I have been clear for years that nothing here, all of which is my copyright, may be downloaded in the UK, nor in the EU.
Those downloading in the EU or UK are instructed to delete and destroy all copies on all media used or be considered as thieves of copyrighted material
You could try a polite request!
The Royal Mint have produced a Beowulf coin.
They have not read Beowulf
It shows the hero fighting with a spear and shield wearing a mail shirt. Grendel was charmed against human weaponry so Beowulf fought with his hands. He wrestled and tore off Grendel’s arm, leaving the Demon to flee to his den where he bled to death.
Our institutions are rotten to the core.
http://youtube.com/post/UgkxrTetJQnBckE4Z4r5WwntdkCSmZR96Cwo?si=Ee4oY1nwf2XSPgCt
We’ve moved here from ebb to flow,
The time for heroes is in store.
For hatred here is on full show:
“In time of peace prepare for war!”
Weep not for times that are now past,
Prepare and share this sacred vow;
Great horrors are approaching fast
Swear “In pace bellum para” now!
© T Morgan 2024
From “Tales of the Spiteful”
Due to risk of prosecution and prison in the UK, none of these works may be copied onto any social media in the UK. I have, myself, withdrawn from social media as I want no more lawfare in my life.
This site is now private.
We are now living in a book burning type of tyranny. We need some heroes as we are in a fight for the survival of England.
Freedom it seems is not allowed,
Nor thoughts that are your own.
If you’re yourself you’re ‘over-proud’,
You ought act like a clone.
Obedience must be to some ‘norm’,
Run ever with the pack.
To deviate really is bad form,
For then you’ll face attack.
Cancelling you is what comes first,
Continue if you dare.
These vampires have eternal thirst,
You’ll find them everywhere.
Each snitch is ever on the make,
They’ll have you if they can.
He who’d caress a deadly snake,
Is not the wisest man.
It seems dark forces have much planned,
They would control us all.
It’s best to ever hide your hand,
See to it that they fall!
©Trevor Morgan, 2024
From: “Saga of Spitefield”
The Minds of Saracens
"Euphorias of perfect Hate
With rage erupting out.
Pure loathing here’s their constant state,
With Faith purged of all doubt.
Kuffar are seen as lower breeds
Not taking Islam's perfect way.
Their role to serve all Muslim's needs,
Die or Submit and pay.
The world must bow now to this creed,
Or face eternal war.
If not this then the world must bleed,
Hate stalks forever more.
Gain’s through taqiyya’s great deceit,
Deceiving goodly dupes and fools.
These great beguilers lie and cheat
Use innocent souls as tools.
Sweet smiles upon their face of Hate,
Demon possessed each heart.
Resistance now may come too late,
As necks are sliced apart.
Euphorias of perfect Hate
Their hearts contain no doubt:
Pure loathing here’s their constant state,
Let’s drive these Demons out!"
© Trevor Morgan 1st January 2019
From: Frigar’s Tale – The Old Byzantine’s Tale
This is from a rant by a Greek Byzantine to Frigar when he served a Varangian Guard whilst in exile.
Frigar did not know what the old man was talking about.
Do not hold your rage at bay,
Confront and fight all infamy.
Rip off your gag and have your say,
And batter down all tyranny.
Rage, ever rage against what’s wrong,
We need not now at all feel bleak.
Together here we’re ever strong,
It’s our rulers who are weak!
Through the help of useful fools,
Great folly once it seemed to win.
For many are the tools of ghouls,
Where alien cults have entered in.
We’ve been at low points here before,
Cowards would appease a foe.
Though waging war may seem a chore,
Like now this was the way to go.
There’s no hate crime in fighting hate,
Both words and deeds are in this fight.
Resistance though it may come late
Better that than ruled by spite
Do not hold your rage at bay,
Confront and fight all infamy.
Rip off your gag and have your say,
And batter down all tyranny.
© Trevor Morgan, 19 July 2024
They welcomed here all manner of men,
But they became English as well.
‘Til they let in the Saracen;
This turned our realm to living hell!
With rape and slaughter rife now here,
And women now not safe at all.
A day of reckoning’s ever near,
When old elite’s must face a fall.
The raping of each little child
Has been endured for long enough.
Abandon all that’s fair and mild,
It’s time to harden, to get tough.
