Daylight darkens into dusk,
Zuckerberg, Bezos, and Musk,
Climb into electric cars,
Look up with greed towards stars,
Dream they will put life on Mars,
Become modern avatars.
Who are they to rip us off?
Beyond law they stand and scoff,
One hundred billion plus,
Each of them has made from us.
Tax for them? Anathema,
Each one a tarantula.
Combined power truly vast,
Control stolen super fast,
Too late to mourn distant past,
Seems as if their die is cast,
We are ruled by oligarchs,
Aided by perverted narks.
Where once internet ran free
Mine data from thee and me.
We must cauterise their lust,
Zuckerberg, Bezos, and Musk.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 30th May 2021.

MSM push Downing Street narrative,
We can spend our way out of disaster.
Pandemic windfall savings rescue us
From collapse of retail economy.
Nevermind rampant viral variants,
Have to do our bit to save the market.
Can it work out? If we empty accounts?
I hear on Radio Four news today
Global inflation may gallop away,
Already copper, oil and lumber,
Resource prices rising beyond state control.
Create paranoia, bubbles will burst.
Wait with bated breath, boom and bust cycle,
Roars round bend, yet again poor take hit first.

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 29th May 2021.

Yeah, I’m old, what’s it to you?
You in your grace and favour,
Middle aged, luxury life.
Who the fuck are you to think
It’s OK to throw away
Over eighties like rubbish?
To portray Covid nineteen
As a tool for removal
Of elderly people now
Surplus to requirements?
With four hundred and twenty
Members of the House Of Lords
Over the age of Seventy,
Making the laws of the land,
You think it acceptable
To dismiss us at a stroke?
Well, Mr Spaffy Bollocks,
I have some grave news for you,
We ain’t going gracefully.
You can’t shuffle us all off
Into your herd immunity
Chicken pox party parlours,
To die, agonisingly,
We refuse to accept it.
You cannot avoid the truth.
Chickens, poxed or otherwise,
Come home to roost with vengeance.
We’re coming for you, Johnson,
It is time to call you out.
You are a selfish bastard,
With nazi proclivities,
An old school eugenicist,
Prone to racist utterance,
Populist embarrassment,
You use naked harassment
To besmirch democracy.
We are going to send you
An electoral message
That will get right up your nose,
Assuming that there is no
Rolled up fiver already there.
Now it’s time for you to take
Your fake, smirky, boyish charm,
Into has been wilderness.
We see you, you fucking crook,
See you, even though we’re old,
This time we will not forget.

Harry Rogers, In the Red Bedroom, 27th May 2021.

Afternoon speed up of Irish bodhran
Takes me dreamily alongside fiddle
Piano laden with gentle reverb
Soft vocals roll on through the middle

Cold tea and whiskey
Soothe my blues away
Cold tea and whiskey
Soothe my blues away

All I need to transport my mind again,
Back, back, ever back, back to the Big A.
Where new world familiar friends reside.
Sandy Springs or Tucker, places to play.

Cold tea and whiskey
Soothe my blues away
Cold tea and whiskey
Back in the Big A.
Cold tea and whiskey
Soothe my blues away
Cold tea and whiskey
Wait in the Big A.

Ride Marta from airport to Candler Park,
Through Five Points my heart sings high like a lark,
Wistful I wander by Chattahoochee,
Fly me, please fly me, back over the sea.

Cold tea and whiskey
They wait for me there,
Atlanta calls me,
Cold tea and whiskey.

In bed in Aberbanc 06-11-2019. Finished in the Red Bedroom, 27th May 2021

Sup pea and ham soup in Town Hall Café,
First meal out indoors since January
Twenty Twenty. Things have changed in small ways.
As ever in Lampeter soft rain falls.
Sainsbury’s car park machine now cashless.
My debit card soaked as I stand and tap.
Hardware store still haphazard as ever,
With screened social distanced one way system.
We’ve no coins for supermarket trolley,
Seems a lifetime since I spent real money.
Jolly café hubbub strangely subdued,
Reverential cappuccino coffee,
Sipped whisperly, hushed tones, as if in church.
We buy takeaway cakes to eat at home.

