Strider Marcus Jones – Five Poems

Marcus B&W 1960sStrider 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 are modern, traditional, mythical, sometimes romantic, surreal and metaphysical. He is a maverick, moving between forests, mountains and cities, playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude. In 2014, his poetry has been published in A New Ulster/Anu Issue 27, The Screech Owl, Catweazle Issue 5, Calliope and The Gambler magazines; Degenerates Voices For Peace-Vagabonds: Anthology Of The Mad; Killer Whale Journal; Dagda Publishing; The Huffington Post USA; Writer’s Ezine; The Poets Haven-Vending Machine Poetry for Change Volume 5; Sonic Boom Journal and The Open Mouse.


he sheds his matelessness
and shapeless
to lie with her undressed
in woods earth warmed.
after drinking
and thinking
in the hollow trunk of an ancient tree
she reads
his tea
and he hears
her nature in the pattern
of her years,
saying now we happen
and the comet of her words
weaves it’s sentences
in his,
lets go of bleakness
walking through wilderness
light footsteps in senses.


i love to watch the chocolate
slowly melt
between your lips
of silky liquid felt,
then lick and lap
soft suck sips
in rhythm with your hips,
making such moments of motion
plough tidal waves in your ocean
as each surge of storm
throbs to be born
until the stone and dust
of autumn yellow moon
casts silhouettes of love and lust
that burst and bloom
through every love soaked scented night
shuttered from politics so coccooned
in plutocracies of blight.


you feel the texture of my tongue
upon your clit
lubing you with licks
then I fuck you long
where your throbbing sits.
lip and lap
the hours back
to cumming in you ripples
and mouth milky nipples.
you slow smoke
suck my cock
head pulled deep throat
to the rhythm we got-
your molten pussy squirts on my fingers
and we both sound like quenched singers.


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
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
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?


i don’t do remembers, or regrets,
not knowing, i belong in what comes next-
without the edge and angle of pretext,
find me in the forest of forgets-

watching your perfections dance and breathe
in my fires flames then read out gypsy leaves;
imagining your whispers in the wind and trees-
before they fade, and fall, and leave.

back inside the house, picture rails
of love hang empty
from bent hooks, that promised plenty,
leaving frameless tales in musty trails-

to dusty cabinets of more
trinkets and traces-
whose duality displaces
sky and floor.

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