.jpg)
Strider Marcus Jones
.jpg)
MIRROR, MIRROR
mirror, mirror,in the hall
age comes to us all,
and looks wither
through the play
of years slipped away,
away
in the lapsed lingo of street
and road,
where tangents meet
and move with innocence
up summits of experience
told,
whose fruits we eat
then weep
when they implode.
these reflections
in this autumn of adventurous directions,
mean more
standing in the door
of ebb and flow
watching people come and go
wearing introspections
of what they know
after listening to a stranger's small confessions
on midnight radio.
THE LATITUDE OF LOVE
the latitude of lovepaddles an imperial pedalo
in someone's waters-
and i had to go
native in a foreign land
to understand
where my own backward blood
has brought us.
in the mihrab
in Cordoba,
no one is lost
as Christian and Arab
respect how they cross over.
the scallop shell,
with its white marble hood
and cathedral bell
above ancient wood,
keeps everyone equal and safe from hell-
but outside:
other forces blow the people and their pedalo.
THE OTHER SELF
the other self
abstracted in the press
of turned down pages,
gets mucked up in the mess
and shows how unlaminated age is.
if nothing else-
these nude notes
being played behind the curtain
where the stage is,
by soloist strings
and hermit woodwinds-
are far hopes
of uncertain
opening chords
calling out
to the duet
i haven't come to yet.
and afterwards,
if all those afterwards
could talk and kiss and spout,
there would be
no more misery
move it out.
THE PATTERNS
somewhere
in everywhere
everybody
happens
in the patterns,
like flocks
of rocks
gathered to the lobby
of Saturn's
rings,
graded
and sorted
into ugly and beautiful
useful
things;
all something
out of nothing
but not absolute nothing:
it seems matter
that Mad Hatter
and plectrums of light
make tunes of self similarity settle and fight
repeating this same existence
without remembered resistance.
THE SUN DRIPS DOWN
i don't feel like a stranger
in your ease
as i come to know
your fast and slow
above, below
waves and seas
roving like a ranger.
moves the closed to door,
spills wax, wafts candle light,
and in music more slight
behind words said
becomes a squeezed breeze-
that warms in and out
where all love's doubt
left and fled.
uncoil and leave our head,
the sun drips down
ultraviolet turning brown
the sated flesh,
whose oliveness
soon condenses,
freeing long suppressed senses
to understand each other's expectation
knowing love is more than our creation.
THIS NOW MY THOUGHTS
this now my thoughts
open at the image of your name
won't be revealing
the secrets they explain-
do you do the same
on these out walks
remembering the rain
drop fractals on us feeling.
without preachers
or bad teachers,
harvest high with hope
just us and frayed strands
of poetry and bands
on this bridge of notes
our mind spans.
the bloom of this plot
in garden to river
shaping start and stop
the melting clock
of body quake then quiver
through the Dreamtime day night
and soul spirit lit by landscape light.
to revert back far
but have no Gaelic croft
to live in who we are.
it has changed hands
until the purpose of these lands
shoots dissenting music out of birds
and sucks all truth from ancient words
so existence is
another language.