It’s Putin’s Last Christmas

 

It’s Putin’s Last Christmas

Putin has decreed a wee break, because it has been, an awkward year,

He wants thirty-six hours of respite, and his kingdom cloaked in cheer.

His special operation has gone skewwhiff, he is failing down the line,

It’s time to change the record and add a little hope at Christmas time.

But his pretence of goodwill, plucked out of the blue, seems quite odd,

Perhaps a chance, for him to seek reconciliation, from his parttime God!

As history paints the portraits, of broken heroes, who have all perished,

It’s a sombre Christmas for those, who’ve lost the sons that they cherished.

He’s putting the body bags on hold, they will have to wait a little longer,

He has even commanded, that the vodka, will be served a little stronger!

There will be no talk, of frozen orcs, that lie beneath the snowy blanket,

Cause Putin doesn’t want a soul, to spoil, his lavish Christmas banquet!

The missiles have been put on hold, the air raid sirens will get a rest,

He has sent out the ceasefire messages, to the Ukrainians in the West.

This is just a minor shift, from his miserable life, of heartless paradox,

From the propaganda that has to be sown, that sounds so unorthodox.

A pause, from all the oxymorons, that his supporters, have had to make,

And all the international protocols, and rules, he has had them break.

If Ukraine dares, to break the ceasefire, and spoil his fantasies again,

Then he will seize the opportunity to demonize the people of Ukraine!

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Jan2023)

Conscript’s Plucked Against Their Will

 

Conscript’s Plucked Against Their Will

Like teeth being pulled, an awful experience, we would prefer to forget,

The dreaded politsiya, seizing unwilling victims, in the Kremlin’s dragnet.

Unwitting pawns, suddenly plucked, from their positions on the board,

Restrung to play another game, marching in tune, to a different chord.

Hordes drawn from Russian streets, well before they reach their prime,

Others taken from the fields, stollen away to war, before harvest time.

Agents going door to door, in search of dodgers, safely hidden inside,

Seeking fathers and sons, at any hour of the day, caught blurry eyed!

Ill equipped men, sent to do the devils work, in Putin’s wretched war,

Where young souls are traded, for a few stingy rubbles, nothing more.

Lads spirited away, to fill the vacant void, where the rotting corpses lie,

Into the pulveriser, where the shameful river of blood, never runs dry.

Cannon fodder, sent through the merciless mincer, ground for naught,

Left in Putin’s dreaded playground, where premature death is wrought.

Abandoned to die in agony, in the damp dugouts, unfaithfully forgotten,

Adding to the sickly stench, of decaying conscripts, flesh going rotten.

We wonder, what madness would take the comrades, against their will,

What right to spend the lives, of so many fellow countrymen, what ill?

Leaders betraying the people, waging a war, without the people’s voice,

Surely the poor men, should be entitled, to exercise freedom of choice!

But no, the brutal Russian regime is heartless, there’s no love lost there,

There are millions more, comrades to waste, and Putin really doesn’t care.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Jan 2023)

To Pay the Fodder Tax

 

To Pay the Fodder Tax

The hymns and carols, are being vehemently sung, throughout the lands,

Thousands of fir trees have been felled and mounted on sturdy stands.

The holly and the ivy, the mistletoe, and strips of tinsel, have been hung,

A star has been placed on top of each tree; the angels have been strung!

The nativity scenes, are sitting in pride of place, with the three wise men,

Hymns and carols have been enthusiastically sung, over, and over again.

The Snow Globes have been unpacked, and the strings of lights unfurled,

It’s time to revel, to sing, and rejoice, in countries, all around the world.

In Aotearoa, it is summertime, and the Pohutukawa, in full bloom again,

Downunder it is really hot, they’re swilling back beer, and champagne.

Harry and Megan won’t be home for Christmas, they’ve done their dash,

In Washington the hordes of homeless, are looking for a Christmas bash.

In Bethlehem, the pilgrims have flocked, to the birthplace, of Jesus Christ,

Five clicks from there, is Golgotha, where the son of God, was sacrificed,

At Christmas, in Palestine, the Christians, Muslims and Jews all meet,

In Manger Square, as burnt frankincense, wafts down the market streets.

Buckingham palace, will be the quietest it’s been, for many, many years,

As the people mourn, the passing of the Queen, with a few belated tears.

The scandals, have been swept under the carpet, the tabloids set to rest,

And the royal skeletons, hidden in the cupboards, at Charles firm request.

