Strider Marcus Jones

The Samaritan Machine

this field pond

is only my

dissolved

imagination-

thought drops

of summer rain

making fractal ripples

drumbeat on skin.

a portal shared

with cawing crows

reveals

who scams and snoops and shoots

in contract conversations.

this Windsong

of Virginia Creeper,

ruling Bear and Wolfsbane

rustling in black bamboo

trusts its Samaritan Machine

telling it who to redact

in this imposed

dystopian

equilibrium

of dumbed-down masses

worshipping Carousel.

The Mad Hatter Hiding in Dark Matter

in our house

i binned the radio

for playing Strauss-

left the suited rodeo

of casino Faust

and shot the gentry shooting grouse.

into the wild garden

without spun jargon

we went

through rusting arch of rose dissent

onto the precipice of peace

where slush borders grip and grease

like usurping tectonic plates

shapeshifting smaller states.

their innocents bombed and dispossessed

join our shoaled oppressed

of obedient possessed-

while The Mad Hatter

hiding in Dark Matter-

says blame them, instead of Strauss

in suits playing casino Faust

and enslaving gentry shooting grouse.

The Mess of Thrown Off Clothes

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-

cycle

and circle

sky and stone

outside and home-

in love in less

with your heavenliness,

and loneliness

durable under duress.

THE PATTERNS

somewhere

in everywhere

everybody

happens

in the patterns,

like flocks

of rocks

gathered to the lobby

of Saturn's

rings,

graded

and sorted

into ugly and beautiful

useful

things;

all something

out of nothing

but not absolute nothing:

it seems matter

that Mad Hatter

and plectrums of light

make tunes of self similarity settle and fight

repeating this same existence

without remembered resistance.

THE LATITUDE OF LOVE

the latitude of love

paddles an imperial pedalo

in someone's waters-

and i had to go

native in a foreign land

to understand

where my own backward blood

has brought us.

in the mosque

in the mihrab

in Cordoba,

no one is lost

as Christian and Arab

respect how they cross over.

inside:

the scallop shell,

with its white marble hood

and cathedral bell

above ancient wood,

keeps everyone equal and safe from hell-

but outside:

other forces blow the people and their pedalo.

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, and nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, his five published books of poetry Strider Marcus Jones Poet  reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Recusant, The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.