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

https://fleasonthedog.com/

https://img1.wsimg.com/blobby/go/9a0949f4-1d2a-4a7c-b9fb-a96b9b6bd861/downloads/P_5%20_10%20Poems_%20by%20Strider%20Marcus%20Jones.pdf?ver=1636847122728

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


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


SALTED SLUG


your words stung,
and hung
me upside down, inside out,
to watch you
swan turned shrew

hairbrush out all memory and meaning,
from those fresco pictures on the wet plaster ceiling

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

to hear deaths symphony alone,
split and splattered, opened on the floor,
repenting for nothing, evermore

like a salted slug,
curdled and curled up on the rug

to melt away
while you spoon and my colours fade to grey.
the heart of truth

intact in youth,
fractures into fronds of lies and trust,
destined to become a hollow husk

but i found myself again in hopes congealing pools
and left the field of fools
to someone else

and put her finished book back on its shelf.


CHILDHOOD FIRES


late afternoon
winter fingers
nomads in snow
numb knuckles and nails
on two boys
in scuffed shoes
and ripped coats
carrying four planks of wood
from condemned houses
down dark jitty’s
slipping on dog shit
into back yard
to make warm fires
early evening
dad cooking neck end stew
thick with potato dumplings and herbs
on top of bread soaked in gravy
i saw the hole in the ceiling
holding the foot that jumped off bunk beds
but dad didn’t mind
he had just sawed the knob
off the banister
to get an old wardrobe upstairs
and made us a longbow and cricket bat
it was fun being poor
like other families
after dark
all sat down reading and talking
in candle light
with parents
silent to each other
our sudden laughter like sparks
glowing and fading
dancing in flames and wood smoke
unlike the children who died in a fire next door
then we played cards
and i called my dad a cunt
for trumping my king
but he let me keep the word


LOTHLORIEN


i’m come home again
in your Lothlorien
to marinate my mind
in your words,
and stand behind
good tribes grown blind,
trapped in old absurd
regressive reasons
and selfish treasons.
in this cast of strife
the Tree Of Life
embraces innocent ghosts,
slain by Sauron’s hosts;
and their falling cries
make us wise
enough to rise
up in a fellowship of friends
to oppose Mordor’s ends
and smote this evil stronger
and longer
for each one of us that dies.


i’m come home again
in your Lothlorien,
persuading
yellow snapdragons
to take wing
and un-fang serpent krakens,
while i bring
all the races
to resume
their bloom
as equals in equal spaces
by removing
and muting
the chorus of crickets
who cheat them from chambered thickets,
hiding corruptions older than long grass
that still fag for favours asked.


i’m come home again
in your Lothlorien
where corporate warfare
and workfare
on health
and welfare
infests our tribal bodies
and separate self
in political lobbies
so conscience can’t care
or share
worth and wealth:
to rally drones
of walking bones,
too tired
and uninspired
to think things through
and the powerless who see it true.
red unites, blue divides,
which one are you
and what will you do
when reason decides.


WOODED WINDOWS


as this long life slowly goes
i find myself returning
to look through wooded windows.
forward or back, empires and regimes remain
in pyramids of power
butchering the blameless for glorious gain.
feudal soldiers firing guns
and wingless birds dropping smart bombs
on mothers, fathers, daughters, sons,
follow higher orders
to modernise older civilisations
repeating what history has taught us.
in turn, their towers of class and cash
will crumble and crash
on top of Ozymandias.
hey now, woods of winter leafless grip
and fractures split
drawing us into it.
love slide in days
through summer heat waves
and old woodland ways
with us licking
then dripping
and sticking
chanting wiccan songs
embraced in pagan bonds
living light, loving long,
fingers painting runes on skin
back to the beginning
when freedom wasn’t sin.


OVIRI ( The Savage – Paul Gauguin in Tahiti )


woman,

wearing the conscience of the world

you make me want
less civilisation
and more meaning.
drinking absinthe together,
hand rolling and smoking cigars

being is, what it really is

fucking on palm leaves
under tropical rain.
beauty and syphilis happily cohabit,
painting your colours
on a parallel canvas
to exhibit in Paris
the paradox of you.

somewhere in your arms

i forget my savage self,
inseminating womb
selected by pheromones
at the pace of evolution.
later. I vomited arsenic on the mountain and returned
to sup morphine. spread ointments on the sores, and ask:
where do we come from.
what are we.
where are we going.


IT’S SO QUIET


it’s so quiet
our eloquent words dying on a diet
of midnight toast
with Orwell’s ghost

looking so tubercular in a tweed jacket
pencilling notes on a lung black cigarette packet

our Winston, wronged for a woman and sin
re-wrote history on scrolls thought down tubes
that came to him
in the Ministry Of Truth Of Fools
where conscience learns to lie within.
not like today
the smug-sly haves say and look away
so sure
there’s nothing wrong with wanting more,
or drown their sorrows
downing bootleg gin
knowing tomorrows
truth is paper thin.
.
at home
in sensory
perception
with tapped and tracked phone
the Thought Police arrest me
in the corridors of affection

where dictators wear, red then blue, reversible coats
in collapsing houses, all self-made
and self-paid
smarmy scrotes

now the Round Table
of real red politics
is only fable
on the pyre of ghostly heretics.
they are rubbing out
all the contusions
and solitary doubt,
with confusions
and illusions
through wired media
defined in their secret encyclopedia

where summit and boardroom and conclave
engineer us from birth to grave.


like the birds,
i will have to eat
the firethorn
berries that ripen but sleep
to keep
the words
of revolution
alive and warm
this winter, with resolution
gathering us, to its lantern in the bleak,
to be reborn and speak.


