I Cry Me A RIVER OF PAIN

 

I Cry Me A RIVER OF PAIN

An awful day of terror, and mindless slaughter, has created mayhem,

Horrific scenes, of brutal attacks, the world was bound, to condemn.

Those flashbacks to October 7, that awful day, spawning acts to avenge,

Against those, who worship other gods, following the God of Revenge.

That evoked the God of War, God of Slaughter, and the God of Genocide,

I desperately wonder why, the God of Compassion, has been cast aside.

Now the ground is running red, from so many young hearts, unwound,

That bled out, and dried, mixed by desert winds, dust blown bloody brown.

Fertilizing the seeds of misery, where the awful acts of terror were sown,

Treasured lives undone; flesh ripped and torn; marrow from bone, blown.

Making their last stand, Hamas still refuse, to set the poor hostages free,

While the tears of dreadful pain, and eternal grief, flow towards the sea.

Now famine, thousands of infants, caught in the middle, of the madness,

As awful images are flashed around the world, from the sea of sadness.

Netanyahu’s government, resolute to erase, and both sides at loggerhead,

While inside Gaza, the terrorists hide, amidst the dying, and the dead.

Israel has sanctioned, sins it committed, assassinations fervently denied,

As many more innocent lives are taken, adding intensity, to hatreds tide.

Gone the contentious dream, of “The River to the Sea,” so conflict-ridden,

The makeshift missiles, tunnels of terror, the network so carefully hidden.

The son of God, who taught love, to mankind, now tangled in razor wire,

The land of Canaan, deaf to desperate calls, for unconditional ceasefire.

This not, what The League of Nations foresaw, the mandate of Palestine

The hope, a new world would be built, from ruins of old, and set in time.

Nor the United Nations, partition of state, setting Jews and Arabs apart,

For history has shown, riddled with conflict, bound to fail from the start.

I guess, forever damned, divided by everlasting hate, and never to agree,

As we are left, to cry a river of pain, flowing from the “River to the Sea!”

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

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)