Selected Poems from Mavericks by Strider Marcus Jones

 

SELECTED POEMS from MAVERICKS

by Strider Marcus Jones

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MAVERICKS

you taste of cinnamon and fish
when you wish
to be romantic-
and the ciphers of our thoughts
make ringlets with their noughts
immersed in magic-
like mithril mail around me
stove dark forest, pink flesh sea
touchings tantric-
make reality and myths
converge in elven riffs
of music, so we dance it-
symbols to the scenes
of conflict, mavericks in dreams
that now sit-
listening to these pots and kettles
blackening on the fire
of rhetoric and murderous mettles-
before we both retire
to our own script.




ONE LAST ODYSSEY

now the back of you is gone-

i must move the moment on,

but not forget

the private part i played-

and made.

we were strangers when you left

but lovers when we met,

so though bereft-

i don’t hold any ribbons of regret

to send me back

into that sunset

and paint it black.



the best of me

is yet to come,

rolled up

rolled out,

calm in cauldron’s cup

but hot no doubt,

with no divisions-

hiding

scenes from someone elses play,

riding

dreams i want with you today,

confiding

means you are meant to me, so stay-

in the rhythms

of my hum,

for just one

last odyssey

to roam in and be.

THE SAME DUALITY


those long summer days,

spent lazing

and grazing

under your pink umbrella,

smoking pipe and panatella-

with your heats haze,

gleaming

and streaming

on my lips

and far in fondling fingertips.



mind floating,

in your fluffy fissured moat

of cerebellum,

where its sepal boats

of words and phrases spoke

wearing different coats

of personality

set down on my vellum,

raising our reality

to share the same duality.



those even strokes,

so unrehearsed

on solitary senses,

were more than promissory notes-

though fate cursed

without pretences.

i look inside now

and wonder how

fate can be both so set and random,

and why the two, so often, co-exist in tandem.




THIS THEATRE OF SHOW

 

i want to go

where love songs grow,

on the radio

into someone’s heart.



i want to know

if i play too slow,

and fade before the glow

can flame and spark.



i mend a dream,

distil it, to mountains seen

through mind and eyes potcheen,

lotioned by loves mark-



with tongue dabbing gleam

in fast flowing stream

of sweet nectarine

from sunup through sun dark.



i want your glow

in the thoughts i know,

before they dim down low

and depart-



this theatre of show

above and below,

where we all act to know

our own part.



so many vines

in the times

i know,

grape, but fail to flower.

i taste their wine

in its summertime,

but show

i am just a shower.

REJECTING OVID

the fabulous beauty of your face-
so esoteric,
not always in this place-
beguiles me.

it’s late, mesmeric
smile is but a base,
a film to interface
with the movements of the mind behind it.

my smile, me-
like Thomas O’Malley
the alley
cat reclining on a tin bin lid
with fishy whiskers-

turns the ink in the valley
of your quills
into script,
while i sit
and sip

your syllables
with fresh red sepals of habiscus,
rejecting Ovid
and his Amores
for your stories.




ALCHEMY SO RARE


when i make love with you sunny,

i don't worry about money-

or other things, come to that;



i just soar away

in everything you say

and never dream of turning back.



in this faded old room,

we look up at the moon-

through its worn beige curtain-



what we don't have, some say

can turn the heart away,

but that’s not us, i’m certain-



come and stay with me sunny,

being poor can be funny-

it's not about the things we’re not,



let others have their walls,

with everything it falls-

without love, gold is pot.



what we have to share

is alchemy so rare-

precious in and by itself-



the moon and stars are free,

some mountains and some sea-

and we are forests in ourself.



we don't need cars and boats,

or pockets in our coats,

just these senses and to be-



my movie and my star,

my candle in its jar-

burning bright enough to see.




TELEPATHIC LOTUS

 

hot ride
in you,
quick quim
cum too,
shaft slide
deep wide,
grip him
veined blue.

deep throat
with smoke,
moans moat
invoke,
tongue like a limpet
on your moon-
crescent lit
syrup spoon.

rocked round your rim
four fingers in,
soft stroke
your high note
in drab dusk
and damp dawn-
through its musk
warm swarm.




THE FOREST OF FORGETS

i don’t do remembers, or regrets,

not knowing, i belong in what comes next-

without the edge and angle of pretext,

find me in the forest of forgets-



watching your perfections dance and breathe

in my fires flames then read out gypsy leaves-

imagining your whispers in the wind and trees-

before they fade, and fall, and leave.



back inside the house, picture rails

of love hang empty

from bent hooks, that promised plenty,

leaving frameless tales in musty trails-



to dusty cabinets of more

trinkets and traces-

whose duality displaces

sky and floor.

METAPHORS OF NOTHING


one more summer comes to nothing
and is shed like old skin
to look back into
its pattern of disappointments
painted into autumns
mist of fire blanket
flapping frosts
over fields and woods
to suffocate
those last flowers wearing collars of browning leaves.

bright beads of memories remain
like firethorn berries, red and ripe
hiding in white hands of hanging fallopia
blowing in the wind
holding onto no notes
eyes cast elsewhere-
such metaphors of nothing opiate
the silence and close conclusions
but behave like grunging groupies
behind the final curtain.




NIRVANA

soft and moist sensual nirvana
slip sliding all day,
its pulse persuading
and never fading,
a panorama
exceeding this stay.
the notes of your lute
play wild in my mute
tripped tropical mind,
and speak soft sendings
without endings
i see behind.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2009 MAVERICKS.

All Rights Reserved.