Strider Marcus Jones's Blog: https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/, page 13

Delighted to have my two poems Grains of Sand and Wooded Windows translated into French by Rebecca Morrison on her website ILLUMINATIONS GALERIE DE L’ART ET DE LA POÉSIE.

STRIDER MARCUS JONES

BY ILLUMINATIONSGALERIE MARCH 9, 2021

Strider Marcus Jones – est un poète, diplômé en droit, et ancien fonctionnaire de Salford, en Angleterre, avec de fières racines celtiques en Irlande et au Pays de Galles. Membre de La société de poésie d’Angleterre, ses cinq recueils de poésie publiés révèlent un franc-tireur, se déplaçant entre les villes, jouant de son saxophone dans des salles enfumées. https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com

Sa poésie a été publiée aux États-Unis, au Canada, en Australie, en Angleterre, en Écosse, en Irlande, au Pays de Galles, en France, en Espagne, en Allemagne; Serbie, en Inde et en Suisse dans de nombreuses publications dont : The Piker Press; Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.

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

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

Les grains de sable

imaginer
traverser le Sahara
avec les touareg;
dormir
sous un seul vaste dais d’étoiles,
consolé par les constellations
qui a jadis regardaient
les forêts anciennes
et les montagnes érodées par le vent
plus vieux que ceux-ci ici maintenant.
tout se répète—
les lits de la rivière et les rochers
retour à la mer,
où des étrangers temporaires
s’assoient comme Robinson Crusoé
sur des plages bruyantes ratissées par des tracteurs
dans des odeurs de sel et des moules non-trouvées
regarder les vagues,
penser à l’intérieur d’eux
aller et venir
comme des amis dont on a peur
comme la nature se réaccorde
ignorant notre signification
devenant des grains de sable.

Grains of Sand

imagine
crossing the Sahara
with the Tuareg;
sleeping
under one vast canopy of stars,
consoled by constellations
that once looked down
on ancient forests
and wind worn mountains
older than these here now.
it all repeats itself—
the river beds and rocks
return to the sea,
where temporary strangers
sit like Robinson Crusoe
on loud, tractor-raked beaches
in smells of salt and missed mussels
watching the waves,
thinking inside them
coming and going
like friends to be afraid of—
as nature retunes herself
ignoring our significance
becoming grains of sand.

Les fenêtres en bois

Alors que cette longue vie avance lentement
je reviens
regarder à travers les fenêtres en bois.
en avant ou en arrière, les empires et les régimes restent
dans les pyramides du pouvoir
massacrer les irréprochables pour un gain glorieux.
soldats féodaux tirant des fusils
et des oiseaux sans ailes lâchant des missiles autoguidés
sur les mères, les pères, les filles, les fils,
suivent des ordres plus élevés
pour moderniser les civilisations anciennes
répéter ce que l’histoire nous a appris.
à leur tour, leurs tours de système de classe et d’argent
va s’effondrer et s’écraser
au-dessus d’Ozymandias.
hé maintenant, bois d’hiver saisissent sans feuilles
et nous y entraînant.
glissade d’amour en jours
à travers les vagues de chaleur estivales
et vieux voies forestiers
avec nous lécher
puis dégoulinant
et coller
chanter des chansons wiccan
embrassé dans les liens païens
vivions lumière, aimé longtemps,
doigts peignant des runes sur la peau
retour au début
quand la liberté n’était pas péché.

Wooded Windows

as this long life slowly goes
i find my self 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.
loveslide 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.

Delighted to have my poem Hopper’s Ladies published in Issue 1 of Bloom Literary Magazine. My thanks to editor Nika Jordan Rose. https://redpenguinbooks.com/bloom-lit...

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.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

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

https://fleasonthedog.com/

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

TEN (10) poemS poems poems poems

By Strider Marcus Jones

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

MAVERICKS

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


TWO MISFITS

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

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

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


THE BLOOD THAT MAKES US BLACK

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

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

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


VISIGOTH ROVER

i went on the bus to Cordoba,

and tried to find the Moor’s

left over

in their excavated floors

and mosaic courtyards,

with hanging flowers brightly chamelion

against whitewashed walls

carrying calls

behind gated iron bars-

but they were gone

leaving mosque arches

and carved stories

to God’s doors.

in those ancient streets

where everybody meets;

i saw the old successful men

with their younger women again,

sat in chrome slat chairs,

drinking coffee to cover

their vain love affairs-

and every breast,

was like the crest

of a soft ridge

as i peeped over

the castle wall and Roman bridge

like a Visigoth rover.

soft hand tapping on shoulder,

heavy hair

and beauty older,

the gypsy lady gave her clover

to borrowed breath,

embroidering it for death,

adding more to less

like the colours fading in her dress.

time and tune are too planned

to understand

her Trevi fountain of prediction,

or the dirty Bernini hand

shaping its description.

