In Confusion Mother Russia Abused

 

In Confusion Mother Russia Abused

Slow the wisdom of time, lessons learned, through hardship, conflict, and war,

Where the truth becomes obscured, with each lie, superseded by many more.

As the layers of silt, that lodge inert, within the muddled minds, deposited stiff,

With lives altered forever, as their hapless souls become lost, to the eternal rift.

Blindly following, the lies they now believe, each form taking its mindless shape,

Their scrambled brains, frozen in the evil trance, where death is the only escape.

Meeting the mountain of mistruths, their minds misaligned, beliefs disarranged,

Starved of truth, pure honesty, isolated from blessed hope, becoming estranged.

The poor people existing, in his wicked web of fear, too frightened to complain,

His mind firmly set on imperialism, power, and wealth, he doesn’t feel their pain

As he blatantly lies to Mother Russia, her people trapped inside his terrible trance,

And the Orcs he doesn’t like, are sent to the frontlines, they do not stand a chance.

Where hundreds become thousands, sacrificed, wasted within his battering ram,

Then he grooms her kids, to die within his grand illusions, he doesn’t give a damn.

As Mother Russia falls, to bended knees, once again she endures the morbid cost,

As her infants are stolen, ripped from her bosom, leaving her soul empty, and lost.

Her heart, wrenched from within, as the massive stacks of corpses, grow ever fast,

Once again, living ancient horrors, as he resets the clock, to the errors of the past.

His greed has no limits, her helpless cries fall on deaf ears, as her sons are slayed,

His distance kept, whilst the poor mothers weep, Mother Russia again betrayed.

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

Caught Within Putin’s Wicked Dream

 

Caught Within Putin’s Wicked Dream

All for the greater good, the Muscovite race, heartlessly renowned,

How many Tatars, Chechens, Bashkirs, Chuvash, now in the ground.

And Avar’s, Armenian’s, Ukrainian’s, Dargin’s, and Kazakh’s planted,

Air of arrogance, superiority, other ethnic groups, taken for granted.

The Bolsheviks, and Mensheviks, Lenin, Stalin, each a cutting cause,

Swinging the double-sided axe, exploiting the rich, robbing the poor.

We have seen, this face before, empty eyes, hiding madness within,

The face of treachery, and trickery, the false guile, its wretched grin.

Plotting corruption, and deception, in brainwashing spells, it binds,

Its false propaganda, perverting and poisoning, other people’s minds.

The disposition, certain to end in confusion, and harbour hate within,

Wicked schemes, set to tangle the world, into darkened knots, of sin.

Betraying mankind’s, sacred rights, to live in peace, to find harmony,

Creating restless souls, that will drift out into space, through eternity.

Now he hath unleashed this war, upon the world, from his bunker lair,

Bidding to control nations, crushing lives, leaving chaos, and despair.

His Orc army, laying waste, to people’s freedom, life and love, outcast,

Destroying culture, burning books, rewriting the narratives, of the past.

Keeping the minorities, locked in poverty, held there, at his beckon call,

Looking down, upon their primitive ways, as if bred, from Neanderthal.

Sacrificing their lives, all for the collective good, of greedy Muscovites,

Creating a heartless, soulless, mindless mess, stealing peasants’ rights.

All hail him, as a God, while he creates new order, from his evil throne,

Within the fields of sadness, from the seeds of misery, that he has sown.

Perhaps one day, his mindless zombies, from fatal blindness, will awake,

See through his deceit, his misguided dreams, and concede him a fake.

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

The Angel Over Me

 

The Angel Over Me

Her head tilting down, wings at rest, hands joined in prayer,

Watching over me, in silence, she is always standing there.

Through the darkest night, prevailing, her solemn vigil kept.

Her graven image, a sad greeting, to those who pay respect.

With shoulders rounded, an evocative tone, a poignant touch,

The sadness on her face, and in her eyes, for some too much.

Our steadfast bond, skilfully sculpted in stone, for all to see,

This divine image, my sacred spirit, faithfully abides with me.

In the distance, there’s a red rose bush, that awakens each year,

From the winters bite, in awe of its blush, people stop and stare.

It is the reddest crimson red, the colour of the greatest sacrifice,

As would be found, growing free, within the garden of paradise.

Oh, if spring, could do the same, bring back colour, to my face,

Raise my spirit, from my long rest, to live in God’s, eternal grace.

And set my Guardian Angel free, at liberty from her marble stone,

To break the spell of death, beset upon, our rigid statures prone.

Alas, life is so fragile, we have not the power, to trade or redeem,

There is no silver lining, to this cloud, set inside my empty dream.

Dear angel, wrap your wings, around my restless soul, I implore,

Shelter me with your love, and be my eternal comfort, evermore.

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

All Her Fledglings Gone

 

All Her Fledglings Gone

Fledglings plucked, from their nests, long before, they have a chance to fly,

Then fed into the inferno, that he has conceived, forsaking them all to die.

Each day sowing more madness, seeding the barren fields, so bitter and cold,

Fueling the iron grip of discontent, as it gradually tightens, the strangle hold.

Half-starved peasants, deprived of their potential, with malnourished faces,

Thoughts forced, by wicked laws, to live dismal lives, in impoverished places.

