Lament the Innocent

With schools teaching inappropriate sexual material to our children and moves to let men, pretending to be women, into women's prisons our social values are under a sustained attack.
Our children's innocence is precious and it is not for state schools to usurp the rights of parents.
This must be fought.

Lament the innocent 

We seem now in a nightmare,
Like living in a dream.
Debauchery seems everywhere,
As low lives plot and scheme.

Each child is but a plaything
That the Sordid may possess.
Life it has a deadly sting,
With bairns left in distress.

As semen smears the innocent,
Power simply is not Love.
Debauchery it won't relent;
Like hawks it rends the dove.

We are now in a daymare,
Foul deeds are not just dreams.
Debauchery now is everywhere,
And all is as it seems.

Reach now for the gelding tools 
Turn here and start the fight.
Don't be taken more for fools;
Know wrong from what is right.



    

Ministers’ statements

The economising with the truth is so ingrained in our political class they are now incapable of being self aware and realising less and less of us believe anything they say.



The mirrors and the smoke,
'Forecasts' are but a sooth.
Each lies a sickening joke
Etched on the grave of truth.

How can we all stay mute,
Or simply step aside,
As rogues seize all the loot,
And take us for a ride.

Beware the honest look,
Beware the smiling face.
They both conceal a crook,
Let's put them in their place.

The villains will persist
And cheat us with their charms.
Time's come now to resist;
It's time to take up arms

© Trevor Morgan,  4 January 2023

The Betrayal

The Betrayed
(Tune: My love is like a red, red rose)

We live beneath a grand pretence,
The rulers mock the ruled.
The mask has slipped so much makes sense
And now but few are fooled.

Let us end the strain and doubt,
See promises are kept;
Let us now throw deceivers out
For too long we have wept.

We wept to see this slow decline;
To see our proud land fall.
Let us throw out deceiving swine,
Rally to Freedom’s call!

We are not free when ruled through lies
But slaves of foul deceit;
So now it is that Freedom cries:
“Throw out each sneak and cheat”

We’ve lived beneath this grand pretence,
Where rulers mocked the ruled.
The mask has slipped now all makes sense;
We’re not here to be fooled!

Be gone now all of this deceit
“Throw out each sneak and cheat”

© Trevor Morgan, 14 April 2019

From: “The Children of Gewis”

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

Sonnet – 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.

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

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.

“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

Note:

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.

Sonnet -The Kola Graveyard

Sailors in the Royal Navy can spin a good Yarn.
Tales told of the Arctic convoys are the most cruel of all. Worse still these tales are dark, disastrous and TRUE.
Some escorts were lost within sight of Murmansk and crews froze to death in the waters of the north

Sonnet -The Kola Graveyard

The waters of the North are cold and wild.
Ice may form there upon the upper decks
Of ships that ventured there from climes more mild.
The sea’s floor there is littered with sad wrecks
For one by one, small ships died in the fight.
Yet in death they secured the rise of hope,
Though u-boats struck with all their stealth and might,
Despite each loss these escorts were to cope.
Of those destroyed there on this icy sea
As they brought aid to that beleaguered land
That fought with them that Europe might be free
Of tyrannies some Nazi filth had planned.
And many men who ventured through that cold
Were marked by fate so they would not grow old.

© Trevor Morgan, 13/6/2018

From: “Arctic Elegies”

“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

Sonnet – Stains on Spring

As a child I was told never to pick a dandelion.
If I did I would wet the bed.
Strange children should have been told that. I wonder why?
Strange also that some creeds seethe with hate amid all the beauty of nature and the verdant glow of spring

Sonnet – Stains on Spring

Here is that verdant green that comes with Spring.
The primrose and the bluebell bloom in turn,
Yet, nettles grow so tall and bear their sting.
The sun grows warm but as yet does not burn.
Great clumps of ‘piss the bed’ are blooming bright,
With daisies, how they grow amid the grass.
All this here to the eye’s a welcome sight.
But sad souls may not heed them as they pass.
The world may warm with sights of Spring on show;
How sad for some this may have come too late.
For them no more this wondrous Spring aglow,
For they are never free from wrath and hate.
Ah, springtime in this island’s here again;
How sad it is that some folk bear a stain!