While those who can afford, have lavishly spent, emptying their pockets,

In Ukraine, all the children will get for Christmas, are Mr Putin’s rockets.

For them, there will be no presents, under a tree, and no sumptuous feast,

No Brightstar in the sky, just terrified eyes fixed, on flashes from the East!

In Russia, the trees are adorned with tin medals, from son’s given to war,

The lives, that Putin lightly traded, for Lada cars, while he asked for more.

At the frontline, the Red Army is desperately scrambling, to fill the gaps,

With many bereft Russian mums, having to pay, the Kremlin’s Fodder Tax!

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Dec 2022)

Empty Within

 

Empty Within

Cruel! Callous! Generals! Brains bent, on the mindless misery, they rain,

Causing confusion and mayhem, upon the unarmed children of Ukraine.

The brutes, heartlessly casting terror, on innocent civilians, as they sleep,

Shattering precious lives, leaving grief-stricken souls, to solemnly weep.

Creating fire storms, within the fearsome message, they choose to send,

As civilisation in uncertainty, wonders when, the evil madness will end?

Incoming missile alerts resounding loudly, over, and over, and over again,

As Kamikaze drones deliver their payload of devastation, terror, and pain.

Massive explosions destroying the places, where the innocent people live,

As the victims are brutally forced, to forfeit, everything they have to give.

Families torn apart with inconsolable grief, and sad desolation brought,

As the dead are buried, to the bells sad toll, for innocent civilians wrought.

People enduring wanton suffering, waiting in dread, their time could come,

Unsure what each day brings, to their dishevelled world, set out of plumb.

What are the generals thinking, blasting elderly, and little children to bits?

With the insanity of town and cities raised to rubble, in their terrible Blitz.

Still, they continue sending missiles, into cities, with murderous intent,

Following the orders of a madman, in the mechanical anger they vent.

What would they think if the bombs rained on their own cities and kin?

Perhaps the heatless creatures just wouldn’t care, they’re empty within!

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Dec 2022)

Body Bags a Sickening Sight to See

 

Body Bags a Sickening Sight to See

While so many unsuspecting travellers, will stop, stand, and stare,

Then look away, in aversion, from this scene, too hideous to bear!

These sickly sights, will remain engraved, inside their brains forever,

As vexing visions, for their haunted minds, to weigh, and measure.

And the thick stagnant smell, that’s drifting on the prevailing wind,

The bilious reminder, that turned their nostrils, they cannot rescind.

Will be triggered, over and again, by the sickly smell, of dead things,

And sight of scavengers, carrion, and the unwelcome buzz of wings.

We question: “How long this madness?” The answer: “No knowing!”

As Putin’s odious fields, of black body bags, keep steadily growing.

All cannon fodder laid out, extending further, than the eye can see,

Like large ripples in the sand, written off, Putin’s unwanted debris.

Unfortunate casualties of his war, and he doesn’t want them back,

He won’t bring them home, as his fallen sons, there’ll be no plaque.

For now, his broken fields, full of unwanted corpses, frozen in time,

Well away, from his palace walls, where he orchestrates his crimes.

The ethnic minorities, under Putin’s thumb, who have lost their voice,

Surrendered their sons, he’s stollen their freedom, and their choice.

Now mourning the inconsolable loss, part of them, wrenched away,

Leaving them dreadfully downhearted, helpless, lost, and dismayed.

Under his terrible reign of terror, that’s unsettled the passage of time,

He continues persistently scheming, committing multiple war crimes.

Targeting vulnerable civilians with his missiles, robbing life and limb,

Taking great pleasure in his heartless deeds, while Satan waits for him.

Looking to other borders, and their mineral wealth, with great desire,

As his hard-line supporters relentlessly continue to fuel the raging fire.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Nov 2022)

And They Shall Come to Pass as Broken Heroes

 

And They Shall Come to Pass as Broken Heroes

Courageous heroes, tormented by screaming sounds resounding, in the persistent storm,

All bound in brotherhood, bravely rallying in defiance, where the shells, and rockets swarm.

Under the smoky shroud, soldiers entrenched, under thermite fireballs, cascading from the sky,

United in deaths fatal resolve, where the victorious sights, will be seen in someone else’s eye.

Marking time, before the final call, when their valiant souls, will be abruptly snatched away,

Taken from wars brutal scape, where the worlds vibrant colour, has turned to a world of grey.

