New Poems: Strider Marcus Jones

THE HERMIT

off rink

i think

and sit

like a hermit

but time

isn't mine

to design.

the images erased

from memory in this cave

reverses the lathe

of shaped corruption

to avoid self destruction.

to an unseen, individual,

prime residual

unlit spark in the integral

strum of strings

that turns in revolution rings,

the equal hands on the cosmic clock,

plays rhythms we know

but have forgot,

neither quick or slow,

but just so, with natures tow.

this solitary Eden,

paradise without our seed in

beneath the clouds of atmosphere,

alters with us here

overthrowing Older Orders without consent

in the deafening, silent firmament

and near

in conditioned fear.

Us

we are composed

out of the fate of stars

a light dark light so old

and tuned that regards

most of Us as Other

peasants

who are clothed

without privileged presents

to burn wood in cracked stoves

under crumbling cover.

stitched to Their time

we entwine

in our own interpretation

of this spinning station.

only burlesque bright skies

and the iris flowers of abandoned eyes

can change the fixed views

of a selfish landscape

into united hues

of equal state.

our reality is broken-

we are the hosts

and ghosts

who have been stolen

the violated tokens

of corporatist totems

screen greed being traded

and invaded

then beaten for protesting by police

working for the Thief.

THIS

this stone

is my mountain

and my home

this puddle

is my fountain

and my muddle

this star

is my jar

and lantern of life

seeing me go

to each outpost

where seasons grow

and real comes close

this wilderness

is my nothing to confess

and consent

for no material content

this cigarette

is my remember forget next

and smoke flavours the sensations

of situations

HOPPER'S LADIES

you stay and grow

more mysterioso

but familiar

in my interior-

with voices peeled

full of field

of fruiting orange trees

fertile to orchard breeze

soaked in summer rains

so each refrain all remains.

not afraid of contrast,

closed and opened in the past

and present, this isolation of Hopper's ladies,

sat, thinking in and out of ifs and maybes

in a diner, reading on a chair or bed

knowing what wants to be said

to someone

who is coming or gone-

such subsidence

into silence

is a unilateral curve

of moments

and movements

that swerve

a straight lifetime

to independence

in dependence

touching sublime

rich roots

then ripe fruits.

we share their flesh and flutes

in ribosomes and delicious shoots

that release love-

no, not just the fingered glove

to wear

and curl up with in a chair,

but lovingkindness

cloaked in timeless

density and tone

in settled loam

beyond lonely apartments in skyscrapers

and empty newspapers,

or small-town life

gutting you with a gossips knife

THE SAMARITAN MACHINE

this field pond

is only my

dissolved

imagination-

thought drops

of summer rain

making fractal ripples

drumbeat on skin.

a portal shared

with cawing crows

reveals

who scams and snoops and shoots

in contract conversations.

this Windsong

of Virginia Creeper,

ruling Bear and Wolfsbane

rustling in black bamboo

trusts its Samaritan Machine

telling it who to redact

in this imposed

dystopian

equilibrium

of dumbed-down masses

worshipping Carousel.

THE MAD HATTER HIDING IN DARK MATTER

in our house

i binned the radio

for playing Strauss-

left the suited rodeo

of casino Faust

and shot the gentry shooting grouse.

into the wild garden

without spun jargon

we went

through rusting arch of rose dissent

onto the precipice of peace

where slush borders grip and grease

like usurping tectonic plates

shapeshifting smaller states.

their innocents bombed and dispossessed

join our shoaled oppressed

of obedient possessed-

while The Mad Hatter

hiding in Dark Matter-

says blame them, instead of Strauss

in suits playing casino Faust

and enslaving gentry shooting grouse.

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 smokey rooms.

  

His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington

Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary

Magazine;The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice. His poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize x3 and Best of the Net x3.

New Poems: Sushant Thapa

 

Clean Slate 

 

A long walk to keep up 

The sun by my side. 

Shadows linger like 

Dust in my shoulder. 

The way is sandy, 

It took me forever to 

Let go of the lock 

That cages freedom 

In a room. 

