Thrilled to have my poem Calculus published in Issue 3 of the Candid Review. My thanks to the editors and congratulations to all contributors.
issue three - The Candid Review
Calculus
by Strider Marcus Jones
Darwin can’t explain the missing link,
and science, did not invent the goal
of faith in how we think-
but Newton keeps us
sane to find the whole
gravity and reason for our role-
in calculus.
science beyond ours does exist,
in un-deciphered hieroglyphs
and alchemies of metals
malleable like petals
on spaceships
crashed in Roswell, gone
to Area 51.
like Dedalus, who prayed too good
through Dublin’s streets
of saints and sinners,
while whores exchanged their treats
for cash, from winners and beginners-
i walked towards the priesthood,
but woke up wet with wood.
i realised, Carlisle was right in saying:
no lie can live forever-
that the Gods we make together
praying-
don’t care or intervene
in human fate and actions-
so Spinoza’s God is seen,
in the orderly reactions
of the universe-
creating life, and waiting hearse-
but metaphors of doubt persist
on the road to Armageddon,
for if physics shapes all of this-
what shapes these cloths of heaven?
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. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA, The Stray Branch Literary Magazine, and more.
Thankye to brilliant editor Nolcha Fox for publishing my five poems in the superb Chewers by Masticadores. Delighted.
5 Poems by Strider Marcus Jones – Chewers by Masticadores
5 Poems by Strider Marcus Jones
YOU ARE A LONG TIME COMING
you seem so set
to be the movement on my wreck
you are a long time coming.
deep slide
up
down
after walking
in the town;
alone, pride
is a cup
spilt sound
of restless
self running.
the rustle of your dress
ends my emptiness
you are a long time coming.
WHEN YOUR RIVER IS WILD AND WIDE
lip lap
forward and back
up down around
we are altered and can’t change the gap
sighs mouth mound.
slip slide
rise fall come in go out on tide
caress
confide
rebel be alive
in the saturated beauty of it all
along each width of wall
such tenderness
resists what can oppress
when your river is wild and wide.
AN OLD WELL
an old well,
closely clustered
with the detritus of age
doesn’t tell-
who has whispered
or gazed
into it’s wise abyss
to consummate a coveted wish.
it doesn’t judge
or smudge
the beauty that is spoken
when those lips
fall open
to it’s thoughts and quiet quips-
that thread, is never broken
or it’s bed
shed
in these silent seasons,
that have their reasons
for waiting to be told-
so don’t lie down
or feelings fold
in sadness, like a clown
who hesitates
with the wanderers of fates-
white gold
doesn’t rust
in the trial and trust
of the truth it makes.
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.
MONOCLE
remote ramblings,
stepped and spoken-
like gambling’s
that bloomed-
only to be broken,
wandered
and roomed,
waited on quiet landings
like squandered perfume-
left open.
marxist marches.
mithril kisses under gothic arches-
role playing elf and cleric
in cold caves removed from Berek
the Halfhand’s chronicle,
seem mesmeric-
when seen through monocle.
but the other eye looks back too,
inside this rhapsody with you;
and the light-
switched off.
switched on.
off,
and on,
loving day and night-
through prose phrases
and shared phases
of captured sun and moon-
flying mellow yellow,
on white witches broom;
knows nature’s laws
has moods
and flaws
in her quietudes-
to reason cause,
and fathom clues.
Copyright © 2024 Strider Marcus Jones
All Rights Reserved
Delighted to have five poems published in Rochford Street Review. My thanks to the Editors.
Strider Marcus Jones: 5 Poems – Rochford Street Review
Strider Marcus Jones: 5 Poems
MY OLD SOCKS
my old socks
sheath the feet
that fill my boots
to walk on land.
hard hands, sweating like peat,
still break rocks
in imprisoned heat
born trapped roots
in dynasties of the damned.
the faded thread-
diminishes in duty until dead
while famous patterns
conceal what really happens-
their reasons behind closed doors
gain ignorant applause
for wars
and poverty
rising from floors
of serial
imperial
cruel pomposity.
**
The Mad Hatter Hiding in Dark Matter
in our house
i binned the radio
for playing Strauss-
left the suited rodeo
of casino Faust
and shot the gentry shooting grouse.
into the wild garden
without spun jargon
we went
through rusting arch of rose dissent
onto the precipice of peace
where slush borders grip and grease
like usurping tectonic plates
shapeshifting smaller states.
their innocents bombed and dispossessed
join our shoaled oppressed
of obedient possessed-
while The Mad Hatter
hiding in Dark Matter-
says blame them, instead of Strauss
in suits playing casino Faust
and enslaving gentry shooting grouse.
**
THOSE LEAVES ON THE PAVEMENT
from bud to life to death
membranes of breath
rustle
and hustle
for water and wind
in self similarity
without clarity
doing the wrong thing.
each tree, is its own fate
landing in landscape
rooted in class
morphing into towers of steel and glass-
those leaves on the pavement
rejected with resentment
turning brown
no history written down.
some of those leaves
are people we know-
but who perceives
why we let them go,
after mistakes
into what waits
with nothing to show
when time shakes.
**
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 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.
**
THE CUP
a smelted celebration
of victory
and carnal coronation
moulded in dark history-
the chalice divine
to inhuman crime
blessing unjust law
and futile war.
mine, holds the coffee
i pour into me,
or sometimes tea
when i want to see
who are 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.
—————————————-
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, and nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Recusant, The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
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 PATTERNS
somewhere
in everywhere
everybody
happens
in the patterns,
like flocks
of rocks
gathered to the lobby
of Saturn's
rings,
graded
and sorted
into ugly and beautiful
useful
things;
all something
out of nothing
but not absolute nothing:
it seems matter
that Mad Hatter
and plectrums of light
make tunes of self similarity settle and fight
repeating this same existence
without remembered resistance.
THIS NOW MY THOUGHTS
this now my thoughts
open at the image of your name
won't be revealing
the secrets they explain-
do you do the same
on these out walks
remembering the rain
drop fractals on us feeling.
back we go again,
without preachers
or bad teachers,
harvest high with hope
just us and frayed strands
of poetry and bands
on this bridge of notes
our mind spans.
in give we've got
the bloom of this plot
in garden to river
shaping start and stop
the melting clock
of body quake then quiver
through the Dreamtime day night
and soul spirit lit by landscape light.
we climb the Orange Rock
to revert back far
but have no Gaelic croft
to live in who we are.
it has changed hands
until the purpose of these lands
shoots dissenting music out of birds
and sucks all truth from ancient words
so existence is
another language.
Thrilled to have three of my poems published in The Starbeck Orion Issue 3 Page 8 of 25. My thanks to editor Paul Lauren. 2nd July, 2024.
