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 over 200 magazines, journals, reviews and anthologies including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Melbourne Culture Corner; Literary Yard Journal; The Honest Ulsterman; Poppy Road Review; The Galway 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; A New Ulster; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine and Dissident Voice.
I was on the original Human Pets with other writers and poet friends. Hoping to reconnect with them and new poets/writers.
Darwin can't explain the missing link, and science, did not invent the goal of faith in how we think- but Newton keeps us sane to find the whole gravity and reason for our role- in calculus.
science beyond ours does exist, in un-deciphered hieroglyphs and alchemy's of metals malleable like petals on spaceships crashed in Roswell, gone to Area 51.
like Dedalus, who prayed too good through Dublin's streets of saints and sinners, while whores exchanged their treats for cash, from winners and beginners- i walked towards the priesthood, but woke up wet with wood.
i realised, Carlisle was right in saying: no lie can live forever- that the Gods we make together praying- don't care or intervene in human fate and actions- so Spinoza's God is seen,
in the orderly reactions of the universe- creating life, and waiting hearse- but metaphors of doubt persist on the road to armageddon, for if physics shapes all of this- what shapes these cloths of heaven?
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 21st January, 2009.
you taste of cinnamon and fish when you wish to be romantic- and the ciphers of our thoughts make ringlets with their noughts immersed in magic- like mithril mail around me stove dark forest, pink flesh sea touchings tantric- make reality and myths converge in elven riffs of music, so we dance it- symbols to the scenes of conflict, mavericks in dreams that now sit- listening to these pots and kettles blackening on the fire of rhetoric and murderous mettles- before we both retire to our own script.
remote ramblings, stepped and spoken; like gamblings that bloomed- only to be broken, wandered and roomed, waited on quiet landings like squandered perfume- left open.
marxist marches. mithril kisses under gothic arches- role playing elf and cleric in cold caves removed from Berek the Halfhand's chronicle, seem mesmeric- when seen through monacle.
but the other eye looks back too, inside this rhapsody with you; and the light- switched off. switched on. off, and on, loving day and night- through prose phases and shared phrases of captured sun and moon- like mellow yellow, stroking white witches broom;
knows nature's laws has moods and flaws in her quietudes- that reason cause, and fathom clues.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 8th December, 2009.
everywhere i go, you know me. talking to you, and below you, slowly- spring flows into summer inside, out and under this waterfall.
sat drying, on slabs of linen rocks, splashing coloured words, that fall like pointillated dots on cast off oppositions: in those hats and shoes and basket of flowers, we change positions- and in the gap, where nature and culture impose like towers, self artifice is dressed- but the nakedness of truth is ours.