Who Sows the Seeds

 

Who Sows the Seeds

 

Once a wise old man thought, and thought, and thought,

He thought about all the wisdom that he had been taught.

The dreadful lessons of life, the hurt, and all the pain,

The awful people who had spread desolation and disdain.

 

He thought about all the stars above, within the universe,

The union between good and bad, for better, or worse.

The one who had sown the seeds of life that germinate,

And the mystical seeds of thought that in heads incubate.

 

The ones who sow the seeds of hope, of a utopia somewhere,

So, people can learn to live within a twisted world of despair.

The place where the masses can come together in the land of hope,

Where hope is an unanswered prayer, a badly tangled rope.

 

Whilst seeds of happiness live side by side with discontent,

So, people can convey a smiley face wherever they went.

Some preached of grand virtues, set to fight the seeds of sin,

Bound within every culture and religion, with a different spin.

 

And the heavenly seeds of sacrifice, of giving so much more,

Until they had to grieve the brave souls sent away to war.

The more he thought, the deeper he went into another sphere,

Far beyond the shallow pond, the tedious daily grind we hear.

 

He thought of thought, how other minds are bound to think,

Why they live and act the way they do, and how they keep in sync.

He put himself in the shoes of other people, just to understand,

Why things are the way they are in the wicked ways of man.

 

And then the old man paused and thought about the seeds he'd sown,

The ones that had brought happiness, and those he should have known.

Were some of them seeds of love, whilst others carried pain?

And if he had the chance to live, would he sow them all again?

 

Then suddenly the old man stopped and looked within,

And wondered what his own life's seeds had grown from deep within.

For some had blossomed beautifully, whilst others caused him pain,

And some had brought a harvest, whilst others grew like weeds again.

 

He thought about the seeds of love that he had sown along the way,

The words that brought some happiness, the kindnesses each day.

But then he thought of other seeds, the ones he wished undone,

The words that could not be recalled, the damage he had done.

 

And perhaps the greatest wisdom that his years had brought to him

Was knowing that the seeds we sow can flourish or grow dim.

For every seed we broadcast away may find a place to grow,

And where and what it becomes, we may never really know.

 

He looked upon the garden of the life that he had made,

At every little seed he'd sown, each memory it had laid.

Then quietly he wondered, as he looked towards the sun,

If he could sow his seeds again, which ones would he have done?

 

And now the old man turns away, and leaves the thought with you,

For only you can truly know the seeds that you have grew.

Look back upon the garden of the life that you have sown,

To the seeds which were good, and which you should have known.

 

Now you must ask yourself, within the honesty of your heart,

What seeds have you sown thru your life, right from the very start?

Were they seeds of kindness, love, compassion, hope and care,

Or seeds that left behind some pain, resentment and despair?

 

And when you look upon the garden that your life has grown,

Will you be proud of all the seeds that you have ever sown?

For every seed that we have cast may find a place to grow,

And only time can truly tell what harvest it will show.

 

So now the question passes on from him to you instead,

For every life is filled with seeds that we have left or spread.

 

Now you must ask yourself, within the honesty of your heart…

 

What type of seeds have I sown?

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Sept 2026)

How

 

How

How do you scale the wall

That fortifies the soul?

How do you mend the broken mind,

And restore the beaten soul?

 

The heart that has never learned to love,

The spirit that has never risen,

The life that has never truly lived,

The eyes that have never seen the sunrise,

As dark clouds slowly drifted by.

 

How do you find the hope to bring

The songs the heart was meant to sing?

The voice that never learned to speak,

The inner voice that longs for sound.

 

How do you find the lost soul,

Lift the weight upon the mind,

Climb the mountain that brought you down,

Yet still believe you'll hear love's sound?

 

How do you teach a child to care,

When no one showed that love was there?

How do you fill an empty place

That years of silence could not erase?

 

Perhaps no wall is climbed at once,

No mountain conquered in a day.

When dawn first whispers through the dark

Before it drives the night away.

 

It starts with one kind word,

One gentle hand held out somehow.

The smallest seed can split the stone,

Within the silent heart, alone.

 

For every forest starts with seed,

Each sunrise wakes the waiting sky.

One act of love begins somehow,

Like morning breaking through the sky;

The sun that melts the winter snow,

Though none can tell us when or why.

 

A gentle word... a helping hand...