The Starbeck Orion Issue #3 Page 8 of 25 (substack.com)
The Samaritan Machine
this field pond
is only my
dissolved
imagination-
thought drops
of summer rain
making fractal ripples
drumbeat on skin.
a portal shared
with cawing crows
reveals
who scams and snoops and shoots
in contract conversations.
this Windsong
of Virginia Creeper,
ruling Bear and Wolfsbane
rustling in black bamboo
trusts its Samaritan Machine
telling it who to redact
in this imposed
dystopian
equilibrium
of dumbed-down masses
worshipping Carousel.
The Mad Hatter Hiding in Dark Matter
in our house
i binned the radio
for playing Strauss-
left the suited rodeo
of casino Faust
and shot the gentry shooting grouse.
into the wild garden
without spun jargon
we went
through rusting arch of rose dissent
onto the precipice of peace
where slush borders grip and grease
like usurping tectonic plates
shapeshifting smaller states.
their innocents bombed and dispossessed
join our shoaled oppressed
of obedient possessed-
while The Mad Hatter
hiding in Dark Matter-
says blame them, instead of Strauss
in suits playing casino Faust
and enslaving gentry shooting grouse.
The Mess of Thrown Off Clothes
i listen
to your love beads glisten
in the flotsam
of my room-
we make them
from samurai sword folds
at forge and loom
in the mess of thrown off clothes.
so many smoke me kisses
at portal doors,
and mithril wishes
on primitive floors-
take us back again
through heath and fen
to imitate
lost landscape-
cycle
and circle
sky and stone
outside and home-
in love in less
with your heavenliness,
and loneliness
durable under duress.
By Strider Marcus Jones
Honoured to have my poem STANDING STONES about my Father published in North of Oxford online in the USA. My thanks to the editors G E REUTTER and DIANE SAHMS.
Standing Stones by Strider Marcus Jones | North of Oxford (wordpress.com)
STANDING STONES BY STRIDER MARCUS JONES
Delighted to have my poem IN GAZA published in Our Poetry Archive Anthology - Farewell to War, Congratulations to all contributors. Honoured to be included with you in this stand out anthology superbly edited by
NilavroNill Shoovro
In Gaza
its time to go
inside this show
of profits
and prophets-
to the motives and motifs
of tenets and beliefs,
that make a man, blow a child to bits-
in Gaza, where blood blurs bible scripts.
the gun slung
gung-ho,
and unsung
hero-
Goliath shelling David’s ghetto into crypts,
but only Al-Jazeera shows the genocidal clips.
the currency of crime
infests divinity and time,
corrupting ideologies that blow-
through the politics, like a great and secret show.
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. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Our Poetry Archive; Melbourne Culture Corner; Literary Yard Journal; The Honest Ulsterman; Poppy Road Review; The Galway 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; A New Ulster; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine and Dissident Voice.
Thrilled to have my poem HENGE published in The Winged Moon Magazine's Second Print Anthology - Ancient. Congratulations to all contributors and EIC Jai Michelle Louissen for publishing this superb Anthology.
thewingedmoon | Twitter, Instagram | Linktree
HENGE
in these, so close, contented fields
of thoughts and flesh caressed
by limbs and lute phonetic phrases
in this dark loop of days,
i want what more reveals-
the undercoat of faith undressed
to nature without cages
exposing pagan aspects and its ways,
to behold what light conceals
in blue and grey stone thoughts that smiles suppress,
through the henge of seasons phases
in the centre of your circle as it plays.
Delighted to have 15 of my Haiku published in Issue 22 of Die Leere Mitte Journal from Berlin, Germany. My thanks to the editors.
Die Leere Mitte – Issue 22 – WEISSES WERK (wordpress.com)
field mouse climbs wheat stem
eats modified genome seeds
cereal killer
driving desert road
algebra taking us to stars
moon resting on dune
turning wheel of time
paddle steamboat roaming down
the Mississippi
autumn leaves swirl
into derelict buildings
spirals of decay
apple blossom scent
in magical flute music
opens closed doors
midnight lake moonlight
ripples on the water’s skin
selkie’s seeking love
black beetle crawling
on fresh cut grass
i stop my footsteps
abducted onto
interplanetary craft
more missing persons
holding rosary beads
in touch with God
forming stars and planets
lightning blasting trees
bombed bodies and buildings
no change in the world
to defeat dragon
mouse tunnels into his ear
capturing his mind
white deer in forest
hears the hunter taking aim
death gun implodes
rabbit out on road
paralysed by headlights
fast car hits a tree
her longing served
pale harvest moon
drifts the other way
misfit mist and moon
her porcelain complexion
imitating snow
Really chuffed to have my two poems Hot Rod and Our Talk published in The Gorko Gazette. My thanks to the editors.
The Gorko Weekly Preview - 17 June 2024 - lorienmarcusjones@gmail.com - Gmail (google.com)
New content every morning! (thegorkogazette.com)
‘HOT ROD’ AND ONE MORE BY STRIDER MARCUS JONES
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.
OUR TALK
the soft wind, stroking your smiling face,
fingers your fine combed hair, in out of place-
and i know
when you go
nothing can make this mood,
or give its famine food.
our talk, branching through woods and sky
like young leaves, suddenly knowing why-
they need the sun again
to be, and to remain-
more than a copied canopy
to reach the plain out to me.
i lounge, in your living words libation,
with uncommon nouns, uncovered in creation,
and wait for wantings i can be-
where complex minds dwell in that simplicity,
where feelings go to touch
and come to mean so much.
ABOUT THE ARTIST
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Melbourne Culture Corner; Literary Yard Journal; The Honest Ulsterman; Poppy Road Review; The Galway 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; A New Ulster; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine and Dissident Voice.
Thrilled to have my poem This Now My Thoughts published by editor Barbara Leonhard at Masticadores USA Poetry
“THIS NOW MY THOUGHTS” by Strider Marcus Jones
this now my thoughts
open at the image of your name
won't be revealing
the secrets they explain-
do you do the same
on these out walks
remembering the rain
drop fractals on us feeling.
back we go again,
without preachers
or bad teachers,
harvest high with hope
just us and frayed strands
of poetry and bands
on this bridge of notes
our mind spans.
in give we've got
the bloom of this plot
in garden to river
shaping start and stop
the melting clock
of body quake then quiver
through the Dreamtime day night
and soul spirit lit by landscape light.
we climb the Orange Rock
to revert back far
but have no Gaelic croft
to live in who we are.
it has changed hands
until the purpose of these lands
shoots dissenting music out of birds
and sucks all truth from ancient words
so existence is
another language.
Copyright © 2024 Strider Marcus Jones
All Rights Reserved
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. 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 worldwide including: Dreich Magazine; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Melbourne Culture Corner; Literary Yard Journal; The Galway Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rye Whiskey Review; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; and Dissident Voice.
A Woman Does Not Have To Wait | IT (internationaltimes.it)
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 Gershwin
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-
until my speech and face is
naked like a grockle
in those other places
we are coming to
under the blue.
it isn’t much, but all i have for us-
me, behind this mask of mirrors.
