In Gelendzhik

 

In Gelendzhik

In Gelendzhik, beside the ancient Sea of Zalpa, there sits a secret palace,

Home to the soulless evil demon, sorely regarded for all his wicked malice.

Beware! The self-proclaimed prince of darkness, who would dwell within,

Be wary of the illegitimate leaders last retreat, wherein he hides his sins!

Set at the end of the river of extortion, where all the dirty money flows,

The top-secret place, where all the stolen wealth, of the Russian people goes.

Proceeds extorted from poor people’s pockets, stolen before their very eyes,

Fortunes covertly embezzled, lifted by his light-fingered servants in disguise.

Great riches robbed, from other regions, and countries round the globe,

For the wickedest oligarch, a malevolent monster, clad in the finest robe.

In silk from the orient, and the finest fibers, fleeced from furry critters,

Mohair and cashmere, especially bred, in the lands of whitebait fritters.

The world’s finest wines, food fit for a greedy king, or a narcissistic tsar,

Canned borscht, beef stroganoff, solyanka, shchi, ukha, and briny caviar.

It is Putin’s lair, the point of escape, where the evil despot plans to stay,

The extravagant place, of clandestine retirement, to end his wicked ways.

Built on the blood and sweat of others, terrible torture, misery, and pain,

Great rooms tiled in imported marble, placed with scant regard of disdain.

Solid silver n gold, in great abundance, and vaults, full of precious stones,

Priceless relics and paintings, pilfered from museums, and people’s homes.

Safely hidden in Gelendzhik, entrenched beneath, the baren rock and trees,

Concealed in the solid bunker complex, behind rocky cliffs, and rugged scree.

Constructed with solid reinforced concrete, buried way below the ground,

A fortified sanctuary, where an evil nest of nasty criminals, will be found.

The Hague has another place, where with his henchmen, he will stay a while,

Once from all their hiding places, they have been routed and sent to trial!

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

Like Pawns Within Putin’s Game

 

Like Pawns Within Putin’s Game

Be ever wary of the wicked moves he makes, his devious strategies in play,

As every counter, is thoughtlessly sacrificed at will, then casually cast away.

And all that they are worth, mere unthinking pawns, in his dangerous game,

Each holding little value, in his evil eyes, each is a number, without a name.

The wicked he has bred, moral fibers erased, within their unwitting minds,

Their sinful souls are lost and sold, there is no returning them back in time.

Their withered cortexes, have been corrupted, converted, and lead astray,

All goodness has been extinguished, now there is no lamp, to light their way.

Empathy condemned, and dispelled, by broken promises, and shameless lies,

Their future has fallen, into the land of no hope, within their fractured minds.

There is no escape, they are content, to live within, the hopeless hand of fate,

And wear cheap tin medals, for war crimes committed, in the name of state.

To sweat it out for Putin, all bound to be transformed, into his bloody brine,

Cannon fodder with no withdrawal, no turning back, behind the bloody line.

The Kremlin’s agenda has been firmly fixed, Russia has planted hatreds seeds!

Now it will take many generations, for humanity to eradicate the weeds!

It is time to cast the unruly mob aside, to cleanse the world, of their vile sins!

Before they spread more dirt amongst us! And seed their perverted evil within!

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

 

When Love Turns to Mothers Wrath

The overwhelming joy of birth, in painful acts endured, as new parts of them are born,

The daunting challenges of childhood, with so many knocks, along roads already worn.

In a minefield of emotions let loose, of loves frustrations, worry, concern, and fatigue,

The tireless task, of building bonds so strong, bound within the ancient mother’s league.

Forged in the fires of maternal matrescence, in antenatal acts of evolving motherhood,

Facing the forbidding fears of failure, with an ounce of neglect, an inherent likelihood.

Dutifully watching, over each part of them, in the menacing world, of risk and threat,

Each infant, facing the challenges set before them, bumps and bruises, blood and sweat.

The teenage years, a step above the rest, a period of rapid change, and very little thanks,

As the adolescent voice becomes louder, and attempts to split, from the childhood ranks.

Then, as the tired mothers utmost fear approaches, that there will come the final day,

Within her hands the world, that she holds, each part from her, will finally break away.

When, she can no longer hold on to forever, the day she must, set her beloved doves free,

To soar in the sky of hope, amidst the clouds breaking blue, to rise above the raging sea.

Alas, war has never held a place, within a mother’s heart, somewhere beyond her dreams,

As wicked men, would like to pocket, what is not theirs to take, in their reckless schemes.

To take sons and daughters, and squander all their childhood dreams, lost in wicked war,

To feed them to the wolves, before the youngsters really know, what they are fighting for.

As the mother’s progeny is torn apart, the inconsolable grief, becomes too much to bear,

The part of her, she loved so much, is laid to waste, in deaths decay, gone beyond repair.

