Les enfants de Palestine

 

Les enfants de Palestine

Children born in the shadow, of broken brotherhood, in madness caught,

The neglect found, in a crumbling state, the purpose of life so distraught.

Each day, sluggishly wasting away, as awful hunger gravely feasts inside,

Famine eating every fiber, to the bone, craving the bitter taste, genocide.

Silently shriveling, your little voices unheard, your images hauntingly sad,

Cradled, in your helpless mother’s arms, your condition well beyond bad.

Reduced to skin, and bone, your figure evidence, of your dreadful plight,

We repulse, our minds retract, in disgust, reeling at your shocking sight.

Malnutrition has set in, shutting cells down, your young bodies strained,

Clouds of lethargy, fogging your brains, with every bit of energy drained.

The measure of depravation, a harsh reminder, like we have seen before,

History, once again repeating, in another place, and time, in another war.

Like lifeless forms, from the concentration camps, in the past we dread,

As evil men feast, on the legacy, that they create, architects of the dead.

While fat politicians, feed on the discontent, manufacturing more waste,

The cogs of time grinding, “Oh so slow!” Bound up in ideological distaste.

People lost in platitudes, too frightened to take a stand, and be counted,

As insignificance, of your existence, right to survive, is heavily discounted.

Thousands of you left, to bear the ransom cost, for the hostages detained,

Under a banner of terrorism, confined within the biblical land, so shamed.

The regime resolute, content for you to starve in terrors war, till the end,

Unwilling to change, what they have started, to surrender, make amends.

Creating heartless collateral damage, in pointless deaths often mourned,

More death and destruction laid, by their dysfunctional regime so scorned.

Where madness cannot be cured, their wicked fellowship so badly broken,

Poor infants of Palestine, so tangled in the wrath, that has been awoken.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (July 2025)

The Haunting Thought

 

The Haunting Thought

Each day, she felt the burden of weight, the inequity of life, resting on her soul,

While waiting on dusk, the sun setting West, the world into obscurity rolled.

Where light of day must yield, to the dark of night, and day colours concede,

Time for the waking world to rest from work, to fall asleep, from duties freed.

As light as feathers, floating from the yoke of day, into the spheres of dreams,

Drifting across the threshold, from reality, up into the realms of fantasy seen.

Leaving her bed far behind, knowing she should return, with the break of dawn,

Sometimes brought back, her mind in tatters, soul far from refreshed, all torn.

By the dream weaver, subjected to a state of restless thoughts, in wild storms,

With the plague of frightening creatures, meta morphing into fearsome forms.

Perhaps the restless dead, the troubled spirits, that hang out in darks domain,

Looking for another host, a fragile mind to occupy, to walk and breathe again.

Conjuring up strange illusions, the kind of folly inset, that she could not feign

Creating chaos in her mind, leaving her brain to wake, all battered and bruised,

Her mind distressed, bed in a mess, a state of pandemonium where she snoozed.

Where her mind was paralyzed, powerless to escape, held in a state of unrest,

Her reasoning subdued, bound in fearful thought, her consciousness repressed.

Oh, the sadistic pleasure, the dream weaver gets, casting each fearsome phase,

Fortunately, when woken, most of the monsters in her mind, have been erased.

As she is left to ponder, the meaning of her vivid dreams, each warning brought,

The point of her troubled state of mind, abused, the distressing visions wrought.

Aroused to face the host of new challenges, that each other day conveys to her,

More hurdles set in her way, more untimely anxiety, wherein the emotions stir.

Toward days end again, darkness encroaching, set to fight the demons of night,

Desperately yearning, to be granted peaceful dreams, according her soul respite.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (May 2025)

The Truth Behind the Mask You Wear

 

The Truth Behind the Mask You Wear

When he looked into your empty eyes, condemnation, upon your crimes so grim,

As you cheat the world, with your crude attempts, to bury the truth deep within.

In dark forests, the evidence kept, far away from the eyes of the world, so blind,

Truth, the reflux persistently rising, in disgust, never suppressed, within his mind.

The acrid taste, so vile, that burns his lips, minds lost inside your maze of hate,

At what your mask hides from humanity, all the festering evil that will not abate.

The tangled web of deceit, and treachery, the corruption lurking in your psyche,

The trickery, and the fear that you spread, like a disease forever festering dislike.

Your collaborators, lurking in the shadows, as they sow and cultivate your seeds,

In league with you, committing cloak and dagger crimes, as your sickness breeds.

There is no reasoning, within the never-ending madness, where your ilk persists,

Bringing premature death and pain, your aggressive conflicts full of wicked twists.

Your sadistic pleasure seems to have no bounds, as you inscribe your evil brand,

On the defenceless innocent people of the world, who now suffer, hand in hand.