MIRROR, MIRROR


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


THE COMET OF HER WORDS


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

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


IN THE COME AND GO, I MIND YOU


in the middle, where i find you,
i wriggle in behind you
all the way.


in the come and go, i mind you,
what we were is reconciled, you
let it stay.


this template, for being tender,
is our state to remember
into grey;


beyond the time of soil and ember,
into nothingness’s timbre-
be it, play.


LOOKING IN LOVE’S GLASS


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

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

we know
we go
out of scene.


THE POET SPEAKS:


I like the company of people but prefer solitude. I like to listen to people talk, the way they see it
and say it. For me, poetry spans our past, present and future. These poems, and those in my
books, are about the themes of love, relationships, peace, war, racial, economic and sexual
equality, cultural integration, poverty, mythical romance, the magic of childhood and experience
of growing old as a Bohemian maverick. The strings of chance and consequences meld with
music and art in Spinoza’s orderly chaos of the universe.


Life is hard and uncertain for most of us now, but also rare in our corner of the universe, so I
strive to express my own understanding of it. Thinking time is my creative cove. My English
teacher, Anne Ryan inspired me to write poetry when I was thirteen. The poems have grown with
me and reflect much of who I am now. Some poems sleep for years. Mere jumbles of words,
themes and rhythms in subconscious gaseous clouds. Their form and meaning evolve in
Spinoza’s orderly chaos. Other poems just happen, triggered by a single word or phrase, a
sound, smell, or shape that relates to something from our past, present, or future. Writing a good
poem makes me feel like the artist who can paint, or the musician who can play – joy in creating
something that others enjoy and feel inspired to try doing themselves.


My first poetical influences were the Tin Pan Alley lyricists and composers like Sammy Cahn,
Cole Porter and Rogers and Hart. I love the fun, rhythm and interplay between lyrics and music.
Bob Dylan, Tom Waits and Leonard Cohen influence my poetry in the same way, allowing me to
experiment with metaphor, form and rhythms.


Relationships and love are one of the main themes in my poetry. Two books which have travelled
with me through life are Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy and Tess Of The D’urbervilles by
Thomas Hardy. Tolkien’s Lord Of The Rings trilogy is a big influence on some of my work.
My favourite poets who have influenced my work include: Shelley, Keats, Yeats, Auden, Dylan
Thomas, Bishop, Szymborska, Langston Hughes, Plath, Art Crane, Larkin, Forough Farrokhzad,
Neruda, Rumi and Heaney.


What inspires you?


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


Who are some writers you admire?


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


What is your writing process?


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


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

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

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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Peace, Love and Light,
Strider


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

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

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

Dark Drawn Man
 Strider Marcus Jones
     
 
 

Dark Drawn Man


dark drawn man
in two – legged sedan,
Diogenes least
the more i am.
a worn down crease —
opens
like blotched butterfly wings,
that drop in tokens
on imaginings —
lost, but living
through drought and giving.

dark drawn man
of wiccan, glam
rock and folk —
who likes a smoke;
hermit and ham,
sometimes a dam
for the waterfall
of it all —
bohemian and gothic,
romantic, hypnotic,
un-photographic
hates cam.

dark drawn man
whose thought beats flam
on sticks
of words
his focus and blurs
without tricks
of prussian blue
and cadmium red
the way Modigliani drew
his mistress on his bed.

Sophocles was right!
the darkest days, catch chinks of light —
running out of Ram,
but love is who i am.






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

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

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

The Portal in the Woods
 Strider Marcus Jones
     
 
 
The Portal in the Woods

Seeing somnambulist sunrise
Through open window
Touch your face
After love rides
On moon tides
In ebb and flow
At tantric pace —
Love resides
Tasted
No asides
Wasted
Spices of the flesh
Soaking rooms in Marrakesh
How I ate your truffle in Zanzibar
While you smoked my long cigar.

Back home —
Tribes of bloods
And druids roam
Seeking out the overgrown
Portal in the woods
Where we hondfast
In this present of the past
Dance chanting
In stone bone circles
Like ooparts
Practicing
Magical arts
Settling
What chaos hurtles —
Reconnecting rhythms
In living and dead
To those algorithms
In nature’s head.

We are rustic —
Romantic
In land and sky
The    air    fire    water
To warriors who slaughter
If Us or Them must die.
We wake
For clambake
Pleasure
In a cauldron lake
Of limbs together
Then cut sods of peat
From the bog under our feet
Exposing the pasts
That never last.