“Piss the bed” is a colloquial name for dandelion (taraxacum vulgaria)

© Trevor Morgan ,7/6/2018

From: “Tales of Aethelflaed, Lady of the Mercians”

Battered “love”

A member of Parliament was a known wife beater.
His party covered it up.
His church covered it up.
He made it to top cabinet jobs and is now in the House of Lords.
He pontificates as if from on high. But he is the lowest of low life.
If he dies before me then I can name the swine. Others will if I die first.
Our libel laws serve the rich and powerful and silence all others!

Battered “love”
(Tune: My love is like a red, red rose)

His love she has a red, red nose
She “walked into a door”
And if she tells then she sure knows;
That she’ll be in for more!

His “love” she’s battered black and blue
It was an “accident”.
Each day she’s got some bruises new,
His “loving” won’t relent.

He had to be so in control,
He could not face a snub.
He’d beat her then go for a stroll
With his pals down the pub.

He really was a friendly man
To others that he met.
His wife she might do all she can
But gets more beatings yet.

His love she has a red, red nose
She “walked into a door”
And if she tells then she sure knows;
That she’ll be in for more!

© Trevor Morgan 6.12.2018

Note:

1. From: “Tales of Spitefield”

2. If I name the man, the political party or the church I put at risk all that I own including the house I live in. Our libel laws are that bad. Meanwhile the media can darken anyone’s name so long as they are not rich enough to sue for libel.
What a nice fair and balanced and just state of affairs this all is.

The Children of Despair

There were more than 1400 rapes reported.
The police and authorities ignored them all. All that is until they could suppress the truth no more and the name of the town of Rotherham was known for these crimes against children.

The Children of Despair

The ancient peoples are long gone
They loved the Dawn’s soft glow.
Now children of Despair all wan
Bring down dark clouds of woe.

Where once a fort adorned a vale
The Sun rose to the East.
The Guardians at that gate would fail
And welcome in the Beast.

Depravity has many a guise
Displaying much false trust.
Deceits that cheat the weak and wise
And hide foul loathsome lust.

With coils like pythons some caress
All driven on by greed.
They will ignore all sad distress
As they stick to a creed.

Each sad maid saw a smiling face
She had seemed so alone.
Ah, ignorance so touched by Grace;
The Dove of Love had flown.

With words that were so seeming kind
Dark Daemons wove each net.
Betrayers how they blind the mind;
For Love’s not what you get.

Sweet smiles are but a stock in trade
With sugar words as well.
Manipulated and betrayed
By Daemons out of Hell.

At first each child felt such a glow,
A thirst for love so sweet.
But how was each dear child to know
How words and smiles may cheat.

How good that first caress would feel,
It thrilled like nothing could.
Deceivers like some slimy eel
Made evil deeds seem good.

The coils of the beast wrapped round
Each Child they could ensnare.
A town becomes unholy ground
Where Councils do not care.

The strong they ought care for the weak
And hear when victims cry.
Not slap them down and leave them bleak,
Then live their haughty lie.

A Champion came who seemed so true
who failed not through deceit,
The Loyal if they only knew
This too would face defeat.

The Hopeless oh, how they had hoped
A Champion clothed in Red
Was here to help them all to cope;
But this Hope soon lay dead.

False Nemesis she rose and froze,
She froze in disbelief.
How could such deeds be done by those
Who seemed to show true grief?

Deception is both craft and art,
The false may seem so true.
The lewd and low may act a part
That’s how this cancer grew.

They hide safe in their neighbourhoods
And “Racists” are accursed
Where villains claim false victimhood;
They’ve still not done their worst.

Disciples of a creed of greed,
False trust has hid lewd lust.
Forlorn Hopes here were left to bleed,
With Love dead in the dust.

The smiling serpent of the East,
Out there beyond the gate.
That villainy that has not ceased
Was not brought neigh by Fate.

No happenstance nor random chance
Had beckoned these knaves neigh.
Where ruling fools were in a trance,
The raped were left to cry.

They sighed and cried and sought for aid,
Made statements to Police.
Instead of aid they were inveighed,
Despair found no release.

Accused of being too “racist”
When they cry out for aid,
The weak here they cannot resist,
For they are being betrayed.

Innocents stand accused of lies,
Of lies and crimes of Hate,
And cold hearts did not hear their sighs;
Deaf are the ‘Good and Great’!

