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

CLOUDS OF CHAOTIC CROWDS by Strider Marcus Jones

Smitten-
Bitten
Like
Faustus-
Leave the house dust
With fools gold
Unsold.
This conveyor belt lair
A castle in the air
For Dante’s dreams of doubt
To wander about
In, with voices that pretend
To be a different friend-
Oh my, what a frame,
Too big to blame
And beyond a simple say
To save and stay-
So, close the dungeon door
To be what you were before
And walk away
Into the clouds
Of chaotic crowds
Falling as rain
On sterile plain.

October 13, 2021

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

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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.

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

https://melbourneculturecorner.com/blog/

THE TWO SALTIMBANQUES (Pablo Picasso)

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


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

Delighted to have my poem – Love is Stripped to Sharing Bread published in Dreich Magazine’s superb Summer Anywhere anthology. Good to be with many of my favourite poets. Thank you to brilliant editor Jack Caradoc. .

Summer Anywhere anthology from @Dreich25197318. Grab a copy here: http://bit.ly/3BVJxUS

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 future does not imitate the past. 

Strider Marcus Jones

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

https://www.neurologicalliterarymagazine.com/

Where words go


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

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

Delighted to have 2 poems – Salted Slug and Ever After Tomorrow published in Dreich Magazine’s themed chapbook Afterwards. Thank you to brilliant editor Jack Caradoc. .

https://hybriddreich.co.uk/dreich-themes/

.

SALTED SLUG

your words stung,
and hung
me upside down, inside out,
to watch you
swan turned shrew-
hairbrush out all memory and meaning,
from those fresco pictures on the wet plaster ceiling-
that my Michaelangelo took years to paint,
in glorious colours, now flaked and full of hate.

the lights of our plaeides went out,
with no new songs to sing and talk about-
suspended there
inside sobs of solitude and infinite despair-
like soluble syllables of barbiturates
in exhaust fumes of apology and regrets.

you left me prone-
to hear deaths symphony alone,
split and splattered, opened on the floor,
repenting for nothing, evermore-
like a salted slug,
curdled and curled up on the rug-
to melt away
while you spoon and my colours fade to grey.

the heart of truth-
intact in youth,
fractures into fronds of lies and trust,
destined to become a hollow husk-
but i found myself again in hopes congealing pools
and left the field of fools
to someone else-
and put her finished book back on its shelf.

EVER AFTER TOMORROW

throw all your dreams
in a bottle of river-
so they can sink
and drag you down slow;
pick out their seams,
make them gone from the giver-
over the brink,
but dont let it show.
drowning, just drink-
you’re a spectral forgiver,
shades have the means
to laugh at each blow-
life is to think,
it is for the beginner,
but less than it seems
ever after tomorrow-
the cover of sleep screams
awake and gives her
love with body, scribed with ink
inside a rainbow.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones




.

.

Thrilled to have 5 of my poems published on the wonderful Ink Pantry poetry blog. My thanks to editor Deborah Edgeley.

Poetry Drawer: She is a Suffragette: A Woman Does Not Have To Wait: The Two Saltimbanques: Hopper’s Ladies: Oviri by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on  by Deborah Edgeley

She is a Suffragette

her hair tumbles
blowing like unfurled cotton
through unforgotten
fumbles
in vegetation
of our own
interpretation
of each other
in the dark.

my desk grown
out of a tree sown
from my lover
where i carved these words in the bark
sitting in her branches
knowing what life is
all about
as i look out
of wooded windows

and absorb it’s shows
as it goes
through each obscenity
of extreme supremacy-
a woman must not let
a man forget
she is a suffragette
in her soul and under his blanket
so never kept

or chatteled forever
to the custom weather
of his debt.

A Woman Does Not Have To Wait

under the old canal bridge you said
so i can hear the echoes
in your head
repeating mine
this time
when it throws
our voices from roof into water
where i caught her
reflection half in half out of sunshine.
that’s when i hear Gerschwin
playing his piano in you
working out the notes
to rhapsody in blue
that makes me float
light and thin
deep within
through the air
when you put your comforts there.
Waits was drinking whisky from his bottle
while i sat through old days with Aristotle
knowing i must come up to date
because a woman does not have to wait.

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.

