Strider Marcus Jones's Blog: https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/, page 22

SELECTED POEMS from INSIDE OUT by Strider Marcus Jones

https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/selected-poems-from-inside-out-by-strider-marcus-jones/

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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. 

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones INSIDE OUT 2009. All Rights Reserved.

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

THE DIVISION BELL ~ Poem from Book Wooded Windows By Strider Marcus Jones

https://www.wattpad.com/3559469-14-poems-from-wooded-windows-by-strider-marcus

THE DIVISION BELL

they have civilised

the language of hatred

and corruption-

turned it into condensed

subliminal codes

to be absorbed

passively

and aspired to

through elite worship.

this softening,

that swims in intercourse

with Oppositions

and Self mandates

it’s wars and poverty-

hides the bodies

from presentations

where the Smile and Fist

work together.

there is no Division Bell

that Speaks and Moves

with and for

the majority

marching past outside-

like Natives

carrying their bags of belongings,

being screened and moved

from lush lands

early into cemeteries

or onto cattle trains

out to desert Reservations.

the Doors

of cold centuries

blow open,

and we see

how Treaties

are still Broken and Abused-

by those we entrust

who have turned

the Globe of Everything

we are meant to Share

into something Bought and Sold

all Right to be Owned and Inherited.

most sheep don’t Mass for much-

just a patch of grass to graze

and a shack to shag and sleep in-

a few, have their own field

and privately furnished rooms,

but when they all adore

w and k’s first tour

on the front page and tv news

for twelve days of conditioning,

or letch and leer over the tits on page three-

the Universal Flaw in Their Rule and Law

makes them troll and bay for this culling of people-

until it comes for them.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 2nd July, 2011. All Rights Reserved.

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NO ROADS ~ Poem by Strider Marcus Jones SPARKBRIGHT MAGAZINE ISSUE 5, 2010

https://www.wattpad.com/825315-14-poems-from-wooded-windows-by-strider-marcus

NO ROADS

with no roads on our map of conversation,

we began

without plan,

and climbed, into the branches of imagination,

past the twigs and leaves-

those apothecaries

of lost libation,

into houred improvisation-

through its desert wanting rain

after years of stasis,

in a slow camel train

searching for that oasis-

with moving dunes

and negative runes

fending off the grey

in a charmed, nomadic way.

happen then, that this cold acoustic tune,

met your luteful lagoon

of mosaical notes-

and the baton moved,

as was proved

round the wheel with ambient spokes,

conducting without rules

our forgotten fools.

somehow,

go now,

through the eye of words,

to the heart of this rhythm

and the scion of its schism;

then home, like migrating birds

into separate nests-

for now, love rests.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 12th November, 2009. All Rights Reserved. 

This poem has been published in SPARKBRIGHT MAGAZINE ISSUE 5, WINTER 2010 and will be in my next book. Here is the link http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.sparkbright.org%2F&h=8af20

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BOOTS OF HARLEY ~ Poem By Strider Marcus Jones from Book Wooded Windows

https://www.wattpad.com/3559761-14-poems-from-wooded-windows-by-strider-marcus

BOOTS OF HARLEY

this universe has no center

and you’re not there.

this sun is only sunny on the hood-

its light can’t bend more benter

to be fair

as time stops running rings in wood.

the floorboards creak

and pictures speak

when I stand in empty corners making room,

for ghosts that want to have my seat

when they come in from the street

after riding like Valhalla under sun and moon.

summer shoes,

with beards of barley

in their soley grooves-

still think they’re boots of Harley

on electro glide down highway avenues-

with a woman’s arms around my waist

singing Bob Marley

and promising me her taste.

foot down. legs braced-

rocking back the headboard on the bed and base

in the hanging of her breasts

where my head would rest,

her lips a vanished beauty of the past-

explode

unload

to this contrast-

that turns its empty pages in my head

unlit, as I lie in bed,

running out of Kerouac road-

i feel the beat

and go to sleep

with some more story told.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 14th November, 2010. Copyright And All Rights Reserved.

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LOVE IS STRIPPED TO SHARING BREAD ~ Poem By Strider Marcus Jones

https://www.wattpad.com/3559608-14-poems-from-wooded-windows-by-strider-marcus

LOVE IS STRIPPED TO SHARING BREAD

we were kissing

and dancing

to a kitchen song,

talking with our wine

and smoking bong;

then you pushed your pierced pin

of forged fire

further in

the groove of my desire

with your tongue.

later,

up the creaking wooden escalator-

“let me do you” i said

peeling back your petals

with my voice:

love is stripped to sharing bread

abroad-in plain rooms-where Nora and Joyce

reject precious metals.

it brings to craggy green cliffs

that STILL talk-

of two minds, in the sea born mist

of one thought-

why should four legs walk

under clouds adrift.

glum damp rock moss cups

when we go to ground

under body musk

and pagan sound-

the meaning of the hour

when lit lusts flower

fills the air

everywhere

at last

and the future does not imitate the past.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 26th May, 2011. All Rights Reserved.

