PTSD’s End

I like Shelley.
His poem “Adonais” is an elegy on the death of John Keats. It is one of the great poems of the English language.
So, when I read of yet another suicide of a veteran I wrote this. After I finished I realised I was in Shelley’s debt.

wargraves
Commonwealth War Cemetery Singapore

PTSD’s End

Peace, peace, he does not sleep, he’s dead.
Released from all the horrors in his head;
No more in sleep will gunfire rattle him,
Nor faces of the dead unsettle him.
He dreams no more so must now be content,
For deep and dreamless sleep is heav’n sent.
Its darkness is the sweetest kindest balm
And in it troubled souls are free of harm.

Peace, peace, he does not sleep, he’s dead.
Released from all the terror and the dread;
The dead will visit him at night no more,
No sadness from a long-forgotten war.
The dreams have stopped that shook him in his bed
And tore around like thunder in his head.
The ghosts will have to find another haunt
And find some other poor sad soul to taunt.

Peace, peace, he does not sleep, he’s dead!

© Trevor Morgan, 29/6/2018

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P.T.S.D.

It is quite normal for money to become debased.
Governments and banks can create too much and inflation may follow.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is a serious condition that, as a result of dire events, can mar a life. The sufferer will be haunted by nightmares when asleep and flashbacks when awake and normal functions of daily living are impaired.
Snowflakes who are offended by hearing points of view they do not like cannot get this condition. They are just being silly

fightingnoghtmares

P.T.S.D.

And late at night with dread
He would lay down his head,
But deep within his mind
There was no rest to find.

For there in his deep sleep
A dreadful date he’ll keep
With phantoms of the mind
And they are most unkind.

Repeating on and on
Each past and dreamed of wrong;
Survivors can like sheep
Be dragged down in the deep

To depths of all despair
Choked like they have no air;
Writhe ‘n writhe in slumber
Goes on without number.

On and on each night
They face repeated fright
Of ghostly secret dread
Of what’s there in their head.

No rest can they now find
When troubled in their mind,
It’s known to me and thee
We say “PTSD”.

And years after a war,
It kills so many more.
So torn by all the grief
Death’s sought out for relief.

It quietens all the dread
There, in a troubled head
And peace is finally found;
When lowered in the ground.

© Trevor Morgan 28.6.2018

Notes:

Following The Falklands War and some other campaigns more of the veterans end by taking their own lives than were killed in action. They too are casualties of conflict. Oh, the pathos of wars!

I rarely use couplets, I find them jerky and lacking rhythmic flow. But as this came out in this form and I wrote it down in minutes this was how my Muse sent it to me.

The angels of truth

The powerful see truth as precious that is why they ration it!
Throughout my life I have listened to lie after lie from politicians and the corporate sector.
It is only after years we find out the truth. Usually that is long after victims of lies and perpetrators are safely dead and buried.
My latest discovery is “The Barcelona Declaration” of 1995. Our present excess of immigration was actually agree then. Deceit is a nasty thing!

Boake001

The angels of truth

Experience is ever real,
While “News” is ever a lie.
The hand that we hold others deal,
Though some may escape if they try.

The Fates may be driven by spite,
The Innocent, victims of Hate.
Where Folly may reach a new height
Salvation is always too late.

False Hopes may well act like a cheat
Salvation, it sometimes may fail.
The Angels of Truth may be sweet;
Though they come with the pace of a snail.

The future and past either way
Stand now either side of today.

© Trevor Morgan

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 – Her little boy

The English they only have one king they call great.
This is Alfred, or Aelfrede, meaning Elf Council or advice. This could also mean talks to elves, implying deviousness perhaps. Many old English names have similar origins. Elvis, for example means elf wise or wisdom of the elves.
It is not known at what age children were given their names.
Many children can play alone merrily chatting away as if they had company, as if talking to the elves.
I suspect our great king was one such child.

Damp Wood

Sonnet – Her 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.