Hopper’s Ladies

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

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

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

we share their flesh and flutes
in ribosomes and delicious shoots
that release love-
no, not just the fingered glove
to wear
and curl up with in a chair,
but lovingkindness
cloaked in timeless
density and tone
in settled loam-
beyond lonely apartments in skyscrapers
and empty newspapers,
or small town life
gutting you with gossips knife.

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.

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.

Delighted to have my poem The Word Love published in Crossways Literary Magazine. My thanks to editor David Jordan and poetry editor Anne Daly.

https://crosswaysmagazine.com/issues/

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.

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

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

Stone Jar by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on May 20, 2021 by jmgale

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

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

Soupy Potions by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on May 23, 2021 by jmgale

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

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

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

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

The Vase by Strider Marcus Jones

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

Image by Lubos Houska from Pixabay

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

Thrilled to have my Orwellian poem On the Other Side of the Room’s Window published in Dreich Magazine’s themed chapbook ISMISMS. Thank you Jack Caradoc editor supreme.

https://hybriddreich.co.uk/dreich-themes/

ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE ROOM’S WINDOW

Dried coffee rings on the bedside table,

Where the martyr stubs his cigarette,

And disregards the opened volume

Of T.S.Eliot.

On the other side of the room’s window,

Buses shake past,but can’t be seen;

And when he calls for freedom,

The world spouts semen and war machines.

Cameras in the streets outside,

Watch this enemy within:

But how many Winston Smiths,

Are writing notes, and sneaking gin?

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

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

Delighted to have my poem I Want To Bend Time published in Dreich Magazine’s themed issue SC-FI. My thanks to brilliant editor Jack Caradoc.

https://hybriddreich.co.uk/dreich-themes/

I WANT TO BEND TIME

I want more time
To ponder life,
For understanding
In the cosmic soup.

I want to bend time
To travel backwards and forwards,
To see what was and what will be
To fathom actions and consequences.

I want to unmould time
From how we shape it,
To be free of it
Unchained to think.

I want to teleport
To the past and now and on from here,
Faster than light
In the nothingness it takes to make a thought:

To find the answer-
To where we come from
To who we are
To why we are here

And where we are going
To be free from time.

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

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

Thrilled to have my poem The Word Love (from my book Aspects of Love) published in the Issue 11 print edition of Crossways Literary Magazine, Cork, Ireland. My thanks to poetry editor Anne Daly.

https://crosswaysmagazine.com/

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

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/strider…

http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_s…

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_…

Read poems from his books with reviews and comments onhttp://www.wattpad.com/user/striderma.



Delighted to have three poems included in the *Impspired* Volume 5 print anthology. These poems were originally published online in *Impspired* Issue 9. Sincere thanks to Steve Cawte for publishing these poems. Contact Steve at impspired@gmail.com to order directly from him, or use the following links to order from Amazon.

UK & Ireland – https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/191413026X

US – https://www.amazon.com/dp/191413026X

*Impspired* – http://www.impspired.com

   SUMMER WIND

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



  WHEN THE ROAD FORKS

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


 
  ADUMBRATE LOVES SHALLOWS

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


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

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




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





ancient lay lines
illuminate oral lore
a global stone grid


black coffee swirling
in a spiral galaxy
stargate in a cup


obelisk to sky
glyphs and hypogean
can we crack the code


leaves are falling
the circle of life and death
undertaker crows


honeysuckle grows
around the arch of midnight
into the wormhole


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

curious magpies
search ploughed field for baubles
sunlight glints on them


faded photographs
moments hanging on the wall
futures blank behind


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

red chrysanthemums
show fractals of clarity
time sows mutations



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

                                       

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

Thrilled to have my poem Pyramid Prison published by Piker Press on 26th April, 2021. My thanks to editor Sand Pilarski.

http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=8260

Pyramid Prison

in detritus metronomes
of human habitation
the ghost of Shelley’s imagination
questions the elemental,
experimental
chromosomes
and ribosomes
of DNA,
reverse engineered
that suddenly appeared
as evolution yesterday.

her monster mirrors dark wells
of monsters in our smart selves,
the lost humanity and oratory
that fills laboratory
test tubes
with fused
imbued
genes
to dreams
of flat forward faster
distinction
to disaster
and barbarism’s
ectopic extinction.

this is our pyramid prison,
where all souls
and proles
climb the debased
opposite steps of extremism,
like Prometheus Unbound,
defaced
sitting around
the crouching sphinx
abandoned by missing links.

free masons of money and wars,
warp the altar of natural laws,
so reason withers
and wastelands rust —
no longer rivers
of shared stardust

in the equal symphony of spheres
in space,
filling our ears
with subwoofer bass,
definitive
primitive
medieval
evil
waste.

