Unknowable

Torpedoed

The Fates ensure that nought is shown,
In the uncertainty of change;
There Our Future is unknown
And if known would seem strange.

©T.Morgan, 22/9/18

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Dormant

Strange to have an ability to write poetry and this despised and harassed when attempts are made to publish.
After forty years seeking publishers that was abandoned.
On line I have had many a snide comment.
This culminated in a spiteful hack here.
Anything else published here that is not confined to lyrical verse alone will not have been placed here by me.
For the time being this site is not worth the candle so will remain dormant until I decide on what to do with my accumulated poetic works now numbering thousands.

In the past I never criticised free verse.  That is changed.
Time to attack the charlatans and expose their fraud. I loath and detest those who falsely claim to write poetry and just write disjointed prose!

These false poets will grow to hate me and that will be okay with me!

 

Trevor Morgan

Share function is not secure

Having spent too much wasted time on this it seems the share function is a risk area.
I will cease using it until it gets resolved.

On balance This may not be worth the candle.
Like Li Bai I write for myself alone. My poems can be discarded!

Site Hacked

Any material posted here after this may not originate from me.

I had intended post a poem each day this year I am ceasing this until hacker is stopped.

Trevor Morgan

The Perjurer Scribes (and journalists)

Blackening a good name or big lies is nothing new!
It is done either to damage an opponent or to acquire wealth and some advantage over others.
Medieval scribes forged charters to acquire lands. Sadly many of these sources are all we have of our history. That history that was always written by the winners or the scribes or journalists in their retinue (and pay).
Journalists today will latch on to a person and systematically destroy their good name. This is rather than debate ideas they simply destroy alternative views.

The Perjurer Scribes (And Journalists)

“Did it hurt before my time,
Before I was conceived?
Was my name then dragged through the slime.
Was I then disbelieved?

Was pain integral to my lot
Before I came about.
The strain begins as we’re begot,
The worry and the doubt.

Do we exist just to be hurt
By others just for fun?
To be trod down into the dirt
And not to see the sun.

The purpose of this pointlessness
Just what is it about,
Devoid of real true happiness;
Show me the door marked ‘out’.

What waste it is when we assist
Others in their need.
We’ll not succeed when we resist
The wickedness and greed.

There’s folly here in doing right
The selfish will hold sway.
You cannot win in any fight,
The pain won’t go away.

There’s senselessness in being kind
Where failure is assured.
Retreat then back within the mind,
With death all pain is cured.

Should I then ever represent
Poor people in this state,
I would deserve all this torment
That’s thrown at me by hate.

The hatred of the hateful few
Will always hold their sway.
In misery there’s nothing new;
False Hope’s now drained away.

Accept that wrongs are going to win
No matter what you crave.
The safest thing is to give in ;
We all go to the grave.

The raving of self-righteousness
Is such a troubled sound.
But soil will give a true caress
When you rot in the ground.

So, will it hurt beyond my time,
When I have upped and died.
Will my name be dragged through more slime?
Who’ll care some bastards lied?”

© Trevor Morgan, 5/7/2018

From: “Tale of a darkened soul”

Not another rising sun

Slavery is a profound evil yet to be conquered.
Today much slavery is called trafficking. Migrant workers in some states have their passports taken and are forced to work under slave conditions.
There are domestic servants in the west who are slaves.
The first days of slavery, the loss of hope must make time seem to slow down as the horror evolves.
This poem is of the thoughts of an English slave taken in a Norse raid but the agony must be common across cultures and time.

Slaves

Not another rising sun

“Not another rising sun
Here with its sombre glow,
Oh, now this long day’s begun
We tremble with dark woe.

The passage of the sun
From dawn right through to noon,
With journey that’s half done
This day can’t end too soon.

Noon sun in early May
The slow returning heat,
Upon a late spring day,
Yet Hope is in retreat.

Noon sun in December
Bright light but not so sweet,
Just a useless ember,
A lurid soulless cheat.

The passage of the sun
His run from east to west .
So soon is each life done,
Has all this been a test?

The setting of the sun,
A cold and ruddy sky,
The freezing night’s begun
As we all sit and sigh.

The rising of the moon,
A lurid soulless glow.
Its full disk is seen soon,
Will it presage more woe?

The passage of the moon,
Her deathly woeful face,
Like some foredooming rune;
There’s no hope in this place!

