Strider Marcus Jones's Blog: https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/, page 17

Really chuffed to have my poem Poets In The Backfield published in The Beatnik Cowboy. My thanks to brilliant editor Chris Butler.

https://beatnikcowboy.com/

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Strider Marcus Jones

OCTOBER 29, 2020 ~ LEAVE A COMMENT

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.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his second book Inside Out https://www.lulu.com/en/gb/shop/strider-marcus-jones/inside-out/paperback/product-1v85mddp.html

VISIGOTH ROVER by Strider Marcus Jones

Poetry in Surrey Libraries

Photo by Hernán Piñera

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…

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Delighted to have my two poems Broken Omnibus and Ethnicity Blends published in The Poet Magazine, AUTUMN 2020 Issue- Poetry on the theme of A NEW WORLD from poets around the world. My thanks to Editor Robin Barratt.

https://www.thepoetmagazine.org/autumn-2020—a-new-world

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BROKEN OMNIBUS

in
out
about

another
day
of centrifugal

do
and
doubt

at home
in town
going down.

so out
the sun
like some

great
worshipped one
looks on

this
primitive
petri dish

thinking
back to the
beginning

one time
thinning
bliss

in opus
of ordinal
opulence-

such unfurled pus
unevenly spread
like jam on coronation crust

seduced by alchemy’s golden thread
to Mephistopheles sun splashed bed
but seeking exodus

with the Creator
back to nature
in broken omnibus.

ETHNICITY BLENDS

hear that rain
swell the brain
contagious

like a plain
Auschwitz train
outrageous

looking back, we did the same,
coming forward, we do it again,
ethnicity blends to save us.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his second book Inside Out

SELECTED POEMS from INSIDE OUT by Strider Marcus Jones



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http://www.wattpad.com/story/30815-15-poems-from-my-second-book-inside-out-by-strider

Chuffed to have my poem My Old Socks published in the October 2020 issue of Litterateur Redefining World. My thanks to the editors.

https://litterateurrw.com/#:~:text=Litterateur%20Redefining%20World%2C%20a%20monthly,to%20submissions%20throughout%20the%20year.

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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.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

Really chuffed to have my poem Back To Its Root published in Issue 2 of Madness Muse Press on 4th October, 2020. My thanks to editor John Compton.

WEEK #2




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BACK TO ITS ROOT

the back bone crumbles in its frame
twisted and curved inside its vine-
upwards, it craves the warm sunshine,
aware that mortality is vain.

back to its root-
abort an echo with male voice,
giving its mother a tough choice-
o seductive flute.

a lonely child-
different to its brothers,
distant from others-
growing in the wild.

peek down memory tubes-
to poverty collecting wire and wood
for food and fire where slum streets stood
with imaginary friend, the talking morphine soothes.

into now, the past, the pain-
thoughts tumours clot the blood;
know your own knots inside the wood-
and change to remain, but keep the grain.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his second book Inside Out

https://www.lulu.com/shop/strider-marcus-jones/inside-out/paperback/product-5266487.html

http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=ntt_athr_dp_sr_1?_encoding=UTF8&field-author=Strider%20Marcus%20Jones&search-alias=books-uk

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

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Strider Marcus Jones





Impspired Issue 7


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

BLOOD AND VOW

the past plough

through this continuum

cannot be denied

and I am tied

to its dead

equilibrium

by blood and vow

once two backs

lips wide

whose broken thread

fooled polygraph tracks

even her eyes lied

as she did the devil’s dance

with chance and circumstance

mortal bribed

she was only doing

what other men do to women

so how could I not be forgiving

love is umbilical

and cynical

for all its miracle

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

Thrilled to have 5 poems published in Our Poetry Archive V-6 No.7: OCTOBER 2020. My thanks to the editors.

https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2020/10/strider-marcus-jones.html

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CUBIST GHETTOS

I think

To shrink

The distance

Of resistance

Inside self

To all else-

Knowing

Showing

Vulnerability

In the mystery

Leaves what is closed

Openly exposed-

To explanation

Under examination

When there isn’t one

That hasn’t gone

Until roof floor and sky door

Are no more-

Only roulette rubbles

Of drone troubles

Imprisoning

Reasoning

In cubist ghettos

Wearing jazz stilettos-

Flashing flamingo legs

To pink paradise Harlem heads

While new trees grow up mute

And ripen with strange fruit

Some whites too this time

A drowned boy me and mine.

THE PORTAL IN THE WOODS

Seeing somnambulist sunrise

Through open window

Touch your face

After love rides

On moon tides

In ebb and flow

At tantric pace-

Love resides

Tasted

No asides

Wasted

Spices of the flesh

Soaking rooms in Marrakesh

How I ate your truffle in Zanzibar

While you smoked my long cigar.

Back home-

Tribes of bloods

And druids roam

Seeking out the overgrown

Portal in the woods

Where we handfast

In this present of the past

Dance chanting

In stone bone circles

Like ooparts

Practicing

Magical arts

Settling

What chaos hurtles-

Reconnecting rhythms

In living and dead

To those algorithms

In natures head.

We are rustic-

Romantic

In land and sky

The  air  fire  water

To warriors who slaughter

If Us or Them must die.

We wake

For clambake

Pleasure

In a cauldron lake

Of limbs together

Then cut sods of peat

From the bog under our feet

Exposing the pasts

That never last.

