In Ghostly Silence in Anzac Cove

 The trenches built on this battlefield often revealed shocking sights of war. Shallow graves and bodies buried in haste in no-man's land. The winter rains exposed decaying bodies in the trench walls. The soldiers paused to reflect between battles, looking into the eyes of the dead, every corpse a story to tell. No wonder they did not want to talk about what they saw if they were fortunate to return home. 

In Ghostly Silence in Anzac Cove

Unsmiling skeleton, what thoughts remain,
Within your empty bones, the lingering pain?
What heart-breaking story barred you from old age,
Now whispered only by the wind across this stage.

Where bone armies lie, in fractured array,
Cast down, forgotten, beneath the light of day;
Wrapped in ghostly silence, your sad tale’s decay,
And drift through the hills where shadows sway.

Beside the spent forms of soldiers’ brave,
Rest sun-bleached skulls, mouths open, never to crave;
Their absent souls have fled the lonely land,
Leaving only silence, scattered like sand.

Gone! the agony, the flesh, the blood, the ruined lives,
Derelict bones sketch the missing forms, hollow eyes;
Gone! the hatred, the screams, the soldier’s cries,
Gone! the ravenous vermin, the swarms of flies.

Gone! the young men’s hopes, the dreams that died,
Everything lost, swept along the tide;
In silence, within these mounds of earth,
Lie the abandoned, the forsaken, denied rebirth.

Silently the broken bones of the good, the bad, the lost,
Lie in solitude, cold beneath the cost;
The grim remains, a testament, stark and grave,
To the soldiers caught in war’s unyielding wave.

Unsmiling skeletons, what secrets do you hold?
What echoes linger in your silence cold?
May wordless silence, and the whispering waves,
Carry your memory beyond these graves.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET 

Despite the Broken Waves That Landed on the Beach

Gallipoli: The Turks had the advantage of the high ground. Wave upon wave they came, desperately defending their land. What a nightmare, a disaster! From the accounts I have read, a brutal campaign where the spirit of Anzac was born. Each year we remember them at dawn parades; we should never forget the price of freedom. 

Despite the Broken Waves 

That Landed on the Beach

Through stealth they came, upon the sea,
In frail boats bound for destiny.
Their oars drew silence, breath by breath,
Across the waiting shore of death.

Some reached their marks through smoke and flame,
While others fell where morning came.
The cliffs loomed black, then rose in light,
Like claws that tore the edge of night.

Each ragged ridge, each gouged ravine,
Reached back toward the deep, unseen.
The hills, like beasts that dared to stand,
Held tight the blood that fed the sand.

The waves came rolling, proud and bold,
Their foaming crests like banners rolled.
They sought to tame the rising tide,
Yet found their strength was swept aside.
The wind screamed through the gaping cliffs,
Its mournful cry like shattered whiffs.
The sea, relentless, groaned and tore,
A dirge that haunted every shore.

At Gallipoli, on Suvla’s strand,
Both sides were claimed by ruthless hand.
The Turks, the Anzacs, none were spared,
All swept by death, all caught unprepared.
Each tortured shout, each final plea,
Echoed along the rocky sea.

They hurled themselves upon the strand,
Where ghosts of soldiers made their stand.
Beneath those claws of rocky scree,
Each cry lost within the endless sea.

Through ravines scarred by fire and pain,
The shattered hopes flowed down like rain.
Washed from the slopes, the blood and clay,
Returned to sea and slipped away.
The hills whispered with every gust,
Their hollow groans recalled the dust.
The waves, relentless, clawed and ground,
Each sorrow swallowed, lost, unbound.

The angry surf, with claw and roar,
Still beats against that haunted shore.
It gnaws the hills, it drags the scree,
To claim its sons from Gallipoli.

A ghostly shipwreck, half-concealed,
Its splintered bones in silence sealed.
Still marks the place, through storm and foam,
Where lost souls found no way back home.

Each wave that breaks, each ebbing breath,
Repeats the endless prayer of death.
It grinds the shore, it smooths the stone,
Till all are one — none left alone.

