Sonnet – Vague awakening

Concussion is best avoided. In 1999 I failed to avoid it.
My first clear memory was in hospital having a wound fixed and I remember nothing for up to an hour before the accident.
What I have had are wisps from dreams, all blurs, so I thought I would try to describe them.


Sonnet – Vague awakening

I gazed upon some blood upon my hand.
I knew not where I was nor what had been.
I lay there dazed and failed to understand
As all about things had the strangest sheen.
These steps on which I lay, they seemed to sway
As pain erupted in my eyes and head.
Pedestrians went past upon their way.
About me now some mumbled words were said,
Some people gazed at me as I lay here.
I tried to move but things went dark awhile
And then there seemed to rise, that eerie fear;
Where eyes they seemed so cold but mouths they smile.
I thought I saw a child now so long dead
And felt the blood here trickling from my head.

© Trevor Morgan, 24/6/2018

I had an 8 inch long wound across my head. It seems a ladder fell on me.
I remember a voice saying “This will not sting” as the wound was glued back.
That was a lie. What a sting that was. It was a neat job and I am thankful to the staff at the Northern General Hospital.
Head injury is strange in its effects and for a while things were a bit weird.


Asleep and dreaming

The land of dreams is a strange and cryptic place
What do those dreams signify.
When you see rapid eye movement in a new born asleep just what is in their dreams?


Asleep and dreaming

Before the Dawn and wakefulness
There within the land of dreams
She tossed and turned as in distress;
Ah, but is she as she seems?

Where in her rolling firm closed eyes
Does she wander in her mind?
And in there are there sneaks and lies?
In dreams her eyes they are not blind.

Then after dawn comes wakefulness
And she leaves the land of dreams.
It’s here she learns of such distress;
Ah, but is all as all seems?

While, here there’s much that is unkind,
In her hearing sneaks and lies,
And there’s much that is a grind,
As tears flow from her open eyes.

When wide awake there’s much that’s true
And oft times folk may well be kind.
When moonbeams cast their gentle hue
Some sweeter thoughts may come to mind.

Long after dusk comes restfulness,
Back within the land of dreams.
Though what she dreams of none may guess;
Ah, but is all as all seems?

© Trevor Morgan, 19/6/2018

No healing of hate

I tire of lists of past wrongs. Whether it is complaints of colonialism of long ago or religious or political crimes. “Let the dead bury the dead.”(Luke9:60) There is much joy to be found in life.

lost soul

No healing of hate

The hatred of a foe to some is sweet.
It justifies the rages that they feel.
All vengeance they may savour like some treat,
But causing pain does not cause hate to heal.
In time it turns inwards towards the soul
And harms the very thing it seeks to save.
The spirit then will never seem quite whole,
The path of hatred will at end deprave
And justify the darkest crimes of all
And lead in all things always on to strife.
Such ways may only lead men to the fall
So that they waste the very best of life.
For hate and rage lead no one on to Grace
But make this world of ours a sad and dismal place.

© Trevor Morgan, 22/6/2018

From: “Tales of the sorrowful”

Half a husband came home

Our military covenant is meaningless.
Veterans returning home damaged in the mind are neglected or worse.
Many join the homeless. Many die by their own hand.

They are victims of misuse by a state that uses people then chucks them aside.

Walk in fog

Half a husband came home

Sometimes it seemed he was not there,
Though he was by her side.
Oft times he had an empty stare
She’d not seen as his bride.

He tossed and turned much in his sleep,
Asleep he’d talk at night,
Or groan or moan or oft times weep;
She yearned to ease his plight.

But who can reach a damaged soul
Oh, who can mend a mind,
Or make a wounded psyche whole
Oh, why is life unkind!

Her lovely groom seemed broken now,
She cherished what she had.
Abiding by her wedding vow
She stayed strong yet seemed sad.

She thought of all that might have been
Had he not gone to war
What dreadful sights had her man seen,
What had it all been for?

She was with child within one moon,
She was so filled by Hope.
She hoped he might be mended soon,
For he now, seemed, to cope.

But then he talked in jumbled ways,
There was much wrong with him.
Some times he’d sulk for many days,
Or rant all wild and grim.

What had been him was barely there,
A remnant little more.
He had the strangest empty stare,
Then walked off out the door.

