Today saw one for sorrow, two for joy,
Three for a girl, a girl, a girl, my girl
I saw three magpies, a bank of daffodils,
Spring in the air, I forgot how that feels.
A gale blows my mind, trapped on muddy track
By stopped mercedes delivery van
Wedged across a tight corner in downpour.
Twilight fades as Sand Rubies fill my car
With exquisite sounds, rock and roll guitar,
All I can think of are those three magpies,
Three for a girl, a girl, a girl, my girl,
Surrounded by those golden daffodils.
Despite torrential rainfall Spring is sprung,
I’m on my way home to my daffodil girl.

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom 31st March 2023.



Sunak sees Starmer’s anti-social rant
Then raises stakes and Trumps him with his kant.
Send out Govey Govey onto TV,
With silver spoon to stir sugary tea.
Talk of bad behaviour in all our towns,
Seriously, how can we stand such clowns?
They tested parliament for cocaine,
Found traces all over, not heard again!
Anti-social MPs do lines out back,
Did not test Boris party sites, how slack.
Journos and spads spin lies jointly crass,
New wizard wheeze? Focus on laughing gas.
Everywhere we look, everywhere we turn
Laws pile higher, waiting for us to burn.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom 27th March 2023


In shadow behind Guillotine
Tumbrels began to roll.
Revolution on streets again
Flames warm cockles of soul.
Royal visit quickly cancelled,
Bordeaux is out of bounds,
On Twitter I watch videos
Revel in protest sounds.
Only one hundred miles away
From our parliament
People riot when leaders say
They’ll take away our rights.
Here we all knuckle down each day,
We never stand and fight.
En France they burn down their town halls
When times become too hard,
Whilst we agree to play by rules,
And sweep out Royal yards.
We slave whilst our billionaires
Kit out their super yachts.
Stolen money from private shares,
They keep the fucking lot.
New days will dawn,
They’re coming soon,
We’ll take away
Their silver spoons.
Vive la revolution
Vive la revolution,
Recherché, recherché,
Vive la revolution.

Harry Rogers in the Green Room, 24th March 2023.


New New Labour is distastefully slick
In so many many ways, I feel sick.
Not just Sir Smear wrapped in union jacks,
Nor plunges of knives into comrades backs,
Those lies fed to hungry media hacks,
Nor those pledges scrapped post leadership win,
Smarmy greetings to welcome back traitors,
Sly installation of old Blarite shite,
Denial of help for workers on strike.
Though all of these things truly bad enough,
It’s their belief that they can win power
If they all mimic Tory personas,
And treat working class folk as total fools,
That really, really, pisses me right off.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom,
13th March 2023.


BBC Tories torpedo themselves
Stop The Boats campaign rapidly sinks.
Question time panels obviously rigged,
Rotten chair flounders, interventions stink.

Freedom of expression footballer creed,
Black lives do matter when they take the knee,
Being impartial means freedom of speech,
End of pier shows washed up on cancel beach.

Morality matters for refugees,
It’s time to stand up to dog whistle tweets,
Footballers working hard to help us drive
Patriotic Alternative off streets.

Sunak, Braverman, Macron and Blunkett,
All tarred with same brush, fake vox pop junkies.

Harry Rogers In the Red Bedroom, 11th March 2023.


It’s a funny old game football, innit?
As a player Gary never sent off,
Never ever got a red card, never,
Some people have queered his pitch, he has NOW.

Unlike old club, Spurs, defence is solid,
Pundits and presenters hold strong backline,
There’s no Match Of The Day, no substitutes,
Political penalty shoot out sucks.

Where is V.A.R. when we need it most?
Clearly it’s a premeditated foul
Committed by an unqualified ref,
It’s handbags on BBC halfway line.

Whistle blows, Lineker United win
Morality Cup by a country mile.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 11th March 2023.


They keep it in their family
These spivs who take the piss,
Gonna give his dad a knighthood,
Or so the papers say.
Modern faux aristocracy,
Behaviour as if kings,
They ignore Machiavelli
Don’t understand his Prince.
They wallow deep in privilege,
Take all of us for fools,
Don’t care that we are watching them,
Whilst they break their own rules,
Nicolo knew well what happens,
When we are unhappy,
The more those Johnsons fill their boots,
The further will they fall.

Harry Rogers in the Melon Sorbet Room, 8th March 2023


Celia Lang, Peace and Justice activist, RIP.

Taboo nights with Celia
And friends in Capel Iwan,
Nevermore will we spend time,
On fun so palsie wowsy.
Cardigan rock and roller,
A jiver through and through,
Energy legendary
In all things that she would do.
Bro Emlyn Peace and Justice,
CND and Amnesty,
On streets flew banners up high,
Wore her heart upon her sleeve.
At work she’d been a midwife
Her whole life filled up with care.
If you never had enough
You knew Celia would share.
Those times when Cee would phone me,
Heard that twinkle in her eyes,
She knew how to get her way,
Cee knew how to organise.
Now that she has gone away
Our glorious activist,
We’ll not forget what she did,
Our Celia shall be missed.

