By Strider Marcus Jones

Become Transhuman

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

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.

Broken Line

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

  1. 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

    Liked by 1 person

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