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

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

SPANGLED IN MY CELTIC CROSS

put your remark

in the breach

of my heart

and reach

to my head.

make love to my core,

in the land of my lore

this said-

in fields in summer

in woods in the fall-

with you, then me, under

it all-

the sensual cloud

calling wild out loud-

then bodies spent

on the grass all bent

talking in mulchey tones

scenting tree bark and squelchy moss with pheromones.

naked tall bones

hiding in robes of silver birches,

walk with random tribes of bluebells

bringing us to pagan churches-

where we leave offerings

for mineral blessings

on trickling rocks-

like hat bells

and single socks.

at the base,

we looked up at Arthur or Merlin’s face,

trying to rewind

and prime

our supernatural clocks

to that forgotten time

we can’t replace,

but only got

the echo of physical and mental mines

under this surface.

no more homes

gather round the circle stones-

no more druid dreads

to connect our disconnected threads

up on Alderley Edge-

and as we wandered back down

to get on the train out of town,

i felt my ear-ring

while I was thinking-

and found a ribbon of moss

spangled in my celtic cross.

QUANTUM IN SPACETIME

sorrow sings

like medicine in me,

bewitching strings

of melancholy;

heavying fate

like a paperweight-

crushing cryptically.

emotions close

round your briar rose-

ham actors in a dream,

with parts to play

on this Broadway-

sit back, unfold the scene.

given what you know,

besame, besame mucho-

through quantums years in spacetime’s strings

we make each moments grain of sand-

evolve from past to present in our hand

to give this now new meanings.

WILD HORSES

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

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

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

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

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

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

His poetry has been published in over 200 publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Melbourne Culture Corner and Literary Yard Journal.

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

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 10/18/21

James D. Casey IV

I FOLLOW YOU INTO NIGHT

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

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

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

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

©2021 Strider Marcus Jones All rights reserved.

Strider Marcus Jones

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

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

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Fevers of the Mind

FEVERS OF THE MIND

Writing, Poetry, Short Stories, Reviews, Art Contests

Poetry Showcase by Strider Marcus Jones

Bio:

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

https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/.

A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.       

His poetry has been published in over 200 publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Melbourne Culture Corner and Literary Yard Journal.

HOT ROD

fast and furious
archangel in paint and chrome
brings me home-
purring megaphonious,
combusting with sav and sap
that i glimpse
peeking into warm grill chintz-
then she lifts her corset bonnet
and lets me touch her glinting bones
secreting home spun
pheromones
attracting, like moon and sun-
mysterious
and mnemonic
old senses,
fallow and fenced
soon become drenched
quiller and squirter
in that linguistic converter-
glow mapping,
overlapping,
slowly blown
in the metronome.


OLD CAFE

a rest, from swinging bar
and animals in the abattoir-
to smoke in mental thinks 
spoken holding cooling drinks. 
 
counting out old coppers to be fed
in the set squares of blue and red
plastic tablecloth-
just enough to break up bread in thick barley broth.
 
Jesus is late
after saying he was coming
back to share the wealth and real estate
of capitalist cunning.
 
maybe. just maybe.
put another song on the jukebox baby:
no more heroes anymore.
what are we fighting for-
 
he's hiding in hymns and chants,
in those Monty Python underpants,
from this coalition of new McCarthy's
and its institutions of Moriarty's.
 
some shepherd sheep will do this dance
in hypothermic trance,
for one pound an hour 
like a shamed flower-
 
watched by sinister sentinels, 
while scratched tubular bells,
summon all to Sunday service
where invisible myths exist-
 
to a shamed flower
with supernatural power
come the hour.


POMEGRANATE FLESH

ask those
who grow old-
some fruits are nicer
when they're riper.
you dont stop
the clock
on the one who chose
you to hold-
her pomegranate
is still your sonnet
of sepia feelings and flesh,
sensuously sweet and fresh.

although the mirror never lies,
it shows the beauty that lives
as it dies
and gives
its own reflection
of your perfection
to me
then and now,
each memory
taken
by the lenses
somehow,
preserved
by your words
and curves
in my senses.

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


LOTHLORIEN

i'm come home again
in your Lothlorien
to marinate my mind
in your words,
and stand behind
good tribes grown blind,
trapped in old absurd
regressive reasons
and selfish treasons.

in this cast of strife
the Tree of Life
embraces innocent ghosts,
slain by Sauron's hosts-
and their falling cries
make us wise
enough to rise
up in a fellowship of friends
to oppose Mordor's ends
and smote this evil stronger
and longer
for each one of us that dies.

i'm come home again
in your Lothlorien,
persuading
yellow snapdragons
to take wing
and un-fang serpent krakens,
while i bring
all the races
to resume
their bloom
as equals in equal spaces
by removing
and muting
the chorus of crickets
who cheat them from chambered thickets,
hiding corruptions older than long grass
that still fag for favours asked.

i'm come home again
in your Lothlorien
where corporate warfare
and workfare
on health
and welfare
infests our tribal bodies
and separate self
in political lobbies-
so conscience can't care
or share
worth and wealth:

to rally drones
of walking bones,
too tired
and uninspired
to think things through
and the powerless who see it true.
red unites, blue divides,
which one are you
and what will you do
when reason decides.