A kindness whispered from the heart;

Like spring that steals through winter's grasp,

Till frozen hopes at last depart,

 

Melting the ice that winter laid

Upon a heart so very young;

Until the silence finds its voice,

And softly sings,

 

"I am here. I always was."

Then, at last, the heart begins to sing.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (July 2026)

Як

Як ви піднімаєтеся на стіну,

Що зміцнює душу?

Як вилікувати розбитий розум,

І відновити побиту душу?

Серце, яке ніколи не навчилося любити,

Дух, який ніколи не піднімався,

Життя, яке ніколи по-справжньому не жило,

Очі, які ніколи не бачили сходу сонця,

Коли темні хмари повільно пропливають повз.

Як ви знаходите надію, щоб принести

Пісні, які серце мало співати?

Голос, який ніколи не навчився говорити,

Внутрішній голос, який прагне звуку.

Як ви знаходите загублену душу,

Зніміть тягар з розуму,

Зійдете на гору, яка вас збила,

Але все ще вірите, що почуєте звук кохання?

Як ви навчите дитину піклуватися,

Коли ніхто не показав, що кохання є?

Як ви заповните порожнє місце,

Яке роки мовчання не могли стерти?

Можливо, жодна стіна не піднімається одразу,

Жодна гора не підкорюється за один день.

Коли світанок вперше шепоче крізь темряву

Перш ніж прожене ніч.

Він починається з одного доброго слова,

Однією ніжною рукою, якимось чином простягнутою.

Найменше зернятко може розколоти камінь,

У тихому серці, на самоті.

Бо кожен ліс починається з зернятка,

Кожен схід сонця будить небо, що чекає.

Один акт кохання починається якось,

Як ранок, що пробивається крізь небо;

Сонце, що тане зимовий сніг,

Хоча ніхто не може сказати нам, коли чи чому.

Ніжне слово... рука допомоги...

Доброта, прошепотіла з серця;

Як весна, що прокрадається крізь зимові лапи,

Поки замерзлі надії нарешті не зникнуть,

Таплячи лід, що поклала зима

На таке молоде серце;

Поки тиша не знайде свій голос,

І тихо не заспіває:

"Я тут. Я завжди був."

Тоді, нарешті, серце починає співати.

Another World

 

Another World

At night he wandered the silent streets that buzzed by day,

The doors all locked, while the other world was far away.

Gone to their soft cozy beds, as they slept, safe and secure,

In their dream worlds, lying in silk and satin sheets so pure.

Whilst through darkened streets, out of the shadows came,

The inhabitants of another world, cast in doubt and shame.

He saw them sleeping rough, in the world without respite,

By some strange force, drawn to the same spot every night.

They never complained, as he drifted past their living hell,

In shameful silence their souls caught under the same spell.

The wretched affliction, that had devoured their minds,

Leaving hollow ghosts, with hope shut tight behind blinds.

And as he looked deep down into their tormented souls,

He felt the awful pain of dejection, despair without resolve.

Living in deprivation, unsure what the next day will bring,

Locked deep inside their restless souls, that no longer sing.

While winter numbed their minds, to aimlessly drift alone,

The rain soaking their bones, poor souls without a home.

Abandoned by the cruel world, that scorned and shunned,

The one that treated its fallen people like wretched scum.

A world of rigid doctrines, calling its broken people flawed,

Shame upon self-made righteous, born in the image of God.

The eyes that choose to look away, mouths that cast scorn,

Forgetting "another world" once cradled Christ newborn.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (July 2026)

And That Is the Face of Art

 

And That Is the Face of Art

We are the spectators; we watch in wonder, each image framed,

In the spectrum of light, the multitude of colours skilfully tamed.

Our breath is taken, held in awe, at the spectacular panoramas portrayed,

The blend of colours in space, the brush strokes so masterfully overlaid.

 

Yet we are left to wonder who paints the storms and hurricanes,

The untamed wonderlands, wild horses breaking their chains.

Rage cast in thunderclouds, as tears wash colour from the eye,

The taste of emotion etched within the sun setting from the sky.

 

Day by day, over and over again, layer upon layer intently laid,

Never sleeping, as the Maestro follows every shifting ray.

Each master stroke of the brush into vibrant colours dispersed,

At night highlighting stars and planets throughout the universe.

 

Colour following the wild waves, the tides, the winds of change,

Season upon season, layer upon layer, each colour rearranged.

When summer burns, and autumn's orange turns to crimson red,

Then in winter's frost and fog, with snowdrifts, a blanketing bed.