Strider Marcus Jones
Is the founder, editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
He is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His work has been published in over 150 poetry journals, magazines, reviews and anthologies in the USA, Canada, England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, France, Germany, Spain, Australia, India and South Africa including : Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice and Piker Press.
He is the author of five books of poetry:
Pomegranate Flesh, Wooded Windows, Mavericks, Inside Out and Aspects Of Love.
The links to his books can be found below.

For his published poetry books: Aspects Of Love; Inside Out; Mavericks; Wooded Windows and Pomegranate Flesh see:
http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/strider…

http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_s…

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_…

Delighted to have my poems Convict Chains 15th February, 2021 and Childhood Fires 18th January, 2021 published online in The Piker Press Magazine. My thanks to editor Sand Pilarski.

Convict Chains

rich man and peasant understand
coins change hand,
despite the Magna Carta
we must all barter
to live —

only communists give
nothing
something
sometimes —
same crimes.

so, when reason rains,
i drag my convict chains
to the barrow bog
and cut peat
in feral fog
where motives meet.

six feet down,
sucked back five thousand years
the old town
settlement appears
in full formation
of chattel,
cattle
and battle
still at station
preserved
to serve.

around
the round
late night fires,
power plays and lust desires
hearth home homogenous
in Mars and Venus
making love in animal skins
wearing the same sins.

on the long walk home,
some alone
and those together,
believe never
can be changed
and are called strange.

Article © Strider Marcus Jones. All rights reserved.
Published on 2021-02-15
Image(s) are public domain.

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 jitties
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


Article © Strider Marcus Jones. All rights reserved.
Published on 2021-01-18
Image(s) are public domain.
Strider Marcus Jones – is the founder, editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogs…. He is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford/Hinckley, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry are modern, traditional, mythical, sometimes erotic, surreal and metaphysical http//www.lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusj…. He is a maverick, moving between forests, mountains and cities, playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain 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.

Thrilled to have my poem Life Is Flamenco published on Poetry in Surrey Libraries blog on 17th January, 2021. My thanks to editors J M. Gale and Neil Richards.

https://npdsurrey.wordpress.com/2021/01/17/life-is-flamenco-by-strider-marcus-jones/

LIFE IS FLAMENCO by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on January 17, 2021 by jmgale

Image by Lenny21 from Pixabay 

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

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

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

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

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

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


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

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

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

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

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

Metal Mania

Metal mania

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

                                                         —Strider Marcus Jones

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

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

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

BY AUTHOR ON  • ( 1 COMMENT )

By: Strider Marcus Jones

WE MOVE THE WHEEL

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

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

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

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

###

THE HERMIT

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

###

I WANT TO BEND TIME

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

###

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

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

Photography © Jennifer Matthews

Fallen Lintels

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Em5AHjmW4AAj5OK.jpeg

Strider Marcus Jones

Poetry

The Portal in the Woods

Seeing somnambulist sunrise

Through open window

Touch your face

After love rides

On moon tides

In ebb and flow

At tantric pace-

Love resides

Tasted

No asides

Wasted

Spices of the flesh

Soaking rooms in Marrakesh

How I ate your truffle in Zanzibar

While you smoked my long cigar.

Back home-

Tribes of bloods

And druids roam

Seeking out the overgrown

Portal in the woods

Where we hondfast

In this present of the past

Dance chanting

In stone bone circles

Like ooparts

Practicing

Magical arts

Settling

What chaos hurtles-

Reconnecting rhythms

In living and dead

To those algorithms

In nature’s head.

We are rustic-

Romantic

In land and sky

The  air  fire  water

To warriors who slaughter

If Us or Them must die.

We wake

For clambake

Pleasure

In a cauldron lake

Of limbs together

Then cut sods of peat

From the bog under our feet

Exposing the pasts

That never last.

