Editor Strider Marcus Jones


Strider Marcus Jones

Is the founder, editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal.

He is a poet, law graduate and former 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 smoky rooms.

His work has been published in over 200 poetry journals, magazines, reviews and anthologies in the USA, Canada, England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, France, Germany, Spain, Australia, India and South Africa including : Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; 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; Dissident Voice and Piker Press.

For his published poetry books: Aspects Of Love; Inside Out; Mavericks; Wooded Windows and Pomegranate Flesh see:



i'm come home again

in your Lothlorien

to marinate my mind

in your words,

and stand behind

good tribes grown blind,

trapped in old absurd

regressive reasons

and selfish treasons.


in this cast of strife

the Tree Of Life

embraces innocent ghosts,

slain by Sauron's hosts;

and their falling cries

make us wise

enough to rise

up in a fellowship of friends

to oppose Mordor's ends

and smote this evil stronger

and longer

for each one of us that dies.


i'm come home again

in your Lothlorien,


yellow snapdragons

to take wing

and un-fang serpent krakens,

while i bring

all the races

to resume

their bloom

as equals in equal spaces

by removing

and muting

the chorus of crickets

who cheat them from chambered thickets,

hiding corruptions older than long grass

that still fag for favours asked.


i'm come home again

in your Lothlorien

where corporate warfare

and workfare

on health

and welfare

infests our tribal bodies

and separate self

in political lobbies

so conscience can't care

or share

worth and wealth:


to rally drones

of walking bones,

too tired

and uninspired

to think things through

and the powerless who see it true.

red unites, blue divides,

which one are you

and what will you do

when reason decides.



he plays his flamenco guitar

knowing who you are,

seducing his singer

to bring her

from bleak harbour masts

to his contrasts.

he knows the equations

of her close flirtations

and doesn’t judge her glances

for wanting what romance is-

vibrating in voices and strings

of fornicating feelings.

her prose photosynthesis

illuminates his

shades that colour mountains

and drops of wishes in mosaic fountains-

she loves the Picasso from his pen

and horse smell like Andalucian men

her reversed body senses

inside his defences-

as her sea wind

billows in his revealing

Avalon through the mist,

sweet loved, firm kissed.


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones, 11th October 2010. All Rights Reserved.



love is,
all is-
light and dark,
shade and shadow,
crater under rainbow.
tramp or truffle you chance to meet
and take your time to share and eat;
a mythical ark
in-out skylark,
so fluttery butterfly in buddleia stomach
that wakes you up
more muttery in your head-
with jade of jealousy
and truest thread
come concave and convex,
mirrored and mouthed in images and text
with-without key,
but only borrowed
today and tomorrowed
and after that, what will be-
something ethereal
deaths’ music can’t serial,
alone, then together
in its own weather
sensual and free.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 2nd August, 2010. All Rights Reserved.




we’ve left the well-footed


the rutted

and rebutted


of shadows cast

by towered glass.


opened closed curtains

for fusty moths,

chanted white spells with Wiccan’s


left pictured

rooms and halls-

become un-scriptured

hills and squalls-


in maid’s water

pouring down her

erect chalk man,

like a wild gypsy,

love tipsy


smelling of cinnabar

and his cigar,


like whirling


while the changed wind howls.


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2012. From his book Pomegranate Flesh. All Rights Reserved.

In Maid’s Water is also published in issue 5 of Catweazle magazine …http://catweazleclub.com/?page_id=484




i have disconnected self

from the wire of the world

retreated to this unmade croft

of wild grass and savage stone

moored mountains

set in sea

blue black green grey

dyed all the colours of my mood

and liquid language-

to climb rocks

instead of rungs

living with them

moving around their settlements

of revolutionary random place

for simple solitary glory.

i am reduced again

to elements and matter

that barter her body for food

teasing and turning

her flesh to take words and plough.

rapid rain

slaps the skin

on honest hands

strongly gentle

while sowing seeds

the way i touch my lover

in the talk of my tobacco smoke:

now she knows

she tastes

like all the drops

of my dreams

falling on the forest

of our Lothlorien.


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2012. From his book Pomegranate Flesh. All Rights Reserved.





forage in me

amongst the dunes

still damp in sun and wind

as the tide retreats-

for driftwood

and strange shaped pebbles.

where have they been,

these abandoned voices,

with colours

and textures,


and domestic,


and rooted,

sooting and scenting the air-

being engraved

by beauties and conflicts,

uncovering how love is only rented

jumping ship

when it sights new land.

inner changes,

have not changed anything

out there;

and when what moved in

is all moved out,

we can sometimes sit

in this displaced time,

with drifting belongings

and pebbled thoughts,

aware of strangers

moving slower than the clouds


doing the same.


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his book Pomegranate Flesh. All Rights Reserved.





i listen

to your love beads glisten

in the flotsam

of my room-


we make them

from samurai sword folds

at forge and loom

in the mess of thrown off clothes.


so many smoke me kisses

at portal doors,

and mithril wishes

on primitive floors-


take us back again

through heath and fen

to imitate

lost landscape-



and circle

sky and stone

outside and home-


in love in less

with your heavenliness,

and loneliness

durable under duress.