I have to write, 

I have to keep up 

The heartfelt sensations. 

Hearts don't lie. 

In conversation with myself 

I found you. 

Yes, a bit of myself in you, 

And my imagination. 

Imagination is musical 

And I tune my instrument 

For it. 

I play the dusty life

And make it a clean slate. 

I again say that

I wish to play with my abstraction. 

 

 

Faded Time 

 

I am at the gate.

I have passed by like 

A silent river. 

I percolate, 

I make murmurs 

As I cut through the stones 

By my wave. 

Pour me a melancholic assurance 

And throw away 

The plastic happiness. 

I am like air, 

I am a relentless pursuit. 

My music is 

The soul's synchrony. 

I follow your dark path, 

Holding your hand with 

All your mighty trust. 

I picture the future,

Where the sun excuses itself 

For an evening shade. 

The merciful heat 

Lets us through a narrow shade 

Of romance. 

Life goes on through its faded time. 

 

 

 

Love is Forgiveness 

 

 

The mind takes offence 

When it is shut. 

A home becomes inhospitable 

When it is full of jargons. 

Jargons of relationship, 

Jargons of care that cages, 

Instead of dreams that color 

The black and white life. 

I understand how the first affection spoke, 

When guiding hands 

Lighted the lamp. 

The primordial fire 

Still blesses us. 

If the world falls apart, 

We take it as it is, 

We are doomed anyhow 

So let’s look at the stars tonight 

And feel the heaven 

In the grain of sand. 

It is easy to see the war, 

And hard to forget. 

Why wage war? 

Why kill innocent lives? 

This evening I am shattered 

Yet, I write of love. 

It is a rebellious living. 

This heart is a garden 

Where some plants wither and die, 

Without the care, 

Without the affection, 

Without the easy breath. 

Love is forgiveness too, 

I hope the war-mongers 

Learn to love. 

 

 

Every Saint in Me

 

What it takes to be happy? 

A glittering night 

An open sky, 

The music that distracts

For good, 

A slight breeze, 

A new poem 

That gets written 

In the heart first. 

I tune my heart of stone, 

I extract nectar from 

The figurative night 

That is so symbolic 

To be the god’s work of art. 

A solitary darkness 

Is a colorful meaning 

For interpretative brightness, 

No other darkness is more 

Interpretative and thus Meaningful. 

I wake up to the moonlight 

And my soul trapped 

In the musical soothing. 

You arrive in bits, 

I spill my paint 

In the canvas, 

Just like those bits. 

Every curve and curse

Is thrilling, 

Every saint in me 

Is a sinner 

In someone else’s court. 

I count the blessings 

Of a day, 

A mind full of spring, 

Even when winter

Treats me like an outcast. 

 

 

Figuring Out the Mystery 

 

Society tells you 

A safe corner isn’t a place to be. 

But you are on the road 

To create yourself. 

You would have bought the sky

And the stars, 

When you stray and go

On your own, 

They script a discipline chart 

For you. 

I want to traverse pure

Maybe a slight blues would console. 

I keep the music on loop, 

Try to figure out the meanings 

Of my dwellings afar, 

These lyrics don’t die, 

There is poetry in the first glance 

Of the open door, 

I invite truth, 

Even if it is painful. 

Crossroads make a beautiful memory. 

I plan nothing, 

Because I love to figure out 

The mystery. 

 

 

Filling its Emptiness 

 

Rest assured 

Unspoken pauses 

Are to be understood. 

The world leaves its gaps, 

The height 

Of scientific development 

Has been all the achievements 

Of nuclear warfare.

It is a mere power 

That can corrupt, 

The propaganda is not 

A communication strategy. 

Bullet holes leave death marks. 

I am the dark alley 

Where majority walk. 

I will not buy your hatred 

Even if it feeds me, 

With delicacies. 

The void keeps thinking 

How to go deep 

And fill its emptiness. 

Bio: Sushant Thapa is a Nepalese poet with nine books of English poems and one short story collection to his credit. His poems are published at Bold Monkey Review, Trouvaille Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Corporeal Lit Mag, etc. He is a lecturer of English in Biratnagar, Nepal.

