Lothlorien
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,
persuading
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.
It's So Quiet
it's so quiet
our eloquent
words dying on a diet
of midnight
toast
with Orwell's
ghost-
looking so
tubercular in a tweed jacket
penciling notes
on a lung black cigarette packet-
our Winston,
wronged for a woman and sin
re-wrote history
on scrolls thought down tubes
that came to him
in the Ministry
Of Truth Of Fools
where conscience
learns to lie within.
not like today
the smug-sly
haves say and look away
so sure
there's nothing
wrong with wanting more,
or drown their
sorrows
downing bootleg
gin
knowing
tomorrows
truth is paper
thin
.
at home
in sensory
perception
with tapped and
tracked phone
the Thought
Police arrest me
in the corridors
of affection-
where dictators
wear,
red then blue,
reversible coats
in collapsing
houses, all self-made
and self-paid
smarmy scrotes-
now the Round
Table
of real red
politics
is only fable
on the pyre of
ghostly heretics.
they are rubbing
out
all the
contusions
and solitary
doubt,
with confusions
and illusions
through wired
media
defined in their
secret encyclopedia-
where summit and
boardroom and conclave
engineer us from
birth to grave.
like the birds,
i will have to
eat
the firethorn
berries that
ripen but sleep
to keep
the words
of revolution
alive and warm
this winter,
with resolution
gathering us, to
its lantern in the bleak,
to be reborn and
speak.
Pyramid Prison
in detritus
metronomes
of human
habitation
the ghost of
Shelley's imagination
questions the
elemental,
experimental
chromosomes
and ribosomes
of DNA,
reverse
engineered
that suddenly
appeared
as evolution
yesterday.
her monster
mirrors dark wells
of monsters in
our smart selves,
the lost
humanity and oratory
that fills
laboratory
test tubes
with fused
imbued
genes
to dreams
of flat forward
faster
distinction
to disaster
and barbarism's
ectopic
extinction.
this is our
pyramid prison,
where all souls
and proles
climb the
debased
opposite steps
of extremism,
like Prometheus
Unbound,
defaced
sitting around
the crouching
sphinx
abandoned by
missing links.
free masons of
money and wars,
warp the alter
of natural laws,
so reason
withers
and wastelands
rust-
no longer rivers
of shared
stardust
in the equal
symphony of spheres
in space,
filling our ears
with subwoofer
bass,
definitive
primitive
medieval
evil
waste.
This Is The Field
this is not the
field
for truth to
grow in.
it's furrowed
lips are sealed
with knowing
nothing can sing
in the wrong
wind.
the crop is
stunted
self expression
blunted
opinion gagged
and head sagged
waiting for the final
blow
from the
farmer's shadow.
the field hands
cut to His
commands
and every
leathered face
has served in
it's place
like all the
others, for centuries
in these peasant
penitentiaries,
without bolting
or revolting
in union, except
for Loveless's Tolpuddle few,
who knew what to
do
but were jailed,
or transported
and thwarted.
this is the
field
to refuse to
yield
in. at Peterloo,
sabres slit gullets,
and now, tear
gas and rubber bullets,
try to abolish
workers’ rights,
but our
solidarity is stronger and fights.
We Move The Wheel
we move the
wheel
that turns
through each mistake,
giving motion
to the roles we
chime
until both
trickle out of time
like brittle
steel
that rusts and
breaks
into lapsed
devotion.
less, or more,
you imagined it
was sure
sharing the road
with you,
treading under
dark, grey and blue
sky, wondering
where it went going
to unfold
in fates wind
blowing
fondling your
full face
to some
top-to-bottom place.
we have moved
the wheel,
only to reveal
our high
Metropolis
is still the
same Acropolis
of extremes and
obscenes
spreading
gangrenous genes.
we have
separated Dream from Time
and live in
mirages
like Bacchus and
Libera
duped in an era
condoning crime,
altering the
images
of it's
illustrious self
stealing the wealth
of massed,
divided synergies.
STRIDER MARCUS JONES
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. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry
reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky
rooms. His poetry has been published in
numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal;
Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Our Poetry
Archive; Melbourne Culture Corner; Literary Yard Journal; The Honest Ulsterman;
Poppy Road Review; The Galway 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; A New
Ulster; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine
Poetry Magazine and Dissident Voice.
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