The moon’s shrunk to a crescent,
There’s no loss in our woe.
Our failures won’t relent,
All joy must fade and go.

The moon has waxed to full
Revealing our disgrace,
For Hope has lost all pull;
This land’s a mystic place.

The passage of the moon
From moonrise to moonset.
Her glow may go quite soon;
All life is now regret.

The setting of the moon,
The waning of her light.
The stars glow now and soon
Our souls may all take flight!”

© Trevor Morgan, 3/7/2018

From: “Tale of a darkened soul”

Passions

There is a divine comedy. It is much of the stuff of life!

Dante and Beatrice

Passions

“The passions of Love and of Hate,
Emotions that may be so true;
Though neither may ever abate
And neither will ever quite do.

They drive us to do what we must.
Thus, driven we do what we can.
At end we sag back into dust;
For we’re here for only a span.

But passions of Hate and of Love
Are sometimes a bit of a cheat
And if we’re not given a shove,
Then we’ll stay too long on our feet.

Though passions are all very well,
They’re sometimes may lead us through Hell”

© Trevor Morgan, 3/7/2018

From: “Tale of a darkened soul”

Cunning wins

In the Old Testament it is written:

“…the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong…”
Ecclesiastes 9:11 (King James version)

There is a lot to be said for that. Cunning, deception and guile are quite useful in any struggle.

Blenda

Cunning wins

“Most men will say when they’ve been right,
But few when they’ve been wrong.
The weak are forced to guile and spite
That they might beat the strong.

Whilst most may see a foe’s mistake
Few spot a cunning move.
Established ways few men forsake
When their mind’s in a groove.

A strong and stolid fighting man
May win by might and main.
But when a foe can read his plan
Then all becomes a strain.

Outwitted men get to wits end,
They thrash about each way.
Attacking when they ought defend
A foe who melts away.

So, fight the way the mighty fight,
Then you will face defeat.
They must have guile who lack the might;
For only winning’s sweet!

No rapid charge nor clash of arms;
No fury, no, nor din.
Not magic charms, nor loud alarms;
It’s cunning ways that win!”

© Trevor Morgan, 2/7/2018

After Cassandra; prophets be wary!

The ancients spun such good yarns!
The God Apollo gave the Trojan Princess Cassandra the gift of prophecy.
However, he gave her a curse to go with it. The curse was that no one would ever believe her. Apollo was like that!
That last night, as she lay in bed with Agamemnon waiting for Clytemnestra to enter and stab her to death must have dragged a bit!

Clytemnestra
Clytemnestra

After Cassandra; prophets be wary!

Tomorrow is known unto some.
The Future they read like a book.
For them there’s no mystery to come,
Through Time’s whirling eddies, they look!
For prophecy is not an art,
Nor a science, nor even a rule.
You see it is simply a part
Of Seers, who are wise or a fool.
To some all the future’s quite clear
Whilst others, they see just a part.
Some call to a host that won’t hear
While others may reach some good heart.
Cassandra was given this curse,
Most prophets are treated far worse.

© Trevor Morgan, 1/7/2018

From: “Servile Wars”

“The Discontented slave”

The story of Spartacus and the Third Servile War makes for good ripping yarns.
Spartacus, however was defeated and his followers crucified.
Their opponent, however, came to a gruesome end.
Roman General, Marcus Licinius Crassus, decided to wage a war of conquest against Parthia and was defeated and captured. The Parthians accused him of wanting nothing but plunder in his greed for wealth.
So they gave him his fill of gold. They poured molten gold down his throat.
The ancients were quite colourful in their own way.

Spartacus

“The Discontented slave”

“Sing a song of discontent
His heart is full of hate.
His seething will not now relent;
It is his gift from fate.

It flows now through his every vein
And glistens through his skin.
I don’t know how they can complain,
Those who did this to him.

Tense and coiled just like a spring,
They have him in their place
And if they do the slightest thing,
He may tear off a face.

So, sing a song of merriment
For those who taught him hate.
Too late they cannot now repent,
He is their gift from fate.

And when his rage erupts in there
He may kill one or two
And some of us will stand and stare
As things turn black and blue.

There’s money gambled in a book
On which of them will die
And mutely some will stand and look
And watch the blood stains dry.

So, sing a song of merriment
At those who taught him hate.
Too late they cannot now relent
For they had earned this fate.”

© Trevor Morgan, 1/7/2018

From: “The Third Servile War”