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”

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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”

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

“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

PTSD’s End

I like Shelley.
His poem “Adonais” is an elegy on the death of John Keats. It is one of the great poems of the English language.
So, when I read of yet another suicide of a veteran I wrote this. After I finished I realised I was in Shelley’s debt.

wargraves
Commonwealth War Cemetery Singapore

PTSD’s End

Peace, peace, he does not sleep, he’s dead.
Released from all the horrors in his head;
No more in sleep will gunfire rattle him,
Nor faces of the dead unsettle him.
He dreams no more so must now be content,
For deep and dreamless sleep is heav’n sent.
Its darkness is the sweetest kindest balm
And in it troubled souls are free of harm.

Peace, peace, he does not sleep, he’s dead.
Released from all the terror and the dread;
The dead will visit him at night no more,
No sadness from a long-forgotten war.
The dreams have stopped that shook him in his bed
And tore around like thunder in his head.
The ghosts will have to find another haunt
And find some other poor sad soul to taunt.

Peace, peace, he does not sleep, he’s dead!

© Trevor Morgan, 29/6/2018

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.

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

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?

No healing of hate

I tire of lists of past wrongs. Whether it is complaints of colonialism of long ago or religious or political crimes. “Let the dead bury the dead.”(Luke9:60) There is much joy to be found in life.

lost soul

No healing of hate

The hatred of a foe to some is sweet.
It justifies the rages that they feel.
All vengeance they may savour like some treat,
But causing pain does not cause hate to heal.
In time it turns inwards towards the soul
And harms the very thing it seeks to save.
The spirit then will never seem quite whole,
The path of hatred will at end deprave
And justify the darkest crimes of all
And lead in all things always on to strife.
Such ways may only lead men to the fall
So that they waste the very best of life.
For hate and rage lead no one on to Grace
But make this world of ours a sad and dismal place.

© Trevor Morgan, 22/6/2018

From: “Tales of the sorrowful”