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Poets in the Backfield by Strider Jones

Stay a while?
The subliminal cuts are coming through
These days of deadly boredom,
And poets in the backfield

 Hardy,would not like today,
Life's become an angry play;
And our deoxyribonucleic acid
Carries no imagination,
That's not already put there
By a rival TV station.

I can hear you saying,
Yes,but,we have the right to choose:
A color,and a ball of string-
Or poets in the backfield

 You said:
"The Golden Bird eats Fish
In South America
And most of the peasants let him,
Because of Bolivar."
Yet,millions starved in Gulag camps,
And Czechs cried fears when Russian tanks,
Thundered through their traumoid streets
Pretending not to be elite.
As one old soldier put it:
"The West and East preach different dreams,
But ride the same black limousines."

 Stay a while?
These sheets are cold
Without your sighing skin;
And this poet in the backfield
Is writing

Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate and ex-civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. With five published books of poetry and his poetry featured in over a hundred literary journals and magazines worldwide http//, this Poetry Society member is a Maverick, moving between forests, mountains and cities, playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.