Strider Marcus Jones
Picture Nick Victor
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, and nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington
Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary
Magazine;The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
Thrilled to have my poem CLOWN published in Issue 5 of Ranger Magazine. Congratulations to all contributors and my thanks to the editors.
Strider Marcus Jones
Clown
stop!
drop!
plop!
at what
in what
for what-
three
vows
drowning.
sad set eyes
and red nose why's
smiley,
half mask thin-
the rambled ruin
you put a clown in.
Poem - Low Vaulted Ceilings (By Strider Marcus Jones) - Antarctica Journal
POEM – LOW VAULTED CEILINGS (BY STRIDER MARCUS JONES)
within those man stone walls
promoting their god
bringing us to him
i told the priest-
you tell us to be content
with poverty
while you live in this big house
throwing us scraps
begged from money lenders.
this is not what Jesus
asked his disciples to do.
this is not what he died for.
he said live amongst us
and share what they have.
the priest,
red with rage,
oppressive and oppressed-
pulled my mam aside
made her shrink in his stare
weep in his words
walk me in our sins
from his dark-damp house of angels.
outside
in feral sunshine
i pointed to grinning gargoyles
chasing chastened shadows
back down primitive paths-
to a cellar flat,
bare bulb dangling
prison beam probing
baptised flesh
and mam tipped tears
soaking into straw mattresses
sucking up cold from the flagstone floor
woodworms eating a Van Gogh table
where six mouths sat
sharing stale bread and cold beans
with whiskered skirting board mice.
years later,
i left Dedalus in Dublin
in the pages of a book
to his epiphany
and Jesuit suit of guilt-
while i quenched
my glistening fruit
in street light ladies-
drenched in smokey curling
dancing clouds
and stories from voices
bouncing off low vaulted ceilings
caressing human in darkness.
Bio: Strider Marcus Jones – 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/stridermarcusjones1. He is a maverick, moving between forests, mountains and cities, playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.
His poetry has been accepted for publication in 2015 by mgv2 Publishing Anthology; Earl Of Plaid Literary Journal 3rd Edition; Subterranean Blue Poetry Magazine; Deep Water Literary Journal, 2015-Issue 1; Kool Kids Press Poetry Journal; Page-A-Day Poetry Anthology 2015; Eccolinguistics Issue 3.2 January 2015; The Collapsed Lexicon Poetry Anthology 2015 and Catweazle Magazine Issue 8; Life and Legends Magazine; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Amomancies Poetry Magazine; The Art Of Being Human Poetry Magazine; Cahaba River Literary Journal; East Coast Literary Review; Nightchaser Ink Publishing Anthology – Autumn Reign; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; A New Ulster/Anu Issue 27/29/31/32/33/34; Poems For A Liminal Age Anthology; In The Trenches Poetry Anthology; Blue Lines Literary Journal, Spring 2015; Murmur Journal, April 2015; PunksWritePoemsPress-Rogue Poetry; Outburst Poetry Magazine; The Galway Review; The Honest Ulsterman Magazine; Writing Raw Poetry Magazine;The Lonely Crowd Magazine; Section8Magazine; Danse Macabre Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Coda Crab Books-Anthology-Peace:Give It A Chance; Clockwork Gnome:Quantum Fairy Tales; Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic Arts, May 2015 Issue and Don’t Be Afraid: Anthology To Seamus Heaney.
Really chuffed to have my poem Mavericks published in Issue 5 of Suburban Witchcraft Magazine. My thanks to the editors.
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.
Delighted to have three poems published in Chipmunk Poetry. My thanks to Editor Gopi Kottoor
Strider Marcus Jones | Chipmunk in Thiruvananthapuram
Does Her Far Beauty Know
does her
far beauty know
where my thoughts go
without her
when i walk
in lush rain lashing down-
squatting in enclosed fields
of remote wheat and barley
around told feudal cities and towns-
to talk
to fate and how it feels
to be emptied entirely
of hopes sounds-
these evolutions
fill rich men's purses
and revolutions
are poor universes
that try to bend
the unequal
to be equal
without end.
does her
far beauty know
where my thoughts go
with her
when i walk
in lush rain lashing down-
soaked in moments come to this
paradise and precipice
belonging
bonding
thoughts
serendipitous
blowing into us-
gives shelter to the self
of us and other else-
unlike bare rooms we rent
to leave behind
when change moves us to fit
into it-
with only our echo and scent
of passion and mind.
Cubist Ghettos
I think
To shrink
The distance
Of resistance
Inside self
To all else-
Knowing
Showing
Vulnerability
In the mystery
Leaves what is closed
Openly exposed-
To explanation
Under examination
When there isn’t one
That hasn’t gone
Until roof floor and sky door
Are no more-
Only roulette rubbles
Of drone troubles
Imprisoning
Reasoning
In cubist ghettos
Wearing jazz stilettos-
Flashing flamingo legs
To pink paradise harlem heads
While new trees grow up mute
And ripen with strange fruit
Some whites too this time
A drowned boy me and mine.
The Portal In The Woods
Seeing somnambulist sunrise
Through open window
Touch your face
After love rides
On moon tides
In ebb and flow
At tantric pace-
Love resides
Tasted
No asides
Wasted
Spices of the flesh
Soaking rooms in Marrakesh
How I ate your truffle in Zanzibar
While you smoked my long cigar.
Back home-
Tribes of bloods
And druids roam
Seeking out the overgrown
Portal in the woods
Where we handfast
In this present of the past
Dance chanting
In stone bone circles
Like ooparts
Practicing
Magical arts
Settling
What chaos hurtles-
Reconnecting rhythms
In living and dead
To those algorithms
In natures head.
We are rustic-
Romantic
In land and sky
The air fire water
To warriors who slaughter
If Us or Them must die.
We wake
For clambake
Pleasure
In a cauldron lake
Of limbs together
Then cut sods of peat
From the bog under our feet
Exposing the pasts
That never last.
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He edits The Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of the Poetry Society, he has been nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. In his five published books of poetry Strider Marcus Jones reveals a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Recusant, The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
Thrilled to have my poem The Patterns published by Editor Barbara Leonhard in MasticadoresUSA
“THE PATTERNS” by Strider Marcus Jones
Posted by MEELOSMOMon19 APRIL, 2024
somewhere
in everywhere
everybody
happens
in the patterns,
like flocks
of rocks
gathered to the lobby
of Saturn's
rings,
graded
and sorted
into ugly and beautiful
useful
things;
all something
out of nothing
but not absolute nothing:
it seems matter
that Mad Hatter
and plectrums of light
make tunes of self similarity settle and fight
repeating this same existence
without remembered resistance.
Copyright © 2024 Strider Marcus Jones
All Rights Reserved
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His poetry has been published in over 200 publications worldwide including: Dreich Magazine; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Melbourne Culture Corner; Literary Yard Journal; The Galway Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rye Whiskey Review; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; and Dissident Voice.
Delighted to have my poem Taking Off My Coat published by the superb Fixator Press. My thanks to Editor Jonathan Butcher.
