulatto 24. (40:27) Out of Work 25. (41:16) The Explanation of Our Times 26. (44:06) Dinner Guest Me 27. (44:52) Cultural Exchange all tracks by Langston Hughes. all rights reserved to soundmark.

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.

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Paperback, First Edition, 162 pages

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

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

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

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

Inside Out Kindle Edition by Mr Strider Marcus Jones (Author)

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.

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