"kindreds" poems
1.
Man rising to the doom that shall not err,--
Which hath most dread: the arouse of all or each;
All kindreds of all nations of all speech,
Or one by one of him and him and her?
While dust reanimate begins to stir
Here, there, beyond, beyond, reach beyond reach;
While every wave refashions on the beach
Alive or dead-in-life some seafarer.
Now meeting doth not join or parting part;
True meeting and true parting wait till then,
When whoso meet are joined for evermore,
Face answering face and heart at rest in heart:--
God bring us all rejoicing to the shore
Of happy Heaven, His sheep home to the pen.
2.
Blessed that flock safe penned in Paradise;
Blessed this flock which tramps in weary ways;
All form one flock, God's flock; all yield Him praise
By joy or pain, still tending toward the prize.
Joy speaks in praises there, and sings and flies
Where no night is, exulting all its days;
Here, pain finds solace, for, behold, it prays;
In both love lives the life that never dies.
Here life is the beginning of our death,
And death the starting-point whence life ensues;
Surely our life is death, our death is life:
Nor need we lay to heart our peace or strife,
But calm in faith and patience breathe the breath
God gave, to take again when He shall choose.
1.8k
** When we shall see the ransomed host ,
Oh ! what a joy unspeakable,
All nations gathered, kindreds , tongues
With God to dwell.
In a twinkling , in a twinkling,
Glory ! Hallelujah !
We'll be raptured , to His *****
Shouting 'Maranatha' !
Sweet voices blend with one accord,
To worship God.
The days are fleeting , end is nigh,
A precious thought to every saint,
We've waited long for that bright morn,
And ne'er did faint.
The kingdom cometh , reign of peace,
When God is King , then blissful mirth,
The saints with him as Kings and priests
Return to earth.
In days of yore the saints foretold,
That God would dwell with mortal men,
The earth restored , as Eden was,
For sons of men.
Then as the rose the deserts bloom ,
No maimed are there , no blind, no dumb,
When lamb and wolf with leopard lie,
Thy Kingdom come. **
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
bitterness of iron:
remove the milk
in bate of oxen blood spills
a bovine scent coagulates --
two membranes,
five and nine in aluminium
warp the boiling point --
two hundred, ninety degrees Celsius,
left standing, half a day:
cardboard instruction sets carbon constriction
imprinting
burnt hair, burnt hooves --
the taste of not eating
a liver, raw --
Where is the nameless face
carrying cups of coffee, bought
on a journey
somewhere, and nowhere et al . . .
kindreds, wrapped in the smell of decay:
the uncured hide around his hips,
or was it his wrists, never touching?
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 7:09 AM UTC
Poetry
takes on
a life
of its own
and has the inherent
unseen
connection
with all those
willing
to receive it.
To all those
wonderful
kindred spirits
out there
who take the time
to receive
what's in our hearts
and minds
who make us feel
so not
alone
.....
and though
what we say
may not be
profound
we are treated
with value
that we
belong.
Blessings
cj 2016
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 11:10 PM UTC
The sun was shining and I was free and warm,
chasing little yellow butterflies
alongside the garden where my mother was working,
a source of food for our family
along with factory pay and Saturday night band gigs
with bare feet and lilacs I rose above it,
watching myself, a small child caught up in her world,
thoughts and music floating with purpose
uninterrupted wondering if there was another
version of me doing the exact same thing
at that exact same moment,
in China, in India, in Africa,
although I did not know the names of such places,
I knew the pictures of dark skin and brightly colored
clothing, from the Encyclopedia Britannica's
prominently positioned in the
bookshelf, center of our living room
and it seemed that I could feel the other “me’s”
that we knew each other and spoke via the
sound tunnels created by earth worms
and the encyclopedia girls seemed happy too,
simply to be alive, dancing to their songs
yet there seemed to me another, quasi Diane,
this one not so different, nor so far away,
but she was beyond my grasp, and unable to hear me,
and I felt a vivid, deep longing for her,
eventually, after minutes of chasing, the butterflies
could no longer be found, remembering reality
I was sad for a moment, but I imagined that
one must have fluttered off
to that other little girl
through the hole in the air that I could not see
and I smiled, hoping she would be able to catch it.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 2:15 PM UTC
With insanely absolute certainty
I am definitely convinced,
that notion died instantly yesterday.
Unwittingly the dream committed suicide.
Our next generation will suffer for the
bad mistakes of our greedy elders.
They cannot save us now.
The pain of fixing it is worst than
the original pain experienced.
They have no clue of the
magnanimity of what they have done.
We can't escape from the
consequences of our deeds.
Doom awaits in the corner.
Go back to where you have fallen.
Mend your fences.
Hurry for thunderstorms.
Save yourselves from their
tortuous acts awaiting you.
Unity among you is vitally necessary.
Our ancestors who sleeps
long ago awakes in their vaults.
The doors of the spirits is now opened.
The blood of our own kindreds
and children killed cries
out from their graves.
Who is he that will boldly
answer the dance call of the flute played.
Let such a one fearlessly come out
of the veil and lead our people.
Our help only comes from our unity.
One voice is our strength.
God will be our helper.
©2017. Emeka Mokeme.All rights reserved.
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 8:12 AM UTC