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. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between forests, mountains, cities and coasts playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude. His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India and Switzerland in numerous publications including mgv2 Publishing Anthology; Dreich Magazine; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard e-Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; The Poet Magazine; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; A New Ulster/Anu; Outburst Poetry Magazine; The Galway Review; The Honest Ulsterman Magazine; The Lonely Crowd Magazine; Danse Macabre Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic Arts; Don't Be Afraid: Anthology To Seamus Heaney; Dead Snakes Poetry Magazine; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine.

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.

HENGE
 
  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.