 

Each hurricane painting ephemeral art, attentively transposed,

The debris in explicit detail, a masterclass so artfully composed.

Every subject perfectly placed in landscape, as a seamless array,

The Master of Art never stops painting, throughout night and day.

 

Phase upon phase, creating each masterpiece, we watch in awe,

Unforgotten moments, ever constant cues wherever we may go.

Each scene evolving, silhouettes generated, long shadows laid,

Painting each stroke of day, another masterclass in art conveyed.

 

Cleverly diffusing, catching the sun as it bathes upon the beach,

And rocky silhouettes, as it dances high upon the mountain peaks.

Painting the most beautiful sunrise ever seen, between sky and sea,

As the gull’s circle upon the rising ocean breeze, so wild and free.

 

Following the sun across the sky, every stroke of colour to the west,

Blending the colours of the spectrum into fauna and flora's best.

The Master producing evocative tender hues and subtle tones,

Long before and long after we are gone, through eternity He roams.

 

The diversity of conception, rendered images passing before the eye,

The sun in its radiant colours cast, evoking every element of life.

Illuminating creation as luminescence of light concentrates through space,

Light diffusing a thousand ways, with texture and tone in every place.

 

The fog that floats so close to the ground, viewed from hills above,

In harmony imagines paradise, created with all the Painter's love.

As we walk through life, scene to scene, our minds utterly amazed,

Too much to comprehend, the eternal exhibition seen, then erased.

 

Beware the blush of beauty captured in the red velvet rose adored,

So delicate, yet its unforgiving thorns an agonising lesson implored.

On stone walls, or cliff faces, that is the face of art beyond compare,

The complex shapes of leaves and trees, every pixel placed with flair.

 

Yet still we stand as spectators before each gallery of the day,

Watching living masterpieces born, then gently fade away.

No canvas can contain them, no museum house them all,

For every dawn unveils another work, each sunset hears its call.

 

The Painter signs no corner, no mortal hand can trace His art,

Yet every living creature bears the imprint of His heart.

Each fleeting scene a masterpiece no human hand could ever chart—

Creation is the canvas... And that is the Face of Art.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (July 2026)

So Long as God Is My Witness

 Have you ever looked out to the stars and wondered where the spark of life came from? How it all happened. What is the purpose of life and is there an all-seeing eye watching over us?

So Long as God Is My Witness

Oh, the little girls and boys, the greatest wonderers, of all things made,

The nature of the world, of birds and bees, strange creatures arrayed.

Yes, innocence of kids, in questions asked, and amusing things they say,

Their dramatic acts, quirky imagination, and the weird games they play.

The world to them a mysterious place, its constant pace, way too fast,

To keep in step, as all the confounding forms of life go whizzing past.

So many missing links and loose ends, the chaos and confusion of life,

Kids lost in time and space, a universe full of strange sounds and strife.

In a topsy-turvy world of day and night, the higgledy-piggledy stress,

The challenges of simple things, like sleeping, eating, getting dressed.

Learning how to speak, and what to say, and the abstract art of reason,

A world of touch and taste, hot and cold, stormy weather out of season.

Rain, puddles, mud, sunburn, and building sandcastles on the beach,

Abrasive words of "don't touch," and things that are kept out of reach.

The emotions of love, growing pains, hunger, smell, confusion, and fear,

Good and bad, and strange words they are not supposed to overhear.

The empty feeling of not being wanted, and the awful weight of scorn,

Awkward answers to, "Where did I come from?" and "How was I born?"

The sensations of joy and happiness, or being caught in the pit of doubt,

Then the greatest puzzle of all, wondering what everything is about?

 

One such child, one evening stood upon a little hill, gazing at the sky,

In wonder at the twinkling stars that shone far from the world awry.

In the darkness time checked somewhere between then and there,

And in that moment of thought came a question, like a silent prayer.

To who knows what, something larger than the child could conceive,

The most mysterious conundrum of all, in what we should believe.

It was, of course, the point of being, the most complex creation of all,

The celestial spark of life, a challenging concept for a child so small.

What had ignited the beginning phase, what vast force had prevailed?

Perhaps somewhere out in space, a great architect in darkness veiled.

The listening ear, the all-seeing eye, the keeper of the universe,

As the little silent thought went forth, through the cosmos it traversed.

Who would have thought that a child so young would have asked,

What some may not consider, and others dismiss as daft?

