Strider Marcus Jones's Blog: https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/, page 7
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Thankye to editor Barbara Leonhard for publishing this poem on Masticadores USA. Most appreciated.
“THE OTHER SELF” by Strider Marcus Jones
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.
March 13, 2024
March 3, 2024
February 17, 2024
January 24, 2024
Thrilled to have five poems published on Poetic Galaxy Atunis. My thanks to Editor Agron Shele.
Strider Marcus Jones (UK)Strider Marcus Jones (UK)
POSTED ON JANUARY 23, 2024 BY AGRONSH
MEPHISTOPHELES IS NOT ABOUT
this coffee is hot-
but paradise is cold,
and Mephistopheles is not
about, tempting me with gold
and pouting pleasures of the flesh
with their alluring mesh-
so Morpheus to hold
in broken secrets being told.
this dreamer in his underwear,
parts from the bottle, and leaves it there-
some touched,
not much
with stale camembert-
no fun alone,
moving around inside, unknown-
disturbed from bed to chair.
it synchronizes well,
how past and present both compel
a sleep on understanding-
the beat of love with sand in
the texture of its taste,
trapped in silence,
waxed to waste-
with nothings nonsense
in its face.
PARADISE OF ABYSS
opening old years
self similarity
untreated
is repeated
in a dirty
old paper rag
skin inky
and bloated with sag
full of swag
from eavesdropping ears
holding fears
the evidence said
deleted or deliberately
left in bags to lie dead
by compromised cops Met in the city.
close secret
policy briefings
disguised as drink and eat
social meetings
in elite
homes
move in and out of step
so utterly
and fluttery
her red hair
so well aware
of its butterfly effect
sending stooges and editors’ hacking
with immune transnational backing
two murdered angels silent phones
and others, famous or unknown
muckraking sad or sordid stories
and abusing soldiers shilling glories.
another summer Family dinner
butchers democracy
into a loser and winner
plutocracy
of front row millionaires
sitting and blurring
for fat cats punting
and purring
aped by the rootless
and lootless
rioting and burning
because nothing is theirs
in this towering
new world’s derivatives and shares.
wilful blindness
is a smug jest
of i confess
without punishment
for the richest
ten per cent.
wearing his blue clown pants
the red face rants
it wasn’t me
i didn’t do His dance
by giving my less vetted We
friend a second chance.
this quiff boss
salesman’s gloss
tries to bury the pattern
of before
in after what happened
hiding more
covering it fast
in long grass.
going back is forward now
Tom exposing understanding how
the past came to this
paradise of abyss.
CLAY AND WOOD
remember me
in clay
and wood
the way
we made free
complete love
on the floor
and kitchen table
against the door
and in the cradle
of an old armchair
in timber moonlight
and sun streaking bright
through branches of tousled hair-
and yes, it changes
and rearranges
these same more
intimate compartments
with other shared escarpments,
but we can still adore
the way our words and skin
age at their core
with meaning
like your fingers
modelling me
here now, in us
love’s tempest we.
STANDING STONES
i can still smell his shirt
when he tramped home from work
and slumped down beside us
in his chair,
lips cracked, shaking cotton fibres
from his tusselled hair.
he was like that:
never wore a vain hat,
or mask to hide the man he was
and what he was
from himself
or anyone else.
he told me my first joke,
showed me how to roll a smoke
in his thick, stained fingers.
oh, how his voice echo lingers
sowing moral ethics
into politics-
through the night,
like Lenin, in reason and fight,
making Attlee and Bevan’s lintels
bridge
the standing stones of Marx and Engels
over my youth.
rising like monolith’s
of truth,
opposing the dangers
of privileged
abyss,
i watched, his turned wisdom change us
into opposite strangers.
Us
we are composed
out of the fate of stars
a light dark light so old
and tuned that regards
most of Us as Other
peasants
who are clothed
without privileged presents
to burn wood in cracked stoves
under crumbling cover.
stitched to Their time
we entwine
in our own interpretation
of this spinning station.
only burlesque bright skies
and the iris flowers of abandoned eyes
can change the fixed views
of a selfish landscape
into united hues
of equal state.
our reality is broken-
we are the hosts
and ghosts
who have been stolen
the violated tokens
of corporatist totems
screen greed being traded
and invaded
then beaten for protesting by police
working for the Thief.
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/
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 book
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