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Having spent too much wasted time on this it seems the share function is a risk area.
I will cease using it until it gets resolved.

 

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Site Hacked

 

I had intended post a poem each day this year.

What a shame there are such folk about

Trevor Morgan

Sonnet – Their Little Girl

A family gathering for an event.

Family2

Sonnet – Their Little Girl

The Mother washed the child with gentle care,
She softly dried her lovely white clear skin
And brushed and combed the lovely blond long hair,
As overflowing thoughts were held within.
She dressed the little maid in her best dress,
Then dainty little shoes put on her feet.
She gave the child a sweet and soft caress
Then went beside the fire and took her seat
And sat there for a while on that damp morn.
Until came time to cook that special meal,
Her Husband came with Sisters all forlorn,
For all there felt such things that none ought feel.
No feelings though got said, not out aloud,
As they wrapped round the soft white linen shroud.

© Trevor Morgan, 16/5/2018

From: “Tales of Frigar”

Dedicated
to Barbara
her loss was total

Death of the Dux Bellorum – Not Mort D’Arthur

There is so much nonsense written about King Arthur.
He did not exist in the way he has been written about. The only near contemporary reference to the name is in Aneirin’s elegies “Yr Gododdin”
written in Brythonic. In one verse he says of a warrior that he was great “but he was not Arthur” and that is all there is.
The struggles of the period led to the early kingdoms of the English and the Welsh.
Tennyson wrote a lot about these myths in Blank verse. So I thought I would give it a try.

dux-bellorum

Death of the Dux Bellorum at Camlann A.D. 537

“A weary man sat propped against a stone
A massive stone beside a plundered church
A plundered church within a sundered land
Where leaders feud as foreign foes advance
The weary man who dying from his wound
He held his painful side whence seeped his blood.
This Dux Bellorum of a dying land
Had failed his land and lost the last of Hope
With foreigners awaiting his demise
Whose numbers grew, as did their firm resolve
And his life now was wasted in the fight
The futile fight between opposing clans
Of Britons who saw Saxons closing in
Together with the Jutes and Frisians too
And Angles who attacked on land and sea.
The futile fight now hastened on their end
He gazed up at the sky and fading light
This was the twilight of his people’s power
The mutiny of those who served them once
Had driven them far back to west and north
But he had rallied men who seemed well beat
Had rallied them and shown them ways to fight
The crows he’d fed with Jute and Saxon flesh
And Ravens and the Wolves had waxed replete
And now those crows here circled overhead
So now it was his turn to be their food
The fox and badger might well pick his bones.
And through the fading light here loomed a man
A man who had somehow survived this rout
“Who is that who remains alive still now?
How many are the men who yet may live?”
“I’m Bedevere one of your loyal men,
Now there may be a score of us who live
A motley lot not fit now for the fight
They’ve all been brave and fought long in your wars
But all would now go home and face their lot
Their fighting’s done and finished in this feud
They will be overwhelmed now by the foe
And they must choose a servile life – or death!
But in death there’s an end to choice or chance.
As for myself I go now to my home
High in Dumnonia’s hills there to the west
To save all that I can within my land.
Your cause is lost. You wasted it in feud.
I’ll stay with you ‘til death has closed your eyes
And then my oath to you is at an end.
So tell me what was Mordred’s grievous fault
That we fought him instead of foreign foe?
And was he worth those broken shattered men
Who all lie dead amongst their scattered arms?
We all must live with folk we do not like
Not all of us see this as cause for war
Nor do we feud in doors in rage and heat
While cattle raiders plunder all our stock
Though you brought us success – all men know that!
At end you brought us here unto this waste
This waste of men who could have saved our land.”
The dying Dux Bellorum smiled at him
A wry and kindly smile that bore no rage
The time was past for rage and wrath and hate
He choked a little as he tried to speak
The pool of blood wherein he sat spread wide
Though all the world seemed misty now, more dark
And yet his mind was as it always was
Still agile in this bloody dying form
“You must not let the foreign foes gain arms
You say our arms are scattered here about
Go gather them, as they’re no use to us
No ghost nor wraith has ever yet born arms
But future foes who may yet come for you
Would find some use in what’s left here about.
Go toss them in a meare or murky pool
And take my sword and shield and toss them too
I would not have my arms left here harm you
A curse against our folk they soon would be.
Make sure the water’s deep that none might see
Before they rot to rust and are all gone
Take with you to Dumnonia what you would
Your hills may yet secure you from the foes
And you have life and so you yet have Hope
Be gone now let me die alone. I’ve failed.
Your life goes on and I must feed the crows”
And Bedevere and those few men with him
Did as the Dux Bellorum bid them to
They gathered up the arms from all the dead
They gathered them and tossed them in the Brue
And then they went their ways to hearth and home
Where grateful kin had welcomed their return
And in the winter nights they told their tales
Of how they followed that great man of war
Of how they held up an advancing foe
Each year the tales got longer than before
In time they were well woven into myth
The myths that got passed on to future times.
Their foes that rose to rule those lands of theirs
Took on their myths and glorified their deeds.
To glorify their war is folly now
Now that we know so little of those folk
Of how they lived and how their slaves had lived.
A few brave names have come down – legends all
But who’s to know what those folk may have thought?
They lived and that’s as much as we may know.
Whilst they are gone – The sands of time still flow.”

