Showing posts with label Strider Marcus Jones. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Strider Marcus Jones. Show all posts

Wednesday, February 11, 2026

GAS Featured Poet: 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. 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 smoky rooms. His poetry has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize x4 and Best of the Net x3. 

His poetry has been published in numerous publications including:  Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Literary Yard Journal; The Honest Ulsterman; Poppy Road Review;  Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine and Dissident Voice.



INTANGIBLE

intangible,
like God, heaven
and the meaning of life
ultimately-

but to us, the motion of the wheel of time
brings it back to earth.

intangible
like feelings felt and factorised
unclear, but seen and realised
in the aspect of your eyes.

intangible
like an unfinished thought
in a cloud of smoke,
like oxygen 
invisible,
like laughter
when you tell a joke,
or the sound 
of a musical note-
and the lilt in the tone of your voice.

intangible
like life and love
in a bowl of hope,
or your scent
on some words you wrote
in a book set down-
in lucid language
that unfolds like a film in my mind;

intangible
like a warm wind stroking skin
real, beyond imagining.





SEPARATE PIECES

follow me
down the fathoms
of forgiveness
like ghosts
who heal and hope-
to that room
in the mind
where contentment
resonates
with longing
for love to fill
its vacant chair
and meld it to us both.

i can't go on
like separate pieces,
that move around each other
but never touch
in their courtship
on the board-
and yet,
so many things
you say and do,
won't go away
and fill me still,
with points of possibility
as the Great Wheel of Time
revolves
in harmony and confusion.

conscious moments,
call out
to chance and circumstance
and weave away in dreams-
orchestrating
opening gambits,
to suture sensual seams.
two hands touch
and influence fate
as they move around the squares;
time curves,
then unmeasures words-
and their endless game goes on.