Strider Marcus Jones's Blog: https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/

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.



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.blogs.... A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.word... 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.

MEPHISTOPHELES IS NOT ABOUT



this coffee is hot-
but paradise is cold,
and Mephistopheles is not
about, tempting me with gold
and pouting pleasures of the flesh
with their alluring mesh-
so Morpheus to hold
in broken secrets being told.

this dreamer in his underwear,
parts from the bottle, and leaves it there-
some touched,
not much
with stale camembert-
no fun alone,
moving around inside, unknown-
disturbed from bed to chair.

it synchronizes well,
how past and present both compel
a sleep on understanding-
the beat of love with sand in
the texture of its taste,
trapped in silence,
waxed to waste-
with nothings nonsense
in its face.



Copyright 2025 Strider Marcus Jones. This his first appearance on Masticadores Canada.


BIO: 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.blogs.... A member of The Poetry Society, nominated for the Pushcart Prize x3 and Best of the Net x3, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.word... reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

I LOOK THROUGH PIXEL STARS


ensconced in your topiary vegetation,
with the u vowel
and tongue trowel
quickening sensation,
trickles down the eaves
morphia poches,
and smokes through notes
of cuddled conversation-

try to pin me down,
your king without a crown,
from cobbled streets
and communist meets
back then, in the day-
that come to this
metropolis
contorted with decay.

if i know love at all,
it’s moat without a wall-
can come and conquer me,
then share soliloquy.
i look through pixel stars,
ignoring clubs and bars,
in seas above the ground-
waiting to be found

in books of chivalry-
embedded into me.
another doing day,
forms and fades away,
as the sky drapes close-



Copyright 2025 Strider Marcus Jones


BIO: 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.blogs.... A member of The Poetry Society, nominated for the Pushcart Prize x4 and Best of the Net x3, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.word... reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

SPXLL

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 revolutions rings,

the equal hands on the cosmic clock,

plays rhythms we know

but have forgot,

neither quick nor 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.



Copyright 2025 Strider Marcus Jones.


BIO: 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.blogs.... A member of The Poetry Society, nominated for the Pushcart Prize x3 and Best of the Net x3, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.word... reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

ISOLATION



so i suit
this solitary shell
of isolation,
with time to think
between the grains of sand,
that complicate
its close compartments
and heavy out
the walk to each sweet segment-
whose footsteps take me back
to blood, bone and flesh-
but thoughts outside these ribboned roots
remain me,
through this grainy grey malaise of days,
to make the wait of wanting-
turn to hope and happenings
that settle on a sunset
while i sleep for their return.


Copyright 2025 Stridor Marcus Jones


BIO: 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.blogs.... A member of The Poetry Society, nominated for the Pushcart Prize x3 and Best of the Net x3, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.word... reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

https://thecrossroadlitmagazine.blogspot.com/2026/01/mirror-mirror-by-strider-marcus-jones.html

Thursday, January 29, 2026



Mirror, Mirror By Strider Marcus Jones


mirror, mirror,

in the hall

age comes to us all,

and looks wither

through the play

of years slipped away,

away

in the lapsed lingo of street

and road,

where tangents meet

and move with innocence

up summits of experience

told,

whose fruits we eat

then weep

when they implode.

these reflections

in this autumn of adventurous directions,

mean more

standing in the door

of ebb and flow

watching people come and go

wearing introspections

of what they know

after listening to a stranger's small confessions

on midnight radio.




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.blogs.... A member of

The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.word... reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.



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

Post USA; The Crossroads Magazine, The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.

“COME AND SEE” by Strider Marcus Jones

MasticadoresUSA, poem, poetry, Treasured Contributors

“COME AND SEE” by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted by Meelosmomon30 January, 2026

Photo by jiawei cui on Pexels.com

you don’t have to be extreme
to be content,
other forces feed
this show-
they build on what has been
and mingle with consent,
then roam the rivers we invent-
using nature and nurture’s seed
to make it grow.

unshade your grey, reclusive hours
and play your made, profusive flowers
all the way:
don’t let regret upset your dream-
it’s all its light has been
and makes what it empowers
from today.

but hark at me!
not knowing
what i’m sowing
day to day
deliberately-
and yet, i know it’s coming,
comes from going
out of me-

into its tomorrow,
with all its sleeps of sorrow
entangled in its tree,
what i don’t make, i borrow-
come and see.