TAKING OFF MY COAT by Strider Marcus Jones – Fixator Press (home.blog)
TAKING OFF MY COAT by Strider Marcus Jones
TAKING OFF MY COAT
each evening
is like taking off my coat.
i sit down
apart from the day
and nothing happens.
i let silence sing
her supernatural note-
in the air, i drown
in how the lonely play
as reality slackens.
curdling in a chair
with arms of broken branches
that used to be
and went somewhere
in circumstance and chances-
now greying, like wild hair
at the end of all its dances
with the gravity
gone from its romances-
i feel time's weight
compress the emptiness of fate,
into some sort of nothing
that held my hand,
and left me something-
to understand.
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, and nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
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 alter 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 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, and nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington
Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
Photo Nick Victor
Saturno Magazine, Articolo: LA VITA È FLAMENCO - STRIDER MARCUS JONES
LA VITA È FLAMENCO - STRIDER MARCUS JONES
LA VITA È FLAMENCO - STRIDER MARCUS JONES
Strider Marcus Jones è un poeta, laureato in legge ed ex - funzionario statale di Salford, in Inghilterra, con orgogliose radici celtiche in Irlanda e Galles. Attualmente è:
- Redattore ed editore del "Lothlorien Poetry Journal"
https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/.
- Membro della Poetry Society. I suoi 5 libri di poesie pubblicati potete consultarli sul sito sotto:
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/
Essi rivelano un anticonformista, che si muove tra le città , suonando il suo sassofono in stanze fumose.
Le sue poesie sono state pubblicate in numerose pubblicazioni tra cui:
- The Huffington Post USA;
- La rivista letteraria del ramo randagio;
- Crack La Rivista Letteraria Spine;
- La recensione di Lampeter e la voce dissidente.
LA VITA È FLAMENCO
Perché non posso camminare così lontano
e fumare più sigarette
o suonare la mia chitarra Spagnola
come Paco,
mettere ritmi e sensazioni
senza vecchie mansarde
che tu abbia mai udito
prima in una parola
La vita è flamenco
Va e torna
alta e bassa
veloce e lenta.
Lei lo ama
lui l'ama
e le loro sfumature all'interno
carezza e sprone
in un giro e in un ballo
di burrascoso romanticismo
nell'entroterra, nella facilità Andalusa,
Ti abbraccio, come una brezza che si scioglie
tra ulivi maturi
oscurità e differenza
tutto virile profumo
e la mente sciatta
come faccio io
Picasso sapeva
tutto su di te
quando disegnò
le braccia e le gambe allungate
intorno a me
in questo letto perenne
di emozione
e movimento
In questi angoli geometrici morbidi
nei miei schiocchi di dita
e fumi sparsi
di braccialetti ritmici
avvolge
colora la tua pelle celtica
con blu ftalo primitivo
Pigmento nel tatuaggio wiccan
prima di entrare
ali vibranti
attraverso corde che battono
di selvaggio lucido momento
in componenti eterni.
Posso camminare finché guarderò
e fumare più tabacco,
suonando la mia chitarra spagnola
come Paco.
My thanks to Agron Shele and Angela Kosta for publishing my poem Life is Flamenco on Poetic Galaxy Atunis in Albanian, Italian and English. Delighted and honoured.
STRIDER MARCUS JONES - LA VITA È FLAMENCO - Perqasje
STRIDER MARCUS JONES – LA VITA È FLAMENCO
Strider Marcus Jones ̬ un poeta, laureato in legge ed ex Рfunzionario statale di Salford, in Inghilterra, con orgogliose radici celtiche in Irlanda e Galles. Attualmente ̬:
- Redattore ed editore del “Lothlorien Poetry Journal”
- Membro della Poetry Society.
I suoi 5 libri pubblicati potete consultarli sul sito sotto:
Essi rivelano un anticonformista, che si muove tra le città , suonando il suo sassofono in stanze fumose.
Le sue poesie sono state pubblicate in numerose pubblicazioni tra cui:
- The Huffington Post USA;
- La rivista letteraria del ramo randagio;
- Crack La Rivista Letteraria Spine;
- La recensione di Lampeter e la voce dissidente.
LA VITA È FLAMENCO
Perché non posso camminare così lontano
e fumare più sigarette
o suonare la mia chitarra Spagnola
come Paco,
mettere ritmi e sensazioni
senza vecchie mansarde
che tu abbia mai udito
prima in una parola
La vita è flamenco
Va e torna
alta e bassa
veloce e lenta.
Lei lo ama
lui l’ama
e le loro sfumature all’interno
carezza e sprone
in un giro e in un ballo
di burrascoso romanticismo
nell’entroterra, nella facilità Andalusa,
Ti abbraccio, come una brezza che si scioglie
tra ulivi maturi
oscurità e differenza
tutto virile profumo
e la mente sciatta
come faccio io
Picasso sapeva
tutto su di te
quando disegnò
le braccia e le gambe allungate
intorno a me
in questo letto perenne
di emozione
e movimento
In questi angoli geometrici morbidi
nei miei schiocchi di dita
e fumi sparsi
di braccialetti ritmici
avvolge
colora la tua pelle celtica
con blu ftalo primitivo
Pigmento nel tatuaggio wiccan
prima di entrare
ali vibranti
attraverso corde che battono
di selvaggio lucido momento
in componenti eterni.
Posso camminare finché guarderò
e fumare più tabacco,
suonando la mia chitarra spagnola
come Paco.
STRIDER MARCUS JONES – LIFE IS FLAMENCO
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal
https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society,
his five published books of poetry
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
LIFE IS FLAMENCO
why can’t i walk as far
and smoke more tobacco,
or play my Spanish guitar
like Paco,
putting rhythms and feelings
without old ceilings
you’ve never heard
before in a word.
life is flamenco,
to come and go
high and low
fast and slow-
she loves him,
he loves her
and their shades within
caress and spur
in a ride and dance
of tempestuous romance.
outback, in Andalusian 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.
Tradotto in italiano da Angela Kosta Accademica scrittrice, poetessa, saggista, critica letteraria, redattrice, traduttrice, giornalista
Thankye to editor Barbara Leonhard for publishing this poem on Masticadores USA. Most appreciated.
MASTICADORESUSA, POEM, POETRY
“THE OTHER SELF” by Strider Marcus Jones
Posted by MEELOSMOMon18 MARCH, 2024
Photo by JJ Jordan on Pexels.com
the other self
abstracted in the press
of turned down pages,
gets mucked up in the mess
and shows how unlaminated age is.
if nothing else-
these nude notes
being played behind the curtain
where the stage is,
by soloist strings
and hermit woodwinds-
are far hopes
of uncertain
opening chords
calling out
to the duet
i haven't come to yet.
and afterwards,
if all those afterwards
could talk and kiss and spout,
there would be
no more misery
move it out.