The sea turned red, the foam ran wild,
It mourned each mother’s fallen child.
And though its heart could never save,
It guards their names beneath each wave.

Now rocks are sand, and sand is bone,
Their dust and memory overthrown.
Yet still the tide extends its hand,
To touch that sacred strip of land.

By day the sun scorched life away,
Through stench and flies, through blood and clay.
Setting red — to mark where fallen lay,
Dysentery claimed its prey.

The air was thick with fevered cries,
Men hollow-eyed with thirst and pain,
They watched as hope within them dies,
And cursed the sun that mocked their slain.
The wind wailed through each ravine,
A chorus for the broken scene.
The surf’s deep groan, the gulls’ harsh call,
Haunted the hills and men and all.

Crimson dusks — where they passed away.

And still it rolls, and still it cries,
Beneath the searing Dardan skies.
Each wave that breaks, each soul released,
Becomes the sea’s eternal priest.

Though ages pass and tempests rage,
The shore remembers war’s cruel stage.
And the sun still burns through every day,
Crimson at night — to remind all who dare.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Revised Nov 2025)

"Tough on Rough" and "The Homeless Factory"

The shopkeepers don't want them sleeping rough in their front doors and the people don't want them living in their homes or back yards. They are a sight we do not want to see, a side of humanity we do not want to be. They have no place to go where they will fit in because of the trouble that they will bring. The damage inside their minds is complex, difficult to fix, so hard to reset.

The Homeless Factory

The homeless factory keeps turning them out,
A failing of society we do not wish to see.
Their minds downtrodden, broken, and confused,
Their world turned upside down from you and me.
They are the broken we fear to be, the abused,
The lost we avoid as we turn and walk away.
Our greatest fear — the mirror we refuse to face —
That one day, even we could fall from grace.

Where there is wealth, there is poverty’s cry,
Where there is laughter, heartache waits nearby.

Tough on Rough

Downtown humanity turns the homeless eye,
As the ragged souls of night still fade away,
They lie on concrete beds beneath the sky,
Their dreams dissolve before the break of day.
The shame we are, we cross the street, we look away.

 

Wrapped tight in plastic sheets against the storm,
Cardboard for walls where mercy lost its way,
Where restless bodies ache, unable to keep warm,
While we sleep safe in comfort’s soft array.
The shame we are, we cross the street, we look away.

 

Averted eyes slide past their hollow stare,
Each gaze a plea we cannot bear to stay,
Their voices vanish in the frozen air,
Our hearts grow numb, our conscience led astray.
The shame we are, we cross the street, we look away.

 

The city hums, indifferent, proud, unkind,
Its polished towers mock the souls astray,
We claim there’s progress, leave the lost behind,
And price compassion out of every day.
The shame we are, we cross the street, we look away.

 

The prisons fill with those who sought scant respite,
They found no peace, no light to guide their way,
Condemned for seeking storefront shelter at night,
Freedom traded for paupers grave a cell of clay.
The shame we are, we cross the street, we look away.

 

They beg for coins to buy a crust and drink,
A fleeting warmth to dull their minds’ dismay,
Or seek a fix to help them cease to think,
Their spirits break where hunger leads astray.
The shame we are, we cross the street, we look away.

 

Addiction hollows what was once the soul,
It burns inside until the will gives way,
It leaves them broken, begging, out of control,
Their bodies frail, their minds in disarray.
The shame we are, we cross the street, we look away.

 

Some die alone, frostbitten where they lie,
Their hearts give out before the break of day,
Their passing silent, none to hear them cry,
Their death is ours—yet still, we turn away.
The shame we are, we cross the street, we look away.

 

Someone’s child lost, their futures gone astray,
Fell through the cracks where no kind hands could stay,
Their minds betrayed by those who led the way,
They called for help, but no one heard them pray.
The shame we are, we cross the street, we look away.

 

The law grows cold, its heart a block of stone,
Those charged to care turn righteous minds to clay,
They strike the weak, to prove their power alone,
And call it social order—in justice gone astray.
The shame we are, we cross the street, we look away.