I'M GETTING OLD NOW

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

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





More bio: His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany; Serbia; India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.  Check out the first 3 issues of the Lothlorien Journal see the website listed above for more & to order. 

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

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

Mavericks
you taste of cinnamon and fish
when you wish
to be romantic-
and the ciphers of our thoughts
make ringlets with their noughts
immersed in magic-
like mithril mail around me
stove dark forest, pink flesh sea
touchings tantric-
make reality and myths
converge in elven riffs
of music, so we dance it-
symbols to the scenes
of conflict, mavericks in dreams
that now sit-
listening to these pots and kettles
blackening on the fire
of rhetoric and murderous mettles-
before we both retire
to our own script.


The Blood That Makes Us Black
imagine yourself,
in a photo-fit picture
with every nothing that’s new-
minus in health,
quoting icons and scripture
under the whole black and blue.
optimum dreams
turn out fake in the mirror
facing what’s been like fallen heroes-
in so many scenes
like a ghost who is giver
passing on wisdom, who knows-
the blood that makes us black
of two from one,
is schooled by fungus fortunes
and faiths old hat
to be sold on-
like tamed-trained gangs, making golden dunes.


In Maid’s Water
we’ve left the well-footed
road,
the rutted
and rebutted
road
of shadows cast
by towered glass.
opened closed curtains
for fusty moths,
chanted white spells with Wiccan’s
goths;
left pictured
rooms and halls-
become un-scriptured
hills and squalls-
in maid’s water
pouring down her
erect chalk man,
like a wild gypsy,
love tipsy
partisan,
smelling of cinnabar
and his cigar,
swirling
like whirling
clouds
while the changed wind howls.


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


The Head in his Fedora Hat
a lonely man,
cigarette,
rain
and music
is a poem
moving,
not knowing-
a caravan,
whose journey does not expect
to go back
and explain
how everyone’s ruts
have the same
blood and vein.
the head in his fedora hat
bows to no one’s grip,
brim tilted into the borderless
plain
so his outlaw wit
can confess
and remain
a storyteller,
that hobo fella
listening like a barfly
for a while
and slow-winged butterfly
whose smile
they can’t close the shutters on
or stop talking about
when he walks out
and is gone.
whisky and tequila
and a woman, who loves to feel ya
inside
and outside
her
when ya move
and live as one,
brings you closer
in simplistic
unmaterialistic
grooved
muse Babylon.
this is so,
when he stands with hopes head,
arms and legs
all a flow
in her Galadriel glow
with mithril breath kisses
condensing sensed wishes
of reality and dream
felt and seen
under that
fedora hat
inhaling smoke
as he sang and spoke
stranger fella
storyteller.


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

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

Delighted to have 10 poems published in Issue 8 of Fleas On The Dog. My thanks to Poetry Editor Hezekiah Scretch and Senior Editor Tom Ball.

https://fleasonthedog.com/

https://img1.wsimg.com/blobby/go/9a0949f4-1d2a-4a7c-b9fb-a96b9b6bd861/downloads/P%5EN7%20_10%20Poems_%20by%20Strider%20Marcus%20Jones.pdf?ver=1615051582446

TEN (10) poemS poems poems poems

By Strider Marcus Jones


WHY I LIKE IT: Poetry Editor HEZEKIAH writes… Strider Marcus Jones refines a language all his own. While the arrested of us employ our word into service to project our modest biddings, communicating as best we can. His are formed to dance, prance, pluck and strum. Singing and swinging as though they are truly enjoying his penetrating, orphic-like process; happy in their work as they leap and bound off the pages and back. Revealing
themselves as they spring from his distinct and galvanizing lexicon, anxiously awaiting to be called into action, to snap to attention, and rejoice in a festival of words and featured imagery. But don’t settle for my pitch, screwballs mostly throw junk—spin googlies. Not Jones, he’s all cricket, he’ll bowl you over with lithe precision and lightning tempo.

MAVERICKS

you taste of cinnamon and fish
when you wish
to be romantic-
and the ciphers of our thoughts
make ringlets with their noughts
immersed in magic-
like mithril mail around me
stove dark forest, pink flesh sea
touchings tantric-
make reality and myths
converge in elven riffs
of music, so we dance it-
symbols to the scenes
of conflict, mavericks in dreams
that now sit-
listening to these pots and kettles
blackening on the fire
of rhetoric and murderous mettles-
before we both retire
to our own script.


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 BLOOD THAT MAKES US BLACK

imagine yourself,
in a photo-fit picture
with every nothing that’s new-
minus in health,
quoting icons and scripture
under the whole black and blue.

optimum dreams
turn out fake in the mirror
facing what’s been like fallen heroes-
in so many scenes
like a ghost who is giver
passing on wisdom, who knows-

the blood that makes us black
of two from one,
is schooled by fungus fortunes
and faiths old hat
to be sold on-
like tamed-trained gangs, making golden dunes.


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.

THAT BLACKSMITH FELLOW

crumpling

crumbling

heart

war thump

peace pump

stall start

cave hunting

and gathering

in groups

to farms with crops

and hoofed live stocks

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.

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.

