The Christmas Trees in Morrinsville

 

The Christmas Trees in Morrinsville

In Morrinsville on Christmas Eve,
The child he was still dares believe,
He watches through the chilly air,
As daylight fades — the streets lie bare.

The Art Gallery gleams,
Each window hums of festive dreams,
He’s seen the trees brought one by one,
Their tinsel blazing with the sun.

He lies upon the bench outside,
No hearth, no home, no place to hide,
His stomach aches, the day’s been long,
As Ruru starts his mournful song.

The hunger hums, the shadows creep,
His eyelids fall — he drifts to sleep,
And in that drift, his heart takes flight,
To childhood dreams of Christmas night.

He smells the spruce, the frosted pine,
(Though summer scents the warm night fine),
The paper crackers pop! and bang!
While children’s laughter softly sang.

Show stoppers glint, the toppers glow,
Glass balls and stars in golden row,
Velvet butterflies take flight,
And bells and bows adorn the night.

Icicles shaped from crystal glass,
Catch streetlights as the dreaming’s pass,
Gingerbread men and candy canes,
And sweets that dance through windowpanes.

Chocolate wrapped in foil bright,
He tastes within his dream’s delight,
While angels hover, soft and low,
And reindeer prance in candle glow.

Five-pointed stars in silver gleam,
He drifts within his yuletide dream,
Snowmen grin in hats of red,
Though none have graced this summer yet.

Streamers wave, the lanterns glow,
Bambi dear in gentle show,
Nativity scenes, a fairy’s wand,
Recall the home to which he’s fond.

The town grows still, the lights grow dim,
A distant choir lifts its hymn,
He sleeps where golden shadows fade,
And peace wraps round the dreams he made.

Then morning breaks — Town Siren’s cry,
Cuts through the blue December sky,
The streets lie quiet, the air is still,
It’s Christmas Day in Morrinsville.

Some early walkers, passing near,
Stop by the bench and feel a tear,
“Come home with us, without delay,
No one should wake alone today.”

He follows slow, his spirit stirred,
By kindness found in one kind word,
They feed his heart, his hunger gone,
And sunlight crowns the dreaming on.

For though the years had worn him thin,
The Christmas dream still burned within,
And Morrinsville, beneath the sun,
Proved love and hope can still be one.

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

Lost Child of War

 The longer version. Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET

Lost Child of War
Happy child, the world was yours,
swathed in love and happiness.
You wandered where the skylark soars,
your laughter born of gentleness.

 

Your heart was pure, your spirit free,
you sang to skies of endless blue.
You danced with butterflies in glee,
‘midst blooms that kissed the morning dew.

 

Through meadows bright and fragrant air,
you chased the sun, its golden flame.
Each day a dream, beyond despair,
a world untouched by sorrow’s name.

 

When winter came with gentle chill,
your mother’s arms became your keep.
Safe from the storm, you lingered still,
wrapped warm in love, you fell to sleep.

Then came a sound no soul foresaw,
a scream that split the morning sky.
The heavens cracked, the earth in awe,
as dreams were crushed and forced to die.

 

The world imploded—hearts were torn,
the light of love to darkness cast.
All innocence, once softly born,
was buried in the thunder’s blast.

The sky turned red, the ground grew wild,
her small hands reached for air, for grace.
The world she knew—a weeping child,
now smoke and ruin took its place.

 

She called for those she could not find,
her voice a thread in choking dust.
It echoed deafness, cold, unkind,
as walls collapsed and dreams were crushed.

 

Through shattered glass the daylight bled,
the silenced cries replaced her song.
The scent of fear, of fire, of dread—
the child of joy, where had she gone?

Her breath grew soft, her heartbeat slow,
the din of war began to fade.
A lullaby the ashes know,
sang low where innocence was laid.

 

Her gaze turned within, to depart,
as if she saw beyond the flame.
A whisper left her fragile heart—
one final sigh, one whispered name.

Above her stillness, wings grew weak,

the guardian wept through ashen air.

He tried to sing, yet could not speak,

to spare the grief no soul should bear.

 

Too young to know of rage or war,

she never learned what vengeance means.

Her heart was pure, untouched by gore,

unsullied by the wicked schemes.

 

He knew he could not mend her pain,

nor stitch the broken threads of light.

No prayer could breathe her life again,

no hand restore the vanished sight.

 

Beneath his fallen star he knelt,

his tears like rain on scorched remains.

He wept for all the pain she felt,

for shattered worlds and love’s lost chains.

 

The ones who brought such death to light

knew not her name, nor cared at all.

Their souls long severed from the right,

blind to the lives they’d see to fall.

 

He whispered prayers the winds would keep,

to guard her rest where angels roam,

and vowed through time, though heaven weep,

her soul would find its way back home.

Below, the world turned on, unaware,
the smoke still rose, the sirens cried.
No time to mourn, no pause, no prayer—
the living pressed, the lost denied.

 

The toys lay strewn, the garden scarred,
a doll’s face stained with ash and grime;
her laughter stilled, her memory marred,
forgotten soon by march of time.

Remember the Old Contemptibles

They were the old regular army, wiped out at the beginning of WW1. They bravely fought until the last soldier left. Their legend is eternal! 

Remember the Old Contemptibles

By Alan.Clark@WW1POET

It was in the fields of Belgium, that they made their final stand,
As they boldly fought with brazen will, to the very last man.
Loyal to the regiment — the only family they knew —
A rough-hewn band of fighting men, steadfast, brave, and true.
For they were the career soldiers, and the army was their trade,
And this — the bloody battle — that ended the Contemptible Brigade.

