Strider Marcus Jones – Five Poems

photo (3)Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford/Hinckley, 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 erotic, surreal and metaphysical http//www.lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusjones1. He is a maverick, moving between forests, mountains and cities, playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.
In 2015, his poetry features in Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; A New Ulster/Anu Issue 29; Poems For A Liminal Age Anthology; In The Trenches Poetry Anthology; Outburst Poetry Magazine; The Galway Review; The Honest Ulsterman Magazine and The Lonely Crowd Magazine.

_____________________

OLD CAFE
 
a rest, from swinging bar
and animals in the abattoir-
to smoke in mental thinks
spoken holding cooling drinks.
 
counting out old coppers to be fed
in the set squares of blue and red
plastic table cloth-
just enough to break up bread in thick barley broth.
 
Jesus is late
after saying he was coming
back to share the wealth and real estate
of capitalist cunning.
 
maybe. just maybe.
put another song on the jukebox baby:
no more heroes anymore.
what are we fighting for-
 
he’s hiding in hymns and chants,
in those Monty Python underpants,
from this coalition of new McCarthy’s
and it’s institutions of Moriarty’s.
 
some shepherds sheep will do this dance
in hypothermic trance,
for one pound an hour
like a shamed flower,
 
watched by sinister sentinels-
while scratched tubular bells,
summon all to sunday service
where invisible myths exist-
 
to a shamed flower
with supernatural power
come the hour.
_____________________

LOW VAULTED CEILINGS

within those man stone walls
promoting their god
bringing us to him
i told the priest-
you tell us to be content
with poverty
while you live in this big house
throwing us scraps
begged from money lenders.
this is not what Jesus
asked his disciples to do.
this is not what he died for.
he said live amongst us
and share what they have.
the priest,
red with rage,
oppressive and oppressed-
pulled my mam aside
made her shrink in his stare
weep in his words
walk me in our sins
from his dark-damp house of angels.
outside
in feral sunshine
i pointed to grinning gargoyles
chasing chastened shadows
back down primitive paths-
to a cellar flat,
bare bulb dangling
prison beam probing
baptised flesh
and mam tipped tears
soaking into straw mattresses
sucking up cold from the flagstone floor
woodworms eating a Van Gogh table
where six mouths sat
sharing stale bread and cold beans
with whiskered skirting board mice.
years later,
i left Dedalus in Dublin
in the pages of a book
to his epiphany
and Jesuit suit of guilt-
while i quenched
my glistening fruit
in street light ladies-
drenched in smokey curling
dancing clouds
and stories from voices
bouncing off low vaulted ceilings
caressing human in darkness.
_____________________
 
MEPHISTOPHELES IS NOT ABOUT
 
this coffee is hot-
but paradise is cold,
and Mephistopheles is not
about, tempting me with gold
and pouting pleasures of the flesh
with their alluring mesh-
so Morpheus to hold
in broken secrets being told.
 
this dreamer in his underwear,
parts from the bottle, and leaves it there-
some touched,
not much
with stale camonbert-
no fun alone,
moving around inside, unknown-
disturbed from bed to chair.
 
it synchronizes well,
how past and present both compel
a sleep on understanding-
the beat of love with sand in
the texture of its taste,
trapped in silence,
waxed to waste-
with nothings nonsense
in its face.
_____________________
 
MONACLE
 
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.
_____________________
 
RED SKY
 
i forgot to put my image in a photograph.
it was walking with a crowd inside a dream;
humming songs, that once turned on a phonograph
who have left this herd, unseen-
to its shadows of indifference
and coats pulled-to in self defence,
searching for omnipotence-
red sky too intense.
 
do i stay, or go now?
work it out for me?
what is left to grow now?
to make, and be?
 
black doors in the distance,
let in specific light,
while opposites of resistance
limbo in twilight-
 
like wicks without matches,
living in opaque eyed hatches
and wired stone-
drawing heavy bolts and nervous latches
for pawn heroes, in cold dispatches,
now splinters of bone,
not coming home.

 

 

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