THAT BLACKSMITH FELLOW

crumpling

crumbling

heart

war thump

peace pump

stall start

cave hunting

and gathering

in groups

to farms with crops

and hoofed live stocks

drink beer, eat meat and soups.

that blacksmith fellow,

with fire and forge, hammer and bellow,

is still the alchemist-

malleous like his mettles

when everybody settles

into civil lists.

in us now,

the subliminal plough

sets our furrows footsteps-

so summer’s run and winter’s plod,

with, or without god

in and out of upsets.

IN MAID’S WATER

we’ve left the well-footed

road,

the rutted

and rebutted

road

of shadows cast

by towered glass.

opened closed curtains

for fusty moths,

chanted white spells with Wiccan’s

goths;

left pictured

rooms and halls-

become un-scriptured

hills and squalls-

in maid’s water

pouring down her

erect chalk man,

like a wild gypsy,

love tipsy

partisan,

smelling of cinnabar

and his cigar,

swirling

like whirling

clouds

while the changed wind howls.

THIS IS THE FIELD

this is not the field

for truth to grow in.

its furrowed lips are sealed

with knowing

nothing can sing

in the wrong wind.

the crop is stunted

self expression blunted

opinion gagged

and head sagged

waiting for the final blow

from the farmer’s shadow.

the field hands

cut to His commands

and every leathered face

has served in its place

like all the others, for centuries

in these peasant penitentiaries,

without bolting

or revolting

in union, except for the Tolpuddle few,

who knew what to do

but were jailed, or transported

and thwarted.

WATER AND MIST

let the world do what it does,

and when the desert

comes for us

we will be water-

sow the seeds of new ideas

replace the wars and fears

of decadent thrones

spying on the homes

of those they slaughter.

bring on the people’s revolution,

that returns our stolen

land into our hands

from these swollen

fat cats, with their final solution

and fascist FEMA plans.

let the world do what it does,

and when the guns

are turned on us

we will be mist-

eclipsing everything they’ve done

when we resist.

strike them like ghosts

in the halls of their hosts,

topple their temples of sin-

dissolve all their banks,

then their missiles and tanks,

leave no corrupted survivor-

cleanse what’s within

for a new way to begin

by severing each head from this hydra.

THE DOOR

the door

between skyfloor

topbottom

is rankrotten

portalbliss

or abjectabyss.

it contains conversations

confrontations,

hiding loves two-ings

in lost ruins-

shuts us inside our self

with or without someone else.

we,

the un-free,

disenfranchised poor

have no bowl of more-

only pain

on the same plain

as before,

homeless

or in shapeless boxes,

worked out, hunted, like urban foxes-

outlaws on common lands

stolen from empty hands.

files on us found

from gathering sound

where mutations abound

put troops on the ground.

MIND’S AND MUSK

so now

we both came

to this same

branch and bough-

no one else commutes

from different roots.

me carrying Celtic stones

with runes on skin over bones-

and you, in streams

on evicted land

trashed ancients panned-

our truth dreams

under star light crossing beams.

in here, there is no mask

of present building out the past

with gilded Shard’s of steel and glass

shutting out who shall not pass.

the tree of life breathes

a rebel destiny believes-

we are minds and musk

no more husks and dust.

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

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

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

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

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

Delighted to have my two poems Exotic Birds and Life Is Flamenco published online in Poetry Life and Times. My thanks to editor Robin Hislop.

EXOTIC BIRDS & LIFE IS FLAMENCO. Poems by Strider Marcus Jones https://www.artvilla.com/plt/exotic-b...

EXOTIC BIRDS & LIFE IS FLAMENCO. Poems by Strider Marcus Jones

February 25, 2021 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

(i.)
 
EXOTIC BIRDS
 
i love the substance
of eccentric style
in your beauty-
the enchanting glance
of old fashioned romance
in your smile
that softly soothes me
after the external joust dust
of modernity
settles
on precious metals
sought by Faustus
stealing gas and oil
from African soil.
i love the dink
in the middle of your back
where my fingers sink
when i trace and track
the road of your spine
in perfect sync
of mind with mine.
i last, near and far
in your scented clouds of cinnabar,
singing, with you, want you, words
like intoxicating exotic birds-
ready to leave poisonous suburbs
to disturbed self and same
arrogant and vain
vices and vines
embracing abyss in eclipsed times.
 
(ii.)
 