As you pervert reality with your lies, masking crimes, while committing genocide,

Silencing the God given right to truth, in your fight against the freedom to decide.

When he saw your people, the second-class citizens, kept living the poverty line,

His heart went out to them, living miserable peasant lives, evidence of your crime.

Against the will of God, robbing them blind, keeping them beset with ignorance,

Denying them the right to think, enlightenment, treating them with indifference.

What are they to you, and your kind, just worthless objects, you trade for death,

The Orcs you create, to fight in your bloody wars, where they are robbed of breath.

So, who are you, what right have you, to play the hand of God, to determine fate,

To sit upon the throne of absolute power, twisting truth, within your evil dictate?

There is a place set for you, in purgatory, for all the evil sods that you have turned,

A place in eternity, within the fires of hell, where your wicked soul will be burned.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (May 2025)

The Old Generals Parade

 

The Old Generals Parade

All the eyes of envy, fell on the Generals, like the trees of Christmas decked,

In finely tuned positions of power, their uniforms set to command respect.

Shiny medals, made of solid silver and gold, hung on the finest silken braid,

Unlike the tin soldiers’ nickel and brass, strung up on cotton, cheaply made.

Where are all the war-torn veterans today, not allowed to steal the parade,

Written off, not a good look, in no fit state of mind, their nerves all frayed.

Some badly burned, wounded, and scared, or missing limbs, moving slow,

Brave soldiers, back from the meat grinder, with not much colour to show.

Haunted with fighting war, with nerves set on edge, too frightened to sleep,

Feeling awkward, back in civilian lives, uneasy with the company they keep.

Plagued with memories, too gruesome to share, that no one wants to know,

Troubled with the burden, the massive weight to carry, everywhere they go.

The President and his men, in attendance, the whole show cleverly staged,

Spare a thought for the tin soldiers, the bloody campaigns, they have waged.

The parade is marching by, with the rank and file, in strict regimental order,

And there is Mother Russia, choking back the tears, fetch her a shot of water.

She came to scour all the Generals empty eyes, to score their wicked souls,

Leaving her mark, for all grieving mums, for when the bell of reckoning tolls.

The brass band is in tune, as expected, they have practiced for weeks on end,

The long lines of tin soldiers keep coming, stretching back around the bend.

The flags and pennants, are flapping in the breeze, all the regimental names,

Where are all the heroes, who never made it home, their lives up in flames?

Cast into the inferno, to fill holes and cracks, no retreating, no coming back,

They have been through the grinder, now their corpses are all turning black.

Here come the raw recruits, as brave as brave can be, and as bold as brass,

They are off to the grinder next, with no idea how long their lives will last.

In this sorry part of the world, the sad war of attrition, is still gaining traction,

Here come the cadets, another generation, keen to get a piece of the action.

They have such romantic notions, of a soldier’s life, no idea the state of things,

To the Generals, what are they? Just lowly pawns, and puppets on the strings.

Every year the parade will repeat, for this is the Generals Day, of military glory,

The are dusted off, and bused to Victory Parade, their presence is obligatory.

Now here come the tanks, and missile launchers, a show of power and might,

What is that booming sound on the horizon? A squadron of fighters in flight.

In very tight formation, whizzing past overhead, chasing each other’s tails,

Shaking the ground, as they pass over, flying low, leaving long vapor trails.

Here come the ghosts, the poor lost soldiers, their presence so sorely borne,

The mountain of grief, too high to climb, each son lost, profoundly mourned.

To fill the void, where time is painfully spent, between each Victory Parade,

The endless bloody trail, whereupon, the blight of this soulless nation, paved.

The patriotic speeches have been made, president has delivered his sermon,

Parade finished, off goes the pied piper of Kremlin, with his band of vermin.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (May 2025)

Caught Within the Wicked Spell of Death

 

Caught Within the Wicked Spell of Death

The mourning bell, often chimed, to unforeseen grief, in sorrow sung,

Set in sallow tones, cast upon each face, to the sound of sadness rung.

Blinding tears flooding, rent from overcast eyes to eternal pain cleft,

Struck with distress, numbing torment, solemn hearts set in ruins heft.

Heads bowed, in somber prayer, reflecting on each soul, sadly raised,

Arms outstretched, in reverence of the life lived, lost images engraved.

Within each mind, whose souls have been beset, with such tragic news,

Left to reason, why tragedy has struck, their thoughts totally confused.

Eyes set, where the hands of time ceased, within a heartbeat, stopped,

With wretched sounds, still echoing inside, from the missiles dropped.

