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

Arctic Convoy001

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”

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“Tidying Up” a battlefield

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

vultures

“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

Dandelions

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!

Domestic Violence

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.

iuParadiselost

© 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

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

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

Rotherham child sexual exploitation trial

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.

SarahWilson

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.

turmoil

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

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.