I wrote this sat beside a rhine in the Levels.
It was a nice still day.
The stillness by the stream
The lowland brook meandered oh, so slow.
A crow stood on a rock there in midstream,
With listlessness those waters onward flow
And all about is hazy like some dream.
When mists disperse they leave a clear blue sky,
All seems just like a calm before a gale.
When undisturbed the blackbird makes no cry
And willows hang all limp and seeming frail.
The jay seems statue like on her oak bough,
As eerie silence echoes all around.
Time seems to freeze, eternity is now!
Until that is there is a distant sound,
Far off a heron calls all sad and wan.
The spell is broke the flow of time moves on.
© Trevor Morgan
From: “The Tale of Cerdic and the Soothsayer”
a work in progress
Narrow cliques of politicians can control but have little imagination.
Many of our towns have local councils controlled by the most mediocre and small minded morons. They are good at staying in office and nothing else.
Sonnet – Control’s Reward
So in a city that is low and mean
There wickedness is waxing quite replete.
Controlled by an ol’ politick machine,
Cronies and cowards boast their empty feat.
To strangers they will give the traitor’s kiss.
With everything that’s new they’ll be annoyed.
Control alone is their sure way to bliss
And of ideas they are truly void.
Such places must continue to decline;
Their economic base will fade away.
That they should now decline is a sure sign
That even ol’ corruption has its day!
So there will be a future nicer time;
For to control but not know what to do
Means that controllers will soon live to rue!
© Trevor Morgan 2002
“An eye for an eye” leads to blindness for all.
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.
From: “Tale of a Darkened Soul”
© Trevor Morgan 2010
Societies can be harmed by the tyranny of a minority.
This has happened before in history
Deformed not natural
Some cultures grow that are quite ill at ease
And cannot face the facts where they cause woe.
Where they can they will do just as they please,
They’re greater risk to allies than to foe.
Up-front’s a friendly face as false as lies,
Insides a twisted soul that frights itself
Complaining all the time aloud each cries
While seeking all the time for some new pelf.
Old long past wrongs they use to justify
An ally whom they poison for his purse.
At other’s grief they’re never known to sigh
But just moan that they have themselves fared worse.
These folk deformed and twisted up with hate
Could cast a shadow dark upon our fate!
© T.Morgan 2018
I was reminded of this by “Skin in the Game” by Nassim Taleb
I had been reading Betjeman at the time of 9/11.
So next day this came to me.
(with apologies to John Betjeman’s “Slough”)
Come loving bombs and fall on thou
You seem no longer human now.
You have preached for so long of death
And hiss out hate with every breath.
You train the young for martyrdom
Because you loath all our freedom.
You chose the sword and not the plough,
So, loving bombs are coming now.
A creed that only preaches hate
May now see wisdom but too late.
There’s forces here well trained for this
To give you all your martyr’s bliss.
Now why have you a face of gloom,
Do you doubt bliss beyond your tomb?
12 September 2001
No matter what you do winning really feels great!
You just cannot beat that feeling when you have won.
It is a shame that feeling comes crashing down the next time Fate brings you new experiences of failure and defeat!
There may be pleasure in some furtive sin,
But tawdry things are not quite as they seem.
The greatest pleasure here is when you win.
Yes winning, winning, winning is supreme
For there’s nought else may equal such a thing!
The pleasures of the flesh they soon abate
And Death awaits us all with his dark sting.
Though all of us ought know this is our fate,
Yet while we live and while we fight and strive
Though all of our allotted time be brief;
The victors are the ones who truly thrive!
Yes Death will come at last just like some thief.
To gain much here for your own kith and kin
Means your bloodline is better placed to win!
© Trevor Morgan, May 1998
We say someone is mad if: “they talk to the fairies”.
The name Alfred comes from two old English words.
“Aelf” is Elf.
“Rede” is council or debate.
So Alfred can be said to mean “Elfish council” or “Talks to the elves”.
So England’s greatest king and warrior, like many a little child may have talked to the fairies when in play.
A childhood full of play is such a good thing.
It builds the adult.
A 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.
Council with the Elves
That Elves here share our land to folk is real,
There’s many kinds of beings in Midgard∗
And though to most of folk, much is concealed,
Yet faith in other things makes life less hard.
The child inside a man may help him dream;
For “save you are as one of these…” you’re lost.
Now devious elfish council helps men scheme
Whilst hidden in our wastes when touched by frost.
To dream and scheme on how to fight that foe
That ravaged all our lands and drove folk out.
Amid defeat and all our tears and woe
Aelfrede gave us new hope we lost all doubt.
The devious ways of devious men who plan
Reveal that elves dwell in the realms of man!
∗ Midgard: old English for the world.
Trevor Morgan 2010
From: “Tale of a darkened soul”
Life can be unkind, even as it ends.
This sonnet is from a narrative work about the early wars of Wessex.
I wrote it not long before spinal surgery. I was screaming inside my head with pain at the time.
The good man’s prolonged death
The pain brought clouds of darkness to his mind.
His soul screamed for relief but there was none,
None for the pain continued on with its pure grind
And nothing, nothing now could here be done.
He’d screamed and screamed but screams brought no relief
And when he stopped he panted to take breath.
When sleeping drafts brought sleep the sleep was brief,
Then when awake he’d pray for some swift death,
But Death held back refusing to relent.
For some the end is swift, ah, oh, so quick.
Although he screamed aloud that he’d repent
The Fates they seemed now up to some old trick,
The suffering of the cruel may well seem right;
This good man’s end seemed cruel, an act of spite.
© Trevor Morgan 2010
From: “Tales of the Gewissae”
Milton wrote “they also serve who stand and wait”
Milton never was quite my cup of tea so I could not resist taking the contrary approach!
Stand and wait!
There is no service where you stand and wait,
Just drawn out time when all seems bleak and sad.
Moods swing there so between pure love and hate.
Now too much waiting can drive sound minds mad.
Some mothers pace about both night and morn;
While others will ensure no mood’s revealed
Nor let some see inside where all’s forlorn.
With effort they ensure all sadness is concealed.
Secure, each child may hold tight mother’s hand.
Some young though seem to know good words to say.
Ah, strange it is how some young understand
And empathise upon the darkest day.
Then joy explodes at last when news arrives
And out of dismal Fear true Hope then thrives.
©Trevor Morgan 12 November 2014
It is strange how some resist change.
Surely change is a constant and little stays the same.
Even mighty mountains are worn away in time.
Sonnet – Winds of Change
“Whirling and swirling in patterns so strange,
The dust out of doors is dancing about.
This is not the same as strange winds of change
That make things once certain now feel full of doubt.
The future’s scarce like such swirling’s of dust,
For it’s in no way as easy to see.
Yet each in their time must do as they must.
This now it seems is the way things ought be;
Who is secure then when old realms decline?
When problems abound and times become hard
Beneath the dark cloud who sees the sun shine?
Like dust and like dirt outside in the yard,
Now, oft times we see such swirling’s of hate
When fleet winds of change are beckoned by Fate.”
From: “The Children of Gewis”