Copyright © 2024 Strider Marcus Jones
All Rights Reserved
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
Haiku by Strider Marcus Jones – 5-7-5 Haiku Journal (wordpress.com)
Haiku by Strider Marcus Jones
honeysuckle grows
around the arch of midnight
into the wormhole
Editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal –
https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/
LIFE IS FLAMENCO – A POEM BY STRIDER MARCUS JONES (mebusiness.ae) Egypt
LIFE IS FLAMENCO – 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. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
LIFE IS FLAMENCO
why can’t i walk as far
and smoke more tobacco,
or play my Spanish guitar
like Paco,
putting rhythms and feelings
without old ceilings
you’ve never heard
before in a word.
life is flamenco,
to come and go
high and low
fast and slow-
she loves him,
he loves her
and their shades within
caress and spur
in a ride and dance
of tempestuous romance.
outback, in Andalusian 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.
Prepared Angela Kosta Academic, journalist, writer, poet, essayist, literary critic, editor, translator
Lothlorien Poetry Journal
Lothlorien Poetry Journal Edited by Strider Marcus Jones Poet –
LIFE IS FLAMENCO – A POEM BY STRIDER MARCUS JONES - Sindh Courier
LIFE IS FLAMENCO – A POEM BY STRIDER MARCUS JONES
Life is flamenco, To come and go, High and low, Fast and slow
Strider Marcus Jones is a poet from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales
Strider Marcus Jones, a poet, is 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. He is a member of The Poetry Society, and has his five published books of poetry. His poems reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
LIFE IS FLAMENCO
Why can’t I walk as far
And smoke more tobacco,
Or play my Spanish guitar
Like Paco,
Putting rhythms and feelings
Without old ceilings
You’ve never heard
Before in a word.
Life is flamenco,
To come and go
High and low
Fast and slow.
She loves him,
He loves her
And their shades within
Caress and spur
In a ride and dance
Of tempestuous romance.
Outback, in Andalusian 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.
________________
Shared by Angela Kosta, a renowned poetess and writer, born in Albania and based in Italy
Delighted to have these 5 Poems published in Our Poetry Archive OPA Volume 108 Freedom. My thanks to the editors and congratulations to all contributors in this issue.
******OUR POETRY ARCHIVE******: March 2024
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.
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.
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 alter 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.
THIS IS THE FIELD
this is not the field
for truth to grow in.
its furrowed lips are sealed
with knowing
nothing can sing
in the wrong wind.
the crop is stunted
self expression blunted
opinion gagged
and head sagged
waiting for the final blow
from the farmer's shadow.
the field hands
cut to His commands
and every leathered face
has served in its place
like all the others, for centuries
in these peasant penitentiaries,
without bolting
or revolting
in union, except for Loveless's Tolpuddle few,
who knew what to do
but were jailed, or transported
and thwarted.
this is the field
to refuse to yield
in. at Peterloo, sabres slit gullets,
and now, tear gas and rubber bullets,
try to abolish workers rights,
but our solidarity is stronger and fights.
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 its illustrious self
stealing the wealth
of massed, divided synergies.
mY SINCERE THANKS TO angela KOSTA FOR TRANSLATING MY POEM LIFE IS FLAMENCO INTO ALBANIAN & ITALIAN & PUBLISHING IT IN GAZETADESTINACIONI.AL NEWSPAPER ITALY. HONOURED & DELIGHTED.
Angela Kosta përkthen në dygjuhësh vargjet e poetit Strider Marcus Jones (gazetadestinacioni.al)
Angela Kosta përkthen në dygjuhësh vargjet e poetit Strider Marcus Jones
Strider Marcus Jones është poet i diplomuar në drejtësi dhe ish-nëpunës civil nga Salfordi (Angli), me rrënjë krenarisht kelte në Irlandë dhe Uells. Aktualisht ai është:
- Redaktor dhe botues i “Lothlorien Poetry Journal”
https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/
- Anëtar i Shoqatës së Poezisë.
5 librat e tij të botuara mund t’i konsultoni në faqen e internetit të mëposhtëm:
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/
Ata zbulojnë një antikomformist, i cili lëviz midis qyteteve, duke I rënë saksofonit të tij në dhoma të tymosura.
Poezitë e tij janë botuar në shumë revista duke përfshirë:
- Huffington Post USA;
- Revista letrare e degës endacake;
- Crack, revista letrare Spine;
- Recensioni i Lampeterit dhe zëri disident.
JETA ËSHTË FLAMENCO
Pse nuk mund të eci aq larg
dhe të tymos më shumë cigare
Ose t’i bie kitarës sime spanjolle
Si Paco,
Të ndjell ritme dhe ndjesi
Pa papafingo të vjetra
Që kurrë s’ke dëgjuar ndonjëherë
Pëpara në një fjalë
Jeta është flamenco!
Vjen dhe shkon
E lartë dhe e ulët
Shpejt dhe ngadalë.
Ajo e dashuron
Ai e dashuron
Dhe nuancat e tyre në brendësi
Përkëdhelje dhe nxitje
Në një rreth rrotullim dhe një kërcim
Të një stuhie romantike
në brendësi të tokës, në lehtësinë andaluziane,
Të përqafoj, si një fllad që shkrihet
ndër pemët e ullinjve të pjekur
Errësirë dhe diferencë
Gjithçka parfum burrëror
Dhe mendje e trazuar
Ashtu si unë.
Pikaso dinte
Gjithçka rreth teje
Kur pikturoi
Krahët dhe këmbët e shtrira
Rreth meje
Në këtë shtrat të përjetshëm
Emocionesh
Dhe lëvizjesh
Në këto kënde të buta gjeometrike
Në kërcitjet e gishtërinve të mi
Dhe fjollat e shpërndara
Byzylyqe ritmike
Të mbështjell
Ngjyros lëkurën tënde Kelte
Me blu të errët primitiv
Pigment në tatuazhin Wiccan
Para se të hyj
Krahë vibrues
Përmes telave që rrahin
Në moment të egër të vetëdijshëm
në komponente të përjetshme.
Mund të eci deri sa të shoh
dhe më shumë duhan të tymos
Duke i rënë kitarës sime spanjolle
Si Paco.
STRIDER MARCUS JONES – LA VITA È FLAMENCO
Strider Marcus Jones ̬ un poeta, laureato in legge ed ex Рfunzionario statale di Salford, in Inghilterra, con orgogliose radici celtiche in Irlanda e Galles. Attualmente ̬:
- Redattore ed editore del “Lothlorien Poetry Journal”
https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/.
- Membro della Poetry Society.
I suoi 5 libri pubblicati potete consultarli sul sito sotto:
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/
Essi rivelano un anticonformista, che si muove tra le città , suonando il suo sassofono in stanze fumose.
Le sue poesie sono state pubblicate in numerose pubblicazioni tra cui:
- The Huffington Post USA;
- La rivista letteraria del ramo randagio;
- Crack La Rivista Letteraria Spine;
- La recensione di Lampeter e la voce dissidente.