Deceits like waters dark and deep
All treacherous dank and slow,
Tween slippery banks so wet and steep;
Leave some to drown in woe.

Now let no more these children sigh
When comes the time to Act,
May Justice soon hold her Blade high,
Divide what’s False from Fact.

Let dark cell doors then close and hide
Where rapists all ought dwell.
Long years may they stay scared “inside”,
Locked in a living hell.

Most prisoners are a varied crew,
Hard men who do their time.
Oh, paedophiles how they hate you
And loath Your nasty crime.

They’ll view you as a slimy creep
And harm you when they can.
Knees in the groin will make you weep;
And leave you bare a man.

Then children here like those long past
Warmed by the sun’s sweet glow,
May find their own true loves at last
And leave behind sad woe.

© Trevor Morgan 30/11/2015

Notes:

There was a ruined Roman fort at Templeborough on the west side of Rotherham

Eastgate is an area in Rotherham where many of these criminals worked or lived.

Swagger, bragger

Predators stalk our streets and prey upon our young.
They act as if they are gifted by some deity the right to rape and to traffic.
There is no deity involved. Hatred of other cultures and criminality are a driving force as is a twisted strain of Islam led by Imams of Hate.
Across our land these packs of rape dogs have been assisted by public authorities, Local Authorities and Police, turning a blind eye to what was happening. They failed our country.
Why? The risk of being called “Racist” as the gangs were mainly Muslim of Pakistan and Kashmiri descent.
Names it seems would hurt them!
So the rapes were covered up in a conspiracy of silence that was a criminal accessory to rape on a massive scale.
Slowly the rapists are being rounded up and sent to jail. Their accessories still are free.

Swagger, bragger

Swagger, bragger prowling spite,
In the town streets of the night.
Oh, what demonic spirit sneak
Sent you to prey upon the weak.

In what dismal low dark hole
Did you become a loathsome soul?
With what greetings seeming sweet
Did you seize on your “easy meat”?

With what loathing in your heart,
Where grooming there became your art;
And with what words so seeming mild
Did you entrap each tender child?

From what foul hole, horrid, deep,
Did your low fetid form once seep.
You had assumed a shape like men;
You Demon from a Demon’s den.

In what mould and with what brew
Was formed the creature that is you?
As every little child you’d clasp
Was held tight in your rapist’s grasp.

Bragger, swagger growling spite,
In the dark streets of the night.
What demonic spirit foul
Sent you out to prey and prowl?

Then with words so seeming odd
You say you did this for your god.
What Deity in the heavenly spheres
Could rejoice in children’s tears?

The Devil views you with more glee
As his foul deeds are done by thee.
And as each child let flow her tears
She cried aloud, but, to deaf ears!

© Trevor Morgan, 30/5/2018

Note: Thanks go to William Blake for his “Tyger, Tyger burning bright” that put the rhythm in my head before I sat down and wrote this in a few minutes yesterday.

Laura’s Starlight

The vile scandal of child rapes in Rotherham is a horror story.
One of the survivors has written a book about this and the murder of her sister, Laura, in a so-called, honour killing.
This song lyric was inspired by one paragraph in Sarah’s 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.

 

© Trevor Morgan, June 2016

 

The writhing of the grieving dragon

Vikings may have attacked monasteries in retaliation for attacks on them.
Christian zealots such as Boniface had been destroying sacred groves and the Carolingians had enforced conversion with a policy of be baptised or killed, the font or the axe, across their northern borders.
This was before the first raid on Lindisfarne in 793AD.
This makes for a more interesting interpretation of events.
In my narratives I chose this theory as it makes a backdrop for ripping yarns

The writhing of the grieving dragon

“A Dragon grieved beside his nest,
His young and mate lay dead.
His tender love then failed this test;
Cold rage burned in his head.

He rode the wave on that cold sea,
Found monks on its far shore.
There seemed a sad pre-destiny
To pains that their Church bore.”

Dragon’s wrath

“The rage, the wrath, the foam, the froth,
The Dragon stormed to sea.
His Love was fragile as a Moth
And now had ceased to be.

It seemed his fate to seethe with hate,
Strike shore of other lands.
He changed then from his natural state,
So, blood now soaks the sands.

Through wrath and rage he wrote a page
Of blood-soaked history.
Why he should fade from off that stage
Might seem a mystery.