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2012. From his book Pomegranate Flesh. All Rights Reserved.





ask those

who grow old-

some fruits are nicer

when they’re riper.

you don’t stop

the clock

on the one who chose

you to hold-

her pomegranate

is still your sonnet

of sepia feelings and flesh,

sensuously sweet and fresh.


although the mirror never lies,

it shows the beauty that lives

as it dies

and gives

it’s own reflection

of your perfection

to me

then and now,

each memory


by the lenses



by your words

and curves

in my senses.


our dance,

that thrilled

in it’s intricate

tango on the floor,

is still filled

with time intimate


and more-

talking rubicon of reason,

in layer, upon layer of season

so sedimentary

since you entered me-

and i consumed

your silky mesh

of pink perfumed

pomegranate flesh.


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2012. From his book Pomegranate Flesh. All Rights Reserved.





these are my wasted


the open pout of pussy never tasted


and head without a crown

hanging down.


i watch fate,

unsure of what her template

makes of me

glancing back at fallen beauty.


will she like the way i tingle

in her socket,

or my salad tongue

of tales singing heathen songs-

about strange

pagan customs,

crofting the floor

and her velour

surely meant-

that jingle

in her pocket

like loose change

fondled then spent.


i can make more

compatible combustions

out of


and love,

than those musical Etruscans-

whose heirs, have seduced each majority

into peaceful poverty,

by adding abstractions to its face-

altering nature’s position and place

evolving for minority.


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2012 from his book POMEGRANATE FLESH. All Rights Reserved.






i hate magnolia and beige-

you are in my time,

but mine, is the crime

in your change.


nature regenerates

without us herself,

but my self

without you, waits.


i know you meet me

all the way

in how you say-



and take to mind

my awkward

seeing forward

is wisdom kind.


being real, is conceding

we are open

and not token

when revealing-


how quiet beauty and healed scars,

survived each battle, to enjoy desires

here, now, around these fires

watching stars,


whose incandescent powers,

so flourescent

and omnipresent

mirror ours.


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2012 from his book Pomegranate Flesh. All Rights Reserved.





a sensual spoken

strawberry cut open



me to your secret place

with my face.


in the altered mirage

that history presents,

your even visage

and words have sounds and scents

that repair

the despair

and remake vanity’s varnished vase

with plain consents

until the figures

in the patterns

and the glaze


what has happened

and are swayed

to be themself

and not the mould of someone else.


i come back to you

in the porcelein white and blue

of Ming and Xiantzi

rustic and romancy

bearing eight treasures

of simple pleasures:

heart’s love

life’s soul

passions blood

mind whole

and wisdom

instead of blindness

to share a kingdom

with unselfish kindness.


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 1st June, 2012. All Rights Reserved.





make their choices

in the game-

to remain

loyal, or abstain

and stunt reputation

for self gratification.


get real

profits of career soon heal

the sacrifice of bold ideal-

when the grey suits in the system

say: preserving status quo, is the wisdom

in this play. other tunes, are moments of fame-

memorable then forgotten in the main

stagnating stream of politics,

where embedded institutions share the same

out of tune,

out of reach hot air balloon

playing unmusical licks

treading us down in the gravity

of tribal tricks

with ghost notes

wearing uniforms of haved normality

in the foreground

and background

with loaded guns inside

and outside

their tunic coats-

ready to suppress any massed intention

of Bastille insurrection.


you don’t have the right to repeal my name,

or make me think and do the same

as you.

your way, is extinction-

only seconds

as time reckons,

a philosophy founded on myths,

twisted in technological trysts

tuned to suit you.


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2012 from his book Pomegranate Flesh. All Rights Reserved.





when words don’t come easy

they make do with silence

and find something in nothing

to say to each other

when the absinthe runs out.


his glass and ego

are bigger than hers,

his elbows sharper,

stabbing into the table

and the chambers of her heart

cobalt clown

without a smile.


she looks away

with his misery behind her eyes

and sadness on her lips,

back into her curves

and the orange grove

summer of her dress

worn and blown by sepia time


where she painted

her cockus giganticus

lying down


for her brush and skin,

mingling intimate scents

undoing and doing each other.


for some of us,

living back then

is more going forward

than living in now

and sitting here-


at this table,

with these glasses

standing empty of absinthe,

faces wanting hands

to be a bridge of words

and equal peace

as Guernica approaches.


