Who Knows

 

Who Knows

Who knows the price, of freedom fought, the battles won and lost?

The place of eternal pain, sad lessons taught, who knows the cost?

The heartbreaking paths, that in awful grief, troubled people tread,

The journey, constantly gouging pain, where young hearts have bled.

Mothers plagued, with numbing thoughts, burdened to their grave,

For sons and daughters, of sacrifice, lost souls, they could not save.

Brave soldiers of war, who have paid the debt, for freedoms cause,

Their lives forfeited, owned by another, hell bent, on waging wars.

They will never own the freedom, the romantic visions, of paradise,

With their destiny, spirited away, for someone else, to roll their dice.

Born to die, on someone’s battlefield, long before they weary grow,

Desperately fighting, for someone else’s sick dreams, blow-by-blow.

Inside each watchful eye, the measure of courage, is never the same,

When life or death, is within their reach, fought in freedom’s name.

Each day, over again, as they say their last, perhaps a silent prayer,

The solemn ritual repeating, their future, and fortune, set in the air.

Living under, deaths veil, where each soul, has solemnly surrendered,

All their dreams, the life, that they will never know, totally upended.

Uncertain, what each day will bring, or when, deaths bell will chime,

As the angel of death, reaches out, plucking their souls, calling time.

Perhaps their medals will hang, above the mantle, in place of pride,

Or concealed in a secret place, where sad evocative memories hide.

Never seeing, light of day, inside the badly broken hearts, distraught,

In the never-ending place, locked inside, the sad emotions wrought.

They sold their souls, to freedoms cause, caught in the army ranks,

And others will follow, in their steps, to all of them, eternal thanks.

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

That is How I Sleep at Night

 

That is How I Sleep at Night

So many restless nights, the dreadful visions, lodged within my head,

Churning around, and around, so many innocent people, lying dead.

I tossed and turned, unable to sleep, bound within the terrible mess,

Unable to end the madness, the anguish, the measure of my distress.

Feeling powerless, unable to wish away, all those wicked deeds, done,

Oh, will of God, wherefore, the death wish endures, since time begun.

Each day like no other, broadcasts bringing, more awful news, to see,

Gut wrenching, evocative images tormenting, the troubled mind in me.

Each malicious impression, leaving such a bitter taste, upon my tongue,

Awful stories unfolding, heinous crimes committed, more lives undone.

The haunting thoughts, such evil sights, each firmly etched, there inside,

Poor little children, leaving their legacy of pain, that will forever abide.

No matter, how hard I tried, I just could not erase, his evil doings done,

As I waited, for the hero of heroes, to put end, to all the sadness sung.

I could not turn my back, walk away, to ignore the agony, and the pain,

For my soul in shadow cast, would forever look down on me, in disdain

Tortured and tormented, my sanity afflicted, by this dreadful blight,

Now, this is how, I settle my restless soul, and get to sleep, each night.

I close my eyes, and visualize, cursed Putin standing, in stoney rigor,

Larger than life, I look into his empty eyes, and then I pull the trigger.

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

The Heroes Return

 

The Heroes Return

When the walking wounded, hobble home, bringing with them, another battle to win,

Wrestling with the fight, that refuses to end, the ruthless war, actively raging within.

Battle scared soldiers, many missing their limbs, the parts, they had to leave behind,

Facing new mountains to climb, the debris of war, lurking inside, misshapen minds.

As they grapple with the demons inside, invisible wounds, upsetting their inner core,

Struggling with shellshock, and horrifying flashbacks, replaying all the terrors of war.

Mutilated forms, bearing disfigured faces, and distorted skin, soldiers lucky to survive,

Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, and children, really glad, they have returned alive.

How can the ignorant, begin to comprehend, what each soldier, was dragged through,

With the scars and trauma, imprinted in their brains, their mindsets totally screwed?

Brave soldiers wounded in action, facing guilt, for their comrades, left at the frontline,

With fractured spirits, struggling each day, haunted with visions, dreading nighttime.

