Uniting the Kingdom, by George

Fearful laidly wyrm, gruesome millipede

Of grotesque proportions. Its poisonous

Venom paralyses reason in case

Some humane diversion just might succeed

In making it pause for thought and realise

Its determined course, the slippery slope

It’s slithering down, is one without hope,

A pathway of misdirection and lies.

Leaders look down from swish crystal towers,

Concealing their contempt for this creature,

Certain tomorrow’s headlines will feature

Their agendas, strengthening their powers.

Meanwhile the rough beast, having been reborn,

Slouches towards Paris, Berlin and London.

D. A.

What do meat, drugs and refugees have in common?

All three are subject to being smuggled into Britain (and elsewhere no doubt). The Environment, Food and Rural Affairs Committee (EFRA) recently reported the quantity of illicit meat discovered on its way through Dover had risen from 13 tonnes between January and April 2023 to 70 tonnes for the same period in 2025.

The twin concern is that foot and mouth disease could easily be imported this way, and lack of quality control threatens public health via human consumption.

Both drugs and (especially at the moment) refugees being smuggled is a frequent media item.

The real common denominator is, of course, profit. Smuggling is an entrepreneurial activity, economically motivated. Illegality is merely an obstacle to be circumvented. It is a capitalist enterprise centred on financial return on dealing in commodities.

People are readily reduced to being commodities by dint of becoming refugees seeking non-legal routes to asylum.

National borders serve to provide a context for exploitation.

By sea or by air

Lines drawn on maps prove nothing

Crossed by bottom lines

 D. A.

(Remembering Gawber)

March 2025 saw the fortieth anniversary of the end of the Miner’s Strike. Six months on, this day marks another coal mining anniversary, the ninetieth of the North Gawber Colliery Explosion. The Lidgett Seam was known to be gassy, the ventilation often inadequate.

On the afternoon of the 12th September 1935, Mapplewell, Barnsley, became the tragic scene of an underground detonation. It resulted 19 deaths and a further 5 injuries.

It is an example of the cost in working class lives of capitalism’s relentless pursuit of profit, subordinating meeting need. In cases such as this the need for safe working conditions.

While the deep mining of coal has now gone from Britain, it remains a dangerous occupation, along with other types of mining, in many parts of the world. Workers are still being killed in the pursuit of profit.

Once headlines at home

Mining’s continuing cost

Remains in the dark

D.A.

SS Great Britain

The ship is sinking. ‘I know what to do!’

One of those who would be captain said,

‘This vessel will float if we paint it red.’

‘Nonsense!’ The paint job just has to be blue.’

A second declared. Then a third fellow,

Decided he had better intervene,

Insisting it would be better yellow.

But, a fourth politely suggested, ‘Green!’

Finally, a shrill jingoistic old lag

Spoke out, ‘It really would be best, I think,

To cover the hole with the Union Flag.’

However, the ship continued to sink.

The crew had the answer, ‘We’ve had a vote;

We’re going to build a completely new boat.’

D. A.

Wage Deduction

“The wages of sin…” was cited by Romans

Back when. But, presently, it is wages

That are the sin, for they are the gauges

Of exploitation. Until there are plans

For radical change, the true creators,

No matter what their work or workplace,

Their nationality or supposed race,

Will receive a salary that ignores

The full value of what they may produce.

It’s there a difference must always arise,

For in unpaid labour the profit lies,

As creation is for profit, not use.

The one alternative to this schism,

Is moneyless, unwaged socialism.

D. A.

End of Term Report

This, my two hundredth Socialist Sonnet,

Two thousand, eight hundred lines for the cause,

And perhaps time to stop, or at least pause.

Poems of possibilities, and yet

People largely remain loyal to their states,

While workers of the world have made some gains,

Too few seem to want to throw off their chains;

Capitalism still proliferates.

Socialism? There’s no foretelling when

Or even if. But a resort to force

Can’t hurry history along its course,

As words won’t either. So I’ll sheath my pen,

Having not changed the world one iota

And my now having written my quota.

D. A.

End of Term Report

This, my two hundredth Socialist Sonnet,

Two thousand, eight hundred lines for the cause,

And perhaps time to stop, or at least pause.

Poems of possibilities, and yet

People largely remain loyal to their states,

While workers of the world have made some gains,

Too few seem to want to throw off their chains;

Capitalism still proliferates.

Socialism? There’s no foretelling when

Or even if. But a resort to force

Can’t hurry history along its course,

As words won’t either. So I’ll sheath my pen,

Having not changed the world one iota

And my now having written my quota.

D. A.

End of Term Report

This, my two hundredth Socialist Sonnet,

Two thousand, eight hundred lines for the cause,

And perhaps time to stop, or at least pause.

Poems of possibilities, and yet

People largely remain loyal to their states,

While workers of the world have made some gains,

Too few seem to want to throw off their chains;

Capitalism still proliferates.

Socialism? There’s no foretelling when

Or even if. But a resort to force

Can’t hurry history along its course,

As words won’t either. So I’ll sheath my pen,

Having not changed the world one iota

And my now having written my quota.

D. A.

End of Term Report

This, my two hundredth Socialist Sonnet,

Two thousand, eight hundred lines for the cause,

And perhaps time to stop, or at least pause.

Poems of possibilities, and yet

People largely remain loyal to their states,

While workers of the world have made some gains,

Too few seem to want to throw off their chains;

Capitalism still proliferates.

Socialism? There’s no foretelling when

Or even if. But a resort to force

Can’t hurry history along its course,

As words won’t either. So I’ll sheath my pen,

Having not changed the world one iota

And my now having written my quota.

D. A.

Herodians

Now is the time of new Herodians,

Those corrupted by power and vanity

Until, devoid of all humanity,

They are utterly blind to their own plans

Requiring the merciless massacring

Of children. They constantly justify

This infanticide with barely a sigh,

While parasitic sycophants sing

Their praises. Herods don’t do the killing

Of course, child murder is made easy,

Avoiding any need to feel queasy

When it’s done for you by the all too willing.

Also Herods in the shadows without qualms,

Counting profits from the market in arms.

D. A.