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 24th May 2021.

On the coastal path
A sunny Sunday
Walk cliffs to river,
Down to Ceibwr Bay.
Out in the water
Bottlenoses play,
Dreamy fish parade,
Dolphins dance on wave,
Swear I almost heard
Trois Gymnopedies
Bounce off rock face walls
Out across the sea.
Back upon cliff tops
On blanket we sit,
Greedy gulls hover
Whilst we eat picnic.
Sunny afternoon,
It’s a perfect day,
Late February,
Down in Ceibwr Bay.

Harry Rogers In The Yellow Room, 24th May 2021

I stand on the cliff path
Overlooking Smugglers Bay
I see the setting sun
Reflected in the waves
If I half close my eyes
I’m back down on that beach
When everything I wanted
Seemed within my reach

After skinny dipping we
Lay there on the sand
Shared our life stories,
Had the same favourite band
That was a great day when
The salt dried in our hair

Think I can smell
Rain in the wind
Rain Rain Rain
Rain in the wind.

We pooled our resources,
Decided we would share
Everything we had, started
Living our dreams large
We took off to Belgium
And bought a Dutch Barge
Sailed it to Haarlem where
We lived for seven years
Opened a piano bar
Selling Belgian beers

Think I can smell
Rain in the wind
Rain Rain Rain
Rain in the wind.

Was it cocaine Johnny
Was it Captain Jack
One those two devils
Opened up a crack
You fell in with
Both of those guys
Something had died
Behind your eyes

Think I can smell
Rain in the wind
Rain Rain Rain
Rain in the wind.

Like the dried up taste
Of dust from the plain
That advance warning
Of impending pain
This is where the start
Of the end begins
When you can smell
Rain in the wind

Rain Rain Rain
Rain in the wind.
Rain Rain Rain
Rain in the wind.

Think I can smell
Rain in the wind….

Harry Rogers, In Harriboy’s Hut, May 2016, revised May 2021.

Ghosts, wherever I turn,
Imps that pick at my brain,
Those who died pre my birth,
Modernity victims,
Twentieth century,
Sad icons of beauty,
Wrecked on fake illusions
Of civilisation.
Personal, national,
Global, familial,
Too many ghosts scream out.
Wars fought for blood and soil,
Wealth, power, kings and oil,
From Somme to Falluja
From Dachau to China,
From Dresden to Gaza,
Korea to Cuba,
Vietnam to Yemen,
This list grows endlessly,
Day in, week in, year out,
War factories churn out,
Mass destruction weapons.
Dealers meet at giant fairs
But there are no fun times,
Helter skelter joy rides,
Bumper cars nor switch backs,
Only endless ghost trains
That carry death profits
To ghoulish investors.
In nineteen ninety nine
We sang our songs of hope,
For a new sunny dawn,
Business as usual soon
Brought all humans up short.
And still ghosts keep coming.
I am sick of this farce,
This death masque rave planet.
Bring me peace and justice,
If only for one day,
I’d like to not see ghosts,
It would be a nice change.

Harry Rogers in the yellow room, 22nd May 2021.

Surf down glaciers to end of the world,
Where clouds are always a dirty yellow.
Drag lithium to surface, drive away
In electric cars, tell yourself you’re green.

Too late, too late,
To save the world
Too late, too late,
End of the world

I thought we might just pull survival off,
Perhaps there was a chance, if we turned red,
But that was about twenty years ago,
Before politics turned bluer than blue.

Too late, too late,
To save the world,
Too late, too late,
End of the world.

Skate on ice shelves as they float away free,
Into plastic filled oceans coloured grey,
As forests burn, viruses explode,
Everywhere skies streaked blood red and orange.

Too late, too late,
To save the world,
Too late, too late,
End of the world.

Empty purple planes line up on runways,
Holiday desire sends fools to amber,
It couldn’t get any later because,
Secretly, yet openly, we know it’s

Too late, too late,
To save the world,
Too late, too late,
End of the world.

Harry Rogers, In The Yellow Room, 21st May 2021.

