SELECTED POEMS from MAVERICKS by Strider Marcus Jones.



SELECTED POEMS from MAVERICKS by Strider Marcus Jones

















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.

ONE LAST ODYSSEY
now the back of you is gone-
i must move the moment on,
but not forget
the private part i played-
and made.
we were strangers when you left
but lovers when we met,
so though bereft-
i don’t hold any ribbons of regret
to send me back
into that sunset
and paint it black.

the best of me
is yet to come,
rolled up
rolled out,
calm in cauldron’s cup
but hot no doubt,
with no divisions-
hiding
scenes from someone elses play,
riding
dreams i want with you today,
confiding
means you are meant to me, so stay-
in the rhythms
of my hum,
for just one
last odyssey
to roam in and be.

THE SAME DUALITY
those long summer days,
spent lazing
and grazing
under your pink umbrella,
smoking pipe and panatella-
with your heats haze,
gleaming
and streaming
on my lips
and far in fondling fingertips.
mind floating,
in your fluffy fissured moat
of cerebellum,
where its sepal boats
of words and phrases spoke
wearing different coats
of personality
set down on my vellum,
raising our reality
to share the same duality.
those even strokes,
so unrehearsed
on solitary senses,
were more than promissory notes-
though fate cursed
without pretences.
i look inside now
and wonder how
fate can be both so set and random,
and why the two, so often, co-exist in tandem.

THIS THEATRE OF SHOW
i want to go
where love songs grow,
on the radio
into someone’s heart.

i want to know
if i play too slow,
and fade before the glow
can flame and spark.

i mend a dream,
distil it, to mountains seen
through mind and eyes potcheen,
lotioned by loves mark;

with tongue dabbing gleam
in fast flowing stream
of sweet nectarine
from sunup through sun dark.

i want your glow
in the thoughts i know,
before they dim down low
and depart-

this theatre of show
above and below,
where we all act to know
our own part.

so many vines
in the times
i know,
grape, but fail to flower.
i taste their wine
in its summertime,
but show
i am just a shower.

REJECTING OVID

 the fabulous beauty of your face-
so esoteric,
not always in this place-
beguiles me.

 it’s late, mesmeric
smile is but a base,
a film to interface
with the movements of the mind behind it.

 my smile, me-
like Thomas O’Malley
the alley
cat reclining on a tin bin lid
with fishy whiskers-

 turns the ink in the valley
of your quills
into script,
while i sit
and sip

 your syllables
with fresh red sepals of habiscus,
rejecting Ovid
and his Amores
for your stories.
ALCHEMY SO RARE
when i make love with you sunny,
i dont worry about money-
or other things, come to that-
i just soar away
in everything you say
and never dream of turning back.
in this faded old room,
we look up at the moon-
through its worn beige curtain-
what we dont have, some say
can turn the heart away,
but that’s not us, i’m certain.
come and stay with me sunny,
being poor can be funny-
it's not about the things we’re not,
let others have their walls,
with everything it falls-
without love, gold is pot.
what we have to share
is alchemy so rare-
precious in and by itself.
the moon and stars are free,
some mountains and some sea-
and we are forests in ourself.
we don't need cars and boats,
or pockets in our coats,
just these senses and to be-
my movie and my star,
my candle in its jar-
burning bright enough to see.

TELEPATHIC LOTUS 

 hot ride 
in you, 
quick quim 
cum too, 
shaft slide 
deep wide, 
grip him 
veined blue. 

 deep throat 
with smoke, 
moans moat 
invoke, 
tongue like a limpet 
on your moon- 
crescent lit 
syrup spoon. 

 rocked round your rim 
four fingers in, 
soft stroke 
your high note 
in drab dusk 
and damp dawn- 
through its musk 
warm swarm.
 
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.

METAPHORS OF NOTHING
one more summer comes to nothing
and is shed like old skin
to look back into
its pattern of disappointments
painted into autumns
mist of fire blanket
flapping frosts
over fields and woods
to suffocate
those last flowers wearing collars of browning leaves.

 bright beads of memories remain
like firethorn berries, red and ripe
hiding in white hands of hanging fallopia
blowing in the wind
holding onto no notes
eyes cast elsewhere-
such metaphors of nothing opiate
the silence and close conclusions
but behave like grunging groupies
behind the final curtain.

NIRVANA
soft and moist sensual nirvana
slip sliding all day,
its pulse persuading
and never fading,
a panorama
exceeding this stay.
the notes of your lute
play wild in my mute
tripped tropical mind,
and speak soft sendings
without endings
i see behind.


 Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2009 MAVERICKS. 
All Rights Reserved.


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