Children’s Nativity

Nativity
Parents they all gathered to see the nativity play,
The school had worked so hard to make sure ‘twas right today,
But the little junior players, were not sure of all their lines,
And Mary had the hiccups, and Joseph’s laughter was unkind,
The angels they danced on stage, but then disaster struck,
The fluffy wings upon their backs, fell off, as glue became unstuck,
Poor little angel Gabriel, began to howl and weep,
Which startled all the little tots, who were all dressed up as sheep
The inn keeper he took charge and yelled “you two had better scarper,
Mi rooms are all full you see, your room booking should be sharper,
Joseph then got shirty “Mi donkey he is knackered, and Mary’s not much better,
We’ll sleep in yonder stable, though the straw will mess her sweater,
Now William was the Bethlehem star, and held his stick up high,
But the heat on stage and all the din, made him start to cry,
The teacher rushed to comfort him, but tripped upon the stage,
And ended up upon the crib, where baby Jesus laid,
The three wise men viewed the scene and thought what should they do?
But then one said to Joseph “I’ve some Frankenstein for you”
The parents started laughing, The best line in the show,
But the crying chaos on the stage ,dealt it a fatal blow,
WE all look forward to next year, for none of us can tell,
What mishap will befall the, Nativity Clientele.
© Ted Morgan Christmas 2018

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christmas poem 2018

Christmas poem 2018

The Armistice was signed in Nineteen eighteen
And the Christmas that followed was joyfully seen
As a time for rejoicing; with the lads who came home,
From the battles and trenches; where they did roam
But in many people’s houses, there was a lack
Of the festive spirit, as their menfolk weren’t back,
For their loved ones in khaki; now lay side by side
In a graveyard in France; with their pals who had died,
And the bells did ring out, to greet the baby Christ birth,
Whilst their hero son’s lay; in a foreign lands earth,
Their presents of sorrow, were all that they had,
And memories of past times, made them feel sad,
At Christmas let’s think, of that time long ago,
And what we can do, to help all who feel low,
Invite them to share your meal, and your home,
And prove to them all, that they’re not alone.

© Ted Morgan December 2018

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One HUndred Years

One Hundred Years.

It’s a hundred years since the silence fell,
Where mud had created a living hell,
And so many died in this four-year war,
When bullets and guns, stopped their senseless roar,
Men emerged from entombed trench and lines,
Where they’d lived within; claustrophobic confines
And the bells rang out proclaiming peace,
When the noise of the battle at last did cease,
But what of the men, who’d been killed or maimed,
The mentally damaged by this battle insane,
No glory or kudos by their medals displayed,
The soldier’s they knew the price that they paid,
And families back home breathed a great sigh,
And celebrated the return of their beloved alumni,
But the war to end wars; it was just a dream,
For since then; wars; been a recurrent theme.

©Ted Morgan November 2018

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The Trip

The Trip
The trip was planned in secret, as the kids were not to know,
For the Morgan’s nosey parkers are always on the go,
One of them’s an expert at listening; to parents making plans
He just did not contemplate this trip to far off lands,
So, tickets they were ordered, and rooms booked on the sly,
And Mum and Dad they did not talk, in hearing of their spy,
For when the day it came, to pack the car and go,
Our two intrepid travellers were still not in the know,
They went and picked up grandad and were very mystified,
When instead of going for a walk, got in’t car, and sat inside
We sped along the motorway, the questions they came fast,
But not a clue as to where we were, or how long the trip would last,
A service station came in view, we decamped and had a brew,
But Alfie had of course to go, and inspect the nearest loo!
The drive lasted hours, poor dad was hot and tired,
The kids they were very mystified, to get homes taking hours,
We drew into a motel, and said we’ll stay the night,
And we were just thankful that no leaflets were in sight,
Next morning on the TV, they found that London was not far.
But going there, we were not, as they go into the car,
Their shock it was compounded, when through the gets they sped,
To magic Harry Potter Land and its massive film lot spread.
The looks on their faces wreathed in smiles and wonderment,
Shows just how our secret trip, to them; was heaven-sent.
©Ted Morgan August 2018

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On Camera

On Camera
George Orwell was the man who said that Big Brother watches all,
But it seems to me that nowadays it’s the myriad cameras that appal
You can not walk down any street, without their silent gaze,
As someone sits and watches you, when in shopping your engaged,
But get into your motor car and ride the nation’s bye ways
But woe betide you if you speed, they’ll catch you on the highways,
No matter where you go these days, you feature in their lenses,
You can not hide in crowds no more, it’s the intrusion that incenses,
Your free to roam our country but on your own, you’re not,
For high above you in the sky a drone is what you spot,
For now, the countries ringed with cameras, that orbit us in space,
From miles above, they see us and take pictures of your face,
Even at home you’re not secure, as tv’s tech we now allow,
It’s the curse of modern living, Big Brothers here and now

© Ted Morgan 2018

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The Room

The Room
Your room is warm and comforting, where memories abound,
You sit in contemplation, with silence all around,
You look towards that empty, chair where the one you miss, did sit,
And imagine her sitting there, safe home whilst she did knit,
But cruelly taken, far too early, and you left on your own,
You have only memories as you sit at home alone,
You long to share a book you read, or just discuss the plot,
But the empty chair is all you see, so your wishes come to naught,
Loneliness is something that one feels as you grow old,
Your partner gone, your friends deceased, but still you soldier on,
The daily routine carries on, you talk to all you meet,
But when the front door closes, there’s no one there to greet,
In summer there’s the garden for you to cultivate,
But wintertime means long dark nights, a time that most do hate,
Your limbs no longer supple, your joints they creak and groan,
The aches and pains of old age means you suffer on your own,
But don’t despair you still have time to occupy your mind,
To do the morning crossword and puzzles that you find,
Don’t stagnate watching TV, and mindless daytime soaps,
Your body may be knackered, but your minds still keen, one hopes!
© Ted Morgan May 2018

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Manchester Hill

After attending a service to remember the battle in which my father was shot in the head 100 years ago I felt moved to write this poem about the event.

The 16th Manchester’s gathered round, whilst Colonel Elstob told the plan,
To defend the small and grassy hill, and hold it to a man,
“Here we fight and here we die” was the rallying cry they heard,
Whilst the German guns began to roar, our men, resolute not deterred,
A swirling mist obscured the field, of the gunners’ line of fire,
And the German troops like phantoms, moved in mud and stranded wire,
Attackers charged wave on wave, but the lads showed firm resolve,
And beat back the Hun invaders, in the battle that evolved
The Manchester’s killed and wounded, littered trenches all around,
But they still held on to that grassy knoll, they were ordered to defend,
They had stemmed the flow of the Hun advance and gave the British time,
To strengthen the defences of the long rear battle line,
At 4pm their race was run, their colonel dead and gone,
Midst other men from Manchester who joined deaths echelon,
Seventy-six who fell that day caused tears at home to flow,
The wounded and the captured dealt a heartfelt savage blow,
But pride in their achievement at holding out so long,
Ensured a lasting memory that remains forever strong,
Northern grit had triumphed, on that field in far flung France
And should never be forgotten as the years continue to advance
© Ted Morgan April 2018

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