five poems
by Strider Marcus Jones
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 a gossips knife.
THE TWO SALTIMBANQUES (After Picasso's painting)
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.
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.