Four Poems|Strider Marcus Jones

NOTES ON SCRAPS OF SCREEN PAPYRUS

notes on scraps of screen papyrus,

symbol songs

of our belongs-

inspire us

in the coffee smokes of day

where the fire was

in humid heats ash tray-

inside us

far away.

the new consensus

doesn’t show

nomads

in the census

of its blow

whose glow glad

the past they left too slow:

and the falling

befalling

where we now need to go-

misfits

the steps

of the face fits

in this trough

of peaks and parapets.

so, we want wildly

the wilderness that isn’t fear-

cut off,

empty,

smiley,

pallet clear-

the colours changed

so rearranged

and us not here.

SYMPHONIC WASTE

a quiet night.

even the candle flame isn’t flickering-

think I’ll just blow out its light

and turn down the radio bickering.

symphonic waste

between the two

goes back space

for what is true-

and the same discontented self

dismantles every shelf

of previous obsessions

contaminated with old confessions.

then your persuasions

window walks

in panes of pillow talk-

inside this how,

in here, in now-

where no mortal elements

can darken our consoled consents

with ribbons of ripped repents

that leave membranous scars:

and when they do,

they are no more than me, or you-

everyone is subservient to the stars.

THE HEAD IN HIS FEDORA HAT

a lonely man,

cigarette,

rain

and music

is a poem

moving,

not knowing-

a caravan,

whose journey does not expect

to go back

and explain

how everyone’s ruts

have the same

blood and vein.

the head in his fedora hat

bows to no one’s grip,

brim tilted into the borderless

plain

so, his outlaw wit

can confess

and remain

a storyteller,

that hobo fella

listening like a barfly

for a while

and slow-winged butterfly

whose smile

they can’t close the shutters on

or stop talking about

when he walks out

and is gone.

whisky and tequila

and a woman, who loves to feel ya

inside

and outside

her

when ya move

and live as one,

brings you closer

in simplistic

unmaterialistic

grooved

muse Babylon.

this is so,

when he stands with hopes head,

arms and legs

all aflow

in her Galadriel glow

with mithril breath kisses

condensing sensed wishes

of reality and dream

felt and seen

under that

fedora hat

inhaling smoke

as he sang and spoke

stranger fella

storyteller.

COMPOSERS AND MISTAKES

when I see the evening,

with its ordinary sounds and shapes

so full of unbelieving

composers and mistakes

coming in-

something wakes,

and I begin.

what I can’t affect

is getting colder

as I grow older,

retreating inside-

I could be your wreck

if I was bolder

and called you over,

over this side-

through the honeysuckle arch of midnight,

moon like a lid bright

shield in the sky;

on the grass

where footsteps last

in this light-

making a cast

where you walked by.

Photo by Craig Whitehead on Unsplash

BIO

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex 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 warm solitude.

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His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; 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.

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