Within the deafening roar, brought in resonance, off hatreds applause,

Suffering in genocide, the thunderous claps, bringing the worst of wars.

Within the promised land, each life hanging, like pendulums a swinging,

Marking time, all counting down, with shellshocked ears loudly ringing.

Each person waiting, the lethal hammer blow, the final moment marked,

To spend eternity, the rest of time, in a plot, where they shall be parked.

The open caskets, imprinted on the eyes, of the world, difficult to forget,

The widows, dressed in black, faces drowning, in streams of tears wept.

Each awful image seen, around the world, a solemn view of souls, in grief,

By the sickness, manifested in soulless beings, in madness, beyond belief.

The foreign force, that constantly breaks treaties, malcontent their curse,

So much love lost, the miserable debt, a terrible way to part, so perverse.

Each attempt, to embrace the souls, of the dearly departed, done in vain,

All heroes, who have given, paying the ultimate price, soldiers of Ukraine.

Now as time never stands still, marching on, they will never be forgotten,

As their dearly loved gouge at the pain, in their hearts, feeling so rotten.

With the haunting sights, of innocent children, flashing before their eyes,

In lives so short lived, the disconnected sound of laughter, now disguised.

Each happy memory wrenched, along with aspirations, and paternal love,

In profound sadness, the poor souls spirited away, by the mourning dove.

So many bonds broken, while the world stands by, its reason halfcocked,

With unwitting minds, blinded from the reality of war, the truth blocked.

The grieving victims, with no sign of resolution, in sight, biding their time,

As more precious lives are lost, while the warlords, commit their crimes.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (March 2025)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

String Puppets

 

String Puppets

With threads attached, they cannot stand, on two feet, without their string,

Their ghastly master, twisting and pulling, making them all dance, and sing.

To his evil tune, with every foul stroke, tugging and jerking, in total control,

The king of obedient puppet’s, each an empty slave, without heart, or soul.

No brain, to comprehend the function, of their mindless mechanical show,

As they strut about the stage, performing each tedious charade, to and fro.

Singing badly attuned, clumsily stepping, in his construct, the fantasy world,

Of make-believe, and the feckless illusions, he generates, so roughly knurled.

His hinged sticks, dressed in loud ties, and gaudy rags, all ranting and raving,

A load of nonsense, with their clumsy arms, gesticulating, and wildly waving.

The puppets ruddy faces, coarse brushstrokes, roughly painted, mind chilling,

The puppeteer performing his art, the loathsome lies, that they keep swilling.

The Muppet master, keeping the plot, close at hand, his pawns constrained,

Each puppet closely bound, unable to break free, their will, securely chained.

His show, set to unhinge the spectators, planting seeds of chaos, that spread,

Laying foundations, of perpetual anarchy, in each ignorant recipient’s head.

Within the madness, his shows poorly scripted, loads of tripe, flowing forth,

With the mindless puppets, becoming confused, tangled in the pile of swarth.

Bent over his puppets, his back badly hunched, snout becoming hook nosed,

The piercing tones, in strained timbre of voice, loudly resonating, eyes closed.

The felonious intent, deviously choreographed, roughly plucking each string,

With his popup stages, peddling lies on street corners, for the wannabe King.

His henchmen, like prostitute pimps, a manifestation, of their horrid master,

Heralding a new age, of billionaire control, leaving civilization set in disaster.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (March 2025)

The Useful Idiot

 

The Useful Idiot

Today Russia applauds, giving the useful idiot in Capital Hill, a standing ovation,

He has sunk, to new levels, now the witless savior, of their treacherous nation.

Such that, freedom will one day, become enslaved, flattened, and steamrolled,

The precedent of brutal conquest has now been endorsed, in tyranny extolled.

As loyal allies are brushed aside, breaking UN mandates, of humanitarian law,

His shallow thought, focused on greed, rather than people’s lives, enduring war.

The imbecile taking the short route, his quick fix idiocy, in utter madness made,

The shallow thought, sending shock waves, in his insanity, new foundations laid.

For tyranny, has been given a green light, the license to take land, by brute force,

Leaving the free world, facing a new era, the dawn of chaos, and perpetual wars.

As Putin goes unpunished, for his pointless wars, and all the genocide committed,

And Chump and co, break promises made, with rapists, and the rioters acquitted.

The streets no longer safe, as Gotham spreads, around the world, to siren sounds,

With the people retreating, into locked concrete forts, with razor wire surrounds.

America locked in a trance, standing, watching, too frightened to fight back, resist,

Discharge the domestic enemies of the state, the proud boy traitors in their midst.

The ring leaders, posing as politicians, making false pledges, and outright benders,

The corrupt cult, dancing to another tune, enchanted by another nation’s agendas.