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2012. From his book Pomegranate Flesh. All Rights Reserved.





young, or old-

love lines

pastel painted,

know times

of ambiguous gold

and seams of red

become related

and run through sky,

then set in perfections

below fields-

where lying down

allows their imperfections

to be revealed.


moods purify

any black grey white silences that try

to hide and wait in thunder,

before flashing

and fading

above us under

a sheltering tree

embracing obliviously.


we can follow

different times

when lightening lines.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2012. From his book Pomegranate Flesh. All Rights Reserved.





under the old canal bridge you said

so i can hear the echoes

in your head

repeating mine

this time

when it throws

our voices from roof into water

where i caught her

reflection half in half out of sunshine.

thats when i hear Gerschwin

playing his piano in you

working out the notes

to rhapsody in blue

that makes me float

light and thin

deep within

through the air

when you put your comforts there.

Waits was drinking whisky from his bottle

while i sat through old days with Aristotle

knowing i must come up to date

because a woman does not have to wait.


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2012. From his book POMEGRANATE FLESH. All Rights Reserved.



SELECTED POEMS from WOODED WINDOWS by Strider Marcus Jones






i must have broken every scripture

thinking about the sculpture

of your face

your blossom face.

modelled in skin

with bones hid in


and confessions-

understanding them

i feel again

impressions of your senses

aroused when sensual steam condenses

on quivering quill and quim

pouring out and in.

smoking in the dark-

still floating, on the pillows, you used to arch

giving up to me

quaffing thirstily-

then, i stand glowing

with sweat like a god

from the peat bog

lovelust growing

mo anam chara

mo ghra.



we were kissing

and dancing

to a kitchen song,

talking with our wine

and smoking bong;

then you pushed your pierced pin

of forged fire

further in

the groove of my desire

with your tongue.


up the creaking wooden escalator-

“let me do you” i said

peeling back your petals

with my voice:

love is stripped to sharing bread

abroad-in plain rooms-where Nora and Joyce

reject precious metals.

it brings to craggy green cliffs

that STILL talk-

of two minds, in the sea born mist

of one thought-

why should four legs walk

under clouds adrift.

glum damp rock moss cups

when we go to ground

under body musk

and pagan sound-

the meaning of the hour

when lit lusts flower

fills the air


at last

and the future does not imitate the past.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 26th May, 2011. All Rights Reserved.


this universe has no center

and you’re not there.

this sun is only sunny on the hood-

its light can’t bend more benter

to be fair

as time stops running rings in wood.

the floorboards creak

and pictures speak

when I stand in empty corners making room,

for ghosts that want to have my seat

when they come in from the street

after riding like Valhalla under sun and moon.

summer shoes,

with beards of barley

in their soley grooves-

still think they’re boots of Harley

on electro glide down highway avenues-

with a woman’s arms around my waist

singing Bob Marley

and promising me her taste.

foot down. legs braced-

rocking back the headboard on the bed and base

in the hanging of her breasts

where my head would rest,

her lips a vanished beauty of the past-



to this contrast-

that turns its empty pages in my head

unlit, as I lie in bed,

running out of Kerouac road-

i feel the beat

and go to sleep

with some more story told.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 14th November, 2010. Copyright And All Rights Reserved.


with no roads on our map of conversation,

we began

without plan,

and climbed, into the branches of imagination,

past the twigs and leaves-

those apothecaries

of lost libation,

into houred improvisation-

through its desert wanting rain

after years of stasis,

in a slow camel train

searching for that oasis-

with moving dunes

and negative runes

fending off the grey

in a charmed, nomadic way.

happen then, that this cold acoustic tune,

met your luteful lagoon

of mosaical notes-

and the baton moved,

as was proved

round the wheel with ambient spokes,

conducting without rules

our forgotten fools.


go now,

through the eye of words,

to the heart of this rhythm

and the scion of its schism;

then home, like migrating birds

into separate nests-

for now, love rests.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 12th November, 2009. All Rights Reserved.


the sensual awakenings

and moist warmings

of coupled mornings

when you lie down on your back

and i drink you

like sweet water from my hat-

but more than this, you

mean more to me than that-

the mind glue


is moresaid

because the mass and volume

spills out of these conventional rooms

we shed-

it never doubts

that all within us, is ours without

the frills

of impossible possessions

that fills

love and bares it’s confessions.

i is flip flapped

and tongue smacked

by the time lapsed

music of your words

that sing and fly

low and high

like tantric birds.

sex me your beauty boolie boobs

to way with

and your pouty southy mouth

that loves to give

me head in all your moods-

that ice in long vermouth

and sober drunken truths

of ageless youth.

i have taken

each note

of your existential symphony

inside me

but not forsaken

the infinite strings of marxist hope,

where individuality

can still be


and not residual,


bonds that broke

when alienation spoke.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his book WOODED WINDOWS. 2011. All Rights Reserved.


this now my thoughts

open at the image of your name

won’t be revealing

the secrets they explain-

do you do the same

on these out walks

remembering the rain

drop fractals on us feeling.

back we go again,

without preachers

or bad teachers,

harvest high with hope

just us and frayed strands

of poetry and bands

on this bridge of notes

our mind spans.

in give we’ve got

the bloom of this plot

in garden to river

shaping start and stop

the melting clock

of body quake then quiver

through the Dreamtime day night

and soul spirit lit by landscape light.

we climb the Orange Rock

to revert back far

but have no Gaelic croft

to live in who we are.

it has changed hands

until the purpose of these lands

shoots dissenting music out of birds

and sucks all truth from ancient words

so existence is

another language.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his book WOODED WINDOWS. 2011. All Rights Reserved.


