"kine" poems
Does that lamp still burn in my Father's house,
Which he kindled the night I went away?
I turned once beneath the cedar boughs,
And marked it gleam with a golden ray;
Did he think to light me home some day?
Hungry here with the crunching swine,
Hungry harvest have I to reap;
In a dream I count my Father's kine,
I hear the tinkling bells of his sheep,
I watch his lambs that browse and leap.
There is plenty of bread at home,
His servants have bread enough and to spare;
The purple wine-fat froths with foam,
Oil and spices make sweet the air,
While I perish hungry and bare.
Rich and blessed those servants, rather
Than I who see not my Father's face!
I will arise and go to my Father:--
"Fallen from sonship, beggared of grace,
Grant me. Father, a servant's place."
8.1k
We sate among the stalls at Bethlehem;
The dumb kine from their fodder turning them,
Softened their horn’d faces,
To almost human gazes
Toward the newly Born:
The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks
Brought visionary looks,
As yet in their astonished hearing rung
The strange sweet angel-tongue:
The magi of the East, in sandals worn,
Knelt reverent, sweeping round,
With long pale beards, their gifts upon the ground,
The incense, myrrh, and gold
These baby hands were impotent to hold:
So let all earthlies and celestials wait
Upon thy royal state.
Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!
3.6k
See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon
the banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite
Ballad of Hamilton beginning—
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow!
From Stirling castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my “winsome Marrow,”
“Whate’er betide, we’ll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow.”
“Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, ’tis their own;
Each maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow’s banks let her herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
But we will downward with the Tweed
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
“There’s Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;
And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus;
There’s pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land
Made blithe with plough and harrow:
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?
“What’s Yarrow but a river bare,
That glides the dark hills under?
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder.”
—Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn;
My True-love sighed for sorrow;
And looked me in the face, to think
I thus could speak of Yarrow!
“Oh! green,” said I, “are Yarrow’s holms,
And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
But we will leave it growing.
O’er hilly path, and open Strath,
We’ll wander Scotland thorough;
But, though so near, we will not turn
Into the dale of Yarrow.
“Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow,
The swan on still St. Mary’s Lake
Float double, swan and shadow!
We will not see them; will not go,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
Enough if in our hearts we know
There’s such a place as Yarrow.
“Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
It must, or we shall rue it:
We have a vision of our own;
Ah! why should we undo it?
The treasured dreams of times long past,
We’ll keep them, winsome Marrow!
For when we’er there, although ’tis fair,
’Twill be another Yarrow!
“If Care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly,—
Should we be loth to stir from home,
And yet be melancholy;
Should life be dull, and spirits low,
’Twill soothe us in our sorrow,
That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny holms of Yarrow!”
3.6k
'The puir auld folk at home, ye mind,
Are frail and failing sair;
And weel I ken they'd miss me, lad,
Gin I come hame nae mair.
The grist is out, the times are hard,
The kine are only three;
I canna leave the auld folk now.
We'd better bide a wee.
'I fear me sair they're failing baith;
For when I sit apart,
They talk o' Heaven so earnestly,
It well nigh breaks my heart.
So, laddie, dinna urge me now,
It surely winna be;
I canna leave the auld folk yet.
We'd better bide a wee.'
2.5k
Wutsa matter wit you?
Whirr you frumm?
You from summ furren country?
Cain’t you tawk better den at?
Murruhkunz doan tawk Inglush lie cat.
We talk good Inglush. We tawk da bess Inglush.
Ain’t nobody tawk better den us.
Irregardless of whut kine uh furriner you are
You could not tawk so ignernt.
It’s a insult tah good Murrukuhns tawkin lie cat.
You should be imburrst to tawk ataway in public.
Should be ashaymt uh yerself.
Yenno, peepo c’n perject thur ignernce
’N thur lack intelluhgunce so easy.
They jess open up thur mouths
’N let the dumbness fall out
’N thur it is, fer alll to see.
Yude thank they’d realize what dumshits they are
’N not let thur mouths write checks
Thur butts cain’t cover.
But, no. They’s flappin’ thur yaps an babblin’
‘Bout nothin’ at all, ’n actin’ the pure fool
Lack thur mamas din teach them nuthin.
