Strider's POETRY PUBLISHED IN MAGAZINES, JOURNALS & REVIEWS 2026


Thrilled to have five poems published in 100 Subtexts Issue 47. My thanks to brilliant editor John Hopper.






HOT ROD

 

fast and furious

archangel in paint and chrome

brings me home-

purring megaphonious,

combusting with sav and sap

that i glimpse

peeking into warm grill chintz-

then she lifts her corset bonnet

and lets me touch her glinting bones

secreting home spun

pheromones

attracting, like moon and sun-

mysterious

and mnemonic

old senses,

fallow and fenced

soon become drenched

quiller and squirter

in that linguistic converter-

glow mapping,

overlapping,

slowly blown

in the metronome. 

 

 

THAT SILENCE WHOSE COLOURS I KNOW

 

the longer you play

the better you sleep,

so take it away

and beat-

the skin of your drum

with finger and thumb

the horn of your bone

on heat-

until you cum home

alone.

its saner than crazy

but lonely and lazy,

that silence whose colours i know-

without sweet talking

and hands held walking

in rhythms so fast and slow-

and the aftermath,

lying there

on that drenched path

you want to share-

turns over, tiredly

and clicks off the lamp

where you admired me

long, spent, damp.

 

 

THE BLUEBELL WOOD

 

the bluebell wood is coming through,

but I'm not the one you're going to-

oh no,

my symphony is slow.

loves notes need oxygen for breath

and mine are clotted, clemmed to death-

revoked

hopes

choked

in mangled, mettled mess.

the bluebell wood is waiting

for lovers in their deeper dating,

swaying and intoxicating

natural undress-

while I sit at home and rest

in the belly of old books

with time ticking out of fading looks,

wondering where it's gone

since two talked past one.

now conversations come like noodles,

light and spiced that leave me hungry

for their quick drawn doodles

absorbed while spongey,

to cohabit and collaborate-

still separate where they wait. 

 

 

FRACTALS OF CLARITY

 

how can i forget

the way she sucks me

while she smokes my cigarette-

tongue strokes

tip pokes

softly round the rim

then deeper in.

 

the sensual symmetry

of close caressing

fondle messing

with her hair

and gentle bobbing of head

up-down-there,

 

so much love

i hold, in my hands

between my legs,

sliding out and in

rubbing circles round

the sea sound

collar of her quim.

 

we make self similarity

in fractals of clarity

lying back,

looking into each other

picking out stars in sky black

drapes that cover

 

what this does

to us.

 

 

OUR TALK

the soft wind, stroking your smiling face,
fingers your fine combed hair, in out of place-
and i know
when you go
nothing can make this mood,
or give its famine food.

our talk, branching through woods and sky
like young leaves, suddenly knowing why-
they need the sun again
to be, and to remain-
more than a copied canopy
to reach the plain out to me.

i lounge, in your living words libation,
with uncommon nouns, uncovered in creation,
and wait for wantings i can be-
where complex minds dwell in that simplicity,
where feelings go to touch
and come to mean so much.



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 

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




Thankye to awesome Editor Barbara Leonhard for publishing my poem Fractals of Clarity on her superb MasticadoresUSA on 09/o6/2026.

“FRACTALS OF CLARITY” by Strider Marcus Jones – MasticadoresUsa // Editor: Barbara Leonhard //



FRACTALS OF CLARITY

how can i forget
the way she sucks me
while she smokes my cigarette-
tongue strokes
tip pokes
softly round the rim
then deeper in.

the sensual symmetry
of close caressing
fondle messing
with her hair
and gentle bobbing of head
up-down-there,

so much love
i hold, in my hands
between my legs,
sliding out and in
rubbing circles round
the sea sound
collar of her quim.

we make self similarity
in fractals of clarity
lying back,
looking into each other
picking out stars in sky black
drapes that cover

what this does
to us.

Copyright © 2026 Strider Marcus Jones
All Rights Reserved

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, his five published books of poetry (https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/) reveal a maverick, moving between cities and playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.  

His poetry has been published in numerous publications, including Poppy Road Review, The Galway Review, The Huffington Post USA, The Stray Branch Literary Magazine, Crack The Spine Literary Magazine, The Lampeter Review, Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine, and Dissident Voice.