CLOUDS OF CHAOTIC CROWDS

Smitten-

Bitten

Like Faustus-

Leave the house dust

With fool’s gold

Unsold.

This conveyor belt lair

A castle in the air

For Dante’s dreams of doubt

To wander about

In, with voices that pretend

To be a different friend-

Oh my, what a frame,

Too big to blame

And beyond a simple say

To save and stay-

So, close the dungeon door

To be what you were before

And walk away

Into the clouds

Of chaotic crowds

Falling as rain

On sterile plain.

DARK DRAWN MAN

dark drawn man

in two – legged sedan,

Diogenes least

the more i am.

a worn down crease-

opens

like blotched butterfly wings,

that drop in tokens

on imaginings-

lost, but living

through drought and giving.

dark drawn man

of wiccan, glam

rock and folk-

who likes a smoke;

hermit and ham,

sometimes a dam

for the waterfall

of it all-

bohemian and gothic,

romantic, hypnotic,

un-photographic

hates cam.

dark drawn man

whose thought beats flam

on sticks

of words

his focus and blurs

without tricks

of prussian blue

and cadmium red

the way Modigliani drew

his mistress on his bed.

Sophocles was right!

the darkest days, catch chinks of light-

running out of Ram,

but love is who i am.

TRAPPED IN MANUFACTURED TIME

so lost schooled-

but not a fool,

stands in cold sunshine

on golden heath

where no kings rule

and ancestors of cottons thief,

make poor ends meet for dirty dime-

trapped in manufactured time.

he sits

and fits

in the shadows of its shades

and lines

on Cribden hill-

where clouds spill

like wire brillowed blinds,

imagining a wintered witch

composing pagan spells and rhymes

with bones like martyred blades,

whose burned marrow curses

industrialists and tokened slaves-

to believe a full purse is

how life measures made.

the trees are gone,

and wandering tribes,

who worked and gathered everything as one-

now live down in gas warmed hives,

in settled serfdom’s

truths and lies.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones

BIO

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

                                        ——————————————

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India and Switzerland in numerous publications including mgv2 Publishing Anthology; And Agamemnon Dead; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; A New Ulster/Anu; Outburst Poetry Magazine; The Galway Review; The Honest Ulsterman Magazine; The Lonely Crowd Magazine; Section8Magazine; Danse Macabre Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic Arts; Don’t Be Afraid: Anthology To Seamus Heaney; Dead Snakes Poetry Magazine; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine; Syzygy Poetry Journal Issue 1 and Ammagazine/Angry Manifesto Issue 3.

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

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

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

09/28/2020

FRACTALS OF CLARITY

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

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

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

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

what this does
to us.

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

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his fifth book Pomegranate Flesh

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

http://lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusjones1…

https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com

https://wattpad.com/user/stridermarcusjones…

Thrilled to have my two poems The Green Man and Henge published in A Too Powerful Word online magazine. My thanks to editor Danijela Trajković.

https://atoopowerfulword.wixsite.com/magazine/post/strider-marcus-jones?fbclid=IwAR3hOLCph7kQ4mTofopwlaDKil-CE0ZUWftdmGztKC2brVi86uKrBBhyRuo

THE GREEN MAN

i have the green man

growing in his tree

feet to earth

hands in sky

head with heart.

prophetic and pagan

his persuasion

is asking me to be

like the mother who gave me birth-

but now,

even how

we go to die

is apart.

his eyes

behind his hair

both stare

at Babylonians

becoming Old Bostonians

changing us from Custodians

leaving the DreamTime

to work in line.

my door,

is always open

in case he comes back in

running half broken

father mine from the mill dripping

stale sweat

on the hearth floor

but i don’t forget

him shaping his words and hands

everywhere he sits and stands

so selfless to let me see

how to set my own mind free-

break the blames that blind you

and liberty will find you;

real truth, is not what everyone knows

but in their echoes

unspoken shadows.

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.

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 forests, mountains, cities and coasts playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude. His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India and Switzerland in numerous publications including mgv2 Publishing Anthology; Dreich Magazine; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard e-Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; The Poet Magazine; 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; Danse Macabre Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic Arts; Don’t Be Afraid: Anthology To Seamus Heaney; Dead Snakes Poetry Magazine; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine.

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

DREICH Themes

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VELVET TANGERINE

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

CALCULUS

Darwin can’t explain the missing link,
and science, did not invent the goal
of faith in how we think-
but Newton keeps us
sane to find the whole
gravity and reason for our role-
in calculus.

science beyond ours does exist,
in un-deciphered hieroglyphs
and alchemy’s of metals
malleable like petals
on spaceships
crashed in Roswell, gone
to Area 51.

like Dedalus, who prayed too good
through Dublin’s streets
of saints and sinners,
while whores exchanged their treats
for cash, from winners and beginners-
i walked towards the priesthood,
but woke up wet with wood.

i realised, Carlisle was right in saying:
no lie can live forever-
that the Gods we make together
praying-
don’t care or intervene
in human fate and actions-
so Spinoza’s God is seen,

in the orderly reactions
of the universe-
creating life, and waiting hearse-
but metaphors of doubt persist
on the road to armageddon,
for if physics shapes all of this-
what shapes these cloths of heaven?


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his second book Inside Out