But rage and woe will make a foe
Retaliate or die.
Their ebb may then return to flow,
Events then sweep all by.”

Dragon’s Decline

The Dragon’s rage did not abate,
With him grew fat the Raven.
A love that’s twisted into hate
Could well at end turn craven.

The plunder that dark vengeance brings
Would turn from need to greed.
There’s some things may come with such stings;
At end the Dragon bleeds.

Vengeance may start momentum up,
Great mischief has begun.
Like drinking from a poison cup,
All Hope in life is done.

© Trevor Morgan, 2018

From: “Tales of the Half Dane Child”

Note:

The dragon was carved on the prow of Norse ships of war.
It is strange that in Europe the Dragon is fierce whilst in Chinese myth they are capable of being kindly to folk.

Sonnet – Turmoil of the soul

Failure and defeat can cause much torment in the mind.
What matters is how you deal with great wrongs that are done.

Sonnet – Turmoil of the soul

Now wallowing through the mire that’s left by Hopes,
False Hopes that had proclaimed life would be good.
With spirits left all trussed up as with ropes;
Sad victims of false Hopes did what they could.
For wherein is there good in futile rage?
And how in sad souls can new joys be found?
It seems the Fates have writ upon their page
And Fortitude is now what must be found.
There is no point at all in seeking strife,
No point in gestures, nor in vain pretence.
It seems that turmoil like some jagged knife
Mars souls in ways that never can make sense.
New joys may well now come from smallest things,
Like some bird that’s unseen now sweetly sings.

© Trevor Morgan, Samhain 2004

From: “Frigar’s Tale”

Battle’s heat

Tennyson wrote of the glory of war.
Wilfred Owen said he wrote of the pity of war.
Battle it seems to me brings out the best and the worst in people.

Battle’s heat

In battle’s heat the heart turns cold;
There’s joy in taking life.
It’s been the way since time of old,
Through struggle and through strife.

When locked in action most will kill;
It is so quickly done.
In combat there’s a dreadful thrill,
A demon’s sort of fun.

Excitement spurs men on to do
Such murderous deeds in war.
In all of this there’s nothing new,
It’s all been done before.

The thrill you feel when you impose
Your will upon a foe,
Or watch them twitch in their death throes
And feel the pleasure’s glow.

It matters not then at that time,
Conscience is not awake!
It’s only later that the crime
Might leave sad souls to quake.

© Trevor Morgan, 4/5/2018

Note:
Some veterans have described a sort of euphoria that possesses them in the heat of battle.
It is only later that traumatic stress may set in.

Sonnet – To Hate

A burning cold dark hate is never worth it.
To be consumed with hate even after a great wrong distorts all and makes for a wasted life.

Sonnet – To Hate

A good man may be made to seethe with hate.
The wicked live with it most of the time.
To some it seems it is their natural state,
While others sink into it past they’re prime.
It has attractions to those harmed by wrong;
It simmers in the souls of those who hurt
And to avoid its lure all must be strong,
Or it may drag weak minds down through the dirt.
A hate may burn out soon that’s seething hot.
To rage against a wrong may be all right;
Though to be turned ice cold by hate is not.
One’s over soon the other’s a slow blight.
Now hate has had a long and sure career,
No matter where you go it may be near.

© Trevor Morgan, 4/5/2018

Vengeance is mine says the Lord

Aggression is best avoided for the wronged may strike back.
Even when they do not strike back, things seems to go wrong for aggressors in the fullness of time; karma perhaps.

Vengeance is mine says the Lord

Reeling then from such mischance,
Battered by bad circumstance,
Here I choose to languish not;
None of the wrongs may be forgot.

There will be no sad distress,
No, nor rotting bitterness.
I’ll not be a sorry sight,
Against what’s done, I choose to fight!

What if life may have turned bad.
So, what I will not feel sad.
They know what they did to me;
So, let them face their destiny.

They have chosen ways of war,
Let us give them even more.
Their ways are to wield the sword;
“Vengeance is mine”, says our good Lord.

© Trevor Morgan, 3/5/2018

From: “Tales of Alfred and Gudrum”

I had wrote these words for Alfred the Great after his defeat at Chippenham at Yule Tide in the year 877AD.
He went on to total victory five months later.