LIFE IS FLAMENCO
 
why can’t i walk as far
and smoke more tobacco,
or play my Spanish guitar
like Paco,
putting rhythms and feelings
without old ceilings
you’ve never heard
before in a word.
 
life is flamenco,
to come and go
high and low
fast and slow-
 
she loves him,
he loves her
and their shades within
caress and spur
in a ride and dance
of tempestuous romance.
 
outback, in Andalucien ease,
i embrace you, like melted breeze
amongst ripe olive trees-
dark and different,
all manly scent
and mind unkempt.
 
like i do,
Picasso knew
everything about you
when he drew
your elongated arms and legs
around me, in this perpetual bed
of emotion
and motion
for these soft geometric angles
in my finger strokes
and exhaled smokes
of rhythmic bangles
to circle colour your Celtic skin
with primitive phthalo blue
pigment in wiccan tattoo
before entering
vibrating wings
through thrumming strings
of wild lucid moments
in eternal components.
 
i can walk as far
and smoke more tobacco,
and play my Spanish guitar
like Paco.
 

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

Welcome to Lothlorien Poetry Journal. Submissions Open.

https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/

https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/p/submission-guidelines.html

Editor Strider Marcus Jones

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_…

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

His poetry blogs are:

http://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordp…

https://poetrybystridermarcusjones.blogspot.com/?view=timeslide

Join him on Facebook
https://www.facebook.com/stridermarcu…

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/15762249-mavericks

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.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. Pomegranate Flesh. 

POURING OUT AND IN

i must have broken every scripture

thinking about the sculpture

of your face

your blossom face.

modelled in skin

with bones hid in

expressions

and confessions-

understanding them

i feel again

impressions of your senses

aroused when sensual steam condenses

on quivering quill and quim

pouring out and in.

smoking in the dark-

still floating, on the pillows, you used to arch

giving up to me

quaffing thirstily-

then, i stand glowing

with sweat like a god

from the peat bog

lovelust growing

mo anam chara

mo ghra.Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. Wooded Windows.

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.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. Mavericks.

EVENSTAR

i wait
and listen
for the faint fall
of her footsteps
and the soft lilt
of her ethereal voice
that hangs in the air
to the shape and sound
of musical notes
that move like Degas’ dancers
around the thoughtful beauty
of her fabulous face
to become lucid
with loves weight
but weightless and warm once worn
as their essence enters me.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. Inside Out.

FALLING FOR YOU

so far back
deep in the magma of you,
with thoughts i lack
suddenly coming too.

so far back
in your words and feelings hue,
your molten track
a furnace of fire anew.

the pleasures foretold
in this word unglued,
now mine to behold
falling for you.

come love, etch your runes
onto sensuous skin,
and make my empty waiting rooms
ripple with longing.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. Aspects of Love.

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.

Happy to have my poem Old Cafe published on Poetry in Surrey Libraries blog on 25th January, 2021. My thanks to editors J M. Gale and Neil Richards.

https://npdsurrey.wordpress.com/2021/01/25/old-cafe-by-strider-marcus-jones/

OLD CAFE by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on January 25, 2021 by jmgale

Image by Nuno Lopes from Pixabay 

a rest, from swinging bar
and animals in the abattoir-
to smoke in mental thinks
spoken holding cooling drinks.

counting out old coppers to be fed
in the set squares of blue and red
plastic table cloth-
just enough to break up bread in thick barley broth.

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

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

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

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

watched by sinister sentinels-
while scratched tubular bells,
summon all to sunday service
where invisible myths exist- to a shamed flower
with supernatural power
come the hour.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/messymind/

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

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

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

Thrilled to have my poem In The Notes Of My Guitar published on Poetry in Surrey Libraries blog on 20th January, 2021. My thanks to editors J M. Gale and Neil Richards.

https://npdsurrey.wordpress.com/2021/01/20/in-the-notes-of-my-guitar-by-strider-marcus-jones/

IN THE NOTES OF MY GUITAR by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on January 20, 2021 by jmgale

Image by Monica Volpin from Pixabay

i discover who you are
in the notes of my guitar-
love songs
sad songs,
good wronged
grown back songs,
plucking soft and strong
in nowhere
for somewhere
to belong.
chords fill the space
around the beauty of your face,
with lyrics in the breeze
on this road of serendipity,
where silver trees
mark the way to go, and be.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

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

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

Thrilled to have my poem 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.

Delighted to have my poem I Know Your Notes published on Poetry in Surrey Libraries blog on 15th January, 2021. My thanks to editors J M. Gale and Neil Richards.

https://npdsurrey.wordpress.com/2021/01/15/i-know-your-notes-by-by-strider-marcus-jones/

I KNOW YOUR NOTES by by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted on January 15, 2021 by jmgale

Image by simisi1 from Pixabay 

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

and Mr Blue
sky
with eggy eye
subliminally sends Otis

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

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

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

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.