YOU ARE STILL HERE: POETRY FROM A SOCIAL DISTANCE https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B095GSMCY1/ref=cm_sw_r_u_apa_glt_fabc_ZRE7TFFCPQCQX4VFT23F

My lockdown collection of poetry from February 2020 to February 2021.

Spads excel at theft of Jeremy’s clothes.
Trawl through long grass where lies manifesto,
Kicked there by Sir Keir in forensic fit
Of pink, Blairite, neo liberal pique.
Almost fell out of my bed this morning,
Radio Four news reader announces,
Without a hint of jaundiced sarcasm,
That Schapps is to take railways back into
Public ownership, immediately.
Franchises have failed. Privatisation?
A gargantuan Thatcherite mistake.
Public transport now totally vital.
Expect to see more Corbyn policies,
Dragged out of ditch by bereft Tories.

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 20th May 2021.

Such anxiety, I’m not used to it,
How can televised football news footage
Bring on such feelings from so far away?
A short clip of fans on their way to match,
Leaves me on the verge of panic attack.
Juxtaposed young unmasked united fans,
With Covid Indian variant stats.
I don’t begrudge these guys much needed fun,
At their age I too would go to the game.
To vent pent up lockdown testosterone,
Is so completely understandable.
Loss of freedom can only be maintained,
For so long before boiling point is reached.
So why am I in a paranoid state?

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 19th May 2021

I saw young sparrows dance,
As I sat in my chair,
Each small, twitchy, bird glanced
At me, and everywhere. 
I too worry about
The threat of predation
They, through instinct, straight out,
Me through trepidation.
Flitter from the hedgerow,
To nut holder and back,
Each journey from get go
Fraught, like a heart attack.
Next doors cat nonchalant,
Like me, oblivious.
All that mog could e’er want
Spiralled lascivious.
I sip julep waiting
Till within grasp I fall,
Sparrow, online dating.
Dancing? No, not at all.

Harry Rogers, In the hut, Aberbanc: 4th November 2016. Edited 16th May 2021.

Hop toad in number ten gapes smarmily,
Smiles as he announces his road map out
Of chaotic, self spawned, pandemic mess.
His minions, corruptly mired in graft,
Continue to spin confected conceits,
At flag draped lecterns, back pockets bulging.
Media sychophants scribble it down,
Besotted public still lap it all up,
Cling on desperately to normal dreams.
Crucible, Wembley, London Marathon,
Fine dining, real ale pumped, tennis nets jumped,
Masks discarded, wide open arms hug,
Manufactured relief spreads far and wide.
Beneath the lily pad untold truth hides.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 16th May 202.

I wrote this poem in 2015. Sent a recording of me reading it to my old friend, Ashley Cadell who lives in Melbourne, Australia. He sent me back this amazing finished mix. I post it now in solidarity with the people of Palestine.

WATCHING MY SHADOW LEAVE

I know when things are bad
When I break down and cry
Even when they’re not sad
I cry and cry and cry
The look in people’s eyes
My heart bleeds on my sleeve
Such darkness in the skies
I watch my shadow leave
What can we all do
This is nothing new
What can we all do
This is nothing new 
I want to love them all
Be right there for them
In Al Yarmouk they fall
Also in Bethlehem
I hear them when they call
So loud they need their friends
The world still does fuck all
Whilst this war never ends!
What can we all do
This is nothing new
What can we all do
This is nothing new 
The look in people’s eyes
My heart bleeds on my sleeve
Such darkness in the skies
I watch my shadow leave.

Harry Rogers – In the old study, Aberbanc – 06/04/2015

Glide like a California Condor,
Ride day after day on city thermals,
Look for stock market Covid carrion,
Feather the nest for post pandemic times,
Play on old school chums loyalty bonus,
Extort public funds for bankrupt has been,
Appear contrite in front of committee,
Admit to nothing, claim benevolence
Towards small business and entrepreneurs.
Keep cool, drip bullshit down legs at all times,
Cross winged fingers the fraud squad find nothing.
Fly off at early opportunity,
Write part two of biographical flop,
Spend rest of life looking over shoulders.

