Tales of the Gewissae (Book 5)

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.

5.haldane-of-ulvaDownload

Chemotherapy Blues

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.

Stand and Wait

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”

Reading the weather

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

Æthelwulf of Lyng

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.

Æethelwulf of LyngDownload

Lunacy

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

Darkest hope

Darkest Hope

“I feel it seems all is as dreams
And life one big illusion.
We have the substance of moonbeams;
We are our own delusion.

Within the dreams we have at night
There deep within our sleep,
There nothing’s real, and all is trite;
We neither sow nor reap

Why ought the unknown be so feared
Where little can be known.
So just accept the ways of Wyrd,
In time all things are shown. 

For it seems all is as in dreams
And life one big illusion.
We have the substance of moonbeams
And so, embrace confusion.”

When waking some may feel the same
When fever fires the mind.
But what is real, what is a game? 
Delusions are unkind.

The mind it spins, it gyres about
And Hope is some dark thought
The future must be filled with doubt,
For strivings count for nought.

Why ought the unknown be so feared
Where little can be known.
So just accept the ways of Wyrd,
In time all things are shown. 

For it seems all is as in dreams
And life one big illusion.
We have the substance of moonbeams
And so, embrace confusion.”


Wyrd, old English for Fate

Cocks in Frocks

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.

Nightmares

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

Black Swan

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

Old Soldier’s Conscience

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

Lament the Innocent

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?

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

Liars!

"'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 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

Ministers’ statements

The economising with the truth is so ingrained in our political class they are now incapable of being self aware and realising less and less of us believe anything they say.



The mirrors and the smoke,
'Forecasts' are but a sooth.
Each lies a sickening joke
Etched on the grave of truth.

How can we all stay mute,
Or simply step aside,
As rogues seize all the loot,
And take us for a ride.

Beware the honest look,
Beware the smiling face.
They both conceal a crook,
Let's put them in their place.

The villains will persist
And cheat us with their charms.
Time's come now to resist;
It's time to take up arms

© Trevor Morgan,  4 January 2023

We are a bimorphic species

Holes and Poles

Beneath the cloak of all that’s woke,
There dwell deluded souls.
These really are the saddest folk,
Who yearn for poles and holes.

‘Men’ they can turn to ‘women’ now,
When surgeons dig a hole.
And ‘women’ now are ‘men’ somehow,
Where surgeons raise a pole.

Then living caricatures parade,
Their genders false and new.
All’s grotesque is this sad charade,
Where lies to them seem true.

Trevor Morgan, December 2022

Tales of the Gewissae, Book 3

Tale of the Sorrowful

Victories are not only a source of joy. The mother waiting for her son to come home and never sees him again, she is left bereft and weeping, among all the celebrations. Today we lay flowers on graves remembering all those who never returned. We must remember them, remember them ever.

The sorrowful edition 6Download

GEWISSAE BOOK 2

These are stories and poems about Aethandune in the year 878AD

Book 3, “The sorrowful”‘ will be ready by St Brice Day

5.-soft-glimmering-lights3Download

More to come

I will be posting more links to books in the series “Children of Gewis” over the next few years.

I have a total of 13 planned, two are complete the rest are works in progress

GEWISSAE Book 1

https://poetmorgan.files.wordpress.com/2022/06/wp-1654329485151.docx

Fortuna turns about

That bank note was worth fifty pounds,
He burned it in my face.
Though I sat there upon the ground,
His was the true disgrace.

Fortuna gives then takes away,
All luck may turn about.
Who knows what, on some future day,
May then befall this lout.

Some may profess what they possess
As if it makes them pure.
But avarice has no sweet caress,
Mere 'things' may lose allure.

Bad luck may see some lose their stash,
Fortuna turns things round.
Who can digest a loss of cash,
Drink dire misfortune down?

Puddled

Boris is in such a fuddle,
Everything is in a muddle.
And all is in vain
When he tries to explain,
And Hope drains away in a puddle.

POKED THE BEAR

They kept on poking the Bear.

The Bear meandered through its wood,
It did what bears do there.
It loved to live there, as it should;
But Fools they poked the Bear.

They poked it there time and again,
They edged up ever near.
Oh, how it then surprised them when,
It turned and they learned – Fear!

Copyright Trevor Morgan

The Arrow

Nothing new in "friendly fire".  Arrows could strike advancing warriors from behind if they were over bold.


The Arrow


"He gazed down at that bloody arrow head
There suddenly protruding from his chest
And knew then that his life was ending soon.
Though dazed he knew he would not die in bed,
Yet somehow he now did not feel distressed
But lay and watched the rising of the moon.

 

That boy within his soul now felt sweet joy,
Through long years he had fought in every war;
A loyal soldier of his lord and king.
Defending all against those who destroy
Attacking in surprise on any shore.
His fight done he then heard the victors sing.

 

There was much joy, for his folk here had won.
In all things he knew there may be a cost;
Now on this eve that cost was borne by him
And many more young lives all spent and done.
It mattered now to him that they'd not lost,
Now dying for his folk seemed not so grim.

 

That was until a cut-purse found him there
And sought to strip him of his coat of mail
And tried to heave that arrow from his chest.
That thief soon found that Death was here to share,
A simple dagger thrust will rarely fail.
Long was that night through which he felt so blest.

 

The sun rose in the morn, the last day of his life.
He could not move and yet he was not dead.
He heard the blackbird call, the song thrush sing;
His soul was filled with joy, devoid of strife.
His dead wife's ghost then whispered and she said
"My Love, you're free of service to some king".

 
And then as he let out his final breath,
Two souls embraced upon that place of Death."



From: "Land of glistening lights"