Invaders are within the gate,
Their sneering leers are all about.
None of this is down to Fate,
Time is now to turn them out.
Those who let in these putrid men,
Those fools who thought they had done well.
They had let in the Saracen:
This turned our hopes to living hell!
Copyright: Trevor Morgan, 29/06/2024
From: “Spitefield”
The Logic of Loki
“There’s folly in all judgements and in none,
There’s folly all about and in all life.
There’s folly in all deeds and what’s not done.
There’s folly when at peace or in dark strife,
There’s certainty that’s true in total doubt,
There’s doubt within each sure and firm belief.
This seems the way that chaos turns about
And spins us all through joy and bleakest grief,
And holds us safe in insecurity
Like snow flakes tossed about by gale or breeze.
Each heads for what they may not know may be.
Though few are rarely ever here at ease,
For starving freemen give up all just to be fed,
Whilst slaves, well fed, might sooner yet be dead.”
1 Norse ‘god’ of uncertainty of change and of fire, a trickster and an enemy of Odhinn the leader of the ‘gods’ of Asgard
From: The Darkened Soul of Haestan.
© Trevor Morgan, 2024
The Royal Navy fought the slave traders for nearly a century. This was a great cost in ships and lives.
No apology, no reparations, unless the slave exporting nations pay the UK for the cost of fighting the slave trade.
Ex-Heroes
Through gaps there in the curtain
The moonlight’s on the floor.
Things that once were certain,
False hopes they are no more.
So eerie is the moonlight
Filtered through fine lace.
Ghosts of the night take flight,
They slink off in disgrace.
With substance of moonshadow
Great schemes they fade to nought.
Mobs cheer to see those laid low;
Those that for whom they’d fought.
© Trevor Morgan, 17 June 2024
Haldane of Ulva
This is book five in a series of twelve.
I continue “Tales of the Children of Gewis”. Haldane Blood-Hammer is a young berserk warrior who is mortally wounded by the dying Gewissae , Aethelwulf of Lyng. The two of them spend their last night slowly dying from their wounds. Two forgotten young men in a forgotten battle of long ago. They lived, they were loved and then they were gone.
A king goes on to be named “The Great” ,few others on the field at Ethandune (Edington), in Somerset are named or remembered. When Brunel was building his Great Western Railway in the 1840s at the end of the Polden Hills ,cartloads of human bones were dug up and carted away, we know not where.
We ought honour all who fell creating the long enduring realm that is England. This I have tried to do with these tales.
Chemotherapy Blues
Oh, Joy so long abiding,
Forgetful of all strife.
As you continue sliding
Down the razor blade of Life.
Oh, so smooth is the ride
That none need feel so raw.
You’re on a steady slide,
And not a jagged saw!
Faith be with thee abiding,
Stay strong and live this through.
Forgetful of all chiding,
Know there’s much love for you.
Stay focused, stay strong, know you are loved.
Milton wrote a sonnet in which he said: “They also serve who stand and wait”. I see things differently!
Waiting is not Serving for the Daughter
There is no service where you stand and wait
Just drawn out time when all seems bleak and sad,
Moods swing there so between pure love and hate,
Now too much waiting can drive sound minds mad.
Her Mother paced about both night and morn,
Her brothers played with wooden sword and shield,
They did not see Dear Mother all forlorn,
From them it seemed her sadness was concealed.
But Æthelflaed would hold her mother’s hand,
Though young she seemed to know good words to say.
Ah, strange it is how some young understand
And empathise upon the darkest day.
Then joy exploded when at last news came
Of Danes that drowned and Gudrum bound in shame.
From: “Tale of Æthelflaed lady of the Mercians”
I was on a ferry in the Adriatic when I saw a white squall heading towards the ship. I warned a member of the crew who chose to ignore me. So I went below decks. The crew only saw the squall when the deck were awash. It is common for the arrogant to ignore a warning.
Reading the weather
There was a whistling of a breeze,
Leaves rustled all around.
It whistled ever through the trees,
A humming lowly sound.
A lowly sound that some don’t hear.
A portent of a gale!
Though storm winds may be sweeping near,
The unprepared will wail.
They’ll rail against what they call ‘Fate’;
Some see dark force at hand.
Their folly was they heard too late;
Not all things come as planned.
With some soft breeze the winds may veer,
And storms rage from the sea.
