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”

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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”

Variously Tyrannous

What does it take for a little baby to grow into a monster.
George Orwell said “Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely”. That may be the case on the big scale, however, absolute lack of power seems to do something similar. The powerless, the ignored and the misled can become monsters, or tyrants as well on a smaller scale.

Cain Fleeing Abel
William Blake, 1826

Variously Tyrannous

Now tyrants are a varied lot,
They come in many a hue.
So, look inside that heart you’ve got;
There may be one in you.

Yet tyrants may not see therein
The way that others do.
And so, for them each extra sin
Does not cause them to rue.

They oft times start to learn their art
With one small nasty deed.
Then as they get a colder heart,
Well, then, they will proceed.

Across each land they cause such blight
They leave good souls to yearn.
They do this for it seems their “right”!
For they may never learn.

Yes, tyrants are a bane to all,
In this there’s little new.
Do not heed the demon’s call
And tame that wrath in you!

© Trevor Morgan 28/6/2018

P.T.S.D.

It is quite normal for money to become debased.
Governments and banks can create too much and inflation may follow.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is a serious condition that, as a result of dire events, can mar a life. The sufferer will be haunted by nightmares when asleep and flashbacks when awake and normal functions of daily living are impaired.
Snowflakes who are offended by hearing points of view they do not like cannot get this condition. They are just being silly

fightingnoghtmares

P.T.S.D.

And late at night with dread
He would lay down his head,
But deep within his mind
There was no rest to find.

For there in his deep sleep
A dreadful date he’ll keep
With phantoms of the mind
And they are most unkind.

Repeating on and on
Each past and dreamed of wrong;
Survivors can like sheep
Be dragged down in the deep

To depths of all despair
Choked like they have no air;
Writhe ‘n writhe in slumber
Goes on without number.

On and on each night
They face repeated fright
Of ghostly secret dread
Of what’s there in their head.

No rest can they now find
When troubled in their mind,
It’s known to me and thee
We say “PTSD”.

And years after a war,
It kills so many more.
So torn by all the grief
Death’s sought out for relief.

It quietens all the dread
There, in a troubled head
And peace is finally found;
When lowered in the ground.

© Trevor Morgan 28.6.2018

Notes:

Following The Falklands War and some other campaigns more of the veterans end by taking their own lives than were killed in action. They too are casualties of conflict. Oh, the pathos of wars!

I rarely use couplets, I find them jerky and lacking rhythmic flow. But as this came out in this form and I wrote it down in minutes this was how my Muse sent it to me.

Sonnet – Her little boy

The English they only have one king they call great.
This is Alfred, or Aelfrede, meaning Elf Council or advice. This could also mean talks to elves, implying deviousness perhaps. Many old English names have similar origins. Elvis, for example means elf wise or wisdom of the elves.
It is not known at what age children were given their names.
Many children can play alone merrily chatting away as if they had company, as if talking to the elves.
I suspect our great king was one such child.

Damp Wood

Sonnet – Her little boy

A little boy he played down by the stream.
He romped with glee and danced around about.
His eyes they seemed to have an elfish gleam.
His mother loved to hear him sing and shout
And watched him from afar as he would play.
It seemed as if he danced with many friends
And yet he was alone here on this day.
That stream across the meadow slowly wends;
That boy he played the whole long day away.
He seemed to talk to folk who seemed not there.
Each child may play in every way they may,
His childhood it was lived so free of care.
His mother’s words this son would always heed;
This youngest boy of Her’s she’d named Aelfrede.

© Trevor Morgan, 25/6/2018

I like to imagine historic characters as very young children

Alfred

I wonder what he talked about with his elf companions?

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.

blurred

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

Note:
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?

PICTORIAL REVIEW

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