STRIDER MARCUS JONES

 

Calculus

 

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 alchemies 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

praying-

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?

 

Two Misfits

 

it was no time

for love outside-

old winds of worship

found hand and mouth

in ruined rain

slanting over cultured fields

into pagan barns

with patched up planks

finding us two misfits.

 

i felt the pulse

of your undressed fingers

transmit thoughts

to my senses-

aroused by autumn scents

of milky musk

and husky hay

in this barn's faith

we climbed the rungs of civilisation

so random in our exile-

 

and found a bell

housed inside a minaret-

with priest and muezzin

sharing its balcony-

summoning all to prayer

with one voice-

this holy music, was only the wind

blowing through the weathervane,

but we liked its tone to change its time.

 

The Green Man

 

i have the green man

growing in his tree

feet to earth

hands in sky

head with heart.

 

prophetic and pagan

his persuasion

is asking me to be

like the mother who gave me birth-

but now,

even how

we go to die

is apart.

 

his eyes

behind his hair

both stare

at Babylonians

becoming Old Bostonians

changing us from Custodians

leaving the DreamTime

to work in line.

 

my door,

is always open

in case he comes back in

running half broken

father mine from the mill dripping

stale sweat

on the hearth floor

but i don't forget

 

him shaping his words and hands

everywhere he sits and stands

so selfless to let me see

how to set my own mind free-

break the blames that blind you

and liberty will find you;

real truth, is not what everyone knows

but in their echoes

unspoken shadows.

 

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 tablecloth-

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.

 

This Now My Thoughts

 

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.

 

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 https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. 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 poetry has been published in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; 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.