All Drawn Together in Deep Sorrow Wrung

 

All Drawn Together in Deep Sorrow Wrung

The mourning bell, often chimed, with unforeseen grief, in sorrow rung,

With sallow tones, cast upon each face, to the sounds of sadness sung.

Blinding tears rent, flooding from war torn eyes to eternal grieve cleft,

Distressed people, the shell struck nation, broken hearts, in sadness heft.

Heads bowed in solemn prayer, to reflect upon each soul, sadly erased,

In reverence of each live, that has been lived, lasting images engraved.

In confusion, so many questions enduring, within their minds, “Why?”

Hands raised together in prayer; spiritual thoughts extending to the sky.

Within each heart, poor souls beset, unwanted symptoms of tragic news,

Left to reason, wherefore tragedy struck, their thoughts totally confused.

Eyes set, where the hands, upon the face of time, for a half beat, stopped,

Wretched echoes, fearsome sounds reverberating, from the missiles dropped.

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

Hands of revenge, that in loud thunderclap, to the unwanted beat of wars.

Within the motherland, lives wrenched, to and fro, like pendulums swinging,

Life marking time, all counting down, with shellshocked ears, loudly ringing.

Each person waiting, for dooms hammer blow, the final stroke, of awful pain,

To spend infinity, time eternal, in a grave, where their remnants will be lain.

The fervent bonds of love, so badly broken, with all thought of salvation lost,

Beyond the devastation wrought, together paying the debt, of freedoms cost.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (April 2024)

Within the Alchemy of Evil Spells A Tear Fell

 

Within the Alchemy of Evil Spells A Tear Fell

As Putin dared, to stare into Satan’s eyes, Satan glared right back at him,

Bewitched, by the ancient legend, of Pandoras box, its wicked spells within.

He knew, he must possess, the power of the box, to control each evil spell,

To steal all hope, from within men’s hearts, and in its place, implanting hell.

As deep desire swelled inside, growing ever stronger, his ugly tumor burst,

Envy and greed, bred by all the bitterness, and resentment, set in the past.

He mustered disharmony, disease, pestilence, war, and crimes of genocide,

And masked the awful crimes, he had his army do, with all truth nullified.

Slashing and shredding humanity, undeterred by the thought of The Hague,

Innocent civilians, murdered in distant lands, where spread his rotten plague.

As the cities of Ukraine were wracked, with a dreadful symphony of sound,

By missiles, and drones, he sent, the poor citizens pounded, into the ground.

Revenge evoked, by aftermaths, festered in many nations, around the world,

But the wrath of death, he had seeded, rebounded back, suddenly unfurled.

In memory of, awful sounds of sirens, each time hells gates, had opened wide,

Torrents of blood, weighing on hearts, eternal flood of tears, that never dried.

Each country the plagues of fear, had burst their banks, into tempest cried.

Endless heartache, from towns and cities, where rivers of grief had flowed,

It was more than likely, that sooner or later, Putin’s world would implode.

As the free world stood by, and watched the crisis, fearful of an apocalypse

Revenge he bred, in the dark world of terrorism, bore retaliation on its lips.

And now the foundations of hell, have been uprooted, by an unwelcome sod,

A drop of blood fell, as if from the sky, many thought it, the wrath of God.

To serve as warning, of much more to come, in penance, of all of Putin’s sin,

There in the kingdom of lies, it fell at Crocus Hall, the tragedy felt within.

At an unlikely time, a crowded place, within the capital of terror, and lies,

The masked intruders, all cloaked in darkness, four extremists in disguise.

On this mixed day, disease, pestilence, and war, returned to Putin’s door,

When all the madness, that he had crafted, returned to Russia’s shore.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (March 2024)

Left Gasping for Air

 

Left Gasping for Air

Each awful wave jerking, wrenching at their minds, dragging them down,

Unable to resist the weight, overwhelming anxiety, making them drown.

Within each wash, dust, and shock, leaving them breathless, gasping for air,

The insanity too much to comprehend, apprehension raging with despair.

Uncertainty painting awful pictures, with frightful visions, of the unknown,

Booming explosions above, the ground shaking, villages into debris blown.

Thought of the future on hold, hope distracted, all their dreams shattered,

The thunderous noises resonating, sirens wailing, attention badly battered.

Hearts surrendering to certain death, desperately clutching onto salvation,

Each startling blast, sending shock waves, met with scathing condemnation

Every second split, in imminent threat, helplessly waiting for the fatal blow,

Death lingering above, spreading distress, and agony, time dragging slow.

Women and kids screaming, the dreadful menace, leaving them distraught,

Unable to escape the violent force set above, engulfed in fearsome thought.

Mothers sobbing, unable to restrain their emotions, overwhelmed with fear,

Clutching their infants, close to their hearts, ardently wrestling to persevere.

Where is their salvation, an end to this agony, the relentless sorrow and pain?

Who will stop this coldblooded killing, heartless war? Why are they delaying?

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

Dis-Putin

 

Dis-Putin

In the Kremlin, the Non president, nonelect, the man of many masks,

A wraith spots the difference, in innocence, the poor little child asks.

Which is the real Putin, how can we tell, is it disPutin, or datPutin?

Shish little brat, for in Putin’s precinct, there must be no disputing.

So, which one did they vote for, the people too scared, to demand,

Which polyPutin, is the true Putin, the real Russkiy ruler of the land?

The FSB, are in no doubt, which polyPutin, is the ruler of the nation,

The poor little brat, whisked away, and off to camp, for re-education.

Its parents tortured, and soundly beaten, for a child asking questions,

In Russia it is a crime, to cast doubt on the mandate, of the elections.

