MOURNING DAD & Poems by Strider Marcus Jones

(i.)
 
MOURNING DAD
 
he is decomposed
from a bramble rose
now-
his thorns
of storms
drow,
foetal curled
in the underworld
faerie peat without plough.
 
is it fun
with all those comical
musical
jacketed jesters-
or primplum
suitedrun
by posh ancestors-
doing the same this and that
to keep your spirit level flat
with docile protestors
wired to silicon investors.
 
i bought this new fedora hat
in whitewashed Mijas
to be my own brown
Romany
see as-
let them face their ignominy
when i wear it here in town-
like an un-shoed horse
from the roadgorse
prancing right
through their moral less light
brim slanted defiantly down
eyes outsider brown.
 
is it no Left or Right there.
do you have your chair
to sit in.
can you smoke your pipe
gathering stars in its clouds at night
thinking thoughts in nothing.
do you still use words
to help wingless birds
or is it silent
to the violent
fermenting fear
when the truth comes near
just like here.
 
 
(ii.)
 
FEW TRUE NOTES ARE SPOKEN
 
we unravel
on the road
we travel
secret vaults
revealing faults-
into
red and blue,
or other shade
in sink and wade
of don’t know what to do.
 
the woods won’t take us back
to bark and root black
worm holes of beginning-
natures time is slow
with our time thinning
and spinning-
the instrumental bow
is broken
few
true
notes are spoken.
 
we come, do, then die
in Sauron’s eye,
even Wagner’s Ring
is the same old thing-
strutting
elite Barbarians
hunting
rebel Yossarian’s-
for mocking the Valkyrie
with Kant’s crooked timber of humanity
proving poverty and power
stalk the halls of Valhalla.
 
 
(iii.)
 
THROUGH TALL WINDOWS
 
in late afternoon meadows
low light sketched your shadows
in Mucha pose
while I watched
through tall windows.
 
opening doors
footsteps on floors
all the clocks
in the house stopped
in the sundial
of your smile-
 
then prying phones
became postponed
and dissolved the blocks
of being drones
in dosed
apartments
opening closed
compartments.
 
more Bogart and Bacall
in Key Largo,
or The Poet by Vettriano-
in the hall,
we took Hopper’s painting off the wall
with its stark stress
heart of darkness.
 
 
(iv.)
 
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.
 
 
 

 
 
 
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.
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit
Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com
See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

3 Poems by Strider Marcus Jones. CUBIST GHETTOS, et al.,

 
(i)
 
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.
 
 
(ii)
 
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.
 
 
(iii)
 
DOES HER FAR BEAUTY KNOW
 
does her
far beauty know
where my thoughts go
without her
when i walk
in lush rain lashing down-
 
squatting in enclosed fields
of remote wheat and barley
around told feudal cities and towns-
to talk
to fate and how it feels
to be emptied entirely
of hopes sounds-
 
these evolutions
fill rich men’s purses
and revolutions
are poor universes
that try to bend
the unequal
to be equal
without end.
 
does her
far beauty know
where my thoughts go
with her
when i walk
in lush rain lashing down-
 
soaked in moments come to this
paradise and precipice
belonging
bonding
thoughts
serendipitous
blowing into us-
 
gives shelter to the self
of us and other else-
unlike bare rooms we rent
to leave behind
when change moves us to fit
into it-
with only our echo and scent
of passion and mind.
 
 

 
 
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former 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. He is also the founder, editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/
 
His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany; Serbia; India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; A New Ulster; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Piker Press; oppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice; & Poetry Life and Times,Artvilla.com.
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

EXOTIC BIRDS & LIFE IS FLAMENCO. Poems by Strider Marcus Jones

(i.)
 
EXOTIC BIRDS
 
i love the substance
of eccentric style
in your beauty-
the enchanting glance
of old fashioned romance
in your smile
that softly soothes me
after the external joust dust
of modernity
settles
on precious metals
sought by Faustus
stealing gas and oil
from African soil.
i love the dink
in the middle of your back
where my fingers sink
when i trace and track
the road of your spine
in perfect sync
of mind with mine.
i last, near and far
in your scented clouds of cinnabar,
singing, with you, want you, words
like intoxicating exotic birds-
ready to leave poisonous suburbs
to disturbed self and same
arrogant and vain
vices and vines
embracing abyss in eclipsed times.
 
(ii.)
 
LIFE IS FLAMENCO
 
why can’t i walk as far
and smoke more tobacco,
or play my Spanish guitar
like Paco,
putting rhythms and feelings
without old ceilings
you’ve never heard
before in a word.
 
life is flamenco,
to come and go
high and low
fast and slow-
 
she loves him,
he loves her
and their shades within
caress and spur
in a ride and dance
of tempestuous romance.
 
outback, in Andalucien ease,
i embrace you, like melted breeze
amongst ripe olive trees-
dark and different,
all manly scent
and mind unkempt.
 
like i do,
Picasso knew
everything about you
when he drew
your elongated arms and legs
around me, in this perpetual bed
of emotion
and motion
for these soft geometric angles
in my finger strokes
and exhaled smokes
of rhythmic bangles
to circle colour your Celtic skin
with primitive phthalo blue
pigment in wiccan tattoo
before entering
vibrating wings
through thrumming strings
of wild lucid moments
in eternal components.
 
i can walk as far
and smoke more tobacco,
and play my Spanish guitar
like Paco.
 

 
 
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former 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.
——————————————
His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany; Serbia; India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: The Piker Press; Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)