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.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 18th November, 2010. All Rights Reserved.


remote ramblings,
stepped and spoken;
like gamblings
that bloomed-
only to be broken,
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.
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. All Rights Reserved.


in the compound of this room

we make our tent

with revolution’s loom

knitting a firmament

that challenges corrupt times

with solemn slogans

to plutarch totems

simply marked on cardboard signs.

resistance kindles in the dark

and breathes new poetry and art

like a cultural tsunami

elites can’t beat with armies.

these sincere spears

of human spheres

stand soft spoken,

peaceful, but not broken

like disciples in fabric domes

chanting social justice tomes

while Jesus circles existential

throwing speculators from the temple.

we don’t need money in our tent

to make each other feel so spent-

only the sea shore, forest and mountains

to trickle streams and spurt fountains,

unlocking love when the cradle rocks

the secret rhythm of intimate clocks.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 4th November, 2011. All Rights Reserved.


fast and furious

archangel in paint and chrome

brings me home-

purring megaphonious,

combusting with sav and sap

thirsty for long tip and lap

that i glimpse

peeking into warm grill chintz-

then she lifts her corset bonnet

and lets me touch her glinting bones

secreting home spun


attracting, like moon and sun-


and mnemonic

old senses,

fallow and fenced

soon become drenched

quiller and squirter

in that linguistic converter-

glow mapping,


slowly blown

in the metronome.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his book WOODED WINDOWS. 2011. All Rights Reserved.


opening old years

self similarity


is repeated

in a dirty

old paper rag

skin inky

and bloated with sag

full of swag

from eavesdropping ears

holding fears

the evidence said

deleted or deliberately

left in bags to lie dead

by compromised cops Met in the city.

close secret

policy briefings

disguised as drink and eat

social meetings

in elite


move in and out of step

so utterly

and fluttery

her red hair

so well aware

of it’s butterfly effect

sending stooges and editors’ hacking

with immune transnational backing

two murdered angels silent phones

and others, famous or unknown

muckraking sad or sordid stories

and abusing soldiers shilling glories.

another summer Family dinner

butchers democracy

into a loser and winner


of front row millionnaires

sitting and blurring

for fat cats punting

and purring

aped by the rootless

and lootless

rioting and burning

because nothing is theirs

in this towering

new world’s derivatives and shares.

wilful blindness

is a smug jest

of i confess

without punishment

for the richest

ten per cent.

wearing his blue clown pants

the red face rants

it wasn’t me

i didn’t do His dance

by giving my less vetted We

friend a second chance.

this quiff boss

salesman’s gloss

tries to bury the pattern

of before

in after what happened

hiding more

covering it fast

in long grass.

going back is forward now

Tom exposing understanding how

the past came to this

paradise of abyss.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 27th August, 2011. All Rights Reserved.


they have civilised

the language of hatred

and corruption-

turned it into condensed

subliminal codes

to be absorbed


and aspired to

through elite worship.

this softening,

that swims in intercourse

with Oppositions

and Self mandates

it’s wars and poverty-

hides the bodies

from presentations

where the Smile and Fist

work together.

there is no Division Bell

that Speaks and Moves

with and for

the majority

marching past outside-

like Natives

carrying their bags of belongings,

being screened and moved

from lush lands

early into cemeteries

or onto cattle trains

out to desert Reservations.

the Doors

of cold centuries

blow open,

and we see

how Treaties

are still Broken and Abused-

by those we entrust

who have turned

the Globe of Everything

we are meant to Share

into something Bought and Sold

all Right to be Owned and Inherited.

most sheep don’t Mass for much-

just a patch of grass to graze

and a shack to shag and sleep in-

a few, have their own field

and privately furnished rooms,

but when they all adore

w and k’s first tour

on the front page and tv news

for twelve days of conditioning,

or letch and leer over the tits on page three-

the Universal Flaw in Their Rule and Law

makes them troll and bay for this culling of people-

until it comes for them.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 2nd July, 2011. All Rights Reserved.


i went on the bus to Cordoba,

and tried to find the Moor’s

left over

in their excavated floors

and mosaic courtyards,

with hanging flowers brightly chamelion

against whitewashed walls

carrying calls

behind gated iron bars-

but they were gone

leaving mosque arches

and carved stories

to God’s doors.

in those ancient streets

where everybody meets;

i saw the old successful men

with their younger women again,

sat in chrome slat chairs,

drinking coffee to cover

their vain love affairs-

and every breast,

was like the crest

of a soft ridge

as i peeped over

the castle wall and Roman bridge

like a Visigoth rover.

soft hand tapping on shoulder,

heavy hair

and beauty older,

the gypsy lady gave her clover

to borrowed breath,

embroidering it for death,

adding more to less

like the colours fading in her dress.

time and tune are too planned

to understand

her Trevi fountain of prediction,

or the dirty Bernini hand

shaping its description.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his book WOODED WINDOWS. 2011. All Rights Reserved.


my eyes and mind

are colour blind

images of the past,

seen in black and white photographs

coming back to me

when the world was grey on tv.

the print in some of my books,

is a secret spectrum

of heroines and male fuck-ups

whose fatal flaws, sent them

out to be destroyed

by codes of conduct gibbetting joys.