Harry Rogers, In the Yellow Room, 16th May 2021

People say that money goes to money
With a smile on their face
But I just don’t find it all that funny,
Some things are out of place

Money goes to money
It ain’t very funny
They steal all our honey
Money goes to money

There’s a plot of land a way across town,
Some rich dude bought it up,
When property prices went down and down.
Bull run done fill his cup.

Money goes to money
It ain’t very funny
They steal all our honey
Money goes to money

There’s a brand new law, needs understanding,
Build what thou wilt it says,
People no longer shall govern planning,
Not round here anyways,

Money goes to money
It ain’t very funny
They steal all our honey
Money goes to money
Money, money,
Money, money,
Money goes to money.

Only if we let it.

Harry Rogers, In The Yellow Room, 15th May 2021.

What is shadow? Light blocked out leaves darkness,
Around edge greyly forms torn penumbra,
An area of interest to painters,
Where reality begins and ends.
The Shadow, greatest comic book hero,
Paved way for Marvel in nineteen thirties.
Shadows once did dance whilst they played Apache,
On latest, modern, electric guitars.
Black shadows roared on North Circular Road,
Playing chicken on way to Ace Cafe,
Silver Shadows pulled up outside dance halls,
Where debutantes arrived to meet the Queen.
Moon shadows totally block out sun,
Eclipses, always cold, dark and quiet.
Older people are sometimes said to be,
Shadows of their former selves, rarely are.
Shadowfax gallops by, Gandalf roaring.
Some folks shadow others work, just in case,
Labour Party shadows, locked deep away,
In Chinese walled cabinet, speak only
When shadowy Mandelson signs it off.
Danger often lurks in darkest places,
Nosferatu cast shadow ten feet tall,
Like Blairite witch hunters in leaders thrall.

Harry Rogers, In The Yellow Room, 12th May 2021.

Oh what a kerfuffle
Keir lays out reshuffle
Octet plays on the deck
As steamer chairs scatter
What the forensic heck,
Blairite teacups shatter.
Iceberg in Hartlepool,
Sinks Progress cruise liner,
The captain such a fool,
Shitehawk at the diner.
In newsroom studios,
Old hacks powder their nose,
Write next act of their farce,
Prepare to kick new arse.
Failure? ‘Twas ever thus,
Clapped out spads kick up fuss,
Throw tantrums under bus,
Listen not one to us.
Instal new sychophants,
Show us who wears the pants,
Prepare to fight on beaches,
Drain red blood with leeches,
Chipshop campaign prowler,
Barred from pub in howler,
In barrel it’s his turn,
He yearns to slash and burn.
Decisive? Acts too fast,
Lives mainly in the past.
Prince of darkness dictats,
Anti Leftwing brickbats,
Divide the young from old,
Don’t let the truth be told.
Time’s up, d’you remember?
You were once a member,
Dilemma arises,
Financial crisis,
That’s what makes this funny,
They need fucking money.
Yet still it’s all a game,
Corbyn the one to blame,
All of his supporters
Will be the next to go,
Backed up by reporters,
End of new Labour show.

Harry Rogers in the Yellow Room, 11th May 2021

In his conservative conservatory,
Bathed by the light of a losers blue moon,
Keith draws twisted kris ready for action,
Then plunges it into deputy’s back.
Those weasel words of so few hours ago,
Accepting full responsibility,
Leads one to Question his integrity.
Those on the soft left learn true treachery,
Not one of them are truly immune now,
Cesare Borgia’s ghost stalks Westminster,
Memories of Kinnock in eighty two,
Implosion drags Labour Party into
Pasokian wormhole with no way back.
Tony and Pete crack open the Bolly.

Harry Rogers In the Yellow Room, 9th May 2021.