LA VITA È FLAMENCO
Perché non posso camminare così lontano
e fumare più sigarette
o suonare la mia chitarra Spagnola
come Paco,
mettere ritmi e sensazioni
senza vecchie mansarde
che tu abbia mai udito
prima in una parola
La vita è flamenco
Va e torna
alta e bassa
veloce e lenta.
Lei lo ama
lui l’ama
e le loro sfumature all’interno
carezza e sprone
in un giro e in un ballo
di burrascoso romanticismo
nell’entroterra, nella facilità Andalusa,
Ti abbraccio, come una brezza che si scioglie
tra ulivi maturi
oscurità e differenza
tutto virile profumo
e la mente sciatta
come faccio io
Picasso sapeva
tutto su di te
quando disegnò
le braccia e le gambe allungate
intorno a me
in questo letto perenne
di emozione
e movimento
In questi angoli geometrici morbidi
nei miei schiocchi di dita
e fumi sparsi
di braccialetti ritmici
avvolge
colora la tua pelle celtica
con blu ftalo primitivo
Pigmento nel tatuaggio wiccan
prima di entrare
ali vibranti
attraverso corde che battono
di selvaggio lucido momento
in componenti eterni.
Posso camminare finché guarderò
e fumare più tabacco,
suonando la mia chitarra spagnola
come Paco.
STRIDER MARCUS JONES – LIFE IS FLAMENCO
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal
https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society,
his five published books of poetry
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
LIFE IS FLAMENCO
Why can’t i walk as far
and smoke more tobacco,
or play my Spanish guitar
like Paco,
putting rhythms and feelings
without old ceilings
you’ve never heard
before in a word.
life is flamenco,
to come and go
high and low
fast and slow-
she loves him,
he loves her
and their shades within
caress and spur
in a ride and dance
of tempestuous romance.
outback, in Andalusian 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.
Prepared Angela Kosta Academic writer, poet, essayist, literary critic, editor, translator, journalist
Përgatiti dhe përktheu Angela Kosta Akademike, shkrimtare, poete, eseiste, kritike letrare, redaktore, promovuese, gazetare
Preparato e tradotto in italiano da Angela Kosta Accademica scrittrice, poetessa, saggista, critica letteraria, redattrice, traduttrice, giornalista
The Crossroads : LIFE IS FLAMENCO By Strider Marcus Jones (thecrossroadlitmagazine.blogspot.com)
Wednesday, February 28, 2024
LIFE IS FLAMENCO By Strider Marcus Jones
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 Andalusian 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.
Strider Marcus Jones (Përktheu dhe përgatiti Angela Kosta) - Orfeu.AL
Strider Marcus Jones (Përktheu dhe përgatiti Angela Kosta)
Moderator
- Redaktor dhe botues i "Lothlorien Poetry Journal"
https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/
- Anëtar i Shoqatës së Poezisë.
5 librat e tij të botuara mund t'i konsultoni në faqen e internetit të mëposhtëm:
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/
Ata zbulojnë një antikomformist, i cili lëviz midis qyteteve, duke I rënë saksofonit të tij në dhoma të tymosura.
Poezitë e tij janë botuar në shumë revista duke përfshirë:
- Huffington Post USA;
- Revista letrare e degës endacake;
- Crack, revista letrare Spine;
- Recensioni i Lampeterit dhe zëri disident.
JETA ËSHTË FLAMENCO
Pse nuk mund të eci aq larg
dhe të tymos më shumë cigare
Ose t'i bie kitarës sime spanjolle
Si Paco,
Të ndjell ritme dhe ndjesi
Pa papafingo të vjetra
Që kurrë s'ke dëgjuar ndonjëherë
Pëpara në një fjalë
Jeta është flamenco!
Vjen dhe shkon
E lartë dhe e ulët
Shpejt dhe ngadalë.
Ajo e dashuron
Ai e dashuron
Dhe nuancat e tyre në brendësi
Përkëdhelje dhe nxitje
Në një rreth rrotullim dhe një kërcim
Të një stuhie romantike
në brendësi të tokës, në lehtësinë andaluziane,
Të përqafoj, si një fllad që shkrihet
ndër pemët e ullinjve të pjekur
Errësirë dhe diferencë
Gjithçka parfum burrëror
Dhe mendje e trazuar
Ashtu si unë.
Pikaso dinte
Gjithçka rreth teje
Kur pikturoi
Krahët dhe këmbët e shtrira
Rreth meje
Në këtë shtrat të përjetshëm
Emocionesh
Dhe lëvizjesh
Në këto kënde të buta gjeometrike
Në kërcitjet e gishtërinve të mi
Dhe fjollat e shpërndara
Byzylyqe ritmike
Të mbështjell
Ngjyros lëkurën tënde Kelte
Me blu të errët primitiv
Pigment në tatuazhin Wiccan
Para se të hyj
Krahë vibrues
Përmes telave që rrahin
Në moment të egër të vetëdijshëm
në komponente të përjetshme.
Mund të eci deri sa të shoh
dhe më shumë duhan të tymos
Duke i rënë kitarës sime spanjolle
Si Paco.
.............................................................
STRIDER MARCUS JONES - LA VITA È FLAMENCO
Strider Marcus Jones è un poeta, laureato in legge ed ex - funzionario statale di Salford, in Inghilterra, con orgogliose radici celtiche in Irlanda e Galles. Attualmente è:
- Redattore ed editore del "Lothlorien Poetry Journal"
https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/.
- Membro della Poetry Society.
I suoi 5 libri pubblicati potete consultarli sul sito sotto:
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/
Essi rivelano un anticonformista, che si muove tra le città , suonando il suo sassofono in stanze fumose.
Le sue poesie sono state pubblicate in numerose pubblicazioni tra cui:
- The Huffington Post USA;
- La rivista letteraria del ramo randagio;
- Crack La Rivista Letteraria Spine;
- La recensione di Lampeter e la voce dissidente.
LA VITA È FLAMENCO
Perché non posso camminare così lontano
e fumare più sigarette
o suonare la mia chitarra Spagnola
come Paco,
mettere ritmi e sensazioni
senza vecchie mansarde
che tu abbia mai udito
prima in una parola
La vita è flamenco
Va e torna
alta e bassa
veloce e lenta.
Lei lo ama
lui l'ama
e le loro sfumature all'interno
carezza e sprone
in un giro e in un ballo
di burrascoso romanticismo
nell'entroterra, nella facilità Andalusa,
Ti abbraccio, come una brezza che si scioglie
tra ulivi maturi
oscurità e differenza
tutto virile profumo
e la mente sciatta
come faccio io
Picasso sapeva
tutto su di te
quando disegnò
le braccia e le gambe allungate
intorno a me
in questo letto perenne
di emozione
e movimento
In questi angoli geometrici morbidi
nei miei schiocchi di dita
e fumi sparsi
di braccialetti ritmici
avvolge
colora la tua pelle celtica
con blu ftalo primitivo
Pigmento nel tatuaggio wiccan
prima di entrare
ali vibranti
attraverso corde che battono
di selvaggio lucido momento
in componenti eterni.