Their emotions way out of kilter, as sudden sounds, loudly make, an incessant threat,

Living on tender hooks, still holding on to the chaos, that they are powerless, to forget.

Each day wearing them down, at the setting of the sun, facing the anarchy of confusion,

Lashing out, in the dark of night, fighting the reality that they see, within each illusion.

As the horrendous movies, keep recurring, within their dreams, relentlessly replaying,

Incapable of escaping the madness of war, death, and destruction, persistently staying.

Unable to break the bonds, that hold them fast, to purge their life, of that awful load,

Suspended in constant state, set to snap, without warning sent back, into battle mode.

Confronted with people, who have no idea, of the terrifying battles, that were fought,

Armchair experts, who sat in comfort, and politicians who stood by, knowing naught.

Just like the generals, who marked, the lines on maps, the positions to be defended,

While the brave soldiers, got the job done, for freedom’s cause, their lives upended.

When you see the homeless, in cardboard shacks, with their faces scared and burned,

Be aware, that the awful war, is far from over, even though the heroes have returned.

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

When Legions of Soldiers Homeward Come

 

When Legions of Soldiers Homeward Come

Each day, as the dead Russians return, each one having paid the cost,

To join the immortal soldiers, in the dishevelled ranks, of spirits lost.

With bloody uniforms, torn to tatters, gaping holes, worn-out boots,

The baton passed on, to unwilling replacements, bedraggled recruits.

To plug frontline gaps, where the dead soldiers’ dreams, have gone,

To walk in the muddy footprints, of the poor soldiers, who passed on.

To stand on their firing steps, in search of certain death, biding time,

Waiting for the hand of the reaper, to pluck their soul, from the line.

Time dragging, fear laced with dread, of a painful end, does not abate,

Haunted by awful thoughts, of the walking dead, in their morbid state.

Obsessed with the thought, of never seeing the sight, of home again,

Subjected to a mountain of stress, shellshock, sending them insane.

Bouts of anger that come and go, each battle raging on, in their head,

Wrestling with madness, wishing it over, that they could join the dead.

So tired, overwhelming fatigue, the luxury of sleep, a thing of the past,

No time to rest, each futile attempt interrupted, with another big blast.

Plodding, in rain laden trenches, marching in mud, the muffled sound,

Short of food and water, an utter state of fatigue, dragging them down.

In the world, out of kilter, the brain out of balance, covered in grime,

The clock counting down, the sand, in each glass, running out of time.

Soon another fresh batch, of black body bags, being lugged around,

Packed into meat laden lorries, grinding their way, homeward bound.

No welcome home, no tears of joy, no mothers’ hearts full of relief,

No good news, no victory parade, just another hole, to fill with grief.

Beside late brothers in arms, where the lost legions, of dead soldiers lie,

Putin’s regime still deaf, to heartrending calls, stop sending them to die!

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

Left to Inherit the Legacy of Death

 

Left to Inherit the Legacy of Death

Each day, in sincerity, we hold on to HOPE, that the war, will SOON be over,

Only to discover, SOON is not on the side of life, that SOON, has no closure.

It seems to be a phrase, that never comes, just like HOPE, we cannot hold,

Time is not on the side, of the good soldiers, sent to die, “To never grow old!”

As the politicians procrastinate, choosing to sit, on the backbenches of wars,

Unwilling to step forward, to mount the firing step, and fight, for just cause.

Content to cultivate bunions, on their backsides, with the world out of skew,

Hiding behind their lies, as more, and more fresh blood, is added to the brew.

It is: Someone’s sons, someone’s daughters, someone’s mother, someone’s dad,

Not theirs! Locked in the world of words, and empty promises, creating bad.

They prolong the war, and profit from its trade, their indecision we condemn,

They are content, to leave a legacy of death; “As we are left to remember them!”

Death stalks, beyond their sight, in ignorance, they will not change their stance,

To put aside insanity, and award, the young men, and women, a second chance.

We plead commonsense, for the sake of innocence, the civilians caught in war,

For we are the ones, who feel the pain, who know the grief, who live the score.