Cubist Ghettos

I think

To shrink

The distance

Of resistance

Inside self

To all else-

Knowing

Showing

Vulnerability

In the mystery

Leaves what is closed

Openly exposed-

To explanation

Under examination

When there isn’t one

That hasn’t gone

Until roof floor and sky door

Are no more-

Only roulette rubbles

Of drone troubles

Imprisoning

Reasoning

In cubist ghettos

Wearing jazz stilettos-

Flashing flamingo legs

To pink paradise Harlem heads

While new trees grow up mute

And ripen with strange fruit

Some whites too this time

A drowned boy me and mine.

The Forest of Forgets


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

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

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

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

The Head in His Fedora Hat

a lonely man,

cigarette,

rain

and music

is a poem

moving,

not knowing-

a caravan,

whose journey does not expect

to go back

and explain

how everyone’s ruts

have the same

blood and vein.

the head in his fedora hat

bows to no one’s grip,

brim tilted into the borderless

plain

so his outlaw wit

can confess

and remain

a storyteller,

that hobo fella

listening like a barfly

for a while

and slow-winged butterfly

whose smile

they can’t close the shutters on

or stop talking about

when he walks out

and is gone.

whisky and tequila

and a woman, who loves to feel ya

inside

and outside

her

when ya move

and live as one,

brings you closer

in simplistic

unmaterialistic

grooved

muse Babylon.

this is so,

when he stands with hopes head,

arms and legs

all aflow

in her Galadriel glow

with mithril breath kisses

condensing sensed wishes

of reality and dream

felt and seen

under that

fedora hat

inhaling smoke

as he sang and spoke

stranger fella

storyteller.

 

Hopper’s Ladies

you stay and grow

more mysterioso

but familiar

in my interior-

with voices peeled

full of field

of fruiting orange trees

fertile to orchard breeze

soaked in summer rains

so each refrain all remains.

not afraid of contrast,

closed and opened in the past

and present, this isolation of Hopper’s ladies,

sat, thinking in and out of ifs and maybes

in a diner, reading on a chair or bed

knowing what wants to be said

to someone

who is coming or gone-

such subsidence

into silence

is a unilateral curve

of moments

and movements

that swerve

a straight lifetime

to independence

in dependence

touching sublime

rich roots

then ripe fruits.

we share their flesh and flutes

in ribosomes and delicious shoots

that release love-

no, not just the fingered glove

to wear

and curl up with in a chair,

but loving kindness

cloaked in timeless

density and tone

in settled loam-

beyond lonely apartments in skyscrapers

and empty newspapers,

or small town life

gutting you with gossip’s knife.

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

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

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

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

IN MAID’S WATER

we’ve left the well-footed

road,

the rutted

and rebutted

road

of shadows cast

by towered glass.

opened closed curtains

for fusty moths,

chanted white spells with Wiccan’s

goths;

left pictured

rooms and halls-

become un-scriptured

hills and squalls-

in maid’s water

pouring down her

erect chalk man,

like a wild gypsy,

love tipsy

partisan,

smelling of cinnabar

and his cigar,

swirling

like whirling

clouds

while the changed wind howls.

TWO MISFITS

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

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

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


THE DOOR

the door

between skyfloor

topbottom

is rankrotten

portalbliss

or abjectabyss.

it contains conversations

confrontations,

hiding loves two-ings

in lost ruins-

shuts us inside our self

with or without someone else.

we,

the un-free,

disenfranchised poor

have no bowl of more-

only pain

on the same plain

as before,

homeless

or in shapeless boxes,

worked out, hunted, like urban foxes-

outlaws on common lands

stolen from empty hands.

files on us found

from gathering sound

where mutations abound

put troops on the ground.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. All rights reserved.

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

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

I WANT WHAT ORDINARY OTHERS WANT

Strider Marcus Jones

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

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

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

reducing proles
to zombie roles
in constitutions
of constructed evolutions,

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

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

THE CUP

Strider Marcus Jones

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE DANCE

Strider Marcus Jones

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

watch how life
decomposes
in death.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

holding flags and flames.

THE DOOR

Strider Marcus Jones

the door
between skyfloor,
topbottom,

is rankrotten,

portalbliss,
abjectabyss.

it contains conversations,
confrontations,
hiding loving two-ings

in lost ruins-

it shuts us inside ourself
with or without someone else.

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

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

HOPPER’S LADIES

Strider Marcus Jones

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

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

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

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

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

gutting you
with gossip’s knife.