Tess, the dairy maid,

refused to have her sex enslaved,

so men executed her free will

and persecute their women still.

even Jude,

became my long interlude-

but Arabella has gone,

so I must move on


and get dressed.

a bad tooth,

filling falling out

in the cavity of youth,

and hanging about

on Elizabeth through autumn weather

in our long hair and cracked leather

as she sucked my cock on Kersal Moor

and said: “fuck me on the floor!”

filching movie posters from cinema halls

and pinning them to our bedroom walls,

then sitting on bare floorboards

listening to Led Zeppelin and The Doors-

after swapping Sabbath’s Paranoia

for the colours of Matisse and Goya.

we can’t go back to that neighbourhood:

it’s gone,


from the air, but not from the blood,

these things we understood

like shavings from good wood.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his book WOODED WINDOWS. 2011. All Rights Reserved.

SELECTED POEMS from MAVERICKS by Strider Marcus Jones


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.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. Mavericks.



now the back of you is gone-

i must move the moment on,

but not forget

the private part i played-

and made.

we were strangers when you left

but lovers when we met,

so though bereft-

i don’t hold any ribbons of regret

to send me back

into that sunset

and paint it black.


the best of me

is yet to come,

rolled up

rolled out,

calm in cauldron’s cup

but hot no doubt,

with no divisions-


scenes from someone elses play,


dreams i want with you today,


means you are meant to me, so stay-

in the rhythms

of my hum,

for just one

last odyssey

to roam in, and be.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his book MAVERICKS. 2010. All Rights Reserved.



those long summer days,

spent lazing

and grazing

under your pink umbrella,

smoking pipe and panatella-

with your heats haze,


and streaming

on my lips

and far in fondling fingertips.

mind floating,

in your fluffy fissured moat

of cerebellum,

where its sepal boats

of words and phrases spoke

wearing different coats

of personality

set down on my vellum,

raising our reality

to share the same duality.

those even strokes,

so unrehearsed

on solitary senses,

were more than promissory notes-

though fate cursed

without pretences.

i look inside now

and wonder how

fate can be both so set and random,

and why the two, so often, co-exist in tandem.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones MAVERICKS. 26th June, 2009. All Rights Reserved.



i want to go

where love songs grow,

on the radio

into someone’s heart.


i want to know

if i play too slow,

and fade before the glow

can flame and spark.


i mend a dream,

distill it, to mountains seen

through mind and eyes potcheen,

lotioned by loves mark;


with tongue dabbing gleam

in fast flowing stream

of sweet nectarine

from sun up through sun dark.


i want your glow

in the thoughts i know,

before they dim down low

and depart-


this theatre of show

above and below,

where we all act to know

our own part.


so many vines

in the times

i know,

grape, but fail to flower.

i taste their wine

in its summertime,

but show

i am just a shower.


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones MAVERICKS. 2010. All Rights Reserved.



the fabulous beauty of your face-
so esoteric,
not always in this place-
beguiles me.

it’s late, mesmeric
smile is but a base,
a film to interface
with the movements of the mind behind it.

my smile, me-
like Thomas O’Malley
the alley
cat reclining on a tin bin lid
with fishy whiskers-

turns the ink in the valley
of your quills
into script,
while i sit
and sip

your syllables
with fresh red sepals of habiscus,
rejecting Ovid
and his Amores
for your stories.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 3rd July, 2009. MAVERICKS. All Rights Reserved.



when i make love with you sunny,

i dont worry about money-

or other things, come to that;

i just soar away

in everything you say

and never dream of turning back.

in this faded old room,

we look up at the moon-

through its worn beige curtain;

what we dont have, some say

can turn the heart away,

but that’s not us, i’m certain;

come and stay with me sunny,

being poor can be funny-

its not about the things we’re not,

let others have their walls,

with everything it falls-

without love, gold is pot.

what we have to share

is alchemy so rare-

precious in and by itself;

the moon and stars are free,

some mountains and some sea-

and we are forests in ourself.

we dont need cars and boats,

or pockets in our coats,

just these senses and to be-

my movie and my star,

my candle in its jar-

burning bright enough to see.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his book MAVERICKS. 2011. All Rights Reserved.


hot ride 
in you, 
quick quim 
cum too, 
shaft slide 
deep wide, 
grip him 
veined blue. 

deep throat 
with smoke, 
moans moat 
tongue like a limpet 
on your moon- 
crescent lit 
syrup spoon. 

rocked round your rim 
four fingers in, 
soft stroke 
your high note 
in drab dusk 
and damp dawn- 
through its musk 
warm swarm. 