THIS IS THE FIELD

this is not the field

for truth to grow in.

its furrowed lips are sealed

with knowing

nothing can sing

in the wrong wind.

the crop is stunted

self expression blunted

opinion gagged

and head sagged

waiting for the final blow

from the farmer’s shadow.

the field hands

cut to His commands

and every leathered face

has served in its place

like all the others, for centuries

in these peasant penitentiaries,

without bolting

or revolting

in union, except for the Tolpuddle few,

who knew what to do

but were jailed, or transported

and thwarted.

WATER AND MIST

let the world do what it does,

and when the desert

comes for us

we will be water-

sow the seeds of new ideas

replace the wars and fears

of decadent thrones

spying on the homes

of those they slaughter.

bring on the people’s revolution,

that returns our stolen

land into our hands

from these swollen

fat cats, with their final solution

and fascist FEMA plans.

let the world do what it does,

and when the guns

are turned on us

we will be mist-

eclipsing everything they’ve done

when we resist.

strike them like ghosts

in the halls of their hosts,

topple their temples of sin-

dissolve all their banks,

then their missiles and tanks,

leave no corrupted survivor-

cleanse what’s within

for a new way to begin

by severing each head from this hydra.

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.

MIND’S AND MUSK

so now

we both came

to this same

branch and bough-

no one else commutes

from different roots.

me carrying Celtic stones

with runes on skin over bones-

and you, in streams

on evicted land

trashed ancients panned-

our truth dreams

under star light crossing beams.

in here, there is no mask

of present building out the past

with gilded Shard’s of steel and glass

shutting out who shall not pass.

the tree of life breathes

a rebel destiny believes-

we are minds and musk

no more husks and dust.


THE POET SPEAKS: I like the company of people but prefer solitude. I like to listen to people talk, the way they see it and say it. For me, poetry spans our past, present and future. These poems, and those in my books, are about the themes of love, relationships, peace, war, racial, economic and sexual equality, cultural integration, poverty, mythical romance, the magic of childhood and experience of growing old as a Bohemian maverick. The strings of chance and consequences meld with music and art in Spinoza’s orderly chaos of the universe.

Life is hard and uncertain for most of us now, but also rare in our corner of the universe, so I strive to express my own understanding of it. Thinking time is my creative cove. My English teacher, Anne Ryan inspired me to write poetry when I was thirteen. The poems have grown with me and reflect much of who I am now. Some poems sleep for years. Mere jumbles of words, themes and rhythms in subconscious gaseous clouds. Their form and meaning evolve in
Spinoza’s orderly chaos. Other poems just happen, triggered by a single word or phrase, a sound, smell, or shape that relates to something from our past, present, or future. Writing a good poem makes me feel like the artist who can paint, or the musician who can play – joy in creating something that others enjoy and feel inspired to try doing themselves.


My first poetical influences were the Tin Pan Alley lyricists and composers like Sammy Cahn, Cole Porter and Rogers and Hart. I love the fun, rhythm and interplay between lyrics and music. Bob Dylan, Tom Waits and Leonard Cohen influence my poetry in the same way, allowing me to experiment with metaphor, form and rhythms.


Relationships and love are one of the main themes in my poetry. Two books which have travelled with me through life are Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy and Tess Of The D’urbervilles by Thomas Hardy. Tolkien’s Lord Of The Rings trilogy is a big influence on some of my work. My favourite poets who have influenced my work include: Shelley, Keats, Yeats, Auden, Dylan Thomas, Bishop, Szymborska, Langston Hughes, Plath, Art Crane, Larkin, Forough Farrokhzad, Neruda, Rumi and Heaney.


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

Delighted to have my poem The Dance published online by Dissident Voice. My thanks to the editors.

The Dance

by Strider Marcus Jones / February 7th, 2021

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.

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, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. Read other articles by Strider Marcus.

This article was posted on Sunday, February 7th, 2021 at 8:03am and is filed under Poetry.


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 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 3 poems published in Impspired Magazine, Issue 7 on October 1st, 2020. My thanks to editor Steve Cawte on such a brilliant magazine.



HOT ROD
 
fast and furious
archangel in paint and chrome
brings me home-
purring megaphonious,
combusting with sav and sap
that i glimpse
peeking into warm grill chintz-
then she lifts her corset bonnet
and lets me touch her glinting bones
secreting home spun
pheromones
attracting, like moon and sun-
mysterious
and mnemonic
old senses,
fallow and fenced
soon become drenched
quiller and squirter
in that linguistic converter-
glow mapping,
overlapping,
slowly blown
in the metronome.
 
 
 
KNOTS IN STRINGS
 
so what
if knots
in strings
bring an end to things
that were.
 
i can undo her
tapestry
make it gone
and move what measures on
powers infinity.
 
found in mound and moat
elements made unmade
sink and float
convex and concave
dance a burning wave.
 
spiny gorse
not in bloom
sits inside a horse
to be taken in, rape from giving
creates a living tomb.

BLOOD AND VOW

the past plough

through this continuum

cannot be denied

and I am tied

to its dead

equilibrium

by blood and vow

once two backs

lips wide

whose broken thread

fooled polygraph tracks

even her eyes lied

as she did the devil’s dance

with chance and circumstance

mortal bribed

she was only doing

what other men do to women

so how could I not be forgiving

love is umbilical

and cynical

for all its miracle

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

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.