It’s not the vaccine bounce
That led to Tory trounce.
Mandelsonian ghouls
Treat activists as fools.
Nil respect for members
Centrist message benders.
PLP spin disgrace,
Talk of one party state,
Shit in their own manger,
Starmer total stranger,
Forensic grey man bore,
Who knows what he stands for?
Switch lights on, ring bells as
He’s going to tell us,
How to fix branch grassroots,
Pulls on his kicking boots,
Use old rules to remove
More problems, he must prove
How to mend things like new,
Brings policy review.
Sweep conference aside,
Take broad church for a ride,
Dump momentous motions,
Expunge leftwing notions,
New leader propulsion,
Wheel out mass expulsion.
Don red wall dancing clogs,
New Labour manger dogs,
Swerve to right direction,
His own resurrection,
He climbs down from his cross,
Public don’t give a toss,
They need more hope not fear,
Curtains drawn on Sir Keir,

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom 8th May 2021.

A deal is a deal, so many folks say,
Except when it isn’t, like it isn’t now.
Wave faux Falklands gunboat propaganda,
Like a giant phallus, wanked into Channel,
Yet another public divertissement,
Away from the dreadful pandemic truths.
Embargoed Cygnus report still hidden,
Needless herd immunity murder tolls,
Brown paper envelopes stuffed with our cash,
Handed out in unmonitored contracts
To friends, families, donors, crook elites.
Expect haystack to pose with admirals,
Rule Britannia played by marching marines,
Blairing in Union Jack clad background,
Splashed across newsrooms of the BBC.
Still, at least people have savings to spend,
So we’re told, by treasury officials,
So perhaps that’s all right then, isnt it?

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 7th May 2021

It’s party time,
As votes come in,
We’ll take a swig
Of home made gin.
Bo’s Eton mess,
Keir’s pink blancmange,
UKIP serves up
Trump a l’orange.
Take down placards,
Wipe windows clean,
Burn voting cards,
Eat green ice cream.
Watch as Lib Dems
Stroll by harbour,
Chasing rainbows,
Life gets harder.
Plaid Cymru smile
As fortunes rise,
A new day dawns
For Adam Price.
Communists reach
End of tether,
Some old comrades
Blame the weather.
Vote tomorrow,
Watch it happen,
At Friday’s count,
Upticks flatten,
Swingometer
Pundits wallow,
Crap excuses
Hard to swallow,
Old guards change
At end of game,
And yet it’s strange,
Things stay the same.
Forget about
Democracy,
Focus upon
Plutocracy.

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 5th May 2021.

How thin the skin
That keeps us in
Thrall to power
Weilded by hour.
Haystack bustles,
Money rustles,
Minor Royals
In fancy dress
Wave from carriage
Without finesse.
Families fall
Through Covid cracks,
Old folks suffer
Home heart attacks.
Worldwide collapse
Of probity,
Double death of
Democracy.
End of old world.
No more to say
Public and yours,
Dawn of winter
As services
Go corporate.
Farewell local,
Total global
Conspiracy.
Weep as social
Democrats bang
Last coffin nails,
Seal themselves off
Inside their tomb,
Creates vacuum.
Post pandemic
Fervour takes hold,
End of wartime
Party spirit,
Trestle tables,
Dusty bunting,
Wait for use in
New street parties.
Old jelly moulds
And trifle bowls,
And everywhere
Union jacks,
Big ones, small ones,
People pissed on
Spirit of the blitz,
Reimagined
By Tory shits.
Paint disaster
Opportune blue,
Pot all the reds
In snooker hall.
Soon our big break
Will be over,
Look slow around.
Who’s in clover?
Someone’s gotta
Pick up the bill,
Here it comes now,
Shiny and bright,
I bring to you
The New Normal……
It’s the same as
The Old Normal,
With more flags on.

