Marilyn Francis

Marilyn Francis

Marilyn Francis lives and writes poems in Radstock, which was once a mining town in the Somerset coalfield.

Imagine
Wednesday, 05 December 2018 22:20

Imagine

Published in Poetry

Imagine

by Marilyn Francis

From St George’s Hill
it’s only fifteen minutes by car
to the nearest Food Bank.
Walking, it’s an hour, or so
via three golf courses
and private roads.

A Brotherhood of Man

On April Fool’s Day, 1649,
the Diggers came, not to turn the world upsidedown,
but to cultivate the wasteland, and the common land.
There would be no buying or selling of labour
the landless poor would support themselves
and the earth would be a treasury for all.

Living Life in Peace

They were, of course, attacked
by the locals, by the gentry, by the army
by a gang of men dressed as women
crops wrecked, huts pulled down,
arrested, taken to court, fined, harassed.
By August they’d gone.
By 1650 it was done.

No Possessions

A house at St George’s Hill
can cost as much as the average
person might earn in 528 years
or maybe slightly less
factoring in whatever
must be factored
for the future.

It's a new morning
Wednesday, 05 December 2018 17:27

It's a new morning

Published in Poetry

It’s a new morning

by Marilyn Francis

It’s a new morning
pay attention
to the pig’s head
and its mouthful
of flesh
pay attention
to the workers
in stolen trainers
and nowhere
to run.

It’s a new morning
over fields
over orchards
and broke-back pickers
picking for next-to-nothing
pay attention
to the baby
ripping up books
in his cot.

It’s a new morning
over Gotham City
a distracted bat-bird
smashes into its reflection
on the thirty-third floor
pay attention
to the weather forecast
you think it’s June
it’s fucking January
the trees have fallen.

 

Guerrilla Gardening
Wednesday, 05 December 2018 17:25

Guerrilla Gardening

Published in Poetry

Guerrilla Gardening

by Marilyn Francis

It’s gardening day in Parliament Square
Critical Mass and the WOMBLES are there
planting a shrubbery of grass and weed.
In the People's garden at Parliament Square.

In the Worker's garden at Parliament Square
the ghosts of the Diggers and Winstanley are there
silently cheering the proletarian cause.
It’s gardening day in Parliament Square. 

Jack-the-lad, nimble Jack
blazing from a thicket of green fire
scales the monument
bloodied with paint
fast as a flame
quick as a flash
crowns
the dead statesman
in a stylish Mohican
of turf.

It’s gardening day in Parliament Square
red flags and banners are blossoming there
the red and the green in sweet harmony
in the People’s garden at Parliament Square

In the Worker’s garden at Parliament Square
Jack-in-the-green is burning there
a May Day pyre to welcome the spring.
It’s gardening day in Parliament Square