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.