The jolt, has awoken the allies, now stand strong, there will be a massive backlash,

Contracts will be cancelled, US trade will go down, until America ejects the trash.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (March 2025)

In Liberty Lost

 

In Liberty Lost

Alas, in the land of The Star-Spangled Banner, once brave now from freedom lost,

With the halfwit President, set at the helm, the nation beginning to pay the cost.

The bright stars, have lost their sparkle, and the broad stripes, are going narrow,

Liberty bell sits idle, the first light of dawn cut short, as Trump pushes his barrow.

The old president, an axe to grind, his brain broken, mind ridden with confusion,

His loyal followers transfixed, caught in a dismal trance, under a strange illusion.

In the past, he would have been committed, as a nutcase, with his faulty mind!

His thieving band are wreaking havoc, with the executive orders, he has signed.

In the city streets, the star-spangled banners, are with placards waved, in protest,

Faithful servants are getting fired, left, right and centre, the people really stressed.

They are anxious about what insane acts, are coming next, his mind so deranged,

He cannot recite the national anthem, so he is going to get all the words changed.

To blah, blah, blah! In hollow lines, like all the trivial words, used in his speeches,

The nonsense, and denigrations, with all the insipidus platitudes, that he preaches.

While he takes the country down, the road to ruin, he lives on a different planet,

His mind is fixed, on great wealth, beyond measure, his thick skull full of granite.

In silence his party firmly set, as the gap gets wider, prepared to sit on the shelf,

As he vents mindless tirades, and mistruths, many say that he speaks for himself.

For sure, he continues to sully, the reputation of America, and what it stands for,

As he blindly sides, with Putin’s evil regime, of terrorists, justifying Russia’s war.

We wonder what power, Putin holds over Trump, what muck Putin has, to rake,

As Trump continues, to break all his election promises, he is nothing but a fake.

Someday, his bubble of babble will burst, where he exists, ending the evil pact,

And America will be left, to pick up the broken pieces, all battered and cracked.

To mend the terrible rift created, the alliances denigrated, the dollar in tatters,

Rebuild the crestfallen world, where the freedom of innocent people matters.

In the iterum, his tenure fraught, Trump still gratified, to play his petty game,

Plunging the Western world into crisis, we think, that chaos is his middle name.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (February 2025)

On Victory Day

 

On Victory Day

The bandura plays in ancient tones, its strings skilfully plucked, in such sadness strung,

Wretched songs played, the soul-destroying tunes, the heart of a nation, gravely rung.

The Rusky Rashist cloud, raided from the east, the curse of a nation, in darkness dealt,

Ukrainian names forever thought, written in blood, brave soldiers, on battle fields spelt.

One day, the tune will change, as the everlasting tide, and wind, herald a new world,

The Kozakiv will have, their glorious victory day, the weight of their nation unfurled.

Each day the Kozaks will dance with joy, and all sing, upon the demon’s graves.

Slava Ukraini! Heroyam Slava! Peremoha Ukrayini! Orky! Orky! - Orky! Orky! Hey!

With the Orky mothers, and their wives, left behind to lament, and rue each day.

They bravely fought, to free the world of Orcs, and all the evil Rashist handlers too,

To exterminate, the invading forces, from the sacred fields of sunflowers, and feverfew.

Defending their right of freedom, all the Ukrainian people, and their culture, full on,

Taking back, what is rightfully theirs, fighting on, until the day, all the Orcs were gone.

Pushing back, the brutal Orcs, who plundered, raped, and murdered, all the little kiddies,

Laying waste, to the homeland, and all the homes, in all the towns, and the grand cities.

Each day the Kozaks will dance with joy, and all sing, upon the demon’s graves.

Slava Ukraini! Heroyam Slava! Peremoha Ukrayini! Orky! Orky! - Orky! Orky! Hey!

With the Orky mothers, and their wives, left behind to lament, and rue each day.

The hopak carrying on, and on, day and night, picking up the pace, all hear the shrill

As Ukrainian soldiers, pack down the ground, each refrain getting faster, and faster still,

Spilling their Vodka, on evil Putin, and his deplorable Orcs, slowly rotting, six feet down,

Driven back to the swamps, from whence they came, suffocating, in the boggy ground.

The dirty stinking bastards, their rancid reeking carcases, the wicked bands, of beasts,

Down in the underworld, with the rats, and scavengers, banding together, in the feast.

Each day the Kozaks will dance with joy, and all sing, upon the demon’s graves.

Slava Ukraini! Heroyam Slava! Peremoha Ukrayini! Orky! Orky! - Orky! Orky! Hey!

With the Orky mothers, and their wives, left behind to lament, and rue each day.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (January 2025)