Posts Tagged ‘autumn’

Leaves turn red

September 9, 2016

Tired of working for cruel, intransigent boss;
Leaves turn red. It is not their loss
Of profit, sucking their lives dry
In the service of corpulent, bloated guy
For in this world, its nearly always men
Who profit from cheap labour, then
Swan off to convenient tax haven
Suck up souls of those who slave in
Modern day workhouses, pump and sweat
Leaves gather sunlight, yet
Get no reward for their toil
Our labour earns his profitable spoil.
Learn from leaves. In protest, cut
Gordian knot that binds us shut.
Join a union, organise and fight
For what should be ours by right.
Let the broken stump of capitalism wither
We cannot afford to dither.
Let us build and spring anew,
Let this autumn be our last,
Let the working class hold fast
Consign slavery to the past.
We cannot baulk at radical change
Socialist ideas, no longer strange.


little red little green

If you have enjoyed my poetry on this blog, my new collection, “Little Green Poetry” is now available from Lulu – – £4+P&P (paperback) or £2.50 (for e-book readers)

You can still order copies of my first collection, “Little Red Poetry” from or – again for £4 (pb) or £2.50 (as a pdf for e-readers).

I hope you enjoy reading my poems, and, as always, all proceeds will go to help build the fightback against corporate political parties, to build a voice for the millions, not the millionaires.

To find out more about my politics, visit the website of the Committee For A Workers’ International, which is engaged in struggle in around 50 countries worldwide.

Not to be operated by children.

October 28, 2013

The title is from a warning sign on a shredder in my work. Yet sometimes, I think, we need to be children in order to operate the equipment which we all carry around with us inside our head.

Let me explain. Yesterday I went to “Fall”, a performance poetry workshop, at the Richard Attenborough Centre in Leicester. We had about 10 minutes to write down ideas on the themes of “harvest”, “autumn” and “fall”. The idea was to silence the inner, adult critic inside our heads and get our ideas down on paper – whether good, bad or indifferent. We played with personification, simile and metaphor, exploring imagery and ideas around the turning of the seasons, fertility, decay and our senses; the beauty and the sounds of words came to the fore. We then chose actions to go along with the poetry, and each of us took it in turn to perform our piece.

Participants ranged from 7 to 77, from Rob Gee, a professional comedian and poet, to people who were completely new to the idea of a poetry workshop. I think all of us came up with original and interesting images. However, the most memorable phrase for me came from a young girl, who described the “fruity fruits” of autumn. This could have been instantly dismissed as a tautology by an adult, but I think the fearless naivete of childhood shines through in the bravery of this repetition. My own “ripe, succulent berries” seem a bit pale and tasteless in comparison.

The result was a shared exploration of nature, which was tremendously enjoyable and interactive to perform and hopefully this translated into an entertaining performance. Bobba Cass performed a song, ‘Mambo Like Me’, which reinforced the collective nature of the work, and gave an impassioned speech on injustice, and Carol Leeming, our workshop facilitator, gave us an intricate choreo-poem, celebrating death and rebirth. (All this was photographed, and I will post a link when / if this is available).

This was the latest workshop to be put on by Embrace Arts – I missed the last one which celebrated Spring, but I am looking forward to joining together with performers again next year.


Leaves wither and fall.
A million solar panels
Danced against the blue of the sky
Now branches wave goodbye.
Circles circumscribed by the wind,
On the ground, dead, they lie.
Crinkle and crunch under our feet.
What a journey they have made.

The year grows older,
It has basked in the sun,
Gone on holiday.
Now it returns,
Wrinkled and fat like a walnut,
To grey vagaries of an English September.

We pluck metaphors from fields:
Golden corn waves to us,
Ripe, succulent berries.
Feel the whoosh of the wind,
Listen to the sounds of our harvest.

You can read more of my poetry in ‘Little Red Poetry’ All proceeds go to build a new party for ordinary people, against cuts and privatisation. Support independent publishing: Buy this book on Lulu.