Thrilled and honoured to have my poem Mirror, Mirror published by great Editor John Patrick Robbins on The Crossroads Literary Magazine on 29th January, 2026.






Thursday, January 29, 2026

Mirror, Mirror By Strider Marcus Jones


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.


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, 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 numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Crossroads Magazine, The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.




Honoured to have my poem Come and See published by brilliant Editor Barbara Leonhard in the superb MasticadoresUSA.

MasticadoresUSA, poem, poetry, Treasured Contributors

“COME AND SEE” by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted by Meelosmomon30 January, 2026

Photo by jiawei cui on Pexels.com

you don’t have to be extreme
to be content,
other forces feed
this show-
they build on what has been
and mingle with consent,
then roam the rivers we invent-
using nature and nurture’s seed
to make it grow.

unshade your grey, reclusive hours
and play your made, profusive flowers
all the way:
don’t let regret upset your dream-
it’s all its light has been
and makes what it empowers
from today.

but hark at me!
not knowing
what i’m sowing
day to day
deliberately-
and yet, i know it’s coming,
comes from going
out of me-

into its tomorrow,
with all its sleeps of sorrow
entangled in its tree,
what i don’t make, i borrow-
come and see.

Copyright © 2026 Strider Marcus Jones
All Rights Reserved

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. Strider, a member of The Poetry Society, has five published books of poetry, revealing a maverick who moves between cities and plays his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in over 200 publications worldwide, including Dreich Magazine; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Melbourne Culture Corner; Literary Yard Journal; The Galway Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rye Whiskey Review; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; and Dissident Voice.



Delighted to have my poem A Woman Does Not Have To Wait published in the superb Suburban Witchcraft Magazine Issue 11 in December 2025. My thanks to brillliant editor Mirjana M.


https://suburbanwitchcraft.com/issue11




A WOMAN DOES NOT HAVE TO WAIT


under the old canal bridge you said
so i can hear the echoes
in your head
repeating mine
this time
when it throws
our voices from roof into water
where i caught her
reflection half in half out of sunshine.
thats when i hear Gerschwin
playing his piano in you
working out the notes
to rhapsody in blue
that makes me float
light and thin
deep within
through the air
when you put your comforts there.
Waits was drinking whisky from his bottle
while i sat through old days with Aristotle
knowing i must come up to date
because a woman does not have to wait.

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



 Thrilled to have my 2 poems The Samaritan Machine & The Mad Hatter Hiding in Dark Matter published in Be About It Press. My thanks to Editor Alezandra Naughton.

https://beaboutitpress.substack.com/p/the-samaritan-machine-and-the-mad

two new poems by Strider Marcus Jones







The Samaritan Machine


this field pond

is only my

dissolved

imagination-

thought drops

of summer rain

making fractal ripples

drumbeat on skin.

a portal shared

with cawing crows

reveals

who scams and snoops and shoots

in contract conversations.

this Windsong

of Virginia Creeper,

ruling Bear and Wolfsbane

rustling in black bamboo

trusts its Samaritan Machine

telling it who to redact

in this imposed

dystopian

equilibrium

of dumbed-down masses

worshipping Carousel.




The Mad Hatter Hiding in Dark Matter


in our house

i binned the radio

for playing Strauss-

left the suited rodeo

of casino Faust

and shot the gentry shooting grouse.

into the wild garden

without spun jargon

we went

through rusting arch of rose dissent

onto the precipice of peace

where slush borders grip and grease

like usurping tectonic plates

shapeshifting smaller states.

their innocents bombed and dispossessed

join our shoaled oppressed

of obedient possessed-

while The Mad Hatter

hiding in Dark Matter-

says blame them, instead of Strauss

in suits playing casino Faust

and enslaving gentry shooting grouse.



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. A member of The Poetry Society, and nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best 
of the Net, his five published books of poetry Strider Marcus Jones Poet reveal a maverick, 
moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.


Honoured and delighted to have 5 poems published in Ranger Magazine, Issue 13. Congratulations to all contributors and thanks to brilliant editor David A. Bishop.


https://www.rangermagazine.net/issue13

https://www.rangermagazine.net/jones_issue13




#RANGER

Strider Marcus Jones



Hopper’s Ladies

 

you stay and grow

more mysterioso

but familiar

in my interior-

with voices peeled

full of field

of fruiting orange trees

fertile to orchard breeze

soaked in summer rains

so each refrain all remains.

