this fibbing sun
by Strider Marcus Jones
when this fibbing sun
dips below this planted plate
of fields—
and waits
to bob back up tomorrow:
solitude, sucks the color
out of crimson clouds
and stars begin their motions
over night’s black curtain.
this dance of being born—
to live and die
in sacred elements
swirling in dust and gas,
in beauty and folly
that repeats itself;
to what purpose
does this engine and design
make civilizations form then fade
with gods and demons?
this ship
of consciousness
in matter
has a stowaway
on board
decoding cyphers
in connections.
two misfits
by Strider Marcus Jones
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
handfasting
we climbed the rungs to civilization
and found a bell
housed inside a minaret—
where monk and muezzin
shared its balcony
chanting together for peace—
this holy music was only the wind
blowing through the weathervane,
but we liked its tone to change its time.