There was a quiet for a day
Then policemen came to call,
Much empathy was on display,
She wept there in the hall…

Sonnet – The slaves of cold rage

People seem alarmed by hot rage.
They see the openly bad tempered person as in some way a major menace to others.
The real danger comes from those who harbour cold dark and secret rage. They are more likely to kill. Imams amongst Jihadi groups know this and in a sort of grooming process, nurture cold dark rage in the tools they use, those tools are the gullible amongst the young.

spiral downSonnet – The slaves of cold rage

Hot rage is soon burned out the mind is cleared
And so returns the cold clear light of day.
But cold rage of the soul ought be well feared,
For raging men themselves becomes its prey.
Cold rage when it controls the hearts of men
It has a way to justify all wrong.
When men remain a slave to it, it’s then
They go to where such rage filled folk belong.
They go upon a tour of Purgatory.
They purge themselves with their own rage and hate.
The wrathful on themselves are predatory.
They drain themselves and seal their own sad fate.
Though slaves of rage bring havoc to a land
They lose to little things they may not understand.

© Trevor Morgan, 20/6/2018

From: “Tales of a darkened soul”

Inertia for the Intellect

Working in a big, old organisation is weird.
They take you on to do a job then they make it impossible to do it.
Such places are a paradise for the mediocre; that is until the inevitable and they go bust.
This is different in the public sector. There they become a danger to the ordinary citizen until reform or rebellion.

Head of innovation implementation at work

Inertia for the Intellect

Why do some feel so insecure,
Why do some feel so frail?
Worried they’ll lose a sinecure?
Scared that they might fail?

All walks of life may be the same,
Best don’t rise to the top
Where mediocre gets the fame;
The able get the chop.

With sound procedures well set up
An institution’s made.
And in good time there’s no let up
Until it is obeyed.

All newness then will be locked out
And good work chucked aside.
No matter what is wrote about
No new things get inside.

Inertia of the intellect
Can be seen all the time.
It is the only prime suspect;
Its dead hand is the crime.

©Trevor Morgan 19/6/2018


I was once taken on to ensure contract compliance on construction sites.
The job seemed okay until I moved home and arrived for my first day.
I was supposed to ensure compliance but was not allowed on any construction site! That “was not how we do things here”!!!
This was with Sheffield City Council. They currently claim to be “Green” whilst hacking down trees. They are not just mad, they are plain nasty if challenged. They are not unique in this as a public body.

Sonnet – The Logic of Loki

Loki was the Norse “god” of fire, mischief and cunning.
After he insulted all the other “gods” individually at a feast by telling them some home truths they bound him to a rock deep underground. Deep down there he cause earthquakes!

This story seems to be saying you just cannot stop mischief in the world or bad things happening even if you are the Norse “gods”.


Sonnet – 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 snowflakes 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”

© Trevor Morgan 18/6/2018

From: “Tale of a darkened soul”


In the original old Norse the word used to describe these beings is “powers” and not “gods”. They were not immortal but aged slower than people and were kept from growing old by eating the apples of Idunn.

Loki was the Norse “god” of uncertainty of change and of fire, a trickster and an enemy of Odhinn the leader of the “gods” of Asgard.
He seems to fulfil the role of the pantomime villain which makes him a lively character to write about.

Typists in the towers

The events of 11th September 2001 were mass murder.
No religion was served, no god directed it. It was done by men to the innocent at work.
The struggle continues. Militancy is among us as are the appeasers of militancy. This is a combination of the plain nasty with the banal.
The reality is the world is ill at ease, is at war. This war is diffuse and permeating and proceeds like fog advancing through a forest. It causes many to grieve.


Typist in a tower

A typist in a tower
Got in on time that day
And she was feeling truly glad,
She needed all the pay.

The money went to pay high rent.
Fees, bills and all dues
And money is not heaven sent
When children need new shoes.

She made the coffee for the man
Who had his resumé,
He’d searched so hard to find this job;
Was this his lucky day?

He waited with a glowing hope,
The coffee in his hand.
Now in this firm he knew he’d cope;
This wait he could not stand.

He sat there sipping nervously
Pondering, what was to be,
And in that very instant he
Would share her destiny.

She typed the last line of the text
She’d started yesterday
And at the end it was spell checked,
In her habitual way.

The future is not there to see
No matter how we strive
And as she pressed a zero key,
She ceased to be alive!

With such kinetic energy
They shared a destiny.
A blinding flash a deafening crash,
And then eternity.

Her vapour’s borne upon the air,
Her dust upon the breeze.
It has been scattered everywhere
And blown across the seas.

A lover waited there at home
And watched in silent dread.
He hoped and hoped she’d got in late
And prayed she was not dead.