Now some they listen but don't hear,
The rage that is to be.
Drowned sailors wash up on the shore,
The course they took was wrong.
Of great mistakes we can be sure
They drown both weak and strong.
The rains they rain upon us all,
The gales beat at each door.
The unprepared they face a fall;
They’re gone for evermore.
© Trevor Morgan, 29 November 2023
Book four in a series of twelve
This continues the series of “Tales of the Children of Gewis” and follows on from: “Land of Soft Glimmering Lights”, “Tales of the Sorrowful”and crosses over the “Tales Haldane of Ulva”, the next in this series.
Æthelwulf is a younger son of a minor thane, a refugee from Northumbria, living at Lyng in Somerset and serving Ælfrede the King of Gewissae.
Æthelwulf has a happy childhood and his life is ended suddenly at the age of eighteen when he is killed at Ethandune. This is a turning point in history as Æthelwulf, mortally wounds the leading Dane to break through their shield wall, while mortally wounded himself. His one sword thrust is crucial to the turning point in the battle.
Where convention is pure lunacy,
Madness will not abate.
When truth becomes a fallacy,
And Love’s a form of Hate;
Contraryness is sweet concord,
And bliss a nasty itch,
Then Hope may never blunt the sword,
For life’s become a bitch.
© Trevor Morgan, 14 September 2023
If you’ve got a cock
And you’re wearing a frock,
You may say whatever you can.
If you’ve got a pole
And not got a hole
Then you are for ever a man.
As you mince about
With your lips in a pout
And claim you are what you’re not.
You’re just a sad sight
All oozing with spite
You’re stuck with the body you’ve got.
You may change your name
You’re still not a dame
With or without your own cock
Who cares what you feel
Grow up and get real
You are just a man in a frock.
We seem now in a nightmare
Like living in a dream.
Debauchery is everywhere,
As low lives plot an scheme.
Each child is but a plaything
That the sordid may possess.
Life it has a deadly sting,
With bairns left in distress.
As semen smears the innocent,
Power simply is not LOVE.
Debauchery will not relent,
Like hawks they rend the dove.
Trevor Morgan
April 2023
Forecasts are not facts.
Soothsayers were the forecasters of old. And yet today people take forecasts seriously. Are we doomed to be led by morons? Morons who think they can divine the future?
Black Swan We left a doorway open wide, A black swan swam right in. There’s no way we can run and hide. Fate grins its fickle grin. None knows when that swan may swim, Nor where it may arrive. So, fickle Fortune good or grim, Dictates just who survives. There’s folly in so much that’s planned, That Fate may contradict. The future is an unknown land, That none here can predict. All schemes are built on softest shale, And that erodes through time The wise accept that they may fail Be struck down in their prime. None knows when that swan may swim, Nor where it may arrive. So, fickle Fortune good or grim, Sees who dies and who thrives. Our doorway’s ever open wide To let each black swan in So give up all your puffed up pride It’s luck that lets you win. © Trevor Morgan, 1 January 2022
Frank was at El Alamein.
He never talked about it. This seems common with veterans of major campaigns.
The recall hurts too much.
Old Soldier’s Conscience
Young soldier jerked from out of sleep
A hollow thunder loud and deep
Told of action about to start;
He heard the thumping of his heart.
Not a quiver in his hand
Gun was shifted on its stand.
With soldiers it may be their lot
To aim a careful good clean shoot.
Men fell like puppets with strings cut
When shot in chest or head or gut.
Deeds like that when they are through
Rot forever within you.
With a bayonet when he’d slashed
Across a throat deeply gashed,
Frothy blood gushed and bubbled;
Was easy then but now he’s troubled.
For the quiver in his jaws
Show he’s broken nature’s laws.
All the talk of honour in deeds,
Sanctioned by religions’ creeds,
Cover up for a long time
What conscience tells us is a crime.
Yet the sweating of his brow
Says conscience is his ruler now.
Old man jerks from out of slumber
Conscience raging awful thunder
From wars of long forgotten times;
Where killing was not then a crime.
But the quiver in his jaws
Shows he’d broken Nature’s laws.
Dedicated to the memory of:
Frank Huntley Hopson
my Stepfather and
a Desert Rat
© Trevor Morgan
With schools teaching inappropriate sexual material to our children and moves to let men, pretending to be women, into women's prisons our social values are under a sustained attack.
