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.





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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.





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https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/

Strider Marcus Jones
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 ...more
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