Well, nuthin’ good, at lease.
Me, muhseff, I thank sumbuddy
Shoulda kicked thur butts
From here ta Sundee.
But, thass jess me.
I know thurs a buncha bleedin’ heart libralls out thur
That wanna let peepo get by with crap jess ‘cause
Sumbuddy is a Niger er ‘cause they’s Messcun
Er sum kinda ******* heathen er ‘sump’n,
But I thank thass jess wrong.
Peepo gotta talk good jess to respeck the flag
’N God n’ country. Or go home.
Yeah, go on back to whatever Godless place
You ’n your race ’n yer ideas is okay.
We rilly doan need ‘em here.
We’s good, God fearing’ peepo and hard working too.
So, if that ain’t you, *** on yer camel ’n ride
Back tah whurever you cumm frumm
Till you c’n tawk good Iinglush lack decent fokes.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 3:50 PM UTC
All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away,
Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye.
The forms of men shall be as they had never been;
The blasted groves shall lose their fresh and tender green;
The birds of the thicket shall end their pleasant song,
And the nightingale shall cease to chant the evening long.
The kine of the pasture shall feel the dart that kills,
And all the fair white flocks shall perish from the hills.
The goat and antlered stag, the wolf and the fox,
The wild boar of the wood, and the chamois of the rocks,
And the strong and fearless bear, in the trodden dust shall lie,
And the dolphin of the sea, and the mighty whale, shall die.
And realms shall be dissolved, and empires be no more,
And they shall bow to death, who ruled from shore to shore;
And the great globe itself, (so the holy writings tell,)
With the rolling firmament, where the starry armies dwell,
Shall melt with fervent heat--they shall all pass away,
Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye.
1.2k
Two Christmases ago,
Morning cold hovers in electrons.
Frost covers the Chevrolet
Backed by whiteness
Under zero degree sunlight
The old farm place sees morning
Bright and calm....
The ancient barn,
**** frosted roof agleam,
Stands downhill to the north,
Below a curving tractor trail
Cut in the snow...
At the other end of those tracks,
Eighty-one and counting,
You are crawling down
the tractor steps,
Pulling battered buckets
from the ancient fodder shack,
Hobbling to the cattle troughs...
Doing what you love to do...
Have done for fifty years....
I am taking pictures at the house,
Amazed at the cold and frost;
An onlooker now,
Somehow aware that I can not
Follow you...or won't,
Wistful still for attentions
you always freely gave
To kine instead of kin.
Could I go back,
Would I go down
To trough the feed?
I tell myself I would,
Or I would not.
The image burns coldly,
Electrically before me,
And only vaguely I'm aware
That you have slipped away.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armed hands
Encountered in the battle cloud.
Ah! I never shall the land forget
How gushed the life-blood of her brave--
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.
Now all is calm, and fresh, and still,
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine are heard.
No solemn host goes trailing by
The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain;
Men start not at the battle-cry,
Oh, be it never heard again!
Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now
Thy warfare only ends with life.
A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year.
A wild and many-weaponed throng
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.
Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot.
The timid good may stand aloof,
The sage may frown--yet faint thou not.
Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;
For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.
Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.
Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who helped thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust,
Like those who fell in battle here.
Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.
937
"That's one
trip to
the moon.
A giant detour
to da'kine."
|| shoo.shu ||
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC
An Advent Valentine
For, of course, happy Valentine Marie
And now comes Valentine, an autumn gift;
Vertumnus and Pomona thus withdraw
In recognition of the seasonal shift,
Saluting, they, this Advent child in awe.
The pagan year recesses to its close;
The Christian year commences with a child
Born as the second candle softly glows
(Saint Nicholas is happily beguiled).
