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


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…

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.

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.

Trudging through the mire

Euphemisms cover up screw ups and screw ups are a part of war.
We have “friendly fire” and “collateral damage” in recent times when people are killed in military blunders.
I remember an officer commenting on one such incident he said “Oh no, not another bloody balls up”. That was the idiom used in the Royal Navy in the early sixties.
We used euphemisms for copulating then (the unintended creating of life) not for the unintended ending of lives. Language use changes to suit the needs of the times.

under fire

Trudging through the mire

As we trudged through a slimy mire
We saw so far away
Flashes from some distant fire
And that would make our day.

The mud erupted up in front,
Some more spewed up behind.
Our language then became quite blunt,
God, were those gunners blind?

We hugged the mud now stained and red
And waited there to die;
Eternal moments filled with dread,
As Death then passed most by.

Why had this happened to a friend?
Why did he have to go?
It was a useless pointless end;
It was Fate’s fickle blow.

There some of us were chose by Fate;
Though we still don’t know why.
And some of us still seethe with hate,
And some of us still cry.

Most trudged on then from out the mire,
For most had got away.
But some still hear that “friendly fire”;
In flash backs to this day.

© Trevor Morgan 15.6.2018

The term “friendly fire” was not in use at the time of this incident but I use it for the tawdry need for a rhyme!

“An Honourable war”

Grand Admiral Karl Doenitz said U Boats had fought “An Honourable War”.
If that be the case then the word honourable must mean murderous. They sank ships and killed more than 3o,ooo people.
They used tactics like staying beneath life boats of survivors so they could sink rescue ships.
They failed because their opponents fought them with total aggression and total commitment.


“An Honourable war”

Men talk of honour when they’ve done
Dire deeds men ought not do.
Who gives a damn who lost who won
When left bereaved to rue.

To rue the hand that Fate dealt out,
A future all turned bleak.
As Hope and Faith all fade to doubt
And strong resolves grow weak.

As plans once sure seem like a wraith
That haunts a doleful soul
That lingers past the end of Faith
And now does not feel whole.

Such “Honour’s” just a balm for those
Whose hands are all blood red.
The path they trod they freely chose
And they too will end dead.

But they were not cut down too soon
And so they ought feel shame.
When silhouettes cast by the moon
Helped periscopes to aim.

© Trevor Morgan, 16/6/2018


Doenitz, although a committed Nazi was not hanged at Nuremburg.
This was because his defence would have been he used the same tactic as the US Navy submarine campaign against Japan. This was an effective move. He was sentenced to 10 years prison. He died in 1980. Members of the Royal Navy attended his funeral, perhaps they were the honourable men.

The stain of trauma

Media reporters can write such twaddle.
In a recent report on the news a reporter stated that the survivors of a fire needed “emergency treatment for PTSD”. Apart form a drug induced stupor no emergency treatment exists.
It takes years to come to terms with traumatic events and for many the escape, sadly, is through suicide.
Who teaches the media to be so unthinking and so trite?


The stain of trauma

Trauma may leave a darker stain,
A certain special scent.
Now once that’s burned into your brain,
Somehow it won’t relent.

Now there’s reminders everywhere
That brings it back to mind.
And where there’s things we cannot share,
Then life becomes a grind.

We can smell things that aren’t at hand,
Flashbacks burn in the brain.
Tormented minds just cannot stand
The trauma and its stain.

False scents seem true to haunted men
Whose torments won’t relent,
And they are only ended when
All of life’s force is spent.

Survivors carry such a cost,
Too much for some to stand.
And when it seems all hope is lost;
They die by their own hand!

Why do we let our young men die,
In so much pointless strife?
Though many more are wasted by
A long but blighted life.

© Trevor Morgan, 5/5/2018

From: “Tales of wars to come”

For myself I have found that it is the sense of smell that can bring on a flashback. It seems it is our most primeval of senses.

“Tidying Up” a battlefield

After battles the vultures feed.
Also the thieves come to strip bodies of their valuables.
Life is unkind.


“Tidying Up” a battlefield

Now the memory lingers,
It’s still with him today.
Rings removed from fingers
And storing them away.

Cutting through the laces
And tearing off the boot,
Not looking in their faces;
Just looking for some loot!

Weather’s fine an’sunny
Corpses are searched through,
Looking for their money;
It’s bad but it’s not new.

The booty from the dead
The best he had put by.
What more can now be said ;
He’d sooner thieve than die.

© Trevor Morgan, 11/6/2018