Delighted to have my sensual poem Fractals of Clarity published in Ramingos Porch online Magazine. My thanks to the editors.

https://ramingoblog.wordpress.com/2020/09/28/the-ramingos-porch-fractals-of-clarity-a-poem-by-strider-marcus-jones/

THE RAMINGO’S PORCH – “FRACTALS OF CLARITY” A POEM BY STRIDER MARCUS JONES

FRACTALS OF CLARITY

how can i forget
the way she sucks me
while she smokes my cigarette-
tongue strokes
tip pokes
softly round the rim
then deeper in.

the sensual symmetry
of close caressing
fondle messing
with her hair
and gentle bobbing of head
up-down-there,

so much love
i hold, in my hands
between my legs,
sliding out and in
rubbing circles round
the sea sound
collar of her quim.

we make self similarity
in fractals of clarity
lying back,
looking into each other
picking out stars in sky black
drapes that cover

what this does
to us.


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

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his fifth book Pomegranate Flesh

Poet with five published books. My books and poetry links: https://amazon.com/Mavericks-Mr-Strider-Marcus-Jones-ebook/dp/B00NLKPE3O/ref=sr_1_4?dchild=1&keywords=strider+marcus+jones&qid=1588612979&sr=8-4…

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Delighted to have my two poems Velvet Tangerine and Calculus in Dreich Magazine’s themed chapbook ‘Famous’. My thanks to its wonderful editor Jack Caradoc.

VELVET TANGERINE

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

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 from his second book Inside Out


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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Inside Out by Strider Marcus Jones

https://inbetweenhangovers.wordpress.com/2016/09/02/inside-out-by-strider-marcus-jones/

Inside Out – Love Poem by Strider Marcus Jones

the soft scent
thought and taste,
inside out
of you,
is more meant
face to face,
formed out
of knowings new.

the when and wait
of it
phase and age can’t brown,
set to the fate of it
time ticks down,

softening temptations
lips to elevate
with elements of emotion,
whose vibrations
syncopate
when happenings motion-

a simple thread
of thought,
to leave its bed
and become caught,
in the welcomings you weave
that beckon and believe.

Strider Marcus Jones
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry http//www.lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusj…. reveal a maverick moving between forests, mountains, cities and coasts playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude. His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India and Switzerland in numerous publications.

THE KEEPER – Love Poem from Inside Out by Strider Marcus Jones

THE KEEPER

you warm the bone in me,
pump blood through stone in me,
pluck strings unknown in me-
whose notes dissolve the screams
of ghosts that blacken dreams.

proud pictures of the past,
fall out of photographs-
some fade, but others last-
and we become the present in their place-
vibrating beads on strings of symmetry in space.

unravel in my head-
fuse fact and fiction with your timbre thread,
more than moves in blankets on tomorrows bed,
wet with cum and joyful tears-
the keeper, not the tenant of my years.

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

SELECTED POEMS from INSIDE OUT by Strider Marcus Jones

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

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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

THE FOREST OF FORGETS

i don’t do remembers, or regrets,

not knowing, i belong in what comes next-

without the edge and angle of pretext,

find me in the forest of forgets-

watching your perfections dance and breathe

in my fires flames then read out gypsy leaves;

imagining your whispers in the wind and trees-

before they fade, and fall, and leave.

back inside the house, picture rails

of love hang empty

from bent hooks, that promised plenty,

leaving frameless tales in musty trails-

to dusty cabinets of more

trinkets and traces-

whose duality displaces

sky and floor.

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

Colm Herron5.0 out of 5 stars This flawless collectionReviewed in the United Kingdom on 13 April 2016Format: Kindle EditionVerified PurchaseI draw a deep breath before I put words to my feelings of awe on reading this flawless collection of poems. Mavericks is the best I’ve read of this amazing wordsmith Strider Marcus Jones. His love poetry takes my heart away. His wondrous words about love, deep sensual love, make nonsense of the universal stampede for sex relief and show that stampede to be a sad and lonely thing.

Like the true Celt that he is, Jones puts the language of the invaders to his own use by tempering it in the fire of his passion for words, words that tell of the true meaning of love. Which is? Ah. I think it’s what we receive if we give well enough. But this modern day Robert Browning has much much more than that to tell us.

And now I have to read all his words again.

Rebecca Anne Banks5.0 out of 5 stars Mavericks, a study in New Age Renaissance poetic alchemy.Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 3 August 2016Format: PaperbackByline: Subterranean Blue Poetry (www.subterraneanbluepoetry.com)

Title of Book: Mavericks

Author: Strider Marcus Jones

Publisher: Strider Marcus Jones

Date of Publication: 2009

Page Count: 69

“It’s been seven hours and fifteen days
Since u took your love away
I go out every night and sleep all day
Since u took your love away”
– from Nothing Compares 2 U by Sinead O’Connor

Lovelorn Summer heat and the Celtic beat . . . Mavericks by Strider Marcus Jones is a study in the alchemy of New Age Renaissance poetics and language. Strider Marcus Jones lives in Paris. He is a Poet/Musician/Law Graduate/retired Civil Servant born in Salford England, his family originally from Ireland and Wales. He is widely published online, in journals and in anthologies. Poet Jones has written 5 books of poetry, Mavericks is the first book of poetry This Writer has reviewed for him.