Recklessly bidden to the wicked wrath of war, lost heroes made,
Felled before the westward sun, their lives in honour laid.
Among their dearest comrades, they did not die alone,
They took up sword and rifle and cast the everlasting stone.
For they were the career soldiers, and the army was their trade,
And this — the bloody battle — that ended the Contemptible Brigade.

With fearless hearts they stood their ground, and had a final crack,
Against unyielding odds — they knew there’d be no turning back.
They sensed what grimness waited, what thunder would be hurled,
Yet dug in deep with iron will, to face a darkening world.
For they were the career soldiers, and the army was their trade,
And this — the bloody battle — that ended the Contemptible Brigade.

As German ranks came marching from the treeline far away,
The Old Contemptibles made ready to face the sea of grey.
Grimly they waited, till that tide was well within their range,
They knew the odds of living on were far beyond their change.
For they were the career soldiers, and the army was their trade,
And this — the bloody battle — that ended the Contemptible Brigade.

At last, the order sounded; the riflemen took their aim,
Their “mad minute” of fire began — precise, relentless flame.
Fifteen rounds each minute rang, the grey tide checked in fright,
As the storm of lead and thunder fell upon them through the night.
For they were the career soldiers, and the army was their trade,
And this — the bloody battle — that ended the Contemptible Brigade.

When the first wave broke and fled, the regulars held fast,
Knowing well another storm would follow on the last.
Then came the pounding guns, the screaming shrapnel rain,
Still, they held their shattered line, through agony and pain.
For they were the career soldiers, and the army was their trade,
And this — the bloody battle — that ended the Contemptible Brigade.

Behind the smoke, the sea of grey surged forward once again,
Into that field of death where so many would remain.
The force grew ever greater — wave on wave they came,
Marching on to Paris, to stake their mortal claim.
Through the Old Contemptibles, whose army was their trade,
And this — the bloody battle — that ended the Contemptible Brigade.

Once more they held their fire until the moment dire,
Then the field erupted — the “mad minute” in fire.
But the tide kept surging onward, no matter how they tried,
Till they knew at last the flood would not be turned aside.
For they were the career soldiers, and the army was their trade,
And this — the bloody battle — that ended the Contemptible Brigade.

The big guns thundered onward, as the Contemptibles fell away,
As more and more were swallowed in the smoke of death’s decay.
Their orders were plain and simple — to hold the line they must,
But the sea of grey poured over them and trampled them to dust.
Even though they were the soldiers, and the army was their trade,
This bloody battle was the one that ended the Contemptible Brigade.

And as they lay there dying — still loyal, unafraid —
Some raised their rifles one last time and fired through the shade.
When the final shot was spent, and their time on earth was done,
The field fell still in silence, beneath the setting sun.
For they were the career soldiers, and the army was their trade,
They died a soldier’s death — along with the Old Contemptible Brigade.

Where Time Marked Time

 We Will Remember Them. Fathers, Sons, Uncles, Friends, and Foe.

Where Time Marked Time

The morning breaks with silent mist,

The dew like tears upon the grass.

I walk the field where once you kissed

The earth, where echoes never pass.

 

Your shadow lingers in the light,

A pulse of memory, faint, yet clear.

Though war has stolen you from sight,

Your laughter’s song remains so near.

 

The poppies bend where blood was spilled,

Soft whispers in the hollow air.

The final post, the bugle thrilled,

Calls us to honor, mourn, and care.

 

I see your face in every dawn,

In every sky, in every stream.

Though time moves on, you are not gone,

Your voice persists within my dreams.

 

The letters folded, faded, worn,

Your words, your love, your hope, your grace.

They speak of lives abruptly torn,

Yet in their ink, I find your face.

 

And when the night descends in blue,

I light a flame, a small embrace.

It burns for all I lost in you,

A beacon in the darkened space.

 

Time marks the moments we once knew,

The steps we took, the path you paved.

And though the world may start anew,

I hold the heart of what you gave.

Be Wary the Face of War

 

Be Wary the Face of War

 Be wary of the face of war,

That beckons where remembrance treads;

It calls us forth to fight once more,

Where only sorrow spreads.

 

There came a mad, unholy call—

All able arms to fight and fall.

The willing first went, proud and sure,

Then brass cried out for more.

 

Poor soldiers thrust through hellish flame,

The beaches red, the hills the same;

In fields and seas their bodies lay—

The price of orders none could stay.

 

Men left in desert, trench, and rain,

Fighting foes who could not be slain;

The first in line cut trails of blood,

The next were lost within that flood.

 

Haughtily sent to meet their fate,

They bore the burden far too late;

The angels wept, the mothers mourned,

As boys to bloody graves were borne.

 

So young—too young—to meet their God,

Their lives consumed by shell and sod;

False names, false ages signed away,

The masquerade of war’s ballet.

 

They sang new songs with hollow pride,

Until the brutal truth replied—

That war’s no glory, but a sin,

Devouring all who enter in.

 

Hark! The roaring cannons cry,

The air aflame, the earth awry;

Where nothing certain may remain

But death, and death again.

 

Trapped between the trenches’ scars,

While iron fell from fiery stars;

The soil convulsed, the heavens moaned,

Till men turned hard as granite stone.

 

With stoic hearts they quelled their tears,

Haunted by their private fears;

Each night’s return a phantom scene,

Where darkness reigned, and none came clean.

 

No sleep could soothe, no prayer could keep,

The ghosts that stalked a soldier’s sleep;

In league with death, they lost their claim—

Their souls consumed in death’s own flame.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET

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)