Unlikely to get a reply, an answer from the zeniths of outer space,

A fitting reply to the meaning of life that infant child could embrace.

 

We once were that very child who looked unto the stars overhead,

Well beyond the universe in awe, its glow of constellations spread.

On clear nights when the stars put on their most magnificent show,

Our starry eyes drawn out into infinity, beyond the heavens aglow.

Standing beneath the radiance, envisioning magical myths of gods,

On ground where generations before had imagined lightning rods.

Looking into the endless vault where countless worlds might reside,

As we pondered other realms, unseen beyond the mortal tide.

Of angels, apparitions, great spirits, and mystical beings unknown,

And all the mysteries of creation far beyond our flesh and bone.

Sometimes we hear the sound of the little girl or boy inside of us,

When we yearn respite from the age of chaos, to get off the bus.

To shed the weight of growing old, the rules of keeping in check,

The urge to be free from having to conform to the upper deck.

To spread our wings toward the sky, to dance to a different sound,

But common-sense reigns us in and puts our feet back on the ground.

 

One such evening I stood in absolute wonder beneath the vivid sky,

I sensed a profound celestial sadness cast from the all-seeing eye.

For Eden's garden once abundant had been stripped near and far,

Tainted yet again with death and desolation, division's deepest scar.

Mankind at odds with God, inclined toward self-destruction's path,

Civilisations set to destroy Eden on earth, compelling wars and wrath.

The weight of this awful legacy lay scattered across the age’s past,

Its wounds engraved upon the injured earth, a hideous residue cast.

The blood of wars, the cries of grief, the pride of false kings and men,

All witnessed by the architect who watched it unfold over and again.

Aghast as mankind bent to hatred's insanity, sharing the self-same air,

Inhumanity sowing bitter seeds until they blossomed everywhere.

Insanity seldom ceding its grasp, greed and lust clouding weak minds,

The endless search for condemnation of different creeds and kinds.

Men with broken wills, cruelly bred, devoid of compassion and grace,

With the trampling of innocence in the persistent, indifferent race.

Thugs bound in masks from truth, creating misinformation and lies,

As though the Judge of all the earth cannot see through mortal eyes.

 

The clerics who misconstrue the will of God and the precious gifts of life,

And the blessings of love, the claims they make, and calls for sacrifice.

The men who live day to day, taking from others, the ones in need,

Regardless of the misery they create, merely to feed their greed.

Unaware there comes a day when every soul in judgement stands,

No kingdom, crown, nor earthly power has impunity upon its hands.

Death's door waits without escape, marking the end of mortality,

Where the measure of time is weighed in the last gasp before finality.

For all the words that have been spoken in triumph and pretence,

To be weighed against the witness of misdeeds and conscience.

Non-believers and religious men who worship many different gods,

Their revelations shaping cultures, with doctrines often set at odds.

Thinking they know what is best as they dismiss any thought of love,

Stamping their ugly brand of hate on Eden's turf, unable to rise above.

 

Yet beyond the strife of nations and beyond the worldly wars of men,

There remains a greater purpose calling out time and time again.

Beyond the hosts and councils, beyond ruling powers great and small,

The God of all the demigod’s reigns sovereign still, above and overall.

And the scattered tribes and faiths of the earth need not remain apart,

For every soul bears the same elements of the common human heart.

The walls we build through fear and pride need not forever stand,

Wisdom, mercy, love, and truth could unite us hand in hand.

We all walk among the fallen souls beneath the same enduring stars.

As God is our witness, we should not deny liability nor cast blame afar.

The questions remain while we can choose: "Do we believe in eternity?"

Or do we live from day to day within the lost fraternity?

Drifting aimlessly through realms of self-doubt and disbelief,

Where disenfranchised souls languish cultivating guilt and grief.

With freedom of choice to live in scorn and condemnation,

Or listen to the all-seeing voice of reason in search of salvation.

 

In hope there is a chance that all the madness of earth could cease,

That from the bonds of tyrants, odium, and wars we could find release.

That there could come a dawning where the vast divide is finally healed,

Where hatred's banners disappear and every wounded soul is annealed.

The merging of souls where the fate of all people is no longer grave,

Set free from mindless despondency and the bondage of the enslaved.

Civilisation no longer bound by ancient edicts of fear and war,

The amalgamation of worldly tribes united in common cause.

Before the One who witnessed all from the celestial beginning of time,

And Eden could bloom again where evil thorns once climbed.

