By Strider Marcus Jones
mop my stain of thoughts from their existence, before they grow too old and follow me, into disrepair and rigid ways- but leave one drop of luminous ribosome to feed its reason if i choose to let mortality become transhuman, then i, so acting shaped to mime and mummer like a paradise peacock in a rainy coat of chaos- would delete myself born blind, gone wise.
When The Day Breaks Down
when the day breaks down, i look rain drowned like that hole in the ground trapped road where i wait floating in the pool of fate. which way is sound. back is gone, and forward the unfound wild track moves on. sideways yours and my ways shout then separate out in pieces of broken pre-Raphaelite plate and coffee stained passages of forgotten Blake, now ornaments of visionary discontents- i removed when to begin again.
doing nothing is a way of doing something with the day if you leave it open. just think, what was, has been a long drink from the same stream and you are not broken. love flown and fled shared who you are, happened, was said but only so far sound spoken.
i keep seeing you forever, but forever isn’t time; its now is only never, and its plough isn’t mine: but those fields, were not faking in the wind and rain of mime- when giving, was worth taking to remember the same soft swaying, then making broken line- on loves ketch, so ebbed and etched in sips of moated wine, whose sober stillness of fathoms reflect- this nearness each dominion can't confine.
Grains of Sand
imagine crossing the Sahara with the Tuareg; sleeping under one vast canopy of stars, consoled by constellations that once looked down on ancient forests and wind worn mountains older than these here now. it all repeats itself- the river- beds and rocks return to the sea, where temporary strangers sit like Robinson Crusoe on loud, tractor raked beaches in smells of salt and dog shit watching the waves, thinking inside them coming and going like friends to be afraid of- as nature retunes herself ignoring our significance becoming grains of sand.
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 cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, England, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India and Switzerland in numerous publications including mgv2 Publishing Anthology; And Agamemnon Dead; 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; Section8Magazine; 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; Syzygy Poetry Journal Issue 1 and Ammagazine/Angry Manifesto Issue 3.
2 thoughts on “Become Transhuman and Other Poems”
I found Strider Marcus Jones’s to be both interesting and fascinating. I especially liked the following lines from “Doing Nothing”: doing nothingis a wayof doing somethingwith the dayif you leave it open. How true those lines are. In other words, if you do nothing all day, you’re still doing something. Think about that. Frank Kowal
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