One minute, as fighting fit soldiers, repelling the onslaughts, with guns and mortars ablaze,

In an instant “MEN DOWN!” searing heat, sizzling their flesh, in the luminous molten haze.

The sudden shock, agony, and excruciating pain, triggering an intolerable firestorm inside,

Their lurid dreams, their restless thoughts, coming to pass, now destined for deaths divide.

Strong muscled soldiers, chests chiselled in stone, never one to shy away from the iron rain,

Suddenly facing the battle of all battles, against life or death, desperately struggling in pain.

Flesh eating thermite, burning deep, sapping hope, the flow of life, from their beating heart,

Drifting into a drowsy state, where the point of no return is nigh, their destiny falling apart.

Beyond life’s sweet taste, of precious love, or the blinding dour, of deaths bitter revenge,

To join the fallen ranks solemn parade, in times eternal drift, where infinity knows no end.

Beset by feverish hot and cold flushes, fighting for their lives in shock, bodies shutting down,

To be left behind, amidst the sad sight of lost soldier’s empty shells, upon the battle ground.

While some think them romantic fools, the script of fate already engraved, upon their stones,

The time they never had, rotting their worldly shapes away, scavengers scattering their bones.

Over eons, the bones ground by sand into cosmic dust, to be dispersed through the universe,

Leaving only the lost souls drifting, eventually forgotten, and the thought of war their curse.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Nov 2022)

Beware His Wicked Web of Lies Will Take a Hold of You

 

Beware His Wicked Web of Lies

Will Take a Hold of You

Like a bedevilled gander, loudly quacking, with his false propaganda, of deceit and rage.

As captivated teenagers, watch the old grey goose, selling his empty lies, upon the stage,

Casting dark clouds over, the Word, the Way, the Truth, and over Eternal Salvation,

Venerating the coldblooded war, that’s brought great shame, upon the Russian nation.

His blasphemy, turning the testament upside down, deceitfully politicking on God’s word,

Evil discourse, condemning the rest, provoking his hatred, his argument blatantly absurd.

Letting burst, with bill tightly pursed, sowing the wicked grains of war, within their brains,

Conjuring up romantic imagery, glorifying dead Russian heroes, sanitised of bloody stains.

With the odds heavily stacked against Russia, in the war, causing awful misery, and pain,

He attempts, to pit their minds, against other Slavic nations, and the country of Ukraine.

In a David and Goliath battle, with a twist, the cards stacked wrong, victory now in doubt,

It would appear, that the Kremlin’s strategies have failed, Putin has taken the wrong rout.

But still, the goose persists, his bid, selling their souls to Satan, as the dark angel in disguise,

Manipulating more vulnerable minds, bound to face, the flaming missiles, from the skies.

Making scornful charges, toward the cowardly comrades, who took conscriptions flight,

As they headed west, to live another day, from the futile war, that wasn’t theirs to fight.

For they realised, that being free to decide, and live, is far better, than being stone dead,

Escaping the demonic madness, pouring shame on them, now comrades who safely fled.

Beware Russian youth, he still holds the key, to occupy your minds, to lead you all astray,

To join the folly, of his goose stepping on the stage, as fleeting heroes, sent into the fray.

As comrades sent into the ranks, to do as you are commanded, to be a mindless plodder,

To face the grisly onslaught, shortly returning, dressed in black plastic, as cannon fodder!

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Nov 2022)

And Then You Drew a Redline Through Someone Else’s Land

 

And Then You Drew a Redline

Through Someone Else’s Land

Beyond your lavish lifestyle, where only pipedreams, of wealth are had,

Exists the peasant class, overwhelmed, with hopeless sentiments so sad!

As your nations collective inspirations expired, all good has gone askew.

Lateral and divergent thinking, have surrendered, to your point of view!

You’ve bred an indigent nation, full of mindless discontent, while it bled,

Constantly trying to blame the west, in blinding bitterness, and hatred.

The people at your disposal, strictly bound, to do exactly as they’re told,

With their political views, and actions, closely monitored, and controlled.

Living under a dome of silence, in accordance, with your rigid word of law,

As you schemed, plotted, and cast your curse, to keep the peasant’s poor.

Manipulating their thinking, and censuring everything they’d do, and say,

Dousing their thinking fires, and discarding them, when they went astray.

Undermining eastern countries, pitting Slavic nations one against another,

Conscripting kindred, into your futile wars, served up as Cannon Fodder.

