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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
harri seeing red 