And she is left, to abide in woeful wake, over the love now lost, the strong bonds broken,

Flesh and blood, wrenched from her core, replaced with ruthless anger, rudely awoken.

She will turn to face the thunderous storm, with the grieving mother’s wrath unbound,

Full of bitterness and scorn mothers revolting, venting hate on Putin’s hallowed ground.

Sending the callous form, on into the pit of hells eternal fire, where his evil soul awaits,

As the mother’s purge Russia, of his band of wicked disciples, through their iron gates.

In their hearts, the place where they held the precious ones, once in proud embrace aloft.

Within the arms empty cradle, is a wretched well of pain, where boils the mothers wrath.

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

All for the Pleasure of Pain

 

All for the Pleasure of Pain

Laying down a path, of destruction, where life will never be the same,

Supporting the work his army has wrought, the pestilence, and the pain.

With civilians gunned down, in the streets, as they tried in vain, to escape,

All the heartache and agony, the rotten plague of torture, and all the rape.

What evil mind possessed, would derive, so much pleasure from the pain?

 

The mindless misery, broadcast to a shocked world, struck in disbelief.

What unfeeling empty heart, could not feel the anguish, and the grief?

Attempting to twist the truth, at each turn he makes, and every bend,

Lacking even an ounce of regret, without intent to ever make amends.

Conspiring in kind, to take so many innocent souls, what wretched thief?

 

Leaving thousands of harmless people floundering, in distress and despair

As their homes and cities, were systematically destroyed, in his nightmare.

Stolen children, transported away like cattle, taken from the ones they love,

While he lays claim to the throne, and staunch orthodox beliefs from above.

Laying waste to the children of God, the poor families broken beyond repair.

 

As we wonder, looking to his mother and father, and how badly he was bred,

A childhood devoid of compassion and love, all the delusions, that he was fed.

Now trying to take, what is not his to take, the lives of other children abroad,

Twisting minds, shaping their lives, instilling mistruths, and paternal discord.

Creating the next generation of Orcs, a fearsome hoard with evil to spread.

 

The brutal suffering, and eternal sorrow wrought, within his bloody campaign,

Whereupon a burden, within each other country, he leaves his crimson stain.

Carnage raining down, upon innocent civilians, as they sleep, from the skies,

As he holds on to his fearsome regime, feeding people with his shameless lies.

We wonder, what architect would draw, such ungodly pleasure. from the pain?

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

Here After Damned

 

Here After Damned

In the desolation of night, the walking dead will return, to desecrate his sallow stone,

For him, the wicked one, who stole tiny souls, ripped them from their loving homes.

The poor innocent children, now locked in deaths dark grip, that struck them free,

From the evil world, he strove to create, now plumbing the dark depths of eternity.

Where time doesn’t care, and space is lost, within the sombre shadows haunted,

As he sold his soul, to become the heartless empty form, by restless victims taunted.

Aimlessly they will congregate about his grave, set astray, knowing no other place,

While they drift without relief, the soulless sea of pain and grief, the hollow space.

Gathering at the place, where he finally drowned, within the sins of his emptiness,

All the lies and deceit, the awful games he played, of torture, agony, and distress.

His loyal followers damned, as they worshiped the ground, upon which he walked,

Living his morbid dreams, his crazy aspirations, the web of treachery he talked.

The survivors will despise his name, along with those in kind, when he is passed,

Knowing that all the damage he has done, the children slayer has slated his last!

As Puzin’s crew, are vehemently pursued, Vatnyk’s, Orcs, and convicts, his plague,

Set to answer for the torture and rape, their heinous crimes, before the Hague.

While, for Ukraine’s brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers, there’ll be little relief,

Living in the awful shadow, the Putzites cast, struggling with loss, in eternal grief.

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

Slava Ukraini

 

Slava Ukraini

Standing there, at the point of their guns, he definitely would not yield!

His mind was set, it would be to the death, his fate was already sealed.

In the shallow grave, that they had him dig, he wouldn’t flinch, nor feign,

In his mind, two brave words, that would be his last, Glory to Ukraine!

In defiance, he looked them straight in the eye, he dared not look away,

While they played out their wicked game, he didn’t wince, he didn’t sway.

What were his final thoughts, as he drew deep, upon his very last smoke,

Soldier of Ukraine, why did he choose, those brave words, that he spoke?

For he so loved his kin, and homeland too, he knew that his time was nigh,

He didn’t beg mercy, he didn’t tremble, nor whimper, neither did he cry!

He didn’t bow down, brave soldier of Ukraine, he made his country proud,

All glory to Ukraine! When he spoke his mind, “SLAVA UKRAINI” Out loud!