Posso camminare finché guarderò
e fumare più tabacco,
suonando la mia chitarra spagnola
come Paco.
.............................................................
STRIDER MARCUS JONES - LIFE IS FLAMENCO
Strider Marcus Jones - is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal
https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society,
his five published books of poetry
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
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 Andalusian 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
-Prepared Angela Kosta Academic writer, poet, essayist, literary critic, editor, translator, journalist
-Preparato e tradotto in italiano da Angela Kosta Accademica scrittrice, poetessa, saggista, critica letteraria, redattrice, traduttrice, giornalista
LA VITA È FLAMENCO – STRIDER MARCUS JONES
Strider Marcus Jones ̬ un poeta, laureato in legge ed ex Рfunzionario statale di Salford, in Inghilterra, con orgogliose radici celtiche in Irlanda e Galles. Attualmente ̬:
– Redattore ed editore del “Lothlorien Poetry Journal”
https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/.
– Membro della Poetry Society. I suoi 5 libri di poesie pubblicati potete consultarli sul sito sotto:
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/
Essi rivelano un anticonformista, che si muove tra le città , suonando il suo sassofono in stanze fumose.
Le sue poesie sono state pubblicate in numerose pubblicazioni tra cui:
– The Huffington Post USA;
– La rivista letteraria del ramo randagio;
– Crack La Rivista Letteraria Spine;
– La recensione di Lampeter e la voce dissidente.
LA VITA È FLAMENCO
Perché non posso camminare così lontano
e fumare più sigarette
o suonare la mia chitarra Spagnola
come Paco,
mettere ritmi e sensazioni
senza vecchie mansarde
che tu abbia mai udito
prima in una parola
La vita è flamenco
Va e torna
alta e bassa
veloce e lenta.
Lei lo ama
lui l’ama
e le loro sfumature all’interno
carezza e sprone
in un giro e in un ballo
di burrascoso romanticismo
nell’entroterra, nella facilità Andalusa,
Ti abbraccio, come una brezza che si scioglie
tra ulivi maturi
oscurità e differenza
tutto virile profumo
e la mente sciatta
come faccio io
Picasso sapeva
tutto su di te
quando disegnò
le braccia e le gambe allungate
intorno a me
in questo letto perenne
di emozione
e movimento
In questi angoli geometrici morbidi
nei miei schiocchi di dita
e fumi sparsi
di braccialetti ritmici
avvolge
colora la tua pelle celtica
con blu ftalo primitivo
Pigmento nel tatuaggio wiccan
prima di entrare
ali vibranti
attraverso corde che battono
di selvaggio lucido momento
in componenti eterni.
Posso camminare finché guarderò
e fumare più tabacco,
suonando la mia chitarra spagnola
come Paco.
Tradotto da Angela Kosta Accademica scrittrice, poetessa, saggista, critica letteraria, redattrice, traduttrice, giornalista
Delighted to have my poem Two Misfits published in Oddball Magazine 14th February, 2024. Congratulations to the editors and all contributors.
Poem by Strider Marcus Jones - oddball magazine
“Manatees No. 1” © Bonnie Matthews Brock
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.
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. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His poetry has been published in numerous publications including The Huffington Post USA, The Stray Branch Literary Magazine, Crack The Spine Literary Magazine, The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
Bonnie Matthews Brock is a Florida-based photographer, as well a school psychologist. She loves hiking the urban and woodland trails of “anywhere” (and pausing often to shoot photos) with her very patient husband (and often collaborator), Ted. Her images have been featured on the covers of magazines such as Ibbetson Street, Wild Roof Journal, Poesy Magazine, Humana Obscura, and Arkansas Review; as well as on the pages of publications such as Oddball Magazine, Ember Chasm Review, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, Beaver Magazine, and Lateral. Her works are archived at institutions such as Poets House NYC, Brown University, and Harvard University.
Poem - The Dance (By Strider Marcus Jones) - Antarctica Journal
POEM – THE DANCE (BY 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 land
to reform and be reborn
as something and someone else.
there’s no great secret to it all.
no need to overthink it through
food and shelter
fire and shamens
clothes and coupling
used to be enough
with musicians
artists
and poets
interpreting the dance.
then warriors with armies
religions with god
and minds buying and selling
stole the landscape
and changed time.
smash the windows
break down the doors
melt the keys
rub evil words from their spells
and puncture the lungs of their wheels
before they kidnap you from bed
call you dissident
hold you without charge
wheel you out on a stretcher
from waterboard torture
for years
without trial
in Guantanamo Bay.
they are selling
the sanctuary
we made
with our numbers
bringing back chains
making some of us slaves
outside the dance
in the five coloured rings
making winners
and losers
holding flags and flames.
Author Bio:
Strider Marcus Jones 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. (view books) He is a maverick, moving between forests, mountains and cities, playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.
His poetry has been accepted for publication in 2015 by mgv2 Publishing Anthology; Earl Of Plaid Literary Journal 3rd Edition; Subterranean Blue Poetry Magazine; Deep Water Literary Journal, 2015-Issue 1; Kool Kids Press Poetry Journal; Page-A-Day Poetry Anthology 2015; Eccolinguistics Issue 3.2 January 2015; The Collapsed Lexicon Poetry Anthology 2015 and Catweazle Magazine Issue 8; Life and Legends Magazine; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Amomancies Poetry Magazine; The Art Of Being Human Poetry Magazine; Cahaba River Literary Journal; East Coast Literary Review; Nightchaser Ink Publishing Anthology – Autumn Reign; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; A New Ulster/Anu Issue 27/29/31/32/33/34; Poems For A Liminal Age Anthology; In The Trenches Poetry Anthology; Blue Lines Literary Journal, Spring 2015; Murmur Journal, April 2015; PunksWritePoemsPress-Rogue Poetry; Outburst Poetry Magazine; The Galway Review; The Honest Ulsterman Magazine; Writing Raw Poetry Magazine;The Lonely Crowd Magazine; Section8Magazine; Danse Macabre Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Coda Crab Books-Anthology-Peace:Give It A Chance; Clockwork Gnome:Quantum Fairy Tales; Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic Arts, May 2015 Issue and Don’t Be Afraid: Anthology To Seamus Heaney.