Aberbanc, 7th March 2023.


A strong wind roars across America
There’s a whiff of something bad in cool air.
The political sewers have collapsed,
And cars drive into Trumpholes everywhere.
Thirty confederate flatbed pickups,
Convene way out on highway eighty five,
Old glory flags aplenty fly up high,
Wide eyed frightened wasps, dead yet still alive.
We drive past quickly, leave them all behind,
Head on to a dazzling future Off Grid,
Beyond their hurricane that nasty blows,
These Jones’s don’t know what it is they did.
Still is this morning once tempest is quelled,
Peace rules over madness across our world.

Harry Rogers, 521 Harold Avenue, Atlanta  24/08/2017.


A dragon shaped cloud drifts slowly through cerulean skies

Large raindrops appear to fall as soft tears from it’s eyes

Blown on hot North African winds filled with blood red dust

Coating the hillsides with a dull carpet like desert rust

They say the water has turned crimson in the river Towy

Sounds of Gaza echo across the valley from Capel Dewi

Harry Rogers, in Harriboy’s Hut, 24/10/2015


Flattened ninth evening as Nablus in flames,
So called settlers play crap Apartheid games.
Ignored by our media, something’s wrong,
Truth, peace and justice don’t seem to belong.
Sixty six protesters dead, one each day,
Israel’s democracy blown away,
Hundreds more imprisoned, locked up in chains,
Then tear gassed in cells to add to their pains.
Knesset degenerates for all to see,
Whilst they debate “bring in death penalty”.
You don’t have to be a sharp eyed eagle
To work out how to make murder legal.
Meanwhile our media wastes precious time,
Diverts our gaze from slaughterhouse crimes.

Harry Rogers in The Red Bedroom, 4th March 2023


The warmth of early morning sun

Gently heats her shoulders.

Her mother, methodically,

Peels a potato pile,

Into small red washing up bowl,

Sings softly to herself.

A round tin table with wire legs

On tiled balcony floor.

Slightly bent railings, needing paint

Blue shuttered door hangs straight.

This girl, in her white patterned dress,

Sitting quietly as mum makes lunch,

Surveys shattered bomb site.

Buildings all around peeled open,

Like giant sardine tins,

Their contents spilled onto green lawns.

Everyday lives revealed.

All her neighbours now moved away,

To camps and countries new,

Friends in school now seem spirit like,

Sounds of mopeds ghostly,

Still stand swings, gone her roundabouts.

Parents hanging on still,

Clinging tenacious to their home,

Their room without a view.

Harry Rogers, Aberbanc, February 20th 2017.


Villanelle #1

On the terrace, thinking of childhood days,

You look happy, for once have no shakers

Smiling, as sunbeams play across your face

Rollers rising from ankles to their waists,

Hear distant squealing in blue white breakers

See our children dancing in the green bay

 Shafts of bright light through umbrella slats race

Our moment real, we forget the fakers

Smiling as sunbeams play across your face

A brown dog that looks like our long lost Grace

Runs into the surf with our merrymakers

See, our children, dancing in the green bay

Your eyes gleaming as you say “Lovely day.”

“Yes.” I reply, thinking of time takers,

Smiling, as sunbeams play across your face

Clouds drift across, sunlight fading away

Smells of coffee and almond cake bakers

See our children, dancing in the green bay,

Smiling, as sunbeams play across your face

Harry Rogers: In The Hut, 4th July 2016

 I wrote this poem after a free writing exercise during week five of the creative writing course sessions I attended in 2016 at  Aberystwyth University.  I used the writing prompt “In the distance.” from a selection in the handout.  I also chose green bay from the Dylan Thomas poem Do Not Go Gentle. The following is verbatim what I wrote in that session:-

In the distance, dancing in the green bay, the children squeal with pleasure as the rollers rise from their ankles to their waists.  The smell of lemon tort and coffee drift across the terrace as we reminisce about those childhood days.  For once you look happy as the sunbeams play across your face through the slats of the umbrella. A dog that looks just like our long lost friend runs into the surf with the kids and I see a hint of recognition in your eyes followed by a slight frown as you realise it cannot be him.

“This is a lovely day.” you say.

“Yes.” I answer, wistfully.


A blonde back-bench Aluxe hides in full view,
Drips mischief into ears of acolytes
From old school Brexiteer society,
Hopes beyond hope to poison Sunak’s well.
Hasta Nunca baby, Windsor knot tied,
Your uncooked bun in oven has rotted,
Lies fly blown in historical dustbin,
New Chef cooks up Cordon Bleu recipe.
It’s time this shitty careerist fucked off,
He can no longer use parliament
As his very own personal plaything,
His gaslighting days and nights now over.
Thing is though, are we being fooled again?
After all new boss is still a Tory!

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom 28th February 2023.