Copyright © 2026 Strider Marcus Jones
All Rights Reserved

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. Strider, a member of The Poetry Society, has five published books of poetry, revealing a maverick who moves between cities and plays his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in over 200 publications worldwide, including Dreich Magazine; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Melbourne Culture Corner; Literary Yard Journal; The Galway Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rye Whiskey Review; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; and Dissident Voice.

https://suburbanwitchcraft.com/issue11

A WOMAN DOES NOT HAVE TO WAIT

under the old canal bridge you said
so i can hear the echoes
in your head
repeating mine
this time
when it throws
our voices from roof into water
where i caught her
reflection half in half out of sunshine.
thats when i hear Gerschwin
playing his piano in you
working out the notes
to rhapsody in blue
that makes me float
light and thin
deep within
through the air
when you put your comforts there.
Waits was drinking whisky from his bottle
while i sat through old days with Aristotle
knowing i must come up to date
because a woman does not have to wait.

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, and nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

The Samaritan Machine & The Mad Hatter Hiding in Dark Matter published in Be About It Press. My thanks to Editor Alexandra Naughton.

https://beaboutitpress.substack.com/p/the-samaritan-machine-and-the-mad

two new poems by Strider Marcus Jones

Photo by Indra Projects on Unsplash

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. A member of The Poetry Society, and nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, his five published books of poetry Strider Marcus Jones Poet reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.




Be About It Press is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support our work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

https://www.rangermagazine.net/issue13

https://www.rangermagazine.net/jones_issue13

#RANGER

Strider Marcus Jones



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 Two Saltimbanques



when words don't come easy

they make do with silence

and find something in nothing

to say to each other

when the absinthe runs out.



his glass and ego

are bigger than hers,

his elbows sharper,

stabbing into the table

and the chambers of her heart

cobalt clown

without a smile.



she looks away

with his misery behind her eyes

and sadness on her lips,

back into her curves

and the orange grove

summer of her dress

worn and blown by sepia time



where she painted

his mirth and mess

lying down

naked

for her brush and skin,

mingling intimate scents

undoing and doing each other.



for some of us,

living back then

is more going forward

than living in now

and sitting here-



at this table,

with these glasses

standing empty of absinthe,

faces wanting hands

to be a bridge of words

and equal peace

as Guernica approaches.





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 alchemy's 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?

Visigoth Rover



i went on the bus to Cordoba,

and tried to find the Moor's

left over

in their excavated floors

and mosaic courtyards,

with hanging flowers brightly chameleon

against whitewashed walls

carrying calls

behind gated iron bars-

but they were gone

leaving mosque arches

and carved stories

to God's doors.



in those ancient streets

where everybody meets;

i saw the old successful men

with their younger women again,

sat in chrome slat chairs,

drinking coffee to cover

their vain love affairs-

and every breast,

was like the crest

of a soft ridge

as i peeped over

the castle wall and Roman bridge

like a Visigoth rover.



soft hand tapping on shoulder,

heavy hair

and beauty older,

the gypsy lady gave her clover

to borrowed breath,

embroidering it for death,

adding more to less

like the colours fading in her dress.

time and tune are too planned

to understand

her Trevi fountain of prediction,

or the dirty Bernini hand

shaping its description.





A Woman Does Not Have To Wait



under the old canal bridge you said

so i can hear the echoes

in your head

repeating mine

this time

when it throws

our voices from roof into water

where i caught her

reflection half in half out of sunshine.

that’s when i hear Gershwin

playing his piano in you

working out the notes

to rhapsody in blue

that makes me float

light and thin

deep within

through the air

when you put your comforts there.

Waits was drinking whisky from his bottle

while i sat through old days with Aristotle

knowing i must come up to date

because a woman does not have to wait-

until my speech and face is

naked like a grockle

in those other places

we are coming to

under the blue.

it isn't much, but all i have for us-

me, behind this mask of mirrors.



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.blogs.... A member of The Poetry Society, and nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, his five published books of poetry Strider Marcus Jones Poet reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky 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 Recusant, The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.