 

Trevor Morgan

Myths do not have to be true but it helps if they are ripping yarns.

The Stoics and the Epicures are Gone

The early English believed if Wyrd, what today we might call Fate. It dominated much of their thoughts.


The stoics and the epicureans are gone

“The stoics now are gone
The epicures would fail
The light from Rome that shone
Is fading now, is pale

Dynamics drive all change
Change has a varied pace
The ways of Wyrd seem strange
– Some sink without a trace –

The sun may rise then set
The seasons come and go
Is all of this kismet?
Ah, how are we to know!

Time hides what is to be
Yet some may well foretell
And through time’s curtain see
Hope sink into dark hell

Where Rome had once been small
A town upon one hill
New realms now grow to fall
According to Wyrd’s will

Wrath like some flaming fire
Has its allotted span
Events they turn and gyre
For Wyrd will have a plan.

Beyond the dark is light
Of weaker sweeter hue
Gone is an empire’s might
Small things now grow anew

Here many a shoot will sprout
Yet not all here will thrive
Some may grow strong and stout
Though just a few survive

Trees grow and spread out wide
They cast a spreading shade
Soon shoots beneath have died
Lo, thus new realms are made.”

From: Tales of the Children of Gewis
a work in progress

Trevor Morgan

The meaning of “Phew”!

A near miss never exhilarated me.
Churchill said “There is nothing more exhilarating than being shot at without result”. I never could understand that.

The meaning of “phew

It seemed to pass me by,
It passed you by too.
I then heard you and I
Both quietly whisper “Phew”.

We’d lived beneath a shade,
With a dismal view.
Now sun may light the glade.
Again, we both said “Phew”.

Anticipation’s there,
Both of gloom and light.
There with a mellow air,
Or in a cloying fright.

Omens of foreboding,
Or sighs of relief,
Stress may start corroding
Each false or true belief.

Change may well be strange
It might make you blue.
When Fate’s not found its range;
It’s then we both say “PHEW”!

© Trevor Morgan 13.5.2002

An early version came into my head late in 1963.

Betsy Hooker

I wrote lyrics for a dark musical about a killer of prostitutes.
It was called “The Finger of God” and was about a religious nutter who thought the killing of women was his divine duty.  If God does talk to some guys why are the messages so conflicting?
His first victim was Betsy.

 

Betsy Hooker

Long time ago I lived next door
To Betsy a gifted whore
Her clients as should be expected
Were those who were the most respected

Chorus
Betsy Hooker
What a looker
Takes big bucks
For YOU to book her

Betsy was once a sweet cutie
Some said she’d been quite a beauty
Hundreds of men used to climb her stairs
Lay out the cash and sample the wares

Chorus

But Betsy slipped from perfection
When she caught a small infection
Rich wives received this second-hand
Then things, well – they got out of hand

Chorus

Betsy visited the top Docs
And they all agreed she had the pox
It was then she lost her youthful hue
‘Cos she was beaten – black and blue

Chorus
Betsy Hooker
Was a looker
Takes less bucks
For you to book her

The Docs took all of Betsy’s dough
And the shame really laid her low
But she still had all her old skills
So she set to work to pay the bills

Chorus

Mary moved in across the street
And she looked young and cute and sweet
Less men now climbed Betsy’s stairs
‘Cos they’ve gone to sample Mary’s wares

Chorus
Betsy Hooker
Once a looker
A few bucks
And you can book her

So now today I live next door
To Betsy, a hard worked whore
Her clients aren’t so well connected
Drab old guys not well respected

Chorus
Betsy Hooker
Not a looker
A few bucks
And you can book her

 

© Trevor Morgan 1997

 

From: “The Finger of God”

The Day King Edgar came to Bath

I like the four line ballad form. It is useful for narratives.  I have many narratives to finish in the time that I have left.

Edgar at Bath (Whit Sunday A.D.973)

Besides the west door in a crowd
Frigar watched Edgar pass,
The sky was blue save one small cloud
As priests there call the mass.

That cloud it seemed to hover there
Like one small shade of doubt,
With happy faces everywhere
What could this be about?