Sinewy bodies, formed by hardship, cold hearts forged in ice, bound to shatter,

The misery, much too much, many turning to death, where life does not matter.

Looking to free their poor souls, away from the lowly peasant lives, so badly bent,

Unshackling their spirits, from never-ending torture, in the unwelcome ferment.

As Putin harvests his fodder crop, more miserable lives are let, in the field of pain,

Cutting mothers cords, stealing from the poor young souls, over, and over again.

Destitute people, his cursed underdogs, this beast bleeds Old Mother Russia dry,

Creating great wealth from the motherland, as he sits upon his throne on high.

Feeding his loyal supporters, the Muscovites, from his awful crimes, his evil acts,

One day the mothers of the federation will arise, against the gluttonous pacts.

The disgruntled mothers, who have lost all their sons, will end the cursed lament,

And Putin will pay, for his awful sins, the hungry wolves will compel him to repent.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1 POET (December 2023)

Lions Pride

 

Lions Pride

Young cub, bound by the state of abundant love, and respect,

Why so sad? Why does your restless soul languish, in such regret?

Your conscience gnawing, at your soul, to leave the kindle safe,

To walk onward, onto the uncharted roads, as a heatless wraith.

Why do you yearn, for the sound of war, the mighty guns ablaze?

To surrender everything you have, within the battles smokey haze!

Now as you toss, and turn, struggling to hold back the lion inside,

Your world inverted; with restless heart, changed to overdrive.

What spirit has sown, the sad seeds of discontent, and sacrifice?

Planting visions of death, and destruction, by hearts turned to ice.

Your dear mother left, to dread your resolve, so recklessly found,

Her attention set to those, who went before, now in the ground.

And on the ruthless one, the callous one, who will spirit you away,

Summoning you to join the draft, the dead heroes, within the fray.

While many might think you daft, the point that you must make,

As you muster the strength, and courage, you have yearned to take.

To stand, shoulder to shoulder, with all the brave soldiers, in war,

In hope, that you can finally find, what you have been hunting for.

To roar, in the face of death, to rally all the valor, you have inside,

Against all odds, as you become, one in the spirit, of the lion’s pride.

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

Gods Painful Regret

 

Gods Painful Regret

As the creator looked down, into all the empty souls, his angels mourned,

The pain of others, by those who chose, to live their ugly lives, now scorned.

Stealing precious children, with all goodness loathed, battered, and bruised,

A blight upon, the right to choose, the fate of freewill, by bad men abused.

Human traits, inclined to sin, goodness gone awry, in abysmal curse beset,

Sin upon sin, with fearsome monsters bred, devoid of any feeling, or regret.

The beasts laying waste, to all innocence, the sight of their evil sins, obscene,

Minds bereft of grace, never conceived, unrighteous Orc creatures, bred mean.

With no fear of God, bound for a plot in hell, their hearts rotten, to the core,

The soulless beasts, waging ruthless campaigns, against truth, in wicked wars.

With monstrous crimes committed, creating collateral for the world to mourn,

Unwitting souls destroyed, bringing the wrath of God, upon the hateful scorn.

The dreadful waste, Gods eternal regret, for the tiny ones, he could not save,

Pain and misery, a terrible burden, that the loved ones take, to their grave.

He felt the contempt, innocent lambs slaughtered, blood let upon the ground,

The distraught mothers, struck with eternal heartache, a tormenting sound.

No mercy granted, to the heart of stone, who spawned the seeds of badness,

The spineless observer, who loved cowardly acts, his soldiers spreading sadness.

Seated on his unrighteous throne, the wicked one, fallen from freedoms grace,

While humanity shudders to think, the insanity that will occupy Putin’s place?

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

The Eternal Rift

 

The Eternal Rift

Enduring abysmal thoughts, her baby laid to rest, no comfort the grave,

Plagued with punishing sensations, of the little infant, she could not save.

The treasured child departed, confusion welling, within her empty vessel,

Desperately, reimagining the past, set in vivid detail, now a daily wrestle.

In perpetual misery, struck with anxiety, her loving heart emptied out.

Silently suffering, suspended in her sorrow, living the everlasting drought,

Struggling to dismiss, the damaging thoughts, of despair, and depression,

Ardently wishing, her baby back, haunting delusions, taunting obsession.

Fleeting memories, suddenly flooding, to the front, her attention drifting,

Cradle songs, softly sung, now never again, her mood painfully shifting.

Sorely missing, the infant voice, the crying, and contented sounds made,

Little brown eyes, goggling at the world, with inquisitive attention paid.

Desolate mum, lost in soft pastel tones, that created the cozy contrast,

The baby’s room, soft toys, set in the colourful décor, a vision of the past.

The empty cradle gone, where on many long nights, her visual was kept,

Now serving reminder, of the heartache, and sorrow, that she has wept.

Soul consuming pain, eating at her core, wrenching her emotions apart.

Trembling, within the chaos, struggling to repair, the badly broken heart,

An eerie breeze, frequently blowing down, where all the stolen babies lie,

Innocent lost spirits, gravely waiting therein, where miserable mothers cry.

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