TWO MISFITS

it was no time
for love outside-
old winds of worship
found hand and mouth
in ruined rain
slanting over cultured fields
into pagan barns
with patched up planks
finding us two misfits.

i felt the pulse
of your undressed fingers
transmit thoughts
to my senses-
aroused by autumn scents
of milky musk
and husky hay
in this barn’s faith
we climbed the rungs of civilisation
so random in our exile-

and found a bell
housed inside a minaret-
with priest and muezzin
sharing its balcony-
summoning all to prayer
with one voice-
this holy music, was only the wind
blowing through the weathervane,
but we liked its tone to change its time.

LOW VAULTED CEILINGS

within those man stone walls
promoting their god
bringing us to him
i told the priest-
you tell us to be content
with poverty
while you live in this big house
throwing us scraps
begged from money lenders.
this is not what Jesus
asked his disciples to do.
this is not what he died for.
he said live amongst us
and share what they have.
the priest,
red with rage,
oppressive and oppressed-
pulled my mam aside
made her shrink in his stare
weep in his words
walk me in our sins
from his dark-damp house of angels.
outside
in feral sunshine
i pointed to grinning gargoyles
chasing chastened shadows
back down primitive paths-
to a cellar flat,
bare bulb dangling
prison beam probing
baptised flesh
and mam tipped tears
soaking into straw mattresses
sucking up cold from the flagstone floor
woodworms eating a Van Gogh table
where six mouths sat
sharing stale bread and cold beans
with whiskered skirting board mice.
years later,
i left Dedalus in Dublin
in the pages of a book
to his epiphany
and Jesuit suit of guilt-
while i quenched
my glistening fruit
in street light ladies-
drenched in smokey curling
dancing clouds
and stories from voices
bouncing off low vaulted ceilings
caressing human in darkness.

OLD CAFE

a rest, from swinging bar
and animals in the abattoir-
to smoke in mental thinks
spoken holding cooling drinks.

counting out old coppers to be fed
in the set squares of blue and red
plastic table cloth-
just enough to break up bread in thick barley broth.

Jesus is late
after saying he was coming
back to share the wealth and real estate
of capitalist cunning.

maybe. just maybe.
put another song on the jukebox baby:
no more heroes anymore.
what are we fighting for-

he’s hiding in hymns and chants,
in those Monty Python underpants,
from this coalition of new McCarthy’s
and its institutions of Moriarty’s.

some shepherds sheep will do this dance
in hypothermic trance,
for one pound an hour
like a shamed flower,

watched by sinister sentinels-
while scratched tubular bells,
summon all to sunday service
where invisible myths exist-

to a shamed flower
with supernatural power
comes the hour.

AN OLD WOODEN BOAT

an old wooden boat,

the long sail through erotic journey

tattered and torn,

lip red paint peeling on planked carcass,

bleaches on a sandbar-

the silent tributary

of its river bed

dried and cracked.

smudges of mascara

over scented seasons

woman the shell of a dress

she wore

with full breasts

and firm behind.

i remember-

don’t take

the corn coloured sun for granted,

or ignore

her constellation and unmentioned course,

unless, you want to pace the deck,

invisible to love

counting silent stars

talking to the unknown.

DOES HER FAR BEAUTY KNOW

does her

far beauty know

where my thoughts go

without her

when i walk

in lush rain lashing down-

squatting in enclosed fields

of remote wheat and barley

around told feudal cities and towns-

to talk

to fate and how it feels

to be emptied entirely

of hopes sounds-

these evolutions

fill rich men’s purses

and revolutions

are poor universes

that try to bend

the unequal

to be equal

without end.

does her

far beauty know

where my thoughts go

with her

when i walk

in lush rain lashing down-

soaked in moments come to this

paradise and precipice

belonging

bonding

thoughts

serendipitous

blowing into us-

gives shelter to the self

of us and other else-

unlike bare rooms we rent

to leave behind

when change moves us to fit

into it-

with only our echo and scent

of passion and mind.

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, nominated for the Pushcart Prize x3 and Best of the Net x3, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.