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 20th June, 2009. MAVERICKS. All Rights Reserved.



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.


Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his book MAVERICKS. 4th August, 2009. All Rights Reserved.



one more summer comes to nothing
and is shed like old skin
to look back into
its pattern of disappointments
painted into autums
mist of fire blanket
flapping frosts
over fields and woods
to suffocate
those last flowers wearing collars of browning leaves.

bright beads of memories remain
like firethorn berries, red and ripe
hiding in white hands of hanging fallopia
blowing in the wind
holding onto no notes
eyes cast elsewhere-
such metaphors of nothing opiate
the silence and close conclusions
but behave like grunging groupies
behind the final curtain.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 13th September, 2009. MAVERICKS. All Rights Reserved.



soft and moist sensual nirvana
slip sliding all day,
its pulse pursuading
and never fading,
a panorama
exceeding this stay.
the notes of your lute
play wild in my mute
tripped tropical mind,
and speak soft sendings
without endings
i see behind.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2009 MAVERICKS. All Rights Reserved.



i wait
and listen
for the faint fall
of her footsteps
and the soft lilt
of her ethereal voice
that hangs in the air
to the shape and sound
of musical notes
that move like Degas' dancers
around the thoughtful beauty
of her fabulous face
to become lucid
with loves weight
but weightless and warm once worn
as their essence enters me.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. Inside Out.


i was drinking tea with Dali 
in an underworld cafe, 
arguing down his table 
on General Franco’s hand- 
when The Persistence Of Memory 
that melts my pocket watch 
made time less rigid- 
so i fell with names and numbers 
into old obsidian dreams- 
where your long legs pointed 
from six to twelve, 
then nine to three 
when you bent them- 
for me to play and pleasure 
each exotic segment 
of your velvet tangerine. 
Dali left the table 
to meet Picasso in Paris, 
while my benzedrine mind replaced- 
the soft and spent infinity of your face. 

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones INSIDE OUT 2009. All Rights Reserved.


you warm the bone in me,
pump blood through stone in me,
pluck strings unknown in me-
whose notes dissolve the screams
of ghosts that blacken dreams.

proud pictures of the past,
fall out of photographs-
some fade, but others last-
and we become the present in their place-
vibrating beads on strings of symmetry in space.

unravel in my head-
fuse fact and fiction with your timbre thread,
more than moves in blankets on tomorrows bed,
wet with cum and joyful tears-
the keeper, not the tenant of my years.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 2009. INSIDE OUT. All Rights Reserved.


in some quixotic place,
there is the figure and the face,
whose mind transcends that secret space-
in me.

she winds new memories
like ribbons round the helix threads of destiny-
altering perceptions, light and sound
when i turn around-
and find her watching me.

two beads, bound by natures mime,
consent to dance a tango on the silent strings of time,
oblivious to other fruits, that ripen on the vine-

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 2009. INSIDE OUT. All Rights Reserved.


oh seductive angel of temptation,
lying on your bed of divination-
swollen breasts caressing my creation,
lovelips glistening
lovecore quickening
tantric to the rhythm of my tongue
taking you to pleasures peak
in the wet warm syllables we speak-
suck soft, sigh loud, lick long.
through day and nights reality
of making dreams
come true, with no finality
or broken seams,
where words wake the want in longing
a velvet purse
to belong in
and endlessly rehearse-
like a field that sways unbraked
in the bodies of its flowers,
trembling through every breaths intake
of heat and scented showers,
as the day dies down
simmering in bough and gown.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 18th April, 2009. INSIDE OUT. All Rights Reserved.


a thought about you-
triggered, by the sight and sound and smell
of something else-
brings it all back.

the old brick bridge,
over the still canal-
reflects on those reflections gone

dark inside me deep-
which spoke prophetic phrases
that echoed on its ceiling
and fused within my own

bead on this simple string of time.
i felt i knew
each sentence in your senses,
and loves rhythms, rapid and relaxed-

made its own ripples, constant then but absent now,
with sanguine words,
and sagacious phrases
vibrating in the chords of air, like music moulding time.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 2009. INSIDE OUT. All Rights Reserved.


as these middle years back bleed,
the rags of old memories recede
into heirlooms handed on
forged in fondness, been and gone.

no time can turn back its mistakes
or mend the piece an action breaks,
to be the way it was before
its nature changed, to less, no more-

like fragments of the whole
tapestry, that reach out to find a role
in these changeling times
of lost roots and fading lines.

a trace of old hypnotic scent
and lived in words, now cold and spent,
separate in centrifuge
of time through space and spinning blues.

the face and timbre of fate and facts
grow parallel and parallax,
when love leaves on opposite trains
in summer sun and grainy rains.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 18th April, 2009. INSIDE OUT. All Rights Reserved.