This poetry is an event in love themes, romance, sometimes sexual imagery, often expressing want and not. Perhaps the violence of ended covenants, as if the undertoad of Western culture raises it’s Medusa’s head. Woven into the Celtic lyric lilt are nature images, flowers, jasmine, leaves, trees, berries the landscape of forest walks in poetry. The original use of language as music, new allusions and sometimes original words create an art nouveau poetic experience.

“STAYING IN THE JASMINE

i’m falling,

falling into jasmine,

someone, who is, has been

put back on the shelf.

i’m calling,

calling from the jasmine,

sounding, like i have been

part of someone else:

not as the me, i used to be,

who did the doubts, of in and out,

not knowing, what i was about

hiding behind stealth

a favourite raindrop in the sun was he,

coming down and straight back up, without

a word when finding others out

suspicions kept inside this self.

i’m stalling,

stalling in the jasmine,

knowing who was, is seen

as more than something else.

i’m staying,

staying in the jasmine,

making truer roots, than these have been

out of something else.”

The entire presentation is magical, using various forms of rhyme creating cadence, discord and mystery. The Poet is the alchemist, through various experiments with rhyme stirring the pot, in search of the perfect poem. The poetry presents different forms of rhyme, from rhyming couplets to end of lines a – b – a rhyme schemes, internal rhymes, repetitive words, amongst others, that regularly flow through each poem. It is a rich cadence, considered, sophisticated, creating a whole earth affect. It’s danger is to fall into over familiarity, it’s height is a magical take on poetic dance which it achieves more often than not, as if on the wings of peace.

“BARK

what’s the point of crying into me

but i can see,

to set you free.

don’t you know

i did this long ago,

by turning songs off the radio.

silence is the bark

around my ark,

i wear it on, to eat the dark

and to keep out the images

of once shared symmetries,

standing, like stone circle cemeteries

in the open air, made

for the wind and rain to fade,

for the sun’s bleach and icy blade

to erase it all,

to forget its fall,

to remove its face, from beauty’s wall.”

Staring in the face of free verse Modernism, the return to beauty with the Post-Moderns and now the return to rhyme in the New Age. As if the rebirth of civilization with the ease of information flow, the Holy Spirit tenets, in the Online Society is calling the Poet into higher climes of romance and the quest for karmic purity, the quest for the ideal, in all things peace. His influences are largely Celtic Poets, Seamus Heaney, W.B. Yeats, Robert Frost as well as Sylvia Plath and Pablo Neruda. Evolving from the Modernist, “God is dead” post WW II epoch into the era of dance with the introduction of regular rhyme, it is as if the poetry is evolving into the Internet journey of Zen and home.

“THE VASE

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.”

This poetry speaks of hope and dance as the lyric rhythm, trees in summer breezes that move against the sky. Fantastical New Age Celtic poetry, Mavericks by Strider Marcus Jones.

Genre: Poetry, New Age

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/

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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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Love Poem-Eight Treasures Of Simple Pleasures by Strider Marcus Jones. Copyright Reserved..wmv

A sensual love poem about being yourself and not what others try to make you.

EIGHT TREASURES OF SIMPLE PLEASURES

a sensual spoken

strawberry cut open

thought

brought

me to your secret place

with my face.

in the altered mirage

that history presents,

your even visage

and words have sounds and scents

that repair

the despair

and remake vanity’s varnished vase

with plain consents

until the figures in the patterns and the glaze

reconfigure what has happened and are swayed

to be themself

and not the mould of someone else.

i come back to you

in the porcelein white and blue

of Ming and Xiantzi

rustic and romancy

bearing eight treasures

of simple pleasures:

heart’s love life’s soul

passions blood mind whole

and wisdom instead of blindness

to share a kingdom with unselfish kindness.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 1st June, 2012. All Rights Reserved.

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.

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THE WORD LOVE – Love Poem from ASPECTS OF LOVE by Strider Marcus Jones

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THE WORD LOVE

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

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

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

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

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

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NINETY NINE PERCENT IN TENTS

in the compound of this room

we make our tent

with revolution’s loom

knitting a firmament

that challenges corrupt times

with solemn slogans

to plutarch totems

simply marked on cardboard signs.

resistance kindles in the dark

and breathes new poetry and art

like a cultural tsunami

elites can’t beat with armies.

these sincere spears

of human spheres

stand soft spoken,

peaceful, but not broken

like disciples in fabric domes

chanting social justice tomes

while Jesus circles existential

throwing speculators from the temple.

we don’t need money in our tent

to make each other feel so spent-

only the sea shore, forest and mountains

to trickle streams and spurt fountains,

unlocking love when the cradle rocks

the secret rhythm of intimate clocks.