Her family journeys to Bethlehem,
A little family in a Star-lit night,
And Simeon, perhaps, joins in their hymn,
As they present their love to living Light:
Rare gifts for the Christ Child ‘midst sheep and kine,
And not among the least, His Valentine.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 4:26 PM UTC
Dreams are supposed to be were you feel safe and peace full. Not where you are attacked by the invisible and only the felt. That room is kine, where i sleep - a restful place. Where now i am weary to go and lay my head. i dont know this place my fear comes from. It haunts me and i can't leave it. But I have to be there, for this is my resting place, where thoughts down on paper - my hiding place. I'm afraid I'm not alone in its inhabitance. Where it comes from I don't know. And how it has power over me, I am not sure. But i do know that i am not okay with its excistance, and i will not stand for it. i will fight whatever it is when the time arises. but whos to say when that will be. i just pray that dear God you will give me the strength to concur this thing, a monster i last felt creep up on me. there is a physical jailment now and i cant not beat it it feels. a haunting feeling is over me when i enter the room, like i have interrupted something and am now being punished for it. but i do not know what it is or who o am interrupting. where can i find it. it feels so far away like i have already missed out on it. so how can i find it and get it back? i dont know but i feel as though this isnt over, and i am anxious to see when next time will be.
9/23/10
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 12:48 AM UTC
Two Christmases ago,
Morning cold hovers in electrons.
Frost covers the Chevrolet
Backed by whiteness
Under zero degree sunlight
The old farm place sees morning
Bright and calm....
The ancient barn,
**** frosted roof agleam,
Stands downhill to the north,
Below a curving tractor trail
Cut in the snow...
At the other end of those tracks,
Eighty-one and counting,
You are crawling down
the tractor steps,
Pulling battered buckets
from the ancient fodder shack,
Hobbling to the cattle troughs...
Doing what you love to do...
Have done for fifty years....
I am taking pictures at the house,
Amazed at the cold and frost;
An onlooker now,
Somehow aware that I can not
Follow you...or won't,
Wistful still for attentions
you always freely gave
To kine instead of kin.
Could I go back,
Would I go down
To trough the feed?
I tell myself I would,
Or I would not.
The image burns coldly,
Electrically before me,
And only vaguely I'm aware
That you have slipped away.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 10:56 AM UTC
If you put the question to, say, one Ben Haramed,
He would, as befits a wily old desert jackal,
Find such notions of faith and fidelity quite amusing--
(*Following stars in search of something ephermal,
With no fixed exchange rate?
Will these specks of light find you shelter
Among throngs of shepherds and sundry fools?
Will your mewling, puking infant provide you succor in that cold city
Where no one makes time for you, save the pickpockets or strumpets,
Each of whom would pawn your drum
For a dram or string of brightly-colored beads?*)
And, indeed, if you happened upon a certain wise and well-off trio
Ensconced comfortably in their lodgings several streets distant
From the temporary residence of the object of their pilgrimage
(*It is only fit that we pay obeisance,
But to actually stay in such a place, well...*)
They would certainly forswear any notion
Of the primacy of the gold piece and the blade
But if you caught them in a more comfortable, unguarded moment
You may able to infer quite correctly that,
While they would express themselves more elegantly
Than some rude wilderness bandit,
You could no more expect them
To exchange their coin of the realm for philosophy
Than you would expect the fold and kine
To keep perfect four-four time.
And yet we believe, in spite of the first-hand knowledge
That the descendants of Balthasar and Melchior can elbow their way
Past whomever they choose, and be greeted, all smiles,
By the bank manager, the lawmaker, the chairman of the board
That our works and our constancy
Shall be recompensed at a sound rate of return
(How could it be otherwise, for didn’t Our Story Teller herself,
Through stiffness of upper lip and fealty
To all things bright and beautiful,
Weather the Blitz as beautiful, as inspirational,
As a cross-Channel Joan of Arc?)
If only we are as steadfast as the chant of the Dies Irae,
As unwavering as the straightforward beat of a single drum
Which follows the procession down the main thoroughfare
As we make our final homecoming.
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
Through the murk of night
Little light that shine
After a glint of light
Comes home when kine
Fireflies fly
In the dark they glow
Radiating light
In the air so low
Giving beautiful sight
Fireflies fly
On leaves of tree
On top of hills
They dance with glee
In darkest thrills
Fireflies fly...
