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

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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”

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

The angels of truth

The powerful see truth as precious that is why they ration it!
Throughout my life I have listened to lie after lie from politicians and the corporate sector.
It is only after years we find out the truth. Usually that is long after victims of lies and perpetrators are safely dead and buried.
My latest discovery is “The Barcelona Declaration” of 1995. Our present excess of immigration was actually agree then. Deceit is a nasty thing!

Boake001

The angels of truth

Experience is ever real,
While “News” is ever a lie.
The hand that we hold others deal,
Though some may escape if they try.

The Fates may be driven by spite,
The Innocent, victims of Hate.
Where Folly may reach a new height
Salvation is always too late.

False Hopes may well act like a cheat
Salvation, it sometimes may fail.
The Angels of Truth may be sweet;
Though they come with the pace of a snail.

The future and past either way
Stand now either side of today.

© Trevor Morgan

Germs ooze out of a swatted fly

The strong are wise to be economical with the use of force.
Strangely, despite all that’s gone before they rarely ever are..
If the weak are in the way they swat them. If anyone speaks words they do not want to hear they silence them.
This stupidity is alive and flourishing in our country today.

Swat

Germs ooze out of a swatted fly

Some germs ooze from a swatted fly,
Seeped and oozed away.
Where they settled, what they poisoned,
May be hard to say

Chorus

They swatted a fly, it was easy done
With feelings quite wry – they did it for fun.
But, Oh! – how the germs oozed out of the mess
An’ what it’ll get in, will cause such distress.

Some settled in the national press,
Some in much graphic art.
Where it will spread it’s hard to guess;
Some ills are sure to start.

Chorus

Some went in words and some in tune,
That most may sing or hum.
Their message will be well known soon;
The violence of those scum.

Chorus

Some settled in each raging heart,
Some in much local lore
Where it will spread what it may start
May make life one dark chore.

Chorus

If only they had let him be
It would have flown away,
But now from sickness they’re not free;
For they’re plagued every day.

© Trevor Morgan, 26/6/2018

 

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…

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”

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.

911

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
Plane9

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

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.

smoke

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.