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

As Sorrow Followed Pain, Now One Year On

 

As Sorrow Followed Pain, Now One Year On

As the world takes shock, at his methodical acts of genocide, of generating fear and disdain,

Putin has waged his callous acts, upon Ukraine, for one year on, and he must own the shame.

It’s been a shocking war, full of lies and deceit, even though he still maintains, “It isn’t war!”

With his savage packs insatiable thirst, the lust for civilian blood, their barbaric acts abhorred.

Damn his mob of misfits, those evil orcs, degenerates extracted from prisons, while doing time,

Transported from their dark cells, into the ruthless meat grinders, committing horrific crimes.

The heartless hordes, he has bred to hate, really relishing the execution, of their sadistic deeds,

Content to take, what wasn’t theirs, in the brazen theft, for the windfalls of war, and greed.

The senseless slaughter, guiltless blood cast in homes, where overwhelming sorrow followed pain.

Upon Ukraine’s innocent residents, its women, and little children, they have really paid in pain,

In Bucha infants watched, their families tortured, raped, and shot, under duress they cried,

As the terrifying orcs, cast such awful expressions, upon their parents faces, before they died.

Laid out in the shallow pools of misery, the blood they shed, slaughtered, and badly battered,

Now unable to bear witness, to the chilling crimes committed, the devoted families slaughtered.

Then fearsome looks firmly fixed, upon the murdered infant faces, as they became their prey,

The poor children, their unfortunate souls cast, as decay wiped their painful expressions away.

The survivors of Mariupol, their homes and city left in ruins, and the ones they loved all lost,

Now left with empty feelings, laced with unforgettable misery, now forced to pay griefs cost.

Unduly bound, minds set in servitude, to those terrifying visions inside, haunted forever more,

Of the painful lessons wrought, while left wondering, what all the senseless suffering was for?

Each day interrupted, now unable to move on, their broken minds badly twisted and strained,

Dwelling in the scenes they saw, in the pain of the unwanted losses, that they have sustained.

The mass graves located near Chernihiv and Kherson, thousands of civilians dead, lives unfurled,

Nauseating odours found in the forests, concealed from sight, the truth hidden from the world.

Now the forensic experts are attempting to piece together the truth, the ghastly stories they tell,

As observers stand by, witnessing with grim faces, each sod revealing the awful scenes from hell.

The grisly evidence being etched within their minds, documenting, and tallying the score insane,

Repulsed by the genocide acts they have seen, betwixt within, the realms of life, death, and pain.

Deep feelings of sorrow, at sights the world really doesn’t need to see, but definitely comprehend,

Of the death that ensued, on the suffering brought, now evil shall answer, its crimes condemned.

I ask you, “Are the lives of the innocent infants worth less, than all the wealth one can amass?

The mansions in gold adorned, the mineral deposits in the ground, the fields full of oil and gas.

Can you hear the desperate people’s cries, in your mind, and can you detect deaths putrid smell?

Is your heart filled with terrible sadness, an empty void, the utter waste of life on earth in hell?

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (March2023)

Freedom From the Fool Who Chases Wild Dreams

 

Freedom From the Fool Who Chases Wild Dreams

Be wary the fool, who would deny, the eternal force, that resonates so strong,

In the heart of pure gold, his mother once yearned, him to possess, now gone!

As he firmly resists goodness, that could grow inside, in place of his wilful sin,

Resisting the failing feelings, of compassion, from the dark emptiness, within.

As he rewrites the future, with forecasts unwritten, by wise oracles, now past,

Presiding upon his war, fuelling discontent, beside Lucifer’s horns, locked fast.

Spreading lies, and discontent, missiles, and bombs, then suddenly good will,

Unashamedly forgetting last year, and all the innocent blood that he spilled.

His brazen order, to pause from war, and have a tiny slice of heaven for a day,

With the wounds he’s inflicted too deep, the sad hearts too raw, to turn away.

The soulless destruction, that he hath blatantly wrought, and cruel genocide,

In the prelude, of what he has blindly planned, from his stance, all wild-eyed.

To sit upon, a great throne, its footings firmly entrenched, upon spilt blood,

From the ancient foundations, of other great nations, trampled into his mud.

By his marauding Orcs, erasing the purity, of the children, they came upon,

Their brutal acts typified, ensuring that any trace of innocence, was gone.

And harmless people, who his malevolent monsters, murdered and raped,

In their drug, and alcohol fuelled frenzy, to the salty taste of blood slaked.

And other Slavic nations he planned to destroy, to submit, and turn to dust,

As he continued, to commit great sins, before his God, with unsustainable lust.

Now beware his dreams demise, by the resolute heart, that has grown strong,

To beat as one, with great courage, and resolve, beating back, his evil throng.

Bringing salvation to their land, at great cost, restoring law and order, again,

Together freeing the people from fear, fighting for the brave country, Ukraine!

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

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)