five poems
by Strider Marcus Jones
The Samaritan Machine
this field pond
is only my
dissolved
imagination-
thought drops
of summer rain
making fractal ripples
drumbeat on skin.
a portal shared
with cawing crows
reveals
who scams and snoops and shoots
in contract conversations.
this Windsong
of Virginia Creeper,
ruling Bear and Wolfsbane
rustling in black bamboo
trusts its Samaritan Machine
telling it who to redact
in this imposed
dystopian
equilibrium
of dumbed-down masses
worshipping Carousel.
*Originally published in The Starbeck Orion Issue 3 on 2ND July 2024
The Mad Hatter Hiding in Dark Matter
in our house
i binned the radio
for playing Strauss-
left the suited rodeo
of casino Faust
and shot the gentry shooting grouse.
into the wild garden
without spun jargon
we went
through rusting arch of rose dissent
onto the precipice of peace
where slush borders grip and grease
like usurping tectonic plates
shapeshifting smaller states.
their innocents bombed and dispossessed
join our shoaled oppressed
of obedient possessed-
while The Mad Hatter
hiding in Dark Matter-
says blame them, instead of Strauss
in suits playing casino Faust
and enslaving gentry shooting grouse.
*Originally published in The Starbeck Orion Issue 3 on 2ND July 2024
The Mess of Thrown Off Clothes
i listen
to your love beads glisten
in the flotsam
of my room-
we make them
from samurai sword folds
at forge and loom
in the mess of thrown off clothes.
so many smoke me kisses
at portal doors,
and mithril wishes
on primitive floors-
take us back again
through heath and fen
to imitate
lost landscape-
cycle
and circle
sky and stone
outside and home-
in love in less
with your heavenliness,
and loneliness
durable under duress.
*Originally published in The Starbeck Orion Issue 3 on 2ND July 2024
The Vase
standing silent proud,
alone, or in a crowd
life glazed mood and skin
outside and in
for you, i think out loud
and take you in
where thoughts abound reversible
and convertible
where saying being wrong
reaches out beyond
the natural need to win.
moulded by my hands
to this shape that understands
its cloth of clay holds you warm,
a mummer masked in costumes storm
react with its receptacle of reason
for sorting truths from treason,
but you don't need to have a season
to put your flowers into me
swaying here, in wind and wild, as born so be.
Dorothy Drained His Marrow
i was talking to your shadow,
making spoons with your shade
the future flat-lined, narrow,
never made.
you were sleeping shallow,
on the sofa, so un-made
affections furrows fallow
like an unmarked grave
close, but so remote and drow,
like the past was never played
and your words stabbed my voice somehow
with curare on their blade.
tin heart, straw brain adjourned to barrow,
the lion's mane was saved
but Dorothy drained his marrow
and walked the path she paved.
Photo of Strider Marcus Jones
BIO: 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 https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. 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 numerous publications including: Poppy Road Review; The Galway Review; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine and Dissident Voice.