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

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

SELECTED POEMS from WOODED WINDOWS by Strider Marcus Jones

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VISIGOTH ROVER

i went on the bus to Cordoba,

and tried to find the Moor’s

left over

in their excavated floors

and mosaic courtyards,

with hanging flowers brightly chamelion

against whitewashed walls

carrying calls

behind gated iron bars-

but they were gone

leaving mosque arches

and carved stories

to God’s doors.

in those ancient streets

where everybody meets;

i saw the old successful men

with their younger women again,

sat in chrome slat chairs,

drinking coffee to cover

their vain love affairs-

and every breast,

was like the crest

of a soft ridge

as i peeped over

the castle wall and Roman bridge

like a Visigoth rover.

soft hand tapping on shoulder,

heavy hair

and beauty older,

the gypsy lady gave her clover

to borrowed breath,

embroidering it for death,

adding more to less

like the colours fading in her dress.

time and tune are too planned

to understand

her Trevi fountain of prediction,

or the dirty Bernini hand

shaping its description.

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

SELECTED POEMS from MAVERICKS by Strider Marcus Jones

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

THIS THEATRE OF SHOW

i want to go

where love songs grow,

on the radio

into someone’s heart.

i want to know

if i play too slow,

and fade before the glow

can flame and spark.

i mend a dream,

distill it, to mountains seen

through mind and eyes potcheen,

lotioned by loves mark;

with tongue dabbing gleam

in fast flowing stream

of sweet nectarine

from sun up through sun dark.

i want your glow

in the thoughts i know,

before they dim down low

and depart-

this theatre of show

above and below,

where we all act to know

our own part.

so many vines

in the times

i know,

grape, but fail to flower.

i taste their wine

in its summertime,

but show

i am just a shower.

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

THE FOREST OF FORGETS

i don’t do remembers, or regrets,

not knowing, i belong in what comes next-

without the edge and angle of pretext,

find me in the forest of forgets-

watching your perfections dance and breathe

in my fires flames then read out gypsy leaves;

imagining your whispers in the wind and trees-

before they fade, and fall, and leave.

back inside the house, picture rails

of love hang empty

from bent hooks, that promised plenty,

leaving frameless tales in musty trails-

to dusty cabinets of more

trinkets and traces-

whose duality displaces

sky and floor.

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

SELECTED POEMS from MAVERICKS by Strider Marcus Jones

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SELECTED POEMS from INSIDE OUT by Strider Marcus Jones

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

VELVET TANGERINE 

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

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

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THE DIVISION BELL ~ Poem from Book Wooded Windows By Strider Marcus Jones

https://www.wattpad.com/3559469-14-poems-from-wooded-windows-by-strider-marcus

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

it’s 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.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 2nd July, 2011. All Rights Reserved.








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

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BOOTS OF HARLEY

this universe has no center

and you’re not there.

this sun is only sunny on the hood-

its light can’t bend more benter

to be fair

as time stops running rings in wood.

the floorboards creak

and pictures speak

when I stand in empty corners making room,

for ghosts that want to have my seat

when they come in from the street

after riding like Valhalla under sun and moon.

summer shoes,

with beards of barley

in their soley grooves-

still think they’re boots of Harley

on electro glide down highway avenues-

with a woman’s arms around my waist

singing Bob Marley

and promising me her taste.

foot down. legs braced-

rocking back the headboard on the bed and base

in the hanging of her breasts

where my head would rest,

her lips a vanished beauty of the past-

explode

unload

to this contrast-

that turns its empty pages in my head

unlit, as I lie in bed,

running out of Kerouac road-

i feel the beat

and go to sleep

with some more story told.

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

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

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LOVE IS STRIPPED TO SHARING BREAD

we were kissing

and dancing

to a kitchen song,

talking with our wine

and smoking bong;

then you pushed your pierced pin

of forged fire

further in

the groove of my desire

with your tongue.

later,

up the creaking wooden escalator-

“let me do you” i said

peeling back your petals

with my voice:

love is stripped to sharing bread

abroad-in plain rooms-where Nora and Joyce

reject precious metals.

it brings to craggy green cliffs

that STILL talk-

of two minds, in the sea born mist

of one thought-

why should four legs walk

under clouds adrift.

glum damp rock moss cups

when we go to ground

under body musk

and pagan sound-

the meaning of the hour

when lit lusts flower

fills the air

everywhere

at last

and the future does not imitate the past.

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

 

THE HEAD IN HIS FEDORA HAT by Strider Marcus Jones

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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

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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

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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.

POMEGRANATE FLESH – Poem by Strider Marcus Jones

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POMEGRANATE FLESH

ask those

who grow old-

some fruits are nicer

when they’re riper.

you don’t stop

the clock

on the one who chose

you to hold-

her pomegranate

is still your sonnet

of sepia feelings and flesh,

sensuously sweet and fresh.

although the mirror never lies,

it shows the beauty that lives

as it dies

and gives

it’s own reflection

of your perfection

to me

then and now,

each memory

taken

by the lenses

somehow,

preserved

by your words

and curves

in my senses.

our dance,

that thrilled

in it’s intricate

tango on the floor,

is still filled

with time intimate

romance

and more-

talking rubicon of reason,

in layer, upon layer of season

so sedimentary

since you entered me-

and i consumed

your silky mesh

of pink perfumed

pomegranate flesh.

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

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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