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THE HEAD IN HIS FEDORA HAT by Strider Marcus Jones

https://www.wattpad.com/8500065-40-poems-from-pomegranate-flesh-by-strider-marcus

THE HEAD IN HIS FEDORA HAT

a lonely man,

cigarette,

rain

and music

is a poem

moving,

not knowing-

a caravan,

whose journey does not expect

to go back

and explain

how everyone’s ruts

have the same

blood and vein.

the head in his fedora hat

bows to no one’s grip,

brim tilted into the borderless

plain

so his outlaw wit

can confess

and remain

a storyteller,

that hobo fella

listening like a barfly

for a while

and slow-winged butterfly

whose smile

they can’t close the shutters on

or stop talking about

when he walks out

and is gone.

whisky and tequila

and a woman, who loves to feel ya

inside

and outside

her

when ya move

and live as one,

brings you closer

in simplistic

unmaterialistic

grooved

muse Babylon.

this is so,

when he stands with hopes head,

arms and legs

all aflow

in her Galadriel glow

with mithril breath kisses

condensing sensed wishes

of reality and dream

felt and seen

under that

fedora hat

inhaling smoke

as he sang and spoke

stranger fella

storyteller.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones, October 2012 from his book POMEGRANATE FLESH www.lulu.com All Rights Reserved.

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IN THE TALK OF MY TOBACCO SMOKE – New Pagan Poem by Strider Marcus Jones

https://www.wattpad.com/32606740-40-poems-from-pomegranate-flesh-by-strider-marcus

IN THE TALK OF MY TOBACCO SMOKE

i have disconnected self

from the wire of the world

retreated to this unmade croft

of wild grass and savage stone

moored mountains

set in sea

blue black green grey

dyed all the colours of my mood

and liquid language-

to climb rocks

instead of rungs

living with them

moving around their settlements

of revolutionary random place

for simple solitary glory.

i am reduced again

to elements and matter

that barter her body for food

teasing and turning

her flesh to take words and plough.

rapid rain

slaps the skin

on honest hands

strongly gentle

while sowing seeds

the way i touch my lover

in the talk of my tobacco smoke:

now she knows

she tastes

like all the drops

of my dreams

falling on the forest

of our Lothlorien.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2012. From his book Pomegranate Flesh. All Rights Reserved.

http://www.lulu.com/shop/strider-marcus-jones/pomegranate-flesh/paperback/product-20444424.html

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HE PLAYS HIS FLAMENCO GUITAR~Love Poem by Strider Marcus Jones 63K 317 92

https://www.wattpad.com/6539872-40-poems-from-pomegranate-flesh-by-strider-marcus

HE PLAYS HIS FLAMENCO GUITAR

he plays his flamenco guitar

knowing who you are,

seducing his singer

to bring her

from bleak harbour masts

to his contrasts.

he knows the equations

of her close flirtations

and doesn’t judge her glances

for wanting what romance is-

vibrating in voices and strings

of fornicating feelings.

her prose photosynthesis

illuminates his

shades that colour mountains

and drops of wishes in mosaic fountains-

she loves the Picasso from his pen

and horse smell like Andalucian men

her reversed body senses

inside his defences-

as her sea wind

billows in his revealing

Avalon through the mist,

sweet loved, firm kissed.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones, 11th October 2010. All Rights Reserved.

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POMEGRANATE FLESH – Poem by Strider Marcus Jones

https://www.wattpad.com/30513471-40-poems-from-pomegranate-flesh-by-strider-marcus

POMEGRANATE FLESH

ask those

who grow old-

some fruits are nicer

when they’re riper.

you don’t stop

the clock

on the one who chose

you to hold-

her pomegranate

is still your sonnet

of sepia feelings and flesh,

sensuously sweet and fresh.

although the mirror never lies,

it shows the beauty that lives

as it dies

and gives

it’s own reflection

of your perfection

to me

then and now,

each memory

taken

by the lenses

somehow,

preserved

by your words

and curves

in my senses.

our dance,

that thrilled

in it’s intricate

tango on the floor,

is still filled

with time intimate

romance

and more-

talking rubicon of reason,

in layer, upon layer of season

so sedimentary

since you entered me-

and i consumed

your silky mesh

of pink perfumed

pomegranate flesh.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2012. From his book Pomegranate Flesh. All Rights Reserved.

http://www.lulu.com/shop/strider-marcus-jones/pomegranate-flesh/paperback/product-20444424.html

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Anna Akhmatova (In Our Time)

Melvyn Bragg and guests discuss the work, ideas and life of the Russian poet whose work was celebrated in C20th both for its quality and for what it represented, written under censorship in the Stalin years. Her best known poem, Requiem, was written after her son was imprisoned partly as a threat to her and, to avoid punishment for creating it, she passed it on to her supporters to be memorised, line by line, rather than written down. She was a problem for the authorities and became significant internationally, as her work came to symbolise resistance to political tyranny and the preservation of pre-Revolutionary liberal values in the Soviet era. The image above is based on ‘Portrait of Anna Akhmatova’ by N.I. Altman, 1914, Moscow With Katharine Hodgson Professor in Russian at the University of Exeter Alexandra Harrington Reader in Russian Studies at Durham University And Michael Basker Professor of Russian Literature and Dean of Arts at the University of Bristol Producer: Simon Tillotson.