New Poems : Rus Khomutoff

 

DRINK THE NIGHT SEA AGAIN

AN UNTITLED POEM

IMAGEN DIVINA

FACE OF LOVE

SECRETFLOWERS

CRY OF WISDOM

New Poems: John Grey

Carnival Dancer

 

She’s not so much a dancer 

as someone who grows lither,

less inhibited with the music.

It’s her gift to strangers,

on a street, intermittently lit,

in contrast to the deep black of her hair,

the eye-liner,

propped by lips blood-red as cherries,

waving her chrysanthemum,

castanets clicking like cash-registers

to the strum of fat guitars.

 

Crescent moon, warm evening,

from doorway lamp to doorway lamp,

then tracing, with dark fingernails,

the electric spark of the riverbank,

flaunting the knife strapped to her thigh,

lovingly retrieved from its hiding place,

the perfect prop for a move

as sinfully graceful as eleven at night, 

with occasional laughter, an odd trumpet,

all part of the costume.

 

Cat’s eyes, locks plastered down the middle,

cheeks powdered, from plaza to narrow street,

she can draw on public sex

she has never used in private,

eyes the families 

that come out once a year,

feel, in watching her,

the erotic shiver of the city.

Gutter Man

 

Nothing like pools of last night’s rain

for some breathtaking views of your reflection

and good times had by all

rippling in water.

 

And you live nearby with your mother

though you’ve forgot where exactly

and sleeping is sleeping 

whether on a bed or in the gutter,

 

though that’s no ceiling 

but a cop standing over you,

all in blue, with a face 

where the moon ought to be

 

in the first rays of daylight,

and his gun keeps materializing 

on his right hip – bang! bang! bang!

wait a minute…that’s your head. 

Getting Back There

 

You leave the city,

don't stop driving

until the land flattens out

and farms fall into view.

You're on course for the rural heart

of the country,

miles of straight white fences,

cornfields stringing gold from silo to silo,

town to town,

RD numbers and wooden mailboxes

carved with a family name.

Forget the droughts,

the miserable yields, the vampire bankers

and the unforgiving commodities market.

You sense something as pure

as a scrub clean in a porcelain tub

under a sloped ceiling,

a star-tippled skylight.

You reckon on a homeliness

as beckoning as a sit on a porch

in late afternoon, at the dimming of the sun,

cured by wind-borne farmyard smells.

You're geared to such delights

as early morning scouring a barn for eggs

or leaning on a fence,

watching a tractor work the land,

or crows hobnobbing on a power line.

You get here

just as farmers are down to their last dime,

can't wait to get out.

And wives, as bruised as the earth,

can no longer hold back.

And the backs of sons are bloodied

by the strap..

And a daughter,

looks out the window for city lights.

sees only stars,

those sparkling betrayers of distance.

It's how it's always been.

It's how it never was.

Congratulations, you've made it.

Congratulations, you can't tell the difference

Rainbow

 

It's up to you now, Laura.

I've suffered through the storm,

 

the nearest thing I know to divine judgment.

You promised rainbows. Show me.

 

No, not some of your buttermilk pancakes.

Or even that wine you've been saving.

 

I want my prism of droplets refracting and reflecting

the white light of the sun.

 

Don't screw up your face like that.

Stare out the window for me.

 

Find me that diaphanous spectrum.

There are colors out there surely

 

and brighter, lovelier than peacock feathers.

You think you're so clever bringing me food and drink.

 

But I can't taste my way clear. A forkful of that,

a sip of this - where's the awareness?

 

I've been bullied by the sky.

It's not up to you to make amends.

 

Just describe the brilliant hues of the rainbow to me.

And how they fill up time and space

 

Or float out ahead of the body, touching everything.

Let me know that they have our hearts, our souls.

 

And, oh yes, make sure

they're willing to defend them.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, Santa Fe Literary Review, and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and  “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the Seventh Quarry, La Presa and California Quarterly.