 

not afraid of contrast,

closed and opened in the past

and present, this isolation of Hopper's ladies,

sat, thinking in and out of ifs and maybes

in a diner, reading on a chair or bed

knowing what wants to be said

to someone

who is coming or gone-

 

such subsidence

into silence

is a unilateral curve

of moments

and movements

that swerve

a straight lifetime

to independence

in dependence

touching sublime

rich roots

then ripe fruits.

 

we share their flesh and flutes

in ribosomes and delicious shoots

that release love-

no, not just the fingered glove

to wear

and curl up with in a chair,

but lovingkindness

cloaked in timeless density and tone

in settled loam-

beyond lonely apartments in skyscrapers

and empty newspapers,

or small-town life

gutting you with a gossips knife.

 

 

The Two Saltimbanques

 

when words don't come easy

they make do with silence

and find something in nothing

to say to each other

when the absinthe runs out.

 

his glass and ego

are bigger than hers,

his elbows sharper,

stabbing into the table

and the chambers of her heart

cobalt clown

without a smile.

 

she looks away

with his misery behind her eyes

and sadness on her lips,

back into her curves

and the orange grove

summer of her dress

worn and blown by sepia time

 

where she painted

his mirth and mess

lying down

naked

for her brush and skin,

mingling intimate scents

undoing and doing each other.

 

for some of us,

living back then

is more going forward

than living in now

and sitting here-

 

at this table,

with these glasses

standing empty of absinthe,

faces wanting hands

to be a bridge of words

and equal peace

as Guernica approaches. 

 

 

Calculus

 

Darwin can't explain the missing link,

and science, did not invent the goal

of faith in how we think-

but Newton keeps us

sane to find the whole

gravity and reason for our role-

in calculus.

 

science beyond ours does exist,

in un-deciphered hieroglyphs

and alchemy's of metals

malleable like petals

on spaceships

crashed in Roswell, gone

to Area 51.

 

like Dedalus, who prayed too good

through Dublin's streets

of saints and sinners,

while whores exchanged their treats

for cash, from winners and beginners-

i walked towards the priesthood,

but woke up wet with wood.

 

i realised, Carlisle was right in saying:

no lie can live forever-

that the Gods we make together

praying-

don't care or intervene

in human fate and actions-

so Spinoza's God is seen,

 

in the orderly reactions

of the universe-

creating life, and waiting hearse-

but metaphors of doubt persist

on the road to Armageddon,

for if physics shapes all of this-

what shapes these cloths of heaven?

Visigoth Rover

 

i went on the bus to Cordoba,

and tried to find the Moor's

left over

in their excavated floors

and mosaic courtyards,

with hanging flowers brightly chameleon

against whitewashed walls

carrying calls

behind gated iron bars-

but they were gone

leaving mosque arches

and carved stories

to God's doors.

 

in those ancient streets

where everybody meets;

i saw the old successful men

with their younger women again,

sat in chrome slat chairs,

drinking coffee to cover

their vain love affairs-

and every breast,

was like the crest

of a soft ridge

as i peeped over

the castle wall and Roman bridge

like a Visigoth rover.

 

soft hand tapping on shoulder,

heavy hair

and beauty older,

the gypsy lady gave her clover

to borrowed breath,

embroidering it for death,

adding more to less

like the colours fading in her dress.

time and tune are too planned

to understand

her Trevi fountain of prediction,

or the dirty Bernini hand

shaping its description. 

 

 

A Woman Does Not Have To Wait

 

under the old canal bridge you said

so i can hear the echoes

in your head

repeating mine

this time

when it throws

our voices from roof into water

where i caught her

reflection half in half out of sunshine.

that’s when i hear Gershwin

playing his piano in you

working out the notes

to rhapsody in blue

that makes me float

light and thin

deep within

through the air

when you put your comforts there.

Waits was drinking whisky from his bottle

while i sat through old days with Aristotle

knowing i must come up to date

because a woman does not have to wait-

until my speech and face is

naked like a grockle

in those other places

we are coming to

under the blue.

it isn't much, but all i have for us-

me, behind this mask of mirrors.



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, and nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, his five published books of poetry Strider Marcus Jones Poet  reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Recusant, The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.

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