The father is off, to the meatgrinder, there is no point, in doing time,

This misguided muscovite, a real threat, complicit to the awful crime.

Six more years of lies and false propaganda, and war will carry on,

More mystifying deaths, vanishing people, until all opposition is gone.

The state narrative, a landslide victory, by a country mile, and a half,

The implications of which are, in reality sad, we really cannot laugh!

Winning by 87.97% of nothing, the political victory, branded a sham,

The people set again, to really suffer, and datPutin doesn’t give a damn!

The world to be torn apart, if disPutin has his way, everything in sight,

Another term of misery, with crimes to commit, this his wicked blight.

One day, the camp kids will graduate, straight into polyPutin’s ranks,

To fight in disPutin’s wicked wars, lives shortened, by guns and tanks.

In Russia, the next generation, are to be seen, but never to be heard,

Their future is in datPutin’s hands, by self-decree, it is his final word!

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (March 2024)

The Immortal Soldier

 

The Immortal Soldier

As the old veteran’s, at least four score and ten years, join in the parade,

To celebrate their victory, over Nazi Germany, and the part they played.

Where are the immortal soldiers, of that brutal war, their valour praised,

Named beyond the fields of death, memories on stone monuments raised.

The legends living on, of greatest sacrifice, their dear lives for others given,

For the future they forged, against the malevolent forces, they hath riven.

Mortal men, who shed their blood, with courage, the people’s saviours sent,

Now buried amidst, their brothers in arms, within the Immortal Regiment.

Resurrected each Victory Day, by those, who shouldered pains awful loss,

Sons and daughters, marching in their place, the ones who bore the cost,

Beside others, who have assembled to join the cult, to venerate the event,

Adhering to the Kremlin’s narrative, the evocative tone set, as they lament.

Now the immortal soldiers, turn in their graves, their restless souls pained,

By Putin’s awful breed of ruthless Orcs, his convicted killers bloodstained.

Drunken brutes, wearing gold star medals, for heinous crimes committed,

For services rendered, against innocent victims, their sentences acquitted.

There is no honour, among the liars, thugs, and thieves, Putin has created,

Within the dreadful apparitions, of fear and terror, that he has cultivated.

The shame he has brought upon humanity, its bloodstains upon his hand,

And the shameful stain, he has placed, upon the immortal soldier’s brand.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (March 2024)

No Comfort Cradle to the Grave

 

No Comfort Cradle to the Grave

Death has risen from a new hole in the ground, over again,

It does not discriminate, any age, or race, its quarry claimed.

The immortal child, lost in the eternal waste, sad victim of war,

Wrenched away, without any idea, what all the fighting was for.

Planted in the ground, like an infertile seed, sown out of sight,

Poor soul, its spirit released, left to drift, into the eternal night.

In forever, time without end, its awful plight, we dare not know,

This fruitless seed, beloved dead infant, alas, it shall never grow.

Perhaps, it has joined the lost legion, of other souls, in the drift,

Where the tide of misfortune, holds other restless souls, in the rift.

We really do not know, for there and back, a path never walked,

Ours to speculate, the mysterious unseen world, seldom talked.

Some would say, now in God’s hands, such a comforting theory,

Where angels softly sing, in perfect harmony, and never weary.

While others believe, it may have taken another form, on earth,

Starting over, within another creature, wistful notion of rebirth.

Or does it rise each night, searching for a host, beware the dark,

Where phantoms, wraiths, and ghosts, doth haunt the celestial arc.

Maybe it remains, within the lonely grave, waiting to reconnect,

Amidst the weeds, and wildflowers, sadly passing time, in neglect.

For the day, when it will hear, its name called, soft words spoken,

As the mother in black, silently weeps, with sad memories awoken.

No comfort the grave, such a desolate place, of sadness and dearth,

The cold damp cradle, set in wretched rows, within mother earth.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (March 2024)

Into Oblivion

 

Into Oblivion

Her sons have gone, for the heartless narrative of, “The Greater Cause!”

Sent by the despot, who has a mind-numbing passion, for endless wars.

The mental disposition, where pure love, and hope, are strictly vacuumed,

Where all dreams are gone, goodness and potential, have been exhumed.

Leaving spellbound souls, constrained within, the tyrants evil trance, struck,

Where they have lost the will, to escape, locked inside worthlessness, stuck.

Trapped in the mindless pit, of misery, with no way out, but the one they see,

To give up upon, the tide of despair, committing their unsettled souls, to sea.

To war, rounded up, off the streets, and within their homes, as they slept,

Leaving their infant children, and wives in tears, and poor families wrecked.

Then cast out upon foreign soil, where the broken go, to die before their time,

Along the awful roads often trod, that lead to oblivion, their lives out of line.

In their mind’s eye, visions broken, like puzzles cast, into ten thousand parts,

Where all reason, and purpose are lost, unable to repair, their broken hearts.

Where they will be fatally wounded, and left there to die alone, in awful pain,

Amongst the hopeless broken men, who do not care, their minds gone insane.

What omen, could break the oppressors wicked curse, that binds them fast,

To save the pawns, whose potential will be wasted, to break the spell at last.

Only when Mother Russia, once again, ignites the spark, that dormant lies,

Buried deep in the people’s hearts, then once again, her great nation will rise.

As the fire is lit, that will burn bright, as dreams, and courage, again returns,

To rid the state of the lies, and raise the Russian flag there, where Putin burns.

As it casts off the chains, and shackles of fear, created by his murderous pack,

Rounding up the traitors, all Putin’s loyalists, who hold the entire nation back!

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Feb 2024)