Mind, Id, Ego, Psyche

The art or science of psychology is a closed book to me.

I try to stay away from excess mental confusion. It can lead to personal disaster. This does not mean mental confusion stays away from me.
I suspect this is, in part, because my favourite poet is John Clare. He went insane and died in the Northampton Madhouse.
Victims are always at risk of being harmed with no visible scars.
We may be a little more understanding today. Well maybe…
I was asked to share a site focussed on mental health so this is it:

http://www.sheffieldmentalhealth.co.uk

Mind Undermined

So joyous was the heart sometime.
Maybe it was going mad,
Where life immerses all in slime,
Then the happy will turn sad

And hearts at ease become all tense
And all things seem so inane,
So, take care with things that make sense;
They could prove that you’re insane.

And through all of this delusion,
Glinting from deceitful dreams.
Nothing may come to conclusion,
Ah, nothing’s as it seems.

The senses never do tell true,
Lies are fed unto the brain.
Then hear the call of that cuckoo
In the Winter on the plain.

So sad now is the heart all day.
So happy are the mad!
For Death it has a shining ray
And no corpses can be sad.

Id Marred

Rotting carcass not yet dead,
Shadow of a former thing.
Let foul lies not go unsaid
Hateful life – this is your sting!

Dwindling to demented age,
Rage all spent upon self-hate.
Each old fool was once a sage;
Death like old Time is running late!

Hanging on to some cheap life.
Clinging to the sin of Hope.
Aching from the wounds of strife,
There’s no point now when you cope.

Ranting at an empty space,
Wrath against imagined wrong.
Life deprives the soul of Grace,
Let’s all join a sing-a-long.

In the eyes a monster lies
Deep in there, what can be hid?
Hark, the howling creature cries;
It’s the monster of the Id!

Ego Stained

Here and there and roundabout,
Through the spirals of the brain,
Dwells a constancy called “Doubt”;
Everywhere it leaves a stain.

Judgements are so easy done
Those adjudged then cast aside.
Who has lost and who has won?
Victory goes to idle Pride!

Into the mire some are tossed,
Just because of who they are.
And maybe they are all now lost;
Lest they have a lucky star.

Shadows passed along the wall
Wraiths that once were living too.
Souls of those been made to fall,
In great wrongs there’s nothing new.

There and here about around,
Through the torments of the stained.
Muted, they now make no sound,
Drift the souls of those so pained.

Psyche Maimed

In recesses of the mind,
In the deep sleep of the night,
Dreams may come that are unkind,
Give the soul a dreadful fright.

Visions of a long gone wrong,
Phantoms of those gone and dead.
Then the soul is borne along,
Dreadful things in dreams are said.

Those who died that you could live
Speak all kindly now to thee.
Who can cope when they forgive;
Forgiveness never leaves you free.

There’s a debt can’t be repaid
Where the creditor is dead.
When the final act is played,
Your soul is safe – for it has fled.

In recesses of the soul,
In that sleep that’s known as Death,
Then perhaps things may be whole,
There beyond the final breath.

©Trevor Morgan, 1995, revised 16 January 2018

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Hidden Feelings

I went to a funeral a few years ago.
The widower still lives nearby. He seems to shun company and walks a lot. I was thinking about him when this came to me.
There are a lot of old people left alone in their loneliness. There is much sadness about in society.

Hidden Feelings

The coffin was heaved on the shoulders
And they shuffled mock-solemnly on;
And he thought of the lady he loved,
Of her spirit departed and gone.

In side he cried with despair,
But the face that he wore was a mask.
His feeling he just could not share
And his duty was up to the task.

Black shoes shuffled out to the hearse
The coffin slip gently inside.
In side him he raged and he cursed,
But his feelings he knew how to hide.

The face that he wore was a mask,
True feelings he could never show.
Yes, his duty was up to the task.
But despair that he felt was to grow.

A year to the day he was found.
An old man devoid of all hope;
For no one had rallied around,
So lonely, he just could not cope.