As all the lost nations grow in unity, finding peace under one God.

 

Above the city, upon the hill where I was born, in solitude I stood,

Beneath the constellations set in space, in celestial brotherhood.

My favourite retreat from the frenetic world and colour of day,

Under the mystical lights and ever-watchful gaze of the Milky Way.

Hidden from the cluttered sight of day, shrouded in the dark of night,

Waiting to catch sight of a meteor, a falling star, or satellite in flight.

As the stars cast what appeared to be their timeless sparkles in bloom,

I heard a haunting voice sent from outer space; it spoke of pending doom.

 

In the gravest tones the threads of death clawed at my conscious soul,

The most fearsome visions raced through my head; my heart grew cold.

The entire earth devoured by an endemic plague of greed,

And in that moment hope's eternal dream seemed to lose its need.

The all-seeing eye had opened a vision within my mind to view,

The sight too much for me to consume, my thoughts askew.

The dawn of reform would never come, nor Eden thrive again,

The garden forgotten by the selfish plague of mankind insane.

The planet stripped naked by lust and greed, beyond repair,

The soul of Mother Earth left for dead in a wasteland of despair.

The sky above the desecrated earth turned crimson red from dawn to dusk,

While toxic winds swept endlessly through clouds of choking dust.

 

As life, born of the spark of life, in desolation was left,

Gasping for one last lungful of air, struggling for its final breath.

A warning of a future fraught, a time bomb set to explode,

The fragile bubble bound to burst, life on earth set to implode.

The legacy mankind leaves behind in the wake of folly's trail,

Another fragile world turned to dust, the runaway train derailed.

The spark of life extinguished, mankind finally fails the test,

The arrogant and the heedless convinced they knew best.

In needless greed the heedless seed turned its back upon the earth,

Stamping its wicked mark upon creation, inhumanity at its worst.

 

Though some might think my soul possessed, I must be absolutely clear,

I am neither prophet, fortune-teller, nor divisive seer.

So long as God is my witness beneath the stars that light the way,

Follow me, ere I pray, far from fearsome guns as night gives birth to day.

To discover the way, the truth, the life, and the wisdom in the stars above,

To find soulful purpose beyond despair, beyond the mourning dove.

Heed the inner voice, the voice of unity, the Creator at the helm,

Whose presence endures forever in the timeless realm.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET  (June 2026)

Baba Yaga

 

Baba Yaga

Once a youthful spirit who ran untamed and laughed with delight,

She met a mysterious woman who taught her the craft by moonlight.

They danced naked and leapt high above the hungry flames,

Rode wild horses through the forest bareback and unrestrained.

 

Now the balance has been twisted and contorted for the worse,

The land lies beneath a darkened cloud, a wretched curse.

In the pit of fire, she lies awake, tossing and turning,

In a restless state, mind inflamed and her body burning.

 

Her entire world out of balance, her sacred craft out of sync,

Her spells all drifting offbeat, her cauldron of fire on the blink.

The sacred forest lies under siege from the madness of Orcs,

Its ancient legacy cleft, all creation rendered a corpse.

 

Yet still she persists to create the mother of all spells,

Yearning to brew the potion that will rock the evil citadels.

To end the slaughter and erase the plague of ravenous beasts,

Their lust for land and genocide descending from the northeast.

 

As Baba Yaga stares with empty eyes at her withering fire,

Vexed and gripped by the confusing spell of restless desire.

Within the flames that lick the air, she searches for a vision,

To end all pain and suffering, and heal the wanton division.

 

A greater power to intervene, changing wind and tide,

The spark that can ignite again the unquenchable fire inside.

Yet Baba Yaga lingers by her dwindling fire's glow,

Seeking answers only ancient wandering spirits know.

And somewhere past the smoke and ash, beyond the darkened sky,

She hopes that God still hears the prayers too weary now to cry.

 

The embers whisper softly through the drifting smoke and haze,

Remembering brighter nights and wild untamed days.

Though Orcs may stalk the forest and darken earth and sky,

Though sleepless nights bring weary tears and leave her asking why,

Beyond the smoke a thousand hearts still tend the sacred flame,

And those who walk beside her quietly speak her name.

 

For deep within the ashes, beneath exhaustion's crushing weight,

There sleeps the fire of the wild one whom darkness cannot break.

The spark awaits its destined hour, the turning of the tide,

To rise again in splendor with the untamed fire inside.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (June 2026)