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"Ninety Nine Percent In Tents" "That Blacksmith Fellow"" The Division Bell" And Other Two Poems By Mark Jones– Pawners Paper

Have you a thought around a circled mist, seems confusing and so unclear yet you could still have a brink of it in a limelight? Mark Jones' five (5)

"Have you a thought around a circled mist, seems confusing and so unclear yet you could still have a brink of it in a limelight?  Mark Jones' five (5)poems gave an insight on these. The poems comprise "Ninety Nine Percent In Tents" .In ninety nine percent in tents, he emphasizes with amazing striking words on the essence of togetherness and love among one another "we don't need money in our tent to make each other feel so spent-" In "That Blacksmith Fellow, he distilled with rare magic in this poem with portions of exotic rhythms and rhymes and " In The Division Bell", he creates an image of the happenings in the society and how"corruption-turned it into condensed subliminal codes" and the widened gap between the elite and the masses. 
Also, In " Our Children Are Making A Revolution" and "The Dance" both  poem share similar theme with in the division bell"

Mark Jones


in the compound of this room
we make our tent
with revolution's loom
knitting a firmament
that challenges corrupt times
with solemn slogans
to plutarch totems
simply marked on cardboard signs.
resistance kindles in the dark
and breathes new poetry and art
like a cultural tsunami
elites can't beat with armies.
these sincere spears
of human spheres
stand soft spoken,
peaceful, but not broken
like disciples in fabric domes
chanting social justice tomes
while Jesus circles existential
throwing speculators from the temple.
we don't need money in our tent
to make each other feel so spent-
only the sea shore, forest and mountains
to trickle streams and spurt fountains,
unlocking love when the cradle rocks
the secret rhythm of intimate clocks.



war thump
peace pump
stall start

cave hunting
and gathering
in groups

to farms with crops
and hoofed livestocks
drink beer, eat meat and soups.

that blacksmith fellow,
with fire and forge, hammer and bellow,
is still the alchemist-

malleous like his mettles
when everybody settles
into civil lists.

in us now,
the subliminal plough
sets our furrows footsteps-

so summer's run and winter's plod,
with, or without god
in and out of upsets.


they have civilised
the language of hatred
and corruption-
turned it into condensed
subliminal codes
to be absorbed
and aspired to
through elite worship.

this softening,
that swims in intercourse
with Oppositions
and Self mandates
its wars and poverty-
hides the bodies
from presentations
where the Smile and Fist
work together.

there is no Division Bell
that Speaks and Moves
with and for
the majority
marching past outside-
like Natives
carrying their bags of belongings,
being screened and moved
from lush lands
early into cemeteries
or onto cattle trains
out to desert Reservations.

the Doors
of cold centuries
blow open,
and we see
how Treaties
are still Broken and Abused-
by those we entrust
who have turned
the Globe of Everything
we are meant to Share
into something Bought and Sold
all Right to be Owned and Inherited.

most sheep don't Mass for much-
just a patch of grass to graze
and a shack to shag and sleep in-
a few, have their own field
and privately furnished rooms,
but when they all adore
w and k's first tour
on the front page and tv news
for twelve days of conditioning,
or letch and leer over the tits on page three-
the Universal Flaw in Their Rule and Law 
makes them troll and bay for this culling of people-

until it comes for them.


in this static show
of status quo
political voices
make their choices
in the game
but most remain
loyal or abstain
and stunt their reputation
for self gratification
raping the have nots
with subtle riots
of troughed opinion
like glove puppets of elite dominion. 
these suits of higher suits
who keep the masses murmers mute
ignore the real ground
crumbling round
financial towers of glass and steel
whose machinations illegally steal
the oxygen of dreams
from street streams.

this summer cities burned
and some plasma tv's got returned 
by groups
in operatic loots
but i remember them
stealing rice and bottled water
while Number 10
shouted Order! Order!
so they nabbed jazzy trainers to fit in
as a boydad took nappies for his son to shit in.
it was a grain of gravy from the pile you've got
not even a scoop
of the soup
from the glimmering pot
of silver and gold
simmering on your stove. 

then came the justice of oligarchy's retribution
sending these children to jail
while the bankers and hackers own trail
of looting and intrusion
went unpunished or was given bail.
our children are making a revolution
and live in a language
that we can't damage
above our rhetoric and contaminated bones 
on their ipods and mobile phones 
in their own wisdom
and fields of vision
making new tunes
and runes
without the rules
of serfdoms fools
and privileged jewels.


pull the roof off
knock the walls down
touch the forest
climb those mountains
and smell the sea

watch how life
in death
going back to land
to reform and be reborn
as something and someone else.

there's no great secret to it all.
no need to overthink it through

food and shelter
fire and shamans
clothes and coupling
used to be enough
with musicians
and poets
interpreting the dance.

then warriors with armies
religions with god
and minds buying and selling
stole the landscape
and changed time.

smash the windows
break down the doors
melt the keys
rub evil words from their spells
and puncture the lungs of their wheels

before they kidnap you from bed
call you dissident
hold you without charge
wheel you out on a stretcher
from waterboard torture
for years 
without trial
in Guantanamo Bay.

they are selling
the sanctuary
we made
with our numbers
bringing back chains
making some of us slaves
outside the dance
in the five coloured rings
making winners
and losers
holding flags and flames.


Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. 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 the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.

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Pawners Paper: "Ninety Nine Percent In Tents" "That Blacksmith Fellow"" The Division Bell" And Other Two Poems By Mark Jones– Pawners Paper
"Ninety Nine Percent In Tents" "That Blacksmith Fellow"" The Division Bell" And Other Two Poems By Mark Jones– Pawners Paper
Have you a thought around a circled mist, seems confusing and so unclear yet you could still have a brink of it in a limelight? Mark Jones' five (5)
Pawners Paper
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