Sonnet Deformed not Natural

Societies can be harmed by the tyranny of a minority.
This has happened before in history


Deformed not natural

Some cultures grow that are quite ill at ease
And cannot face the facts where they cause woe.
Where they can they will do just as they please,
They’re greater risk to allies than to foe.
Up-front’s a friendly face as false as lies,
Insides a twisted soul that frights itself
Complaining all the time aloud each cries
While seeking all the time for some new pelf.
Old long past wrongs they use to justify
An ally whom they poison for his purse.
At other’s grief they’re never known to sigh
But just moan that they have themselves fared worse.
These folk deformed and twisted up with hate
Could cast a shadow dark upon our fate!

© T.Morgan 2018

I was reminded of this by “Skin in the Game” by Nassim Taleb

Sinking and Arising

Time can aid recovery from trauma
But not always.

storm bird 2 edit

Sinking and Arising

A lonely soul screeched out aloud
Within a lonely mind.
A lonely psyche wept alone,
It seemed the soul was blind.

An aching heart grieved in the shade,
The mind became quite lost.
A raging wrath had its tirade,
The spirit bore the cost.

Great monsters rose within the id,
They loomed across all things.
The haunted id it fled and hid:
Yet still a faint Hope sings.

That Hope there in its lonely glades
Stood up against all woes
And slowly rose up from the shades;
To face the phantom foes.

A timid soul ceased to decline
Within a healing mind.
An injured psyche saw a sign,
It was a precious find.

As healing hearts no longer ache
What’s lost may yet be found.
All wrath has left within its wake,
A sight of firmer ground.

The monsters faded from the id
And inside things were still.
All terror from the spirit fled,
A warmth rose mid the chill.

As upward once-harmed souls may go
They rise from out the dirt.
For Hopes can spread their warming glow
That heals what may be hurt.

©Trevor Morgan, 2007

Joe (1945-1953)

Three children at my school caught polio.
My friend Joe was one of them. He came to my birthday party but felt ill so his Mum took him home. He died a few days later.
He was my closest friend and was suddenly gone.

Joe (1945-1953)

Young Joe died of polio in 1953,
A little boy a lot of fun
But, he’s still here in me.
Joe came from Kingsdown,
We romped and used to lark,
Playing on the bombsites
And running in the park.
He came to my birthday do in 1953
And I had cried
When he had died,
He couldn’t come play with me.
So I went to the bombsite
And to our secret den
And wished and wished
That he’d come back,
But I only see him when
I sleep and in my dreams
He’s there with me again.
For fifty years we’ve played at night
There in our secret den,
But I wake up each morning
And daytime’s there again,
And I hate that dawning
Of that sad fact on me;
That Joe died of polio in 1953.

© Trevor Morgan 2003

Loving Bombs

I had been reading Betjeman at the time of 9/11.
So next day this came to me.

Loving Bombs
(with apologies to John Betjeman’s “Slough”)

Come loving bombs and fall on thou
You seem no longer human now.
You have preached for so long of death
And hiss out hate with every breath.

You train the young for martyrdom
Because you loath all our freedom.
You chose the sword and not the plough,
So, loving bombs are coming now.

A creed that only preaches hate
May now see wisdom but too late.
There’s forces here well trained for this
To give you all your martyr’s bliss.

Now why have you a face of gloom,
Do you doubt bliss beyond your tomb?

12 September 2001

Healing herbs

“Leech Book of Bald” is an Old English book on medicine.
“Bald” was the name of a doctor and Leech was the Old English word for a healer.
Recently at Nottingham University researchers used one of the old treatments in this book to treat MRSA infections successfully.
It seems our ancestors knew a thing or two about herbal treatments.

Healing herbs

“As in that hedge the Honeysuckles grow
So, there beneath the Comfrey stands so grand.
Its flowers blossom forth in wondrous show,
It’s good to have this healing herb at hand.

There’s Mugwort and most healers used this ‘weed’,
Whilst some would hoe it out from in the rye.
The healers here would gather weed and seed
And when used well some wounded need not die.

Now Heartsease too could sooth an aching heart.
This little herb that dwelled shy in the shade
To troubled souls its healing might impart.
There’s numerous plants that aid the healers trade,

But, yet the scent of Honeysuckle sweet
Could aid those who with troubles ill-disposed
Would seek a calm and peaceful dear retreat
To lay at last with aching eyes now closed.”

A pharmacopoeia grows across this land
And healers from old time have gained the lore.
Where ere you go there’s healing herbs at hand,
Their presence helps to keep all souls secure.

From: “Tales of the Gewissae”

Flowers and Water Weeds

Yesterday was the first day of plentiful spring flowers.
I have not seen much of nature in flower since last September. There is a seeming simplicity to all the complexities of Mother nature.

Flowers and Water Weeds

There’s flowers in the fields
There’s flowers in the hedge,
Down in the flooded meadow
Is the hardy Sedge.

Some weeds in the stream
Will flower Oh so bright
On top of the water,
So daintily and white.

With Fleabane at the edge,
A bright yellow hue,
All seems in its place,
All adds to the view.

© Trevor Morgan 27 September 2017

Waiting to be dead

Mangrove swamps have a strange beauty about them.
However this depends on just what you are doing at the time.


Waiting to be dead,
26 December 1963

Above us branches shattered
By bullets overhead.
We lay there mud bespattered
And waited to be dead.

As we cowered in the slime
There seemed an end to time.

He lay there badly battered,
The mud was turning red.
As those crabs pitter-pattered
And waited to be fed.

There laying in the slime
There was an end to time

Now the scene is always there,
Though not a word is said.
Older now and elsewhere;
It’s still there in my head!

Still stuck in all that slime
The mind is trapped in time.

© Trevor Morgan 1995

From: “Saga of Sabah”,

The sleeping wren

The wren is one of my favourite birds.
One day when walking a local lane in January I counted more than forty in the hedge row.


The sleeping wren

“The little wren slept in her nest,
She slept long nights away,
Then in her comfort she’s caressed
By dawn’s sweet light of day.

The wren she dreams such lovely dreams
There safe within her hedge.
She’s warmed each day by soft sunbeams
As she feeds in the sedge.

So daintily the little wren
May hop from twig to stone.
She dwells upon the moor and fen,
Though small she’s not alone.

There’s guardian spirits watch for her
They see her life is charmed.
Though all about is all astir
They see she is not harmed.

The little wren she is caressed
By dawn’s sweet light of day,
For in the comfort of her nest
She’d slept that night away”.

From: Tales of Aethelflaed Lady of the Mercians

Victor’s sonnet

No matter what you do winning really feels great!
You just cannot beat that feeling when you have won.
It is a shame that feeling comes crashing down the next time Fate brings you new experiences of failure and defeat!

Victor’s sonnet

There may be pleasure in some furtive sin,
But tawdry things are not quite as they seem.
The greatest pleasure here is when you win.
Yes winning, winning, winning is supreme
For there’s nought else may equal such a thing!
The pleasures of the flesh they soon abate
And Death awaits us all with his dark sting.
Though all of us ought know this is our fate,
Yet while we live and while we fight and strive
Though all of our allotted time be brief;
The victors are the ones who truly thrive!
Yes Death will come at last just like some thief.
To gain much here for your own kith and kin
Means your bloodline is better placed to win!

© Trevor Morgan, May 1998