The boy stood and gazed at the sky
Beneath that cloud so grey.
His heart heaved and he gave a sigh,
Then wept and walked away.

He wandered out across the town,
Went out the River gate.
Beneath an alder tree swooned down
Mid visions brought from Fate.

It seemed an ancient Dame was there,
Or was she but a maid?
There seemed all havoc everywhere,
Then silence in a glade.

And in that glade a woman stood
Her face a radiant glow.
“You’ll witness hate and great falsehood,
And you will be laid low.

Amongst the dead you’ll find new life,
You’d fight a soldier’s fight.
You’d never win through arms and strife;
At end you’ll conquer spite.

You’ll seek out joy through times all sad,
You’ll help a broken man.
You’ll comfort both the wan and sad,
You’ll do the best you can.

You are a part of my moist land,
You are my joyful boy.
The dark cloud showed you what’s at hand
Mid those crowds full of joy.

For you alone gazed at the sky
And saw that cloud all grey,
And you alone had pondered why,
Wept on this joyous day.

In sad days you will see the spite
That makes so many weep,
And you’ll see Wrong defeat the Right.
Watch wolves tear through the sheep.

You’ll help a mutilated man
Though his life may prove hard.
You’ll help the way a true friend can
Help him tell of Midgard”.

She held his hand that puzzled child,
She walked him through that glade,
She showed him things so strange and wild,
Then slowly seemed to fade…

What’s real and what’s a dream?
His brain it spun about
Is ought as it may seem?
The boy let out a shout…

“Dear Lady, Lady, tell me more,
Please do not fade away!
Pray do not leave me drenched with doubt,
Do tell me more I pray.”

Her voice remained though she had gone,
She said, “I’ll tell you true
And when you’re glad and when you’re wan,
Do know that I’m with you.

Spirits stood by when you were born,
It seems I am your one.
I’ll see that you’ll not stay forlorn,
When dark foul deeds are done.

Your heart it is a songster’s heart,
I’ll help you with each song
But now my sweet I will depart
You must my boy be strong”…

What’s a dream and what is real?
Now he seemed more sure.
A Spirit’s presence few may feel;
That holds this sweet allure…

He felt some rain upon his face
Beneath that alder bough.
It seemed he’d slept here in this place
Yet seemed not sleepy now.

There was a strange scent on the air,
A scent like womankind.
It seemed about him everywhere,
Was it just in his mind?

That rain dropped from a light blue sky,
That one small cloud was gone.
He fought against the urge to cry,
But his soul had turned wan.

In Bath that day the folk were glad,
The English had one king.
None saw that one boy oh, so sad,
The poor bedraggled thing.

For these strange visions left him weak
And sick throughout the day.
He sat about all sad, all bleak,
Yet watched the gleemen play.

They acted out some simple tale
As laughter echoed out.
Unseen a child stood drab and pale,
His soul was filled with doubt.

Then on the morrow they returned,
Back down the old Fosse Way.
He told his father what he’d learned
In Bath just yesterday.

He told his father of his dream,
And they spoke much of it.
But neither knew what Norns may scheme,
Nor knew what had been writ.

His father told him of Modron,
The day that he was born.
That this Midgard would soon be gone,
With futures so forlorn.

Though one would live to great old age,
The other was soon dead,
To leave a boy to grieve and rage;
That grief led on to dread.

Their household then was brought quite low,
His mother she grew ill.
Once happy homes may sink with woe,
As warmth may turn to chill.

That road through grief would twist and turn,
To travel there takes strength.
Through sorrows then the young may learn,
And gain through them at length.

From “Tale of Frigar”
© T Morgan 2007

Celandine

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”

Hazel

Over the last decade and more I have watched a small hazel grow into a lovely well formed tree.  It has been worth the wait.  It carried its first few nuts last year.  It inspired this:-

 

Hazels

A Hazel nut that fell last fall
Was sprouting on that hill
Mid stones from some old tumbling wall
Where soil had lost its chill.

Its verdant leaves could get full sun,
Good fast growth could be made.
Before too many years were done
Folk would enjoy their shade.

A hazel switch might well be used
To chastise man or boy,
Though sweetest things might be abused
Where they ought bring great joy.

Resiliently will Hazels grow,
Despite big Oaks and shade,
As they seek out the Sun’s sweet glow
Around each wood and glade.

A Holly bush it grew there too,
Was green throughout the year
And close by was a bank of rue,
That herb grows lush round here.

This Hazel bent in mighty gales
That tore down Oak and Ash.
It witnessed many dreadful ails,
Saw ancient houses crash.

It watched the fickleness of Fates.
It lived long in folklore.
And as each passing storm abates
It springs back straight once more.

© T Morgan 15.2.2016