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)

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)