“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


The Tamil Girl

In October 1963 in Singapore I was too slow to stop a fatal motor accident and a little girl died.  I spent months involved in the Indonesian Confrontation, an undeclared war, along the shores and mangrove swamps of Sabah, Borneo.  I am still troubled by dreams they have nothing to do with conflict.  It is a nightmare where a child died.

R.I.P. Little Girl


Ghost of a Tamil Girl

The Tamil Girl died in my grasp
Though not a word was said
I hold her still though I’m now old
– Sad memories in my head –

I held her dying on that day
I’d tried to save her life
As Death will have the final say
My soul’s now torn by strife

For, “If only”, “Oh, If only…”
Repeat around my brain
In a soul now sad and lonely
I bear this bitter stain

Oh, if only I had stopped her
Running into the road
My conscience feels like I’m a cur
I’ve had to bear that load

For on the day that She had died
My actions were too slow
Time and again I’ve sobbed and cried
About that fatal blow

“Watch out” I’d said – not in her tongue
She’d run out all the same
I’ve never heard her requiem sung
And never knew her name

I’d fetched her from that roadside there
Placed her before her folk
But I still carry so much care
It makes me almost choke

And now at night deep in my sleep
In dreams I meet this child
And she looks sad if I should weep
Her ghost’s serene and mild

Are souls of those who have died young
Like angels of the Lord
And in our dreams are we among
A sort of heavenly horde?

Are we shown glimpses of a place
Beyond the void of Hate
Where there may be a state of Grace
Beyond the grasp of Fate

The Dead who flit about our dreams
May help us in our woe
They’re not as real as waking schemes
Yet bring a gentle glow

Through sorrows we may face each blight
Protected by their charm
These dead who visit in the night
May guard the mind from harm


© Trevor Morgan 18 April 2004 amended 2012

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


© Trevor Morgan

The sufferings of the 96 and their kith and kin



The South Yorkshire Police Force will now stand accused of Criminal Conspiracy.  This is not surprise to me.  They were rotten to the core and may they now be prosecuted for their many crimes.

Spirals of the Liars and the lies

“These perjurers so full of glee
All sneered there in the box
Their victims now would not seem free
And each fop fibs and mocks

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

Their victims then in time were free
And liars know cloying fear
When perjurers would lose all glee
As Truth 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 may come to fore

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

© Trevor Morgan 2016

Over the top and sacrificed for others’ pelf

Henry Arthur Morgan died in a shell hole at the Somme in 1916.  He is recorded as dying in May 1918.  That was the date his body was reburied after being moved from a small temporary graveyard.

That was shoddy record keeping.



Ordered when they were alive
Honoured now they are long dead
Where liars grew so fat and thrive
Of those follies nothing’s said

War’s all about profit and loss
Lads were not allowed to choose
Fat liars did not give a toss –
Ah, some must win and some must lose!

Run away and they’d be shot
No man’s land is filled with dead
Great heroes ought not be forgot
Eternity is coloured red

Some survive where others fall
Live on haunted by their dreams
Yet there’s no glorious clarion call
For so little’s as it seems

Suits worn got from Saville Row
Stand before the Cenotaph
Those in those suits had known not woe
I choose to cry and not to laugh

Balance sheets got totted up
Stock holders had turned a buck
Though they’d not supped the sacred cup
Mid the blood, the mud, the muck

Ordered when they were alive
Honoured now they are long dead
Where liars grew so fat and thrive
Of such folly nothing’s said


Lesser Celandines

“The celandine’s in flower again
It’s early days of spring
The cycle starts again once more
Ah, hear the blackbird sing

The winding path beside the stream
White clouds sail slowly by
All’s still just like some sort of dream
And yet she had to cry

Once more life’s cycle is renewed
Once more false hope is here
Like just another calm prelude
For villainy is near

These yellow petals growing bright
The Celandine seems sweet
And whilst they’re pleasing as a sight
All love is in retreat”

Hudson River

This is a song lyric for a book Cilla wrote:

Hudson River

There’s bright sunshine on the Hudson
Winter winds are blowing chill
Cold hard frost reflects the sunlight
And I’m longing for you still

Chorus  Our best dreams can be so empty
And our longings give no thrill
Love is met with cold indifference
And I’m longing for you still

There’s a thick for on the Hudson
Mists are hanging grey and still
Cold hard frost reflects the lamplight
And I’m longing for you still


There’s an oil slick on the Hudson
Slimy streaks clear waters kill
Rainbow tint reflects the bright light
And I’m longing for you still


There’s cold moonlight on the Hudson
I had wanted you until
Cold hard heart reflected love’s light
Yet I’m longing for you still


There’s ice floating on the Hudson
Winter winds are blowing chill
Cold hard frost reflects the warm light
And I’m longing for you still


Cold hard frost reflects the warm light
And I’m longing for you still

I am longing for you still

Longing, longing for you still

copyright Trevor Morgan 1994

Bow Legged Buck

A bow legged cowboy
And his knock-kneed lady
The wanted such love
But well – maybe –
They’ll find it a chore
They find it to so strained
Yet for their loving
Neither Complained

The bed was no good
The table all right
So that’s where they spent
Their first lovin’ night

Getting together
Though it was a chore
Is somethin’ they’re doin’
Now more an’ more

But then with love
The question it begs
How love finds a way
Through a mismatch of legs

A bow legged cowboy
And his knock-kneed lady
Enjoyin’ such love
And though – maybe –
They find it a chore
They find it a strain
Yet for this loving
Neither Complain

Copyright Trevor Morgan 10.11.2002

Sunshine on the Rippling Flow

The ripples of the water ran
Below the old wood bridge
Besides that old and shaky span
Swayed dry reeds and green sedge

The ripples glistened in the sun
On waters to the east
But darkly out the waters run
As they flow to the west

The bridge it cast its shadow there
So ripples all seem dark
And all was silent everywhere
No lark sang in the air

The skylark now comes with the spring
As days they grow more long
Rejoice all in a little thing
As small birds sing a song

All ripples on the water glow
When sun shines from above
There’s joy in it, all yet may know
Through small things all find love


© T Morgan (From Saga of soft glistening lights)

Passion and Intellect


The passion and the intellect
The two sides of the soul
And without the two of them
None of us are whole
The passion drives our lust and rage
Our love and tenderness
The intellect is part the sage
But would give no caress

The dark side of our passions are
The raging heat of hate
The intellect is worse by far
Like damp cold hands of fate
Our better passions urge us on
To giving and true grace
Our intellect is dragged along
Just slightly out of place

The bright side of our intellect
That spark that is true thought
Gives to us when we least expect
New themes we’ve not been taught
Like then, when oh, so long ago
As sitting in his bath
Old Aristotle felt its glow
Ran naked down the path

The soul that’s driven to the dark
In passion and in thought
May do those deeds so cold and stark
That conscience stands for nought
Some murderers and kings who win
Are cold and dark inside
The one is known for all his sin
The other’s puffed with pride

Those saintly ones whose hearts are pure
Invite the blows of rage
They seem to hold a sweet allure
Their deaths fill history’s page
It may be good to help the weak
Be good not to strike out
There may be risk to those who speak
Where bigots stalk about

The passion and the intellect
The two poles of the soul
In balance, then, the two of them
Make all of us quite whole
With passion we may lust and rage
Or show much tenderness
The intellect is part the sage
But gives no warm caress

(From Saga of Aelfrede and Gudrum)