© Trevor Morgan 15 January 2015

Tyburn Tree Fruit

The eighteenth century is not my favourite period in history.
Yes, there were advances in thought and in inventions but it was not until the nineteenth century much of this was to bear fruit.
In particular I have no liking for the events that took place in Tuburn with its gallows and executions made into public performances for the entertainment of all. Tyburn is no longer there, it is now the site of Speakers Corner where freedom of speech is celebrated, partly by eccentrics expressing silly nonsense.  A better public spectacle than events here in the past.

 

Tyburn Tree Fruit

Doing the rope dance at Tyburn,
Jerking and twisting about.
They twist to the very last turn;
Urine then all trickles out.
The agony ends in a haze
To the roar of a great happy crowd.
The fruit of this tree ends its days
Tossed nude in a hole in the ground.

You judge them condemn them and send
With panoply pomp and with power,
A decree that a life is to end,
At a suitable convenient hour.
Brought in with laws and decrees
Are reasons for arbitrary ways.
Relax and then watch at your ease
This fruit and the way that it sways.

Well life it is brutish and short.
Redemption cannot be got there.
One jerk and the rope it is taugh
And feet start their dance in the air.
The gasp for air that don’t come,
The trumpets, the “Horahs”, the cheers.
A march to the beat of the drum,
Not heard by these newly dead ears.

Doing the rope dance at Tyburn,
Jerking and twisting about.
The twist to the very last turn;
Urine then all trickles out.
The agony ends in a haze
To the roar of a great happy crowd.
The fruit of this tree ends its days
Tossed nude in a hole in the ground.

© T Morgan 1979

Bloody Robin Redbreast

The European Robin (Erithacus rubecula) is a pretty garden bird that is easily enticed to feed from your hand. It is to many their favourite garden bird. This is not so to me. It has been estimated that 10% of deaths of male Robins is as a result of killings by other males in territorial disputes. These birds are aggressive murderers. But, they look nice so we put pictures of them on our Christmas cards to celebrate the birth of the Prince of Peace.
So if you find a dead Robin and ask the question:  “Who killed Cock Robin?”  You can be fairly sure the answer is:  “another Cock Robin”!

(It’s an old saying that there is no tree big enough for two Robins)

 

 Bloody Robin Redbreast

Little Robin red breast
Who did you kill today?
Oh, another Robin Red Breast,
Well, what more can I say.

So, did he sing too sweet,
Or come near to your tree?
Or did you think it really neat,
Or did he fail to flee?

This dead Robin red breast
Did he not go away?
Did he not know you were the best?
So, did you make him pay?

Did you tackle him up front,
Or sneak up from behind?
For, you see, to be quite blunt:
You’re nasty, are – your kind!

Little Robin red breast
Maybe you’ll die today,
When another Robin Red Breast
Will seek to have his way.

You may sing too sweet,
Or sit in the wrong tree.
And he may think it really neat
To have a killing spree.

That other Robin red breast
Will then have had his way,
And he will know he is the best:
At least for one more day!

© Trevor Morgan, 2018

“Let’s Roll”

Some have heroism thrust upon them!
This happened to passengers on a plane on 9/11.

Tod Beamer a Leader

‘Are you guys ready?’ one hero said
And then he said ‘Let’s roll’.
Those heroes won though soon were dead;
We wept for every soul.

He led the way that we must go
In these dark awful times
As we confront each wicked foe,
As they pursue their crimes.

Though reason is a splendid thing,
Blind faith is not the same.
It has within a toxic sting
And kills in some god’s name.

Our bodies they may easily die,
Who knows about the soul.
We seem confronted by a lie;
Time’s come, so now “Let’s Roll”!

T Morgan, 21 October 2017

Cultural Clashes

We are told to “celebrate diversity”!  What nonsense that is.
We are told we live in a multicultural society.  Again that is nonsense. Multiculturalism can, at most be, a passing phase as cultures blend or clash as the case may happen.
Kipling wrote that: “East is east and west is west and n’ere the twain shall meet”.  That is not strictly true some east and west cultures can blend over time, some cannot.

 

Deformed not natural

Some cultures grow that are quite ill at ease
And cannot face the facts where they cause woe.
Where they can they will do just as they please,
They’re greater risk to allies than to foe.
Up front’s a friendly face as false as lies.
Insides a twisted soul that frights itself.
Complaining all the time aloud each cries.
While seeking all the time for some new pelf,
Old long past wrongs they use to justify
An ally whom they poison for his purse.
At other’s grief they’re never known to sigh
But just moan that they have themselves fared worse.
These folk deformed and twisted up with hate
Could cast a shadow dark upon our fate!

