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.

Swat

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

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Sonnet – Vague awakening

Concussion is best avoided. In 1999 I failed to avoid it.
My first clear memory was in hospital having a wound fixed and I remember nothing for up to an hour before the accident.
What I have had are wisps from dreams, all blurs, so I thought I would try to describe them.

blurred

Sonnet – Vague awakening

I gazed upon some blood upon my hand.
I knew not where I was nor what had been.
I lay there dazed and failed to understand
As all about things had the strangest sheen.
These steps on which I lay, they seemed to sway
As pain erupted in my eyes and head.
Pedestrians went past upon their way.
About me now some mumbled words were said,
Some people gazed at me as I lay here.
I tried to move but things went dark awhile
And then there seemed to rise, that eerie fear;
Where eyes they seemed so cold but mouths they smile.
I thought I saw a child now so long dead
And felt the blood here trickling from my head.

© Trevor Morgan, 24/6/2018

Note:
I had an 8 inch long wound across my head. It seems a ladder fell on me.
I remember a voice saying “This will not sting” as the wound was glued back.
That was a lie. What a sting that was. It was a neat job and I am thankful to the staff at the Northern General Hospital.
Head injury is strange in its effects and for a while things were a bit weird.

The stain of trauma

Media reporters can write such twaddle.
In a recent report on the news a reporter stated that the survivors of a fire needed “emergency treatment for PTSD”. Apart form a drug induced stupor no emergency treatment exists.
It takes years to come to terms with traumatic events and for many the escape, sadly, is through suicide.
Who teaches the media to be so unthinking and so trite?

Traumatised

The stain of trauma

Trauma may leave a darker stain,
A certain special scent.
Now once that’s burned into your brain,
Somehow it won’t relent.

Now there’s reminders everywhere
That brings it back to mind.
And where there’s things we cannot share,
Then life becomes a grind.

We can smell things that aren’t at hand,
Flashbacks burn in the brain.
Tormented minds just cannot stand
The trauma and its stain.

False scents seem true to haunted men
Whose torments won’t relent,
And they are only ended when
All of life’s force is spent.

Survivors carry such a cost,
Too much for some to stand.
And when it seems all hope is lost;
They die by their own hand!

Why do we let our young men die,
In so much pointless strife?
Though many more are wasted by
A long but blighted life.

© Trevor Morgan, 5/5/2018

From: “Tales of wars to come”

Note:
For myself I have found that it is the sense of smell that can bring on a flashback. It seems it is our most primeval of senses.

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”

Sonnet – Honeysuckle Sweet

I sensed the scent of Honeysuckle in the air last night.
This is a season of flowers and I love it.

honeysuckle

Sonnet Honeysuckle Sweet

As in a hedge the Honeysuckles grow
Entwining round about each branch and twig.
Its flowers blossom forth in wondrous show
And there’s few shrubs that may well grow so big
That Honeysuckle cannot reach its crown
And put forth scent that calls out to each moth
To seek and drink its sweetest nectar down.
Like balm this sweetness takes away all wrath,
But Honeysuckle may not yet grow free;
It seems it needs support to gain great height,
Perchance this is the way that thing must be
And yet it is most comely to the sight.
For Honeysuckle is the hedgerow’s queen
And never was a finer sight yet seen.

© Trevor Morgan, 5/6/2018

Skye Bridge Song

Some old sentimental songs lend themselves to parody.
I see nothing romantic about the rebellion of 1745 and the disaster it caused to many of the common folk of Scotland. 
What is great about the Skye Bridge is now it is so much easier to get to the beautiful Isle of Skye.

 
Skye Bridge
 

Skye Bridge Song(Tune: Sky boat song)

Rattle rusty van
Like a can on a string;
Over the bridge to Skye.

There’s now no toll
To drive on this thing;
That’s on the road to Skye.

Carry the sad
And all that they bring;
All the way over to Skye.

They’ve come to take
A break from the stress;
Some lazy days on Skye.

They’re come to make
A real bloody mess;
And litter the paths of Skye.

So rattle rusty van
Like a tin on a string;
Bouncing along round Skye

Yes rattle rusty van
Like a can on a string;
Over the bridge to Skye.

©Trevor Morgan 2002

Note:
The original romantic lyric follows:

Skye Boat Song

Speed bonnie boat like a bird on the wing
Onward the sailors cry.
Carry the lad that’s born to be king
Over the sea to Skye
Loud the wind howls
loud the waves roar
Thunderclaps rend the air
Baffled our foes
stand by the shore
Follow they will not dare
Speed bonnie boat like a bird on the wing
Onward the sailors cry.
Carry the lad that’s born to be king
Over the sea to Skye

When you consider this is about Charles Stewart, who led a rebellion to disaster then left with all the gold it is plain sloppy. He ended an obese dissolute waster.

Tide Line

A walk along the high tide line of a shore reveals much.
I love to walk the tide line.

tideline

Tide Line

This weed at the tide line
Where flies are swarming near,
The flotsam and the grime;
The stink that brings no cheer.

The beach above the line,
There’s pebbles damp with rain.
They glisten in the sunshine
Around each little stain.

Below the dirty beach
The shore is washed more clean.
Where cleansing waves can reach,
At low tide there’s a sheen.

Below each rock or stone
Shrimps hide at low tide.
Worms heap up each sand cone;
Sand flats are wet and wide.

Here when you lift a rock
The shrimps will dart away.
They flee the sudden shock
Exposed to light of day.

The shore’s a varied place
Some of its full of mess.
But it’s so touched with Grace,
There’s more here than you’d guess.

By weeds at the tide line
The flies they swarming until
The storm clouds are a sign
And weather’s cold and chill

© Trevor Morgan, 2005

From: “Tale of a Half Dane Child”

Decisive

Taking action is often the road to folly

Decisive

Decisive

I could spend a lifetime in tears,
Atoning for what I’d not done
And dwell with those ghosts and those fears
And hide from those Demons who won.

I could wreck great vengeance sublime,
Shed blood, bathe in its warm flow,
Kick back at each spiteful low crime;
Feel rage and its wonderful glow.

I could write great tomes that accuse
The wicked of every misdeed.
I could take to drink and to booze,
Seek comfort and greedily feed.

There’s little now I wish to do,
Nor think of each petty past wrong
As I look at this wondrous view,
Mid so many birds in full song

© Trevor Morgan, 16/5/2018

Dewdrop

Karma

Dewdrop

Dewdrop

“I am the pool upon the leaf,
So, it seems the simplest notion
That You’re the pool beneath the leaf.”
Said the Dewdrop to the Ocean.

© Trevor Morgan

From: My Muse

Sonnet – Turmoil of the soul

I have felt for a long time that from turmoil comes the best poetry.
The idea that you can subsidise poets with grants and they can then write powerful verses is wrong.
Great poetry has come from war, failure, defeat, victory, anxiety and elation. It comes with falling in love or in death and loss.
It is difficult to write with passion over tea and biscuits in the warm.
Difficult, that is, for me.

Soul

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