© Trevor Morgan, 25/6/2018

I like to imagine historic characters as very young children

Alfred

I wonder what he talked about with his elf companions?

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.

Asleep and dreaming

The land of dreams is a strange and cryptic place
What do those dreams signify.
When you see rapid eye movement in a new born asleep just what is in their dreams?

PICTORIAL REVIEW

Asleep and dreaming

Before the Dawn and wakefulness
There within the land of dreams
She tossed and turned as in distress;
Ah, but is she as she seems?

Where in her rolling firm closed eyes
Does she wander in her mind?
And in there are there sneaks and lies?
In dreams her eyes they are not blind.

Then after dawn comes wakefulness
And she leaves the land of dreams.
It’s here she learns of such distress;
Ah, but is all as all seems?

While, here there’s much that is unkind,
In her hearing sneaks and lies,
And there’s much that is a grind,
As tears flow from her open eyes.

When wide awake there’s much that’s true
And oft times folk may well be kind.
When moonbeams cast their gentle hue
Some sweeter thoughts may come to mind.

Long after dusk comes restfulness,
Back within the land of dreams.
Though what she dreams of none may guess;
Ah, but is all as all seems?

© Trevor Morgan, 19/6/2018

No healing of hate

I tire of lists of past wrongs. Whether it is complaints of colonialism of long ago or religious or political crimes. “Let the dead bury the dead.”(Luke9:60) There is much joy to be found in life.

lost soul

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.

© Trevor Morgan, 22/6/2018

From: “Tales of the sorrowful”

Half a husband came home

Our military covenant is meaningless.
Veterans returning home damaged in the mind are neglected or worse.
Many join the homeless. Many die by their own hand.

They are victims of misuse by a state that uses people then chucks them aside.

Walk in fog

Half a husband came home

Sometimes it seemed he was not there,
Though he was by her side.
Oft times he had an empty stare
She’d not seen as his bride.

He tossed and turned much in his sleep,
Asleep he’d talk at night,
Or groan or moan or oft times weep;
She yearned to ease his plight.

But who can reach a damaged soul
Oh, who can mend a mind,
Or make a wounded psyche whole
Oh, why is life unkind!

Her lovely groom seemed broken now,
She cherished what she had.
Abiding by her wedding vow
She stayed strong yet seemed sad.

She thought of all that might have been
Had he not gone to war
What dreadful sights had her man seen,
What had it all been for?

She was with child within one moon,
She was so filled by Hope.
She hoped he might be mended soon,
For he now, seemed, to cope.

But then he talked in jumbled ways,
There was much wrong with him.
Some times he’d sulk for many days,
Or rant all wild and grim.

What had been him was barely there,
A remnant little more.
He had the strangest empty stare,
Then walked off out the door.

There was a quiet for a day
Then policemen came to call,
Much empathy was on display,
She wept there in the hall…

Sonnet – The slaves of cold rage

People seem alarmed by hot rage.
They see the openly bad tempered person as in some way a major menace to others.
The real danger comes from those who harbour cold dark and secret rage. They are more likely to kill. Imams amongst Jihadi groups know this and in a sort of grooming process, nurture cold dark rage in the tools they use, those tools are the gullible amongst the young.

spiral downSonnet – The slaves of cold rage

Hot rage is soon burned out the mind is cleared
And so returns the cold clear light of day.
But cold rage of the soul ought be well feared,
For raging men themselves becomes its prey.
Cold rage when it controls the hearts of men
It has a way to justify all wrong.
When men remain a slave to it, it’s then
They go to where such rage filled folk belong.
They go upon a tour of Purgatory.
They purge themselves with their own rage and hate.
The wrathful on themselves are predatory.
They drain themselves and seal their own sad fate.
Though slaves of rage bring havoc to a land
They lose to little things they may not understand.

© Trevor Morgan, 20/6/2018

From: “Tales of a darkened soul”