Poem - Low Vaulted Ceilings (By Strider Marcus Jones) - Antarctica Journal
POEM – LOW VAULTED CEILINGS (BY STRIDER MARCUS JONES)
within those man stone walls
promoting their god
bringing us to him
i told the priest-
you tell us to be content
with poverty
while you live in this big house
throwing us scraps
begged from money lenders.
this is not what Jesus
asked his disciples to do.
this is not what he died for.
he said live amongst us
and share what they have.
the priest,
red with rage,
oppressive and oppressed-
pulled my mam aside
made her shrink in his stare
weep in his words
walk me in our sins
from his dark-damp house of angels.
outside
in feral sunshine
i pointed to grinning gargoyles
chasing chastened shadows
back down primitive paths-
to a cellar flat,
bare bulb dangling
prison beam probing
baptised flesh
and mam tipped tears
soaking into straw mattresses
sucking up cold from the flagstone floor
woodworms eating a Van Gogh table
where six mouths sat
sharing stale bread and cold beans
with whiskered skirting board mice.
years later,
i left Dedalus in Dublin
in the pages of a book
to his epiphany
and Jesuit suit of guilt-
while i quenched
my glistening fruit
in street light ladies-
drenched in smokey curling
dancing clouds
and stories from voices
bouncing off low vaulted ceilings
caressing human in darkness.
Bio: Strider Marcus Jones – 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/stridermarcusjones1. He is a maverick, moving between forests, mountains and cities, playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.
His poetry has been accepted for publication in 2015 by mgv2 Publishing Anthology; Earl Of Plaid Literary Journal 3rd Edition; Subterranean Blue Poetry Magazine; Deep Water Literary Journal, 2015-Issue 1; Kool Kids Press Poetry Journal; Page-A-Day Poetry Anthology 2015; Eccolinguistics Issue 3.2 January 2015; The Collapsed Lexicon Poetry Anthology 2015 and Catweazle Magazine Issue 8; Life and Legends Magazine; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Amomancies Poetry Magazine; The Art Of Being Human Poetry Magazine; Cahaba River Literary Journal; East Coast Literary Review; Nightchaser Ink Publishing Anthology – Autumn Reign; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; A New Ulster/Anu Issue 27/29/31/32/33/34; Poems For A Liminal Age Anthology; In The Trenches Poetry Anthology; Blue Lines Literary Journal, Spring 2015; Murmur Journal, April 2015; PunksWritePoemsPress-Rogue Poetry; Outburst Poetry Magazine; The Galway Review; The Honest Ulsterman Magazine; Writing Raw Poetry Magazine;The Lonely Crowd Magazine; Section8Magazine; Danse Macabre Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Coda Crab Books-Anthology-Peace:Give It A Chance; Clockwork Gnome:Quantum Fairy Tales; Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic Arts, May 2015 Issue and Don’t Be Afraid: Anthology To Seamus Heaney.
Thrilled to have my poem I'm Getting Old Now published in Porch Lit Mag Issue 5, February 2024. My thanks to the editors and congratulations to the other contributors.
I’m Getting Old Now – Porch Litmag (porch-litmag.com)
I’m Getting Old Now
by Strider Marcus Jones
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 rambolic limousine
as i watched history brush out her silent secrets.
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, and nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, laying his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Recusant, The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
Delighted to have 3 poems published in Our Poetry Archive Issue 107, February 2024
******OUR POETRY ARCHIVE******: Search results for strider marcus jones
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 rambolic limousine
as i watched history brush out her silent secrets.
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 candlelight
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.
The Ascent Of Money
the stars are those
we have forgotten
both living and dead,
floating in clustered constellations
not labouring in rows-
with hair growing grey
and teeth going rotten
singing songs, God's godless pray.
harvesting crops.
chants drowned in clocks
of tobacco and cotton,
the peasants and slaves of civilised nations
duped by liberty
in recent history-
dug out canals, made railways and roads
out of tarmac to tread-
into factories
like tribal junkies
hooked on cheap gin and beer instead
of joining the cholera's watery dead-
ten to a room in a slum and lead-
like human batteries,
sleeping without moonlight
on sarsen stones,
or druid voices in their homes-
where thoughts have no dreams or flight,
just sleep, recharge, get bled.
you have to be poor,
to think utopia
can be something real-
not to exploit or steal
that ambrosia aura of women and children and men
for the spoken wages of despair-
that suck you in,
glad but grim
when times' clock punches that card by the door
and mass myopia
conditions all to labour, keyboard and pen
for food and shelter with a roof and fourth wall
shanty made out of cardboard, wood and tin
in sunny Sao Paolo, where the samba rain leaks in
while orphaned children beg and play
eating the forage of capitalist waste
dodging death squads night and day
imitating Socrates at football to hope to taste
what's inside the cold, glistening towers
casting invisible powers
behind the smoked glass and soldiers of stone
leaving blood and bleached bone
from over there-
where the ascent of money doesn't care
about it all
because its infinity is small.
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. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Our Poetry Archive; Melbourne Culture Corner; Literary Yard Journal; The Honest Ulsterman; Poppy Road Review; The Galway 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; A New Ulster; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine and Dissident Voice.
******OUR POETRY ARCHIVE******: January 2024
MONDAY, JANUARY 1, 2024
STRIDER MARCUS JONES
Weeds Left
weeds left,
wilt in the sun
without work and water.
their seeds
are the wild flowers,
waiting for volcanic wind
and ash to fall,
so the fertile cinders
can colonize herbaceous borders
ending the old age
of selfish sediment
treading it down
in molecules of time.
another Marxist
dons his trench coat
and tears pages from his red book
planting the old words
of revolution
in minds of homogenous compost.
over-privileged gallows begin to swing.
bullets sweat in their chambers
waiting for the right heads.
The Darkest Flower Is The Evening
again
consensual persuasions
make sensual equations
as we smoke and share a think,
then the same
as she bends over the shingle sink
breasts slapping
on bowl and rim,
peachy buttocks yapping
as i slide in
and out of her velvet purse
each time deeper than the first
two parts making one perfection
of mental physical connection.
outsides
i saw two magpies
in the branches of a tree
barbed tower
watching our sharing eyes
shape fractured liberty
slipping the shackles of feudal power.
in this then,
i know how all of when
you're gone
reduces me to being one
and the darkest flower
is the evening
opened by your scent
giving everything
and receiving
mine in mind and meldings meant.
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.
Love Wanes Like Old News
she left,
without remorse or love to lose-
and cleft
the music from the blues.
bereft,
in melancholy mental muse-
the theft
of love wanes like old news,
and jests
through pain to wear in new shoes-
the rest,
just words in ink and oral clues.
Poets In The Backfield
Stay a while?
The subliminal cuts are coming through
These days of deadly boredom,
And poets in the backfield
Writing
Something
Interesting.
Hardy, would not like today,
Life's become an angry play;
And our deoxyribonucleic acid
Carries no imagination,
That's not already put there
By a rival TV station.
I can hear you saying,
Yes, but we have the right to choose:
A colour, and a ball of string-
Or poets in the backfield
Writing
Something
Interesting.
You said:
"The Golden Bird eats Fish
In South America
And most of the peasants let him,
Because of Bolivar."
Yet, millions starved in Gulag camps,
And Czechs cried fears when Russian tanks,
Thundered through their traumoid streets
Pretending not to be elite.
As one old soldier put it:
"The West and East preach different dreams,
But ride the same black limousines."
Stay a while?
These sheets are cold
Without your sighing skin;
And this poet in the backfield
Is writing
Nothing
Interesting.
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. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
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