Deception is the tool of elites. Letting illusions replace real relationships in the minds of the many is more efficient than violent suppression.
Living a bad dream
Nothing here is as it seems
And as things seem just is not real.
Our freedoms were but flitting dreams
And it’s lawful now to steal.
To steal from many for the few,
That scoundrels now may have their way.
Lost Justice here is nothing new,
But soon may come the reckoning day.
Delusions now evaporate.
In truth we are but serfs here now;
Indifference can well turn to hate
And old serfs refuse to bow.
So thieving sneaks may soon be gone,
Yes, gone and sent off on their way.
When freedom’s light at last has shone;
The knaves will then be made to pay.
©Trevor Morgan, 2019
From: Streona the Greedy
Nothing’s lost until it’s lost
Mid these deceits and lies.
The fight goes on despite the cost;
The tattered flag still flies!
© T Morgan 10/9/2019
I love the limitations and restrictions of the discipline required in writing a sonnet.
There may well be just so much pointless folly in this
He gazed upon a shipwreck and he saw it was his life
With all the bits of Hope along the shore;
For Fate it seems it likes to twist the knife,
A missed chance passed beyond him like before.
Ambition was in bits like much flotsam now;
Each little piece like what just might have been
Turned his beach to a sort of mess somehow;
This was a thing he wished he had not seen.
To seek to do good work leads but to a fall,
To strive with might and main a pointless thing,
like dreaming you achieve a clarion call,
It’s life, not death, that bears the poison sting.
The earth it spiralled on about the sun
This dying microbe grieved for things not done.
© T.Morgan 2014
In 2013 I had a heart attack and survived:-
2013, over now another year that brought its problems and was survived. This time it was a heart attack:
A New 2014
The dreadful year is over now at last
I seem now on the mend as is my Muse
Events move on, one danger now is passed.
But what’s ahead, who knows, to win, to lose?
With scars upon my heart but not my mind
Well not from those events of that one year
Events we know they come and are unkind
Yet where there’s danger there’s not always fear
There’s damage to my heart and yet it beats
And glad to say I know I’m not alone
For Fear comes from the thoughts of what’s unknown
And Death is known to me with its conceits
In time I know he always has his way
Till then I live to read and write each day
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.
I had intended post a poem each day this year.
What a shame there are such folk about
A family gathering for an event.
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”
her loss was total
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.
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.”
Myths do not have to be true but it helps if they are ripping yarns.
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
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”.
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.