Harry Rogers, In the Yellow Room, 5th May 2021

YOU GO TO WORK EVERY DAY
TO EARN JUST A LITTLE PAY.
LATELY IT’S NOT A LOT OF FUN
BECAUSE OF A CERTAIN SOMEONE.
DON’T LISTEN WHEN THEY
WHISPER IN YOUR EAR,
DON’T LISTEN AS THEY
FILL YOUR HEAD WITH FEAR,
DON’T BELIEVE THEM WHEN THEY SAY,
THEY KNOW MORE THAN YOU.
DON’T LET THE BULLY DO
WHAT THE OTHER BULLIES DO,
DON’T LET THEM EVER GET
AWAY WITH IT WITH YOU.
NEVER LET THAT BULLY DO,
WHAT ALL THE OTHER BULLIES DO.
WORKERS GATHERED IN A ROOM,
SITTING ON THEIR HANDS,
ALL OF THEM FAR TOO SCARED,
TO SAY THEY DON’T UNDERSTAND,
BUT BULLIES HAVE NO RIGHT,
TO SCREAM AND STAMP AND SHOUT,
THOSE BULLIES HAVE NO RIGHT,
TO EVER BAWL YOU OUT.
NEXT TIME THEY’RE LOSING IT,
AND STORMING OUT THE DOOR,
TELL THEM TO STOP THIS SHIT,
YOU WON’T TAKE IT ANYMORE.
BEFORE I GO THERE’S ONE MORE THING,
NEVER, NEVER, EVER, LET THE BULLY WIN.

Harry Rogers, In my car, 21st May 2010

The Royal Yacht is back on the table,
We must turn Phillip into a fable,
Two hundred million, cheap at the price,
So say the royalists, quick, in a trice.
Will Yum and Katie sail off on a cruise
Back here the homeless continue to lose,
Privileged sunseekers don’t float my boat.
One thousand houses? Now that gets my vote.
They don’t need a state room to cross the pond,
Obscene luxury now one step beyond.
Don’t cry out envy, enough is enough,
They already have way far too much stuff.
I won’t wave them off, no quayside wonder,
For fuck sake let’s not give them more plunder.

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 2nd May 2021.

I heard some guy on the radio say
The amount of money needed to solve,
Food hunger across the whole world today
Is equivalent to twenty six hours
Of all military expenditure.

Twenty six hours of peace,
All it takes to feed the poor
Is this really all it takes?
Why ain’t we done it before?

Military industrial money
Maintains the global status quo of war,
Scientists, engineers, death designers,
Bring sophisticated bombs to market,
It’s an entrepreneurial bloodbath.

Let’s transfer our resources,
From sociopathology
Where human lives count for nought,
To social ecology.

Centre left luvies argue for armies,
As they pose laughing in theatres of war,
Sleeves rolled up with squaddies, rifles in hand,
Happy to reveal themselves on the news,
Spent uranium shells litter the land.

Millions die in terror,
Hungry, sick, and exploited,
Collateralised masses,
All for the sake of profit.

Food not guns,
Food not bombs,
Food not drones,
Food not war.

Harry Rogers, In The Yellow Room, 3rd May 2021

Stand against fascists or let them kill all.
Palestine or Kashmir, we must walk tall.
Casual murder, new normality,
This is a turning point in history.
These are most dangerous days of our lives,
Randian nazis sharpen up their knives.
We sit before screens, zoom lights aflicker,
Discuss design of new demo sticker,
Plan in detail which direction to go,
Ensure all our comrades are in the know.
These days of hyper communication,
Outreach no problem across the nation.
In darkened bunkers old bill hackers sweat,
Over all our words, we don’t get it, yet.

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 2nd May 2021

See the last tram to Broadway
Rickety racking around the bend
Like it has for all your life
It’s become your special friend

Took you there and brought you back
You remember every rumble
Along tracks from home to town
It never ever made a stumble

Last tram to Broadway
Hear the ringing bell
Last tram to Broadway
Ding dong ding dong bell

Gliding past that old red house
Where the station master used to live
The brakes making the wheels squeal
On this last day something has to give
The driver wears a sad frown
Silent passengers looking morose
Their faces show how they  all feel
One cut too many now as it goes

Last tram to Broadway
Hear the ringing bell
Last tram to Broadway
Ding doing ding doing bell

At the stop next to red House
A harlequin dressed to the nines
Dances aboard laughing loud
Clouds clear late evening sun shines
Stop frowning it’s not too late
He sings as the sunbeams dance around
Together we’ll stop this mess
This tram will keep rolling along

Last tram to Broadway
Hear the ringing bell
Last tram to Broadway
Ding dong ding dong bell

Harry Rogers, in Harriboy’s Hut, 2016