As bad news comes, out of the darkness, and the hope we held, is suspended,

We are the ones, left with the legacy, death has brought, our lives upended.

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

The Gravity of Grief Rain Down on Me

 

The Gravity of Grief Rain Down on Me

Each day, I seek you there, where you really loved to dance, upon the stage,

Suspended in that lonely place, where I still hear the sound, of music made.

Rising, arms extended, reaching high, elegantly wheeling, and circling around,

Soaring, and drifting, gracefully falling, light as a feather, softly floating down.

My eyes fixed, and spellbound, by each magic moment, mind set in a trance,

Each move carefully chosen, intricately woven, a delicate tapestry of dance.

Balance and poise, with your routine skillfully executed, gliding and swaying,

Never ending dream, my beautiful ballerina, cheerfully dancing and playing.

Deep inside my heart, my beloved little firefly, now gone, some world away,

Where you gracefully float, in unison with the mellow tones, that softly play.

Oh, the pain, now left in that place, where my love for you, so sadly wrings,

The fondest thought, of how you danced, like a puppet, set on silken strings.

In my heavy heart, that broken place, where still, the lovely sound, of song,

Still plays over, and over again, where tenderest memories of you, linger on.

Each day, sunrise to sunset, as I am caught within the never-ending drought,

Weight of grief, each waking moment, tortured by the discomfort of doubt.

My saturated soul, drowning within the sadness, of your beautiful spirit lost,

As I reflect, upon that joyful smile, oh my precious one, that I miss the most.

And as the curtain closes, to mark the end, of each long day, painfully drawn,

I cannot mend the scars, deep in my heart, now left, to endure deaths scorn.

There in solitude, where I stand, before the going down, the sun setting red,

There I wander, in my dreams, in the dark of night, with sorrow in my head.

As I gaze, upon the wonderous stars, out into infinity, softly lighting the way,

I feel, the celestial light, as it gently rains, down on me, beyond, light of day.

Each night, I search for you, in hope, to catch a glimpse, within infinity, afar,

For the one, bearing your name, as you dance your dance, amidst the stars.

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

The Weight of a Nation

 

The Weight of a Nation

The grief of war, an ever-rising debt within, leaving the nation sadly strung,

With those they knew taken, there in their hearts, the awful sorrow sung.

His head bowed, deep in thought, the burden too much, too heavy to hold,

With the enormous weight, of a war-torn nation, pushing down on his soul.

While in his heart, the greatest sadness, the sight of people, laced with grief,

Desperately struggling inside, searching for salvation, searching for relief.

This the people’s hero, steadfast and strong, keeping the nation on track,

Each day, shouldering the weight, the relentless pressure, of each setback.

Holding hope, close to his heart, keeping the pulse of the nation, beating on,

The thought of people suffering, in anxiety of war, their treasured ones gone.

Every battle hard fought, his desperate pleas for help, consistently dismissed,

As Russia keeps pushing, he knows their mindless aggression, will not desist.

Every day the toll rises, the constant uncertainty, Putin’s instrument of fear,

Systematically converting the West, conquer and conquest, his final frontier.

Like a broken record, Zelenskyy pleads West, many words falling without sound,

On the deaf ears, of foreign powers, the politicians, mindlessly walking around.

Playing politics, in their Western Capitals, far removed, from the worst of war,

They have lost sight, of the precious freedom fought, resonating on their door.

Men with soft hearts, in the face of threats, cowards inside, on bended knees,

Their minds stuck in a rut, would sleep with the devil, they attempt to appease.

Thinking that they are too far removed from the thundering guns that blast,

As they dismiss, the lives of others, kidding themselves, not in their life passed.

When in reality the mad men, who rage unchecked, where bitterness breeds,

Plot and plan, mobilizing their war machines, planting exterminations seeds.

Still Ukraine waits, for the unwelcome weight to be lifted, for freedom secured,

To contend with their grief in peace, without fear, of the evil they have endured.

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