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)

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)