 

Cultural Clashes

Where cultures clash then only one may win.
For multiples of cultures lead to strife
And all but one are labelled as true sin
And worthy of the need for taking life.
The rational where feuders rationalise
Is that their cause is just and true and right.
Those not quite of their ilk they may despise
And treat them to the dark side and to spite.
And when at last one cause may seem supreme,
Hegemony obtains its stable rule.
But strength may fall and fade just like some dream,
All through the misrule of a single fool.
As strength returns to those who were once weak,
To those who were once strong all now turns bleak.

 

From: “Freothogar’s Tale”, 2012

 

Murder on the battlefield

I may not be with the popular mood.  I do not approve of downgrading a killing  and releasing a killer in response to popular hysteria.

 

Murder on the battlefield

They dragged that “bastard” out of sight
From those drones overhead.
The Sarge then shot him out of spite
And left that “shite” stone dead.

The Sarge was focused on that act,
Was his soul cold with Hate?
Some say that he may well have “cracked”.
This was no hand of Fate!

Far off there in Afghanistan
Where old beliefs may rule,
This does not mean each Taliban
Is just some worthless fool.

A family has lost a son
Who fought in their own land.
Yet some excuse a killing done,
Done there quite out of hand.

But who cares here about the tears
Some Afghan Mother shed?
A killer’s freed to many cheers.
A nameless man’s long dead!

© T.Morgan 28.4.2017

Liars and Perjurers

There are many, especially in public life, who tell lies wilfully and with such ease.   Politicians have gone to prison for perjury in recent years but it seems that lessons just have not been learned.

Spirals of Liars

“Three perjurers so full of glee
All sneered there at the dock
Their victim now would not be free
And fops prepared to mock

These gutless monsters sup on blood
Schemed each new enterprise
But ended mired in filth and mud
And never won the prize

Their victim then in time was free
Time fills with cloying fear
When perjurers would know no glee
Truth now lurks ever near

The winds of change are seeming strange
Old ways now sink below
Whilst Fate she seems to rearrange
As Truth brings falsehood low

Then Lies and Truth will clash head on
That one may cease to be
If Hope returns then few are wan
And some may be set free

Each artless, pointless scheming one
Finds no more glut of gore
As all is lost and none is won
New sneaks come to the fore

New perjurers will perjure then
New victims will go down
There seems a glut of wicked men
Each of such low renown”

Laura’s Starlight

This lyric was inspired by reading Sarah Wilson’s book about her experience as a survivor of Child Sexual Exploitation in Rotherham.  Her sister, Laura,  was murdered leaving Sarah to bring up Laura’s little girl.  This lyric came to me in an instant when I was reading her book.

Laura’s Starlight

There’s a star in the night
High above all the spite
But the cause of great loss still remains
The sun’s in the sky
And the song birds fly high
But a whole town is riven with pains

Dark waters had hid
The dark deeds demons did
The day that dear Laura was slain
Searchers had found
Some blood on the ground
And a shoe that bore a red stain

Now Hope won’t elope
In the arms of despair
There will be no surrender to fear
The starlight so bright
Shines down its sweet light
An Angel seems now with us here

With strength we shall share
Here and everywhere
The burdens of what must be done
Till we set to flight
All lewd lust and spite
And justice and truth will have won

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© Trevor Morgan

A Limerick for Lagarde

Now that Lagarde of the IMF has joined in on project Fear that is trying to scare us all into staying as a peripheral province in the European Empire of the Oligarchs. I am not moved to feel any fear.

The IMF that she runs has a track record on economic predictions. More often than not they are wrong. They did a good job with Greece and have ongoing works in progress in Portugal, Spain and Italy and have brought economic misery to lots of places in the impoverished third world. They have long been unfit for purpose.

 

A Limerick for Lagarde

The IMF has loudly now said
By leaving we will end all dead
In the past all their predictions proved wrong
Yet they harp on and sing this daft song
Poor Lagarde has gone quite off her head