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

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

Honoured to have my poem “A Shaman Speaks” published in Issue 7 of Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal on 16th December, 2020. My thanks to editor Mysti S. Milwee.

https://sequoyahcherokeeriverjournal.wordpress.com/2020/12/16/sequoyah-cherokee-river-journal-7/

A SHAMAN SPEAKS

Bird sun-dance
On blue water:
Eagle fly
Free in sky.

Salt flats basin
Great white sea
Bare of grass
And prairie tree.

Shadow That Comes Inside
Says the white-man’s wasting kiss,
Grows because he does not know,
Where the center of the Earth is.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. All Rights Reserved.

ISSUE 7

From the Editor: Mysti S. Milwee

Congratulations to all my fellow brothers and sisters that have contributed to Issue 7 of Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal. Warmest Welcome, y’all have a “uwoduhi adanvto” (beautiful spirit). Issue 7 highlights a rather diverse beautiful collection of Poetry and Prose; Collaborations in Art and Poetry; Photography and Art Photography that transcends with beauty evoking nature, beauty, animals, and Native American culture. The Cover Art “HARVESTING THE FALL” is rendered by the Editor and is an ekphrastic collaboration with poetess Venus Jones. I hope you all enjoy and share the beauty of this issue with fellow poets and creatives in the world. Thank you for contributing!

Congratulations to the following fellow contributors for Issue 7:

* Venus Jones & Editor Mysti S. Milwee

* Winston Derden

* Tali Cohen Shabtai

* Kathryn Kuklinski

* Carl Scharwath & Annette Nasser (Collaboration)

* Nivedita Karthik

* Stacy Savage

* Ermira Mitre Kokomani

* Joshua Corwin

* Strider Marcus Jones

* Marc Carswell

Delighted to have 3 of my poems published in The Poet Magazine, Summer 2020 Anthology: On The Road Volume 2. My thanks to editor Robin Barratt and congratulations to all the other fine poets featured in this excellent anthology.

https://www.thepoetmagazine.org/our-collections

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 barsbut 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 affairsand 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.


BOOTS OF HARLEY


this universe has no centre
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.


WORDING WITH A WISE OLD SHAMAN


i danced around the monolith
on the dark side of the moon –
and waited for the face to speak on Mars:
there was no one in on earth to share it with
in the gloomthey were going round in circles in their cars.
hiking out in Arizona.
sleeping underneath the stars;
got wording with a wise old shaman in a bar –
and he said: ‘we have lost who we are.’
who we are, and where we come from.
what to do, and where to go –
unite the crystal skulls of wisdom
for knowledge that we used to know.
back inside my human body,
all things here are still the same –
time to smoke and drink some coffee,
then a walk in the rain –
before I glide the astral plaine.

Really Chuffed to have two poems – This Fibbing Sun and Two Misfits, published in Kalopsia Literary Journal. My thanks to the editors.

this fibbing sun by Strider Marcus Jones


when this fibbing sun
dips below this planted plate
of fields—
and waits
to bob back up tomorrow:
solitude, sucks the color
out of crimson clouds
and stars begin their motions
over night’s black curtain.
this dance of being born—
to live and die
in sacred elements
swirling in dust and gas,
in beauty and folly
that repeats itself;
to what purpose
does this engine and design
make civilizations form then fade
with gods and demons?
this ship
of consciousness
in matter
has a stowaway
on board
decoding cyphers
in connections.


two misfits by Strider Marcus Jones


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
handfasting
we climbed the rungs to civilization


and found a bell
housed inside a minaret—
where monk and muezzin
shared its balcony
chanting together for peace—
this holy music was only the wind
blowing through the weathervane,
but we liked its tone to change its time.


About the Author


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.

Thrilled to have my poem Mirror, Mirror published in the wonderful Trouvaille Review on 11th July, 2020. My thanks to the editors.

https://www.trouvaillereview.org/home/mirror-mirror-by-strider-marcus-jones

Mirror, Mirror by Strider Marcus Jones

mirror, mirror,

in the hall

age comes to us all,

and looks wither

through the play

of years slipped away,

away

in the lapsed lingo of street

and road,

where tangents meet

and move with innocence

up summits of experience

told,

whose fruits we eat

then weep

when they implode.

these reflections

in this autumn of adventurous directions,

mean more

standing in the door

of ebb and flow

watching people come and go

wearing introspections

of what they know

after listening to a stranger’s small confessions

on midnight radio.

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