 

We call ourselves good Christians, so we say,
Our Sabbath shines, we kneel, we sing, we pray,
Yet Christ lay stone cold at our feet one day,
An old man, lost, with nowhere left to stay.
The shame we are, we crossed the street, we looked away.

Once on Chunuk Bair

 

Once on Chunuk Bair

(Wellington Regiment, August 8, 1915)

We moved through dark in single file, no sound, no careless tread,

Each heartbeat loud as cannon fire, each thought of home instead.

The stars looked down with watchful eyes, the earth was cold and bare,

And every man who climbed that slope left half his courage there.

 

No talk, no smoke, no clatter made, just breath and muted fear,

The taste of dust and iron’s tang, the whisper, “Almost there.”

A man slipped once — we froze in place, our nerves a tightened wire,

The night so thick, so close, so still, it smothered all desire.

 

We reached the crest before first light; the world seemed held in prayer,

Then dawn broke wide — a bastard dawn — and hell was waiting there.

The hill exploded, men went down, as lead tore through the air,

The order came to hold the ground, though none were left to spare.

 

They came in waves, the Turks below, their shouting split the sky,

And all we knew was hold the line and shoot until we die.

A Vickers jammed — old Benny laughed and smacked it with his hat,

A shell came in, took Ben and gun, and left no more than that.

 

We called for help — none ever came, command was miles behind,

Those officers with silver spoons and maps that made us blind.

They sent us up with whispered prayers and rifles short on rounds,

While comfort stayed on safer ships and watched from foreign grounds.

 

By noon the ridge was red with blood, the air was burnt and sore,

You couldn’t tell the living ones from those who’d breathe no more.

They said we took the hill that day — I guess we must have done,

But victory’s a hollow word when half your mates are none.

 

At dusk the world grew strangely calm, the guns had lost their bite,

The sea was gold; the sky was fire — it might have been a sight.

But beauty means no bloody thing when pain’s the price you pay,

And those who spoke before the dawn were mostly dead by day.

 

The medics worked with trembling hands, the sand was soaked in red,

One asked for water through cracked lips — his bottle held sand instead.

I sat beside him, said no word, just watched the daylight fade,

And wondered if the gods themselves regret the men they made.

 

They call us brave — perhaps we were, or simply too afraid,

Too proud to turn our backs and run from choices others made.

That’s war, I guess — the upper brass all safe and clean and dry,

While lads like us were fed uphill and left alone to die.

 

Years later a son returned to where that hill still stands,

The grass had grown, the stones were clean, no blood upon his hands.

He climbed that same old battered hill beneath a kinder sky,

Where gulls wheeled over rusted shards and poppies dared to lie.

 

He touched the names upon the slab, so many gone, so near,

And almost heard old Benny laugh — “First man up buys the bloody beer!”

He found his father’s name engraved upon that granite stone,

A single line, but heavy still — he didn’t die alone.

 

He knelt and brushed the dust away, the wind was sharp and clear,

And through the hush he heard again — “First man up buys the bloody beer.”

He stood and faced the rising sun, the same that lit that day,

And felt the ghosts move through the grass before they slipped away.

 

No drum, no gun, no bugle call — just silence, proud and bare,

And one young man who understood what happened at Chunuk Bair.

The wind came cold across the ridge, and whispered through the air,

The kind of sound that chills the soul — Remember Chunuk Bair.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Oct 2025)

Within My Father’s Stride

 

Within My Father’s Stride

 

Each dawn,

I walk the path my father knew —

where morning mist reveals the world anew.

His shadow lingers softly by my side,

a whisper guiding me

within his stride.

 

Through fields once sown by calloused, faithful hands,

I feel the pulse of time

beneath the lands.

Each day’s a test — and oft I fall behind,

failing the hopes

he planted in my mind.

 

He spoke not loud —

yet truth in silence burned;

through humble deeds,

the greater lessons learned.

He met the storm, unbowed, yet full of grace,

and left the light of kindness

in his place.

 

Sometimes my faith, found wanting, drifts aside;

I falter, lost —

and stumble out of stride.

