MOURNING DAD & Poems by Strider Marcus Jones

he is decomposed
from a bramble rose
his thorns
of storms
foetal curled
in the underworld
faerie peat without plough.
is it fun
with all those comical
jacketed jesters-
or primplum
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
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.
we unravel
on the road
we travel
secret vaults
revealing faults-
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
notes are spoken.
we come, do, then die
in Sauron’s eye,
even Wagner’s Ring
is the same old thing-
elite Barbarians
rebel Yossarian’s-
for mocking the Valkyrie
with Kant’s crooked timber of humanity
proving poverty and power
stalk the halls of Valhalla.
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
opening closed
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.
we are composed
out of the fate of stars
a light dark light so old
and tuned that regards
most of Us as Other
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 A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at ; You may visit Robin Ouzman Hislop about author &
See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)