Six Poems by Strider Marcus Jones

by Strider Marcus Jones

In and Out Arc

i've joined this cast

pressed against the glass

breath condensing,

unsure if the audience will applaud

what is flawed.

some work, ends up poor

for being rich,

every sentence sensing-

swollen and sore

if you over scratch the itch.

i'm still a tramp,

living rough in the park,

seeing light glow different in the lamp

of its in and out arc

as a confused skylark-

sings out of tune,

and scrapes its feet, like a displaced rune

on dry stone walls

and enclosed fences

into decorated halls

and empty envies.

i can cope,

with the trope

and metaphore of a tree,

that roots itself and branches wildly

random as before

without being cut to make a door.

fate is not intangible. it understands,

how a rebel quill in a broken hand

can dig truths out of ancestors and famined land.

In the Notes of My Guitar

i discover who you are

in the notes of my guitar-

love songs

sad songs,

good wronged

grown back songs,

plucking soft and strong

in nowhere

for somewhere

to belong.

chords fill the space

around the beauty of your face,

with lyrics in the breeze

on this road of serendipity,

where silver trees

mark the way to go, and be.

Black Witch

the way you drink your beer

straight from the bottle-

my low civilisation could topple

over you.

some talking dirty in my ear

while you ride at full throttle,

i'm in deeper than the darkest shade of blue-

straight down the middle

head thrown back and giggle

bowstring

rocking

finger plucking

blue grass fiddle-

harbour in oblivion

black witch of obsidian

born in that pavillion

the empire new.

My Old Socks

my old socks

sheath the feet

that fill my boots

to walk on land.

hard hands, sweating like peat,

still break rocks

in imprisoned heat

born trapped roots

in dynasties of the damned.

the faded thread-

diminishes in duty until dead

while famous patterns

conceal what really happens-

their reasons behind closed doors

gain ignorant applause

for wars

and poverty

rising from floors

of serial

imperial

cruel pomposity.

Those Leaves on the Pavement

from bud to life to death

membranes of breath

rustle

and hustle

for water and wind

in self similarity

without clarity

doing the wrong thing.

each tree, is its own fate

landing in landscape

rooted in class

morphing into towers of steel and glass-

those leaves on the pavement

rejected with resentment

turning brown

no history written down.

some of those leaves

are people we know-

but who perceives

why we let them go,

after mistakes

into what waits

with nothing to show

when time shakes.

I Want What Ordinary Others Want

i want

what others want-

synchronicity

and simplicity

in life of free will-

sharing some land

i can work with my hands

no more slave still-

time trapped.

lines tapped.

steps tagged.

voice gagged.

this elite mafia

of Orwell and Kafka

has built Metropolis

on old Acropolis-

reducing proles

to zombie roles

in constitutions

of constructed evolutions,

with blood to dust faiths

riding like dark wraiths

bullets shredding

bombing and beheading

the innocents

and dissidents

to steal their lot

and not share what you've got.