Our children's innocence is precious and it is not for state schools to usurp the rights of parents.
This must be fought.
Lament the innocent
We seem now in a nightmare,
Like living in a dream.
Debauchery seems everywhere,
As low lives plot and scheme.
Each child is but a plaything
That the Sordid may possess.
Life it has a deadly sting,
With bairns left in distress.
As semen smears the innocent,
Power simply is not Love.
Debauchery it won't relent;
Like hawks it rends the dove.
We are now in a daymare,
Foul deeds are not just dreams.
Debauchery now is everywhere,
And all is as it seems.
Reach now for the gelding tools
Turn here and start the fight.
Don't be taken more for fools;
Know wrong from what is right.
Where is Tommy Atkins, Is he sleeping in a shed, Or huddled in some cardboard, And waiting to be dead? Where is Tommy Atkins, All traumatised and bleak. His body once was strong, But his soul is now so weak. Where is Tommy Atkins, Alone and cast away. Seeking some oblivion, Until he dies one day. Where is Tommy Atkins, Banged up in some cell. Ruined by those cockscombs Who sent him out through Hell. Here is Tommy Atkins, Our leaders passed him by. He's dead upon a slab, And old mothers sob and sigh. © Trevor Morgan, 21 February 2023
"'Oh, you don't believe what people tell you, why I haven't for years', said Miss Marple" Agatha Christie Truth is I'm a Liar Now listen to the words I say In the warm beside the fire, Believe me now 'till my last day; The truth is - I'm a liar. When I tell you I say no truth It is in this I tell you true; I've been like this long since my youth; The truth is - I'm a Liar. So there's a truth that's here to stay As we snooze by the fire That all's contrary every day And truth is - I'm a Liar. © Trevor Morgan, 15 March 2021 The Dullards' Dance He's told a great long string of lies, He's done it since his youth. He's never tasted humble pies, Now he's allergic to the truth. Before he ever speaks at all First he works out 'the line'. He'll treat all at his beck and call And in no way is he now benign. You get on best if you're a fake, Pretending what you're not, Disguising that you're on the make; We're ruled by fools all misbegot. Now acting is a useful art, They rise who lie the most. Most of the time, they play a part Relying on each empty boast. At end some fall and all because Some truths may have oozed out When looking back we know it was When Fate first sewed a doubt Past lies well told they have a way, Like ghosts returned to haunt; It's then the Fake has had his day, Retreating pale and gaunt. They cry that others were to blame, For inside they're rarely strong. Now each decline seems much the same, For few admit a wrong. New oafs perfect the art to lie, They'd practised since their youth. They'll never taste true humble pie, And are allergic to the truth. The talented dwell alone and wan; For them life is a chore. This dullard's dance goes on and on, Just like it did before. © Trevor Morgan, 23 January 2021
The shell burst
The shell flash was so burning bright,
I lay besides my Bren.
The noise next came, with dreadful fright
The shock wave hit us then.
I felt a trickle down my face,
The ground began to spin.
I seemed not to be in that place,
And ceased to hear the din.
I'm told it was most half a day
That I lay limp and still.
My mind it seemed had gone away;
I walked on some green hill.
So while I lay there in the mud,
My mind wandered away.
Unconscious, matted with dry blood,
I seemed a child at play.
I wandered with a childhood friend,
A boy that I once knew.
That happy dream came to an end
I woke mid blood and spew.
Reality seemed a garish dream
And sad as it may be,
For there I heard a dreadful scream;
The screamer, that was me...
© Trevor Morgan
The shell burst
The shell flash was so burning bright,
I lay besides my Bren.
The noise next came, with dreadful fright
The shock wave hit us then.
I felt a trickle down my face,
The ground began to spin.
I seemed not to be in that place,
And ceased to hear the din.
I’m told it was most half a day
That I lay limp and still.
My mind it seemed had gone away;
I walked on some green hill.
So while I lay there in the mud,
My mind wandered away.
Unconscious, matted with dry blood,
I seemed a child at play.
I wandered with a childhood friend,
A boy that I once knew.
That happy dream came to an end
I woke mid blood and spew.
Reality seemed a garish dream
And sad as it may be,
For there I heard a dreadful scream;
The screamer, that was me…
© Trevor Morgan
The Rising Tide 