Page 19 - October 2020
P. 19


                 my old socks
                 sheath the feet                                      Strider Marcus
                 that fill my boots
                 to walk on land.                                               Jones

                 hard hands, sweating like peat,
                 still break rocks
                 in imprisoned heat
                 born trapped roots

                 in dynasties of the damned.

                 the faded thread-
                 diminishes in duty until dead
                 while famous patterns
                 conceal what really happens-

                 their reasons behind closed doors
                 gain ignorant applause
                 for wars
                 and poverty

                 rising from floors
                 of serial

                 imperial                                      Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law
                 cruel pomposity.                              graduate and ex 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
                                                               reveal   a    maverick,     moving
                                                               between forests, mountains, cities
                                                               and  coasts  playing  his  saxophone
                                                               and clarinet in warm solitude.
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