we walk by the river
talking inside ourselves,
like rhapsodies in two reflections-
different, but the same.

the path, the fence, the fields-
unknown obstacles that stare
through then, and now, beyond-
have heard love chime before.

ahead the river breaks
going separate ways,
but we stick to the same side
in the willow woods

and farms of flooded fields-
with ascension stroking
each reaction
phosphorous in the rain.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. INSIDE OUT. 2009. All Rights Reserved.


ensconced in your topiary vegetation,
with the u vowel
and tongue trowel
quickening sensation,
trickles down the eaves
morphia poches,
and smokes through notes
of cuddled conversation-

try to pin me down,
your king without a crown,
from cobbled streets
and communist meets
back then, in the day-
that come to this
contorted with decay.

if i know love at all,
it’s moat without a wall-
can come and conquer me,
then share soliloquy.
i look through pixel stars,
ignoring clubs and bars,
in seas above the ground-
waiting to be found

in books of chivalry-
embedded into me.
another doing day,
forms and fades away,
as the sky drapes close-
hope constricts, and i compose
these lines of fallow furrows-
my yesterdays, for tomorrows

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 31st March, 2009. INSIDE OUT. All Rights Reserved.


in these, so close, contented fields
of thoughts and flesh caressed
by limbs and lute phonetic phrases
in this dark loop of days,

i want what more reveals-
the undercoat of faith undressed
to nature without cages
exposing pagan aspects and its ways,

to behold what light conceals
in blue and grey stone thoughts that smiles suppress,
through the henge of seasons phases
in the centre of your circle as it plays.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 19th April, 2009. INSIDE OUT. All Rights Reserved.


when i look back
in a moment
of quiet acquired dignity
that comes to some
with age,
it is with patience,
for i was much the same
when everything seemed bigger
than it was
as uncertainty
wore the other shoe to confidence
and followed it step for step.

the energy of youth
that often acts
without respect and understanding-
to bluff and blag its way
in fashion and musical rebellion-
skips like stones
on the ponds of those who have it all
from Parliaments revolution-
but their ripples wane
through treacled trends
in this dumbed down democracy
soothed by drugs and drink.

apathy watches and laughs
at these new roundheads and royals-
jigging their booty
to tunes composed
by capitalist cavaliers-
wearing each despotic Emperor’s new clothes,
and a known assassins kiss of death
waits for anyone who questions-

so it goes.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. March 7th, 2009 INSIDE OUT. All Rights Reserved.


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 
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 INSIDE OUT 2009. All Rights Reserved.


a walk through town 
ended sat by the cenotaph 
on old hill fort trailing broken jasmine, 
whose fading sweet scent- 
fell over long lists 
of remembered names. 

women of my own age, 
sat showing their beauty 
of made up face 
and mammarous breasts, 
talking down time 
with crossed legs 
matched to buttery buttocks. 

rolling a cigarette 
the way my grandfather did- 
their children laughed together, 
and charged around on green grass 
with pretend death stuttering 
from their hands and lips- 
no mud, or soft thud, of brass bullets 
slam into flesh and bone 
to silence them forever- 

a smile from one of the women now, 
and what do i do- 
sit there, 
confidence looking down 
at my cigarette smoke rise and fall 
thinking of broken jasmine men- 
but sometimes, 
i fashion a secret glance 
obvious to them- 
looking into beauty, 
and lusting, 
like these men would- 
with them knowing 
i have been single too long. 

time to go. 
i get up, 
say goodbye 
and walk away 
like a branch of broken jasmine, 
but not a hero- 
the truth is 
each age sees 
birds of prey 
falling away too 
into the bay 
after flamingo. 

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 18th June 2009 INSIDE OUT. All Rights Reserved.


i contemplate for hours,
weaving circles round the moon,
using supernatural powers
in an oxygen balloon-
imagining the straight
in the twists and turns of fate.

the truth is ties and tangles
of beads upon a thread,
with answers to its angles
solved in something that you said-
like the canopy of bloom
lighting shade inside a room.

soft, part the peel of pleasure,
real and ripe behold, begin-
imagine of the whole together,
spoken out, and spoken in,
like yin-yang thoughts
beat to beat to balance talks.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 20th April, 2009. INSIDE OUT. All Rights Reserved.


its time to go
inside this show
of profits
and prophets-

to the motives and motifs
of tenets and beliefs,
that make a man, blow a child to bits-
in Gaza, where blood blurs bible scripts.

the gunslung
and unsung
Goliath shelling David’s ghetto into crypts,
but only Al-Jazeera shows the genocidal clips.

the currency of crime
infests divinity and time,
corrupting ideologies that blow-
through the politics, like a great and secret show.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 17th January, 2009. INSIDE OUT. All Rights Reserved.






i want you horny, 
want you wet, 
like a river 
when we pet, 
when we first met- 
on a bridge, 
in the rain, 
out of town. 

i want to taste you 
kiss on kiss, 
bleed like heaven 
in your bliss, 
pick you up 
and throw you down 
like this- 
in a park, 
in the dark, 
lay down. 

hands through hair, 
tongues and teeth 
and lubed up lips, 
hard sucks, 
finger fucks, 
long licks- 
take you, 
take me, 
underneath this tree- 
love rocks, 
time stops 
its ticks. 

you take me long, 
and love me loud, 
throbbing in your satin shroud, 
thrusting deep 
to pleasures peak, 
harder when you try to speak, 
gasping as our juices meet- 
orgasms kiss 
and pass 
through the rumpled sheet 
of grass. 

stay inside, 
slip and slide 
and make it last; 
watch your smile, 
talk a while- 
share a smoke, 
enjoy a joke 
and heaven ask- 
don’t let the now, become the past. 

