Tuesday, 25 February 2014


Wonderful proud clusters,
Quiet in green shirts on the bank,
Standing tall to herald the inoffensive Spring,
Your shiny golden best is breathtaking.

Nurtured by the nihilistic darkness,
Bulbous in blunt armoured love,
Life is unfolding in floods of sap,
Soaring to parade.

Such unquestioned lemon brightness,
Unbidden in the wicked wilderness,
And the staring little man passes,
Distorted, distracted:

Grotesque reflection
Of horror and light.
You remain oblivious,
Uniformly erect in your single pleasure.

Colin Morgan  

Tuesday, 18 February 2014


I imagine running with you on golden sand
Pressed between toes
Laughing to the laughing blue water
To swim free
To run and taste the wind
To lie in the dusty warmth

To see green, hear gentle summer sounds
On days so long that they wrap around
and fingers on clock time stick in the afternoon

To gently tease away the edges of the mind
leaving a flood of calm

Taking in real life on an island

Colin Morgan 

Tuesday, 11 February 2014


Let me out - freedom spirits august reason
Sending each thought with passion

Think of here as bent from time
The objects fickle as young love

Think of soul as forever bent away from time
To stand spired through reality forever

Think of body as ruled by rules
Subject to a cliff top fall

Think of love - love beyond reason
As lasting outside the universal all

Meeting souls meld in fever
Allowing the dot forever to fuse

As death removes us from clock world
This moment - it can never close

Colin Morgan  

Tuesday, 4 February 2014


The news of my demise is premature, but I cannot refute it.
The machine I occupy knows the date and time, but not I.
The radio may speak, sing and dance, but I pay no heed.

My Facebook page is a lasting memorial I cannot see.
I am still sixteen and unformed, but old as a Pharaoh,
And like them, I lie hidden away for an age.

In this place there is no darkness, but my eyes are closed.
There is a chink in my doom, but no light penetrates.
The game is a plan filled with waiting, hope and stillness.

Those that love me are holding me close, far scattered as they are.
Those I love are hovering around me, and though I am so heavy in them,
They reside as bubbles that float and bump above my bed.

The clock on the wall, watching, makes no comment.
My months are rolls of the Moon, yet the Earth is still.
Medicine may be my true friend, but not just yet.

As I lie here on this threshold, in sight of the Light, live on for me.
Take each day you are granted, with me inside you,
And let my love play in the sunlit fields of your mind.

Colin Morgan

Monday, 27 January 2014

The Nazis and Us

Lest we forget the hands and eyes
That plundered lives -
Those Fascist hands and eyes
That freely plucked the lives
In a formal casual administrated abomination
Churlish in decadence and carelessness
With the hats and badges and nothing else fathomable.

Lest we forget:  This hand and eye
Writes and reads - 
This free hand and stern eye
That recalls and tells
How the formal administration casually served up
With relish, a hope of a final solution
A universal death in neat typewritten lists.

Lest we forget this hand and eye
That might turn upon us all -
This hand to twist and eye to glaze
Turned to the Fascist way
Grim reaping and treading through the living world
Closed and charging with blackened might
Pushing death to succeed with a blazing distorted right.

Lest we forget the hands and eyes
That are blown away -
Those child’s hands and eyes
Blasted and plucked
In the blind indifference of the rocket blast
Sent by the boiling blood of a Fascist heart
Against the boiling blood of Fascist hearts.

Lest we forget our hands and eyes
That are led and fed by Grace -
These our own hands and eyes
Treasuring all lives
Those we cannot see linked small and large
In families wrapped precious along the land
In our world of life where we are taught to be free.

Colin Morgan

Tuesday, 21 January 2014


That tune in my head again - “Golliwogg's Cake-walk”.
Marching men and machines to the horizon.
Beams of sunlight flicker off the brass.
Dour politicians, inflated by loathing, drink-in their might - their generous expense.


Turning down a side street,
Where caf├ęs, ranged empty like theatres in mourning, await -
Their lone monochrome waiters humming, tapping feet.
Eyes follow me as I am quietly detained.

Collapsing in again...

Looking across my cell: Six feet.
A chink of tortured light arrives from nowhere.
Same year, same concrete.
Same Nile Delta stain weeping down the ghost-graffitied wall.

Colin Morgan  

Tuesday, 7 January 2014


It is not that there was a sudden rush of wind,
A change in the breeze,
A breath.
Like a Pharaoh’s mouth
The gape was silent,
There was no expectation,
No beckoning;
A black hole
with the desert sand a film on the parched lips.

It is not that there was a light of joy,
A glint of promise,
A spark.
Like a Pharaoh’s eyes
The gaze was hollow,
There was nothing to see,
No welcoming;
The sockets shells
beneath a bandage of filth across the brow.

It is not that there was a sea of fragrance,
A waft of sweetness,
A scent.
Like a Pharaoh’s skin
The aroma was dust,
There was no tang,
Mere dry brittleness;
No taste but a soft bitterness
from the rasping snake’s skin shed three millennia ago.

It is not that there was a burst of song or wailing,
A cry in the dark,
A whimper.
Like a Pharaoh’s larynx
The cords were petrified,
There was no timbre,
No sound but oppression;
The ear felt no disturbance
from the silence trickling long in the tomb.

But there was an imperative,
A need to provide,  
To insist.
Like a Pharaoh’s life
Great power surged forth,
The piling of stone on stone,
A great monument rising;
Much adoration and dreaming
and a deep born incestuous love that lingers still.

Colin Morgan