Strider Marcus Jones's Blog: https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/, page 18
September 25, 2020
I am delighted to have my poem The Two Saltimbanques included in the Dreich themed chapbook ‘Ekphrastic’. Dreich is a Scottish poetry press, named after Scotland’s most iconic word, as voted for by the good people of that country. My thanks to editor Jack
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.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his fifth book Pomegranate Flesh
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September 23, 2020
Really chuffed to have my poem Fading Sphinx published in dyst Literary Journal Issue 3 on 24th September, 2020. My thanks to editor Rosey Ravelston.
https://dystjournal.net/dyst/issue-3
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FADING SPHINX
another beautiful eye
reflects lifes lie,
when you look into its face
and see a better place
close by.
without that circle round its dream,
everything is seen
to separate unequally in two
and drift apart blown through
old sky.
the why, where and when
does not matter then,
as it dissipates
into other fates
making old orders die.
in all the residue
of what we knew,
a fading sphinx, casting contemporary
shadows, rises, temporary
but still drops by
elsewhere, in the flawed foundations
of younger civilizations,
building their own
mountains of shaped stone
where polished lenses spy.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his fourth book Wooded Windows
September 16, 2020
Thrilled to have my poem The Patterns published in Issue 1 of Kitchen Sink Magazine. My thanks to the editors.
https://www.kitchensinkmagazine.com/
Click to access d366e2_9d1d389a7afa4fa18ab4ffd607953259.pdf
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The Patterns ~ Strider Marcus Jones
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.
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 poem Summer Wind published in Trouvaille Review on 15th September, 2020. My thanks to the editors.
https://www.trouvaillereview.org/home/summer-wind-by-strider-marcus-jones
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Summer Wind by Strider Marcus Jones
you remind me of the rhythms in myself-
no house to play to
or the sound in someone else-
that drives their dreams
in simple scenes.
your music, is the motion of the waves
soul troubled too-
by yesterdays,
searching for a sigh that isnt wrong
to be its song.
your meadow, is a harvest shimmering
in light and hue,
in summer wind,
waiting, for a stranger passing through-
to settle in its simmering.
taste the rain
and take it in you,
long for it to come again-
meanings grow when fates continue
to reach for reasons, and remain.
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.
September 14, 2020
Really chuffed to have eight poems published in Literary Yard e-Journal on 13th September, 2020. My thanks to the editors.
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‘My old socks’ and other poems by Strider Marcus Jones
BY AUTHOR ON SEPTEMBER 13, 2020 • ( LEAVE A COMMENT )
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.
###
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.
###
I WANT WHAT ORDINARY OTHERS WANT
i want
what others want-
synchronicity
and simplicity
in life of free will-
sharing some land
i can work with my hands
no more slave still-
time trapped.
lines tapped.
steps tagged.
voice gagged.
this elite mafia
of Orwell and Kafka
has built Metropolis
on old Acropolis-
reducing proles
to zombie roles
in constitutions
of constructed evolutions,
with blood to dust faiths
riding like dark wraiths
bullets shredding
bombing and beheading
the innocents
and dissidents
to steal their lot
and not share what you’ve got.
###
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.
###
THIS TENTATIVE RAFT
my muse
i choose
the intense interlude
of mood
longing in the swim
of flesh and skin
to show contentment
is the rest meant
after making love
holding all above.
passion rocking and swaying
finds ordinary ways of playing
back and out
those constant streams about
tranquill conversations
flowing in situations.
this tentative raft
is piloted deeper and daft
surviving hidden sandbars
under unreachable stars-
not to gain
fortune and fame
but to be different
than the same
life inside walls and doors
behind closed curtains on false floors.
###
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 DANCE
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.
###
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 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 reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
‘My old socks’ and other poems by Strider Marcus Jones
Absolutely delighted to have my poem: Does Her Far Beauty Know published in Cajun Mutt Press on 14th September, 2020. My thanks to editor, James D. Casey IV.
https://cajunmuttpress.wordpress.com/2020/09/14/cajun-mutt-press-featured-writer-09-14-20/
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Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 09/14/20
September 14, 2020 James D. Casey IV
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.
©2020 Strider Marcus Jones All rights reserved.
September 13, 2020
Honoured to have my poem Pyramid Prison published by Dissident Voice on September 13th, 2020. My thanks to Poetry editor Angie Tibbs.
Pyramid Prison
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Pyramid Prison
by Strider Marcus Jones / September 13th, 2020
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 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 reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. Read other articles by Strider Marcus.
This article was posted on Sunday, September 13th, 2020 at 8:03am and is filed under Poetry.
All content © 2007-20
September 9, 2020
Delighted to have my poem Old Flowers published in Poppy Road Review (May 22nd, 2020)from my book Wooded Windows. https://poppyroadreview.blogspot.com/...
OLD FLOWERS
old flowers
bloom in the after hours
trailing scent-
and their words still drawn
fill the night and dawn
the way they went.
new to ours,
coffee shops and church clock towers
remember those times spent
in warm
touchings born
out of movement.
tempting rain showers
in silent bane’s empty hours
shuffle and lament-
the thoughts swarm
and mind-bed warm
coupling of consent.
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 reveal a maverick playing his saxophone in warm solitude.
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/
September 7, 2020
Thrilled to have my poem The Two Saltimbanques published in The Ekphrastic Review on 4th August 2020.
https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/the-two-saltimbanques-by-strider-marcus-jones
The Two Saltimbanques, by Pablo Picasso (Spain) 1960
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.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones
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. 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.
August 22, 2020
Really chuffed to have my poem Where Words Go published in Neuro Logical Literary Magazine. My thanks to the editors.
https://www.neurologicalliterarymagazine.com/post/where-words-go-mark-jones
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Where words go – Strider Marcus Jones
I want to go
Where words go
After we say them
And settle on their receivers thought
To ease their mind if caught,
And warm their heart throughout.
I want to roam about
Where words hang out
When no one hears them,
And watch them enter someone else
Invisible with stealth
To make them hope or doubt.
I want to be a word
Profound or absurd
And be adopted or rejected.
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.
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/
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