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2009. ASPECTS OF LOVE.


if i could take
the word love,
and give to it
the sound of how
you speak,
then look inside
its shell
and find you-
living out the years
like you belong:

i would wear
its shape and substance
in the shadow
of myself,
and hold it in my
empty hand
to not feel so alone-
then raise it to
my lips and taste
its phrase and something more-

as i head home,
along that rutted road
of fallow fields
and ancient tracks,
through what was, and is now,
and might become-
while posing pines,
stand and hang in quiet air
absorbing spoken thoughts
like silent sentinels.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. ASPECTS OF LOVE. 2009. All Rights Reserved.


you remind me of the rhythms in myself-
no house to play to
or the sound in someone else-
that drives their dreams
in simple scenes.

your music, is the motion of the waves
soul troubled too-
by yesterdays,
searching for a sigh that isnt wrong
to be its song.

your meadow, is a harvest shimmering
in light and hue,
in summer wind,
waiting, for a stranger passing through-
to settle in its simmering.

taste the rain
and take it in you,
long for it to come again-
meanings grow when fates continue
to reach for reasons, and remain.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. ASPECTS OF LOVE. 2009. All Rights Reserved.


so far back
deep in the magma of you,
with thoughts i lack
suddenly coming too.

so far back
in your words and feelings hue,
your molten track
a furnace of fire anew.

the pleasures foretold
in this world unglued,
now mine to behold
falling for you.

come love, etch your runes
onto sensuous skin,
and make my empty waiting rooms
ripple with longing.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. ASPECTS OF LOVE. 2009. All Rights Reserved.


goddess of the moon
fusion of light and shadow,
come now, light my room-
make darkness shrink and narrow.

gravitate to me
awake inside un-natural light,
half written, half unknown i be
eclipsed in doubt, but inward bright.

bring your blooms to this fallow bed
alone in fates sad stare,
wrap me in your ethereal thread,
to reset time and covet care.

adumbrate loves shallows
in my sanctum core,
where the pastels fade and pallow
without depth and shade on dwindling shore.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. ASPECTS OF LOVE. 2009. All Rights Reserved.


soft scented ring
on straightened bow,
the joy you bring
inside me now-

the candle burning, slowly down,
the mirror showing more of you-
arched back and shoulders golden brown,
hips rock, hair tumbling too-

as hope and passion rise and fall
in symmetry and space,
the perfect beauty of it all,
enraptures face and place-

and be it now, or beyond this,
with gentle hands and loves soft kiss-
to trace your smile and touch your thoughts,
still, after this, when the road forks.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. ASPECTS OF LOVE. 2009. All Rights Reserved.


like God, heaven
and the meaning of life

but to us, the motion of the wheel of time
brings it back to earth.

like feelings felt and factorised
unclear, but seen and realised
in the aspect of your eyes.

like an unfinished thought
in a cloud of smoke,
like oxygen 
like laughter
when you tell a joke,
or the sound 
of a musical note-
and the lilt in the tone of your voice.

like life and love
in a bowl of hope,
or your scent
on some words you wrote
in a book set down-
in lucid language
that unfolds like a film in my mind;

like a warm wind stroking skin
real, beyond imagining.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. ASPECTS OF LOVE. 2009. All Rights Reserved.


touch a thought
about you,
sense how deep
it goes,
your love has brought
it out anew-
let it speak
what it knows.

the scents of summer 
fill the air
when you walk 
through light,
my senses hum their
joys and care-
and when you talk,
my mood burns bright.

becomes reflected,
in your dark aspect
and almond eyes;
the doubts of doom, bling
like the moon, respected-
redrawn by the architect
of your sighs.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. ASPECTS OF LOVE. 2009. All Rights Reserved.


she left,
without remorse or love to lose-
and cleft
the music from the blues.
in melancholy mental muse-
the theft
of love wanes like old news,
and jests
through pain to wear in new shoes-
the rest,
just words in ink and oral clues.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. ASPECTS OF LOVE. 2009. All Rights Reserved.




  1. Thank you for reading these selected poems from my books. Most appreciated. Strider


Five Poems by Maria Downs

  A WHISTLE UPON THE AIR So to hear the soft – throated,   bird sing, from its note form those words,   like flowers of spring flowing...