But who are we, to question your power, and contempt for innocent life?

The hardship of your mandates, the tension, the discord, and the strife.

What point, that we should dictate terms, call your sins, into contempt?

For you chose a different path, far from the state of humanity, exempt.

As we were left, the acrid taste, the poison, from your chequered lines,

To bear the painful affliction, of the comrades, complicit to your crimes.

And you, and respective kin, will be ostracised, for an awfully long time!

Inside the melting pot, until you’ve learnt to follow, a friendly party line.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Nov 2022)

What Love Begets

 

What Love Begets

Life, set to grow, to love, and learn, a blossoming plume,

Like a tiny bud, beginning to burst, into a beautiful bloom.

Her gorgeous eyes, like radiant gems, that sparkled bright,

Set within her joyful smiles, of happiness, and pure delight.

Her unfiltered curiosity, and inquisitive mind, a tiny sponge,

Being gently nurtured, prepared for life, to take the plunge.

Her tender heart, more precious than, its weight in gold,

And her enchanting innocence, a great pleasure to behold.

Alas, now the captivating colour, from her face has passed,

Her gentle breath has gone; her heart has pulsed its last.

At her side, her devoted parents, stricken with disbelief,

Unable to hide the agony borne, now wracked with grief.

Together lost, within the salty stream, of tears they cried,

As sadness tugs, at their souls, like painful knots inside.

With devoted hearts still tethered to the love, they’ve lost,

Their miserable minds, still too sensitive, to weigh the cost.

Father too emotive, wrought, with the unbearable pain,

Mother powerless, to bring back, her infant’s life again.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Oct 2022)

A Young Daughters Innocence Now Gone

 

A Young Daughters Innocence Now Gone

In the sad, sad, space, wherein her pure innocence once dwelled,

Skulks the unwelcome shame, an abject discontent, unparalleled.

By day, having to face the world, with the awful scars that she hides,

Living in the sallow state, of unease and fear, where misery resides.

Each night, her mind restlessly set, to replay the fears that she faced,

When her childhood dreams, were so crudely shattered, and debased.

Now haunted with horror, playing over, a constant prompt of the pain,

Unable to comprehend, what had happened, nor find peace ever again.

Reliving the wrath each night, her soul sullied over, and ripped apart,

Powerless to stop, the unsavoury demons, now wrenching at her heart.

Terrified of the brutal beasts, who cruelly cast her purity, into disarray,

Apprehensive, that they might return again, to forcefully spirit her away.

Back into that dark cellar, where acrid smells of torture, are still thick,

Where brutal acts, were performed, and the foul stench made her sick.

Dreaded Orcs, leaving her there to die, battered, bloodied, and bruised,

Shivering in shock, sobbing in distress, lying bound, and badly abused.

Fear has no friends, as it plays upon her mind, with worry and torment,

Trapping her, overwhelming, and choking her, with uncontrollable lament,

Now she lives each day, in broken hearted pain, reticent and withdrawn,

Until foul memories, are triggered again, summoning yet another storm.

Painful emotions, so tightly bound, bottled up inside, waiting to escape,

Bringing back the demons, the groping hands, the agony of her rape.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Oct 2022)

Do Svidaniya! Posledneye Proshchay!

 

Do Svidaniya! Posledneye Proshchay!

The Russian mums, have said a hasty goodbye, and it will be their very last,

Their boys are much too young to die, their lives have really quickly passed.

But Putin just wants to fill the gaps, with pawns, and he doesn’t give a toss,

Yes, they are just his cannon fodder, he really doesn’t care about the cost.

Just lives bought with a piece of tin, while Russian son’s decay, turning to dust,

And a brand-new Lada car, that with time, will break down, turning to rust.

The lads are being rushed straight to the frontline, arriving in a day or two,

Comrades issued with rusty Kalashnikovs and expected to know what to do.

Thrown into the deep end, of the bloody cesspool, compelled to sink or swim,

To hold the faltering line, even though the chances of survival, are really slim.

The frontline is like a hungry beast, it devours all the men who come to pass,

Especially the peasant farmers poor sons, and the disadvantaged working class.

They have been told that it is a great honour, to fight under the Russian flag,

Even though within the week, they are likely bound for home, in a body bag!

The boys have bought Putin a little time, that is all, that they could really do,

When it would be much better, if Putin’s packed up his army, and withdrew.