Strider Marcus Jones

LOVE IS, ALL IS

 

love is,

all is-

light and dark,

shade and shadow,

high-low

wide-narrow

crater under rainbow.

tramp or truffle you chance to meet

and take your time to share and eat;

a mythical ark

in-out skylark,

so fluttery butterfly in buddleia stomach

that wakes you up

more muttery in your head-

with jade of jealousy

and truest thread

come concave and convex,

mirrored and mouthed in images and text

with-without key,

but only borrowed

today and tomorrowed

and after that, what will be-

something ethereal

deaths' music can't serial,

alone, then together

in its own weather

sensual and free.

                               LAY LOVES TABLE

                                   set down in stone
                                   to be alone,
                                   rocking, in the tired rhythm
                                   of all to give, and nothing given.

                                   stop the clock inside the dream
                                   of motif with design and theme,
                                   and motion you to lay loves table-
                                   without facade or fairie fable.

                                   hang your coat up on the moon,
                                   with syllables that speak in tune-
                                   and resonate out light and reason,
                                   to make it real in every season.

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.