And in that sad despondent place
His grief he could not stand;
A cold east wind blew in his face,
A child reached for his hand.

Mundane things may help us through
When grief is all around.
In trauma there is nothing new
It is a well-known ground.

And though the dust will soon be gone
A man weeps there at home.
And though he feels so sad and wan,
He does not weep alone.

Another typist another tower

Another typist another tower

Another typist in that place
Was very hard at work.
She had just paused for a short space,
Then felt the tower jerk.

And smoke and flames came from below
A fear welled up within.
And in a lurid orange glow
Her thoughts were for her kin.

She phoned her husband at their home
But no one answered there.
She left a message on the phone
That told of her despair.

She gazed upon the darkening smoke
And felt she had to cry.
Then fought through all the fumes and choke;
She did not want to die.

The future’s not for us to see.
The stairway glowed with heat;
And then the ceilings all gave way,
Floors fell beneath her feet.

With much kinetic energy
It was her destiny
To meet a sudden brutal death
And then eternity.

Her husband who was not at home
Watched in a silent dread.
He hoped and hoped she’d got in late
And that she was not dead.

And in a sad despondent place
Hope drained away like sand.
A cold east wind blew in his face,
A friend reached for his hand.

He sat there wondering nervously
Within – alone and blue.
Why should this be her destiny?
There was so much to do.

The children now needed his care.
There are things to be done.
While sympathy is everywhere
Grief can block out the sun.

Draft first written 18 September 2001

© Trevor Morgan, 15/6/2018

Shocks and Rages

The Hymn “Rock of Ages” was composed in a storm.
Augustus Toplady was sheltering in a crevice in the rock face of Burrington Coombe in a storm when the idea came to him.
I used to cycle to Burrington regularly before leaving home to join the navy.
It is my favourite place in the Mendip Hills.
This idea came to me walking next to a cliff on the Island of Mull.

SELRES_70977eeb-0cf9-4e2a-86a0-6b71faecfab3SELRES_7aba13e1-bb74-46f9-b297-7001ea84d30bThe “Rock of Ages” Burrington Coombe todaySELRES_7aba13e1-bb74-46f9-b297-7001ea84d30bSELRES_70977eeb-0cf9-4e2a-86a0-6b71faecfab3

Shocks and Rages
Tune: Rock of ages)

Shocks and rages come to me
Strangers seek our injury.
Through the murder and the blood
Unforgiven by the good.
Despite smiles handshakes and charm
We got blows intent on harm.

Shocks and rages stay with me
With the scars of injury,
Through the need to weep and cry
We don’t know the reason why,
Is there reason here at all
As thugs answer Satan’s call.

Shocks and rages could make me
Inflict unjust injury.
Wielding such mighty hammer blows
Not sure who may be the foes;
Craving vengeance with a lust
Can make good folk act unjust.

Shocks and rages we’ll control
Not let wrath now taint each soul.
Justice we must all uphold
Like the martyrs did of old,
Not blows done in rage’s heat
But foes brought to their judgement’s seat.

© Trevor Morgan

From: “Typists in the towers”

First draft written days after the mass murders at the World Trade Centre, New York, 11 September 2001.

The “free-verse” curse

Throughout the last century poets have been usurped.
Real poetry must have structure and form. These can include meter, rhyme or alliteration, etc.. A random row of words may be meaningless or it may be prose, it cannot be poetry.
Comparing a pile of uncarved, unfinished rock to a medieval cathedral shows this. Both are stones laid one upon the other. One is a heap of rock the other is beautiful architecture.
As smoke has no lasting form so free-verse will be forgotten in time. It is a shame to me that I have had to live through this great deception, but then deception is in fashion in so many things.
I was today, once again, pointed towards free-verse and told that was how I should write.
I told the charlatan to “piss off” and wrote this.


The “free-verse” curse

Free-verse is such a lingering curse,
It apes what it is not.
Each year I fear it gets far worse;
This rhymeless awful rot!

Free-versers claim each is a bard,
Their self-deception’s real.
As real verse is far too hard
The “poet’s” name they steal!

Rhythm and rhyme they aid recall,
They have since time of old.
At end all free-verse has to fall,
For they’re so drab and cold.

I’ve lived long through this lingering curse
That apes what it is not.
Each year I hear it getting worse;
This ooze like formless snot!

© Trevor Morgan, 15/6/2018

Note: Any aspiring poet beware, most poetry competitions are only interested in free verse or they award prizes to their mates. Deception is total and everywhere. To yourself stay true and earn a living elsewhere. Poetry just does not pay.