When seeds of envy choke the roots of day,

dark weeds of doubt

obscure my rightful way.

 

Yet when in awe I’m struck by all his work,

by dawns that shine

where unseen blessings lurk,

my compass realigns,

my mind resets —

the soul remembers,

and the heart forgets.

 

For still, I feel his guiding hand incline,

in all things good,

revealing love’s design.

His faith still breathes

within the world’s wide tide —

and I still walk,

within my father’s stride.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Oct 2025)

Beneath the Burden of Weight

 

Beneath the Burden of Weight

He rose from stone and sky alike,

his shoulders built to bear the stars,

the endless wheel of night and day,

the thunder’s pulse, the clash of wars.

The gods had fled their ancient thrones,

and left him chained to fate’s command—

to hold the heavens lest they fall,

and crush the fragile earth by hand.

 

Now ages pass, and myths decay,

his burden shifts, but still remains.

It’s not the sky that weighs him down,

but man’s indifference, greed, and chains.

He feels the tremor of despair,

the cries of hearts that go unheard,

the silence bought by wealth and fear,

the promise drowned in broken words.

 

And now the world he tried to keep

collapses where compassion died—

the rich build towers out of ash,

while children starve on streets outside.

The oceans choke, the forests burn,

the meek are trampled, cast away,

and Atlas—bleeding, bowed, and blind—

still bears the world we’ve torn today.

 

Now cities howl beneath the smoke,

their lights like dying embers fade.

The air is thick with human cries,

the hunger, rage, and debts unpaid.

He hears the pounding of the lost,

their fists upon the walls of stone,

and feels the earth convulse with grief—

a planet breaking, bone by bone.

 

And from the dust the displaced come,

to ruins where their lives began—

with empty hands, no strength to build,

no faith left in their fellow man.

They walk the unforgiving wastes,

where long lost children taint the air,

and time moves on, erasing all—

a world forgets it did not care.

 

Lost souls of people cast aside,

he bears their sorrow evermore—

the weight of ignorance and pride,

the sighted blind, the hearts gone sore.

He sees the ruin, knows the cost—

and mourns the world that mankind lost.

He weeps, yet knows it must be so—

for man must reap the seeds they sow.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Oct 2025)

At the Junction on Crucifix Corner

 

At the Junction on Crucifix Corner

 

Out on the Somme, beside a sideroad, between Albert and Bapaume,

Great War pilgrims pause in silence, where memories whispers on.

There lies a place called Crucifix Corner, beneath some ancient trees,

Where stands a cast-iron cross of faith for every soul that sees.

 

This wayside crucifix, once common all through France,

Survived the shell and fire of war — as if by saintly chance.

Pinned to its weathered arms, Christ’s vision greets the air,

A figure bowed in agony, a symbol of despair.

 

His head is turned, his pain profound, his words once filled the sky:

“Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?” — his final, pleading cry.

Then softly, “Father, to your hands my spirit I commend,”

Leaving us with haunting thoughts no reason can defend.

 

The cross recalls the sacrifice of soldiers, side by side,

Whose blood was shed at High Wood, and how so many died.

Christians against Christians — who could have foreseen

Brethren killing brethren on that tortured, blood-stained green?

 

Just northward lies High Wood — Bois des Fourcaux its name —

Where 8,000 rest beneath the leaves, no marker to their fame.

The wise tread lightly through that place, where silent shadows keep,

And in the hush of Death Valley, their restless spirits sleep.

 

The ground is scarred with shell-holes, trenches, relics of the fight,

Each crater holds its history, each dawn recalls the night.

Visitors who stand and gaze, beneath the solemn sky,

Reflect on human folly — and softly ask us why.

 

Why did they make the sacrifice, for a war that was not won?

How did faith endure the roar of gun on gun?

How did dying men find peace, as their final prayers were said?

How can slaughter yield redemption, or sanctify the dead?

 

Let us remember, not to chide, nor judge, nor to condemn,

But honour what they suffered — and learn from all of them.

For answers do not rest in words, nor even what was taught;

They lie within the hearts of those who bore the fight — and fought.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Oct2025)