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 4:53 AM UTC
Love has no language, every language is language of love
Kine-sics communicate more beautifully in real situations
Eyes with their movements communicate open just now
Love always remains in front while beauty behind cannons
Farhad being true lover of Shirin ,an ordinary stone cutter
Embraced his love and could opt to dig a forty mile canal
Became extraordinary in his love pursuit being on love altar
Keeping in mind his rationale never ever lost his morale
Love is a constant and continuous torture with chains of gold
It makes a beggar a king with all luxuries and real pleasure
Beauty demands and tests a lover to come up to occasion be bold
Beauty is a worldly treasure of a beloved and lover is soothsayer
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
The moon has stirred, in darkness glints give way
To deer who doze in haze of purple mist.
It's time for sleep and all its wake to stray,
I slip within the deepest peace I've kissed.
I hope to see the day of night, a dream,
A nocturne played with roaring harps and keys.
I dance along the river Past, upstream
Are birds who sing among the carps and bees.
From scene to scene I learn and scream and gawk
At angels, floating in my lilac hue,
And then I wake, in heat of warmth or shock
To find the deer are awake in wonderment too.
I ask are dreams prophetic? Thoughts divine?
Or needless as a moon beneath his kine?
Mar 20, 2019
Mar 20, 2019 at 8:56 PM UTC
Please Approximate/Designate Race: check all that apply (if any)
pre employment query (optional ostensibly)
🀆American Indian
🀆 White
🀆Tenderfoot
🀆Half-Breed
🀆Crackers
***
*****
🀆Guineas
🀆Polacks
🀆Micks
🀆Black
🀆African American
🀆Hispanic
🀆 Non-Hispanic Latino
🀆Asian
🀆Ending in ease, Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese…
🀆Filipino’s (flips)
🀆Calico
🀆Hindi Indian, **** Middle Eastern, Bedouins, Persian…
🀆Hawaiian, Polynesian, Oceanian
🀆Mixed Plate
🀆Semitic (Hebe’s and Arabs)
🀆Translucent
🀆Freakasoides (human)
🀆Alien, (outer space kine)
🀆Tuna-neck (any variety)
🀆Other
🀆Undecided
🀆None of your biz wax
🀆Beats all hell outta me
🀆WAT
***
🀆Cannot compute
🀆Complete Miscegenation
🀆From whence do we commence this abstruse extrapolation? (anglo saxon)
**** All
©kwr
Feb 16, 2020
Feb 16, 2020 at 10:30 PM UTC
You know
What my wife asked me yesterday?
Do I still love you?
Do I still love my ex?
I was shocked!
Why suddenly asked me this question
And I was speechless
Bahut sare questions and answers ghuman lag gaye mind wich
Ik time ta kehan bi lagea c ki
Yea, I still do
And will do till my last breath
But eh oh sunna nai c chandai
Oh sunna chandi c
Ki me nai krda
Nd ohi bolea jo usne sunna c
Me
Hor ki kehnda
Menu sab samj a reha he
Ki tuci kina kuj face kita he
Kina pressure face kita he
Kina dukh face kita he
Kina bura time dekhea
Nd kine bure time wicho lange **
Menu eh sab dikh reha he
Bcz me eh sab face. Kr reha ha
Me sab kuj feel
Kr reha ha
Tuci us time ro laye te aj kush **
Me
Us time kush c te aj ro reha ha
Am sorry
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 3:14 AM UTC
Pipple
All kine a piple want respec but few kina pipple wan give it cause easya fi tek R barrah dan fi reach an leggo. Everybady come wid di same tools maybe one R two come sharted but big eye no mean good eyesight nar big ears good hearing.
My pipple come ina shades and callahs from blue-black to pink-brown.Downtung , Uptung pipple cant stay right cause material gravity ton dem hed rung.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 3:42 PM UTC
A delicate, gentle, subtle line
Between love and anger mine
Is capable of making me bovine.
Though, we human, better than kine
Keep Anger without any deadline;
Swank like proud, angry feline
To clutch and hurt anyone divine.
Are we not better than equine
Of Swift? Or different by hairline
From Yahoos of Jonathan’s line?
Leave anger, be a Guideline.
Be happy and brightly shine
Over the mast or sea at nine.
Sea: big, vast – though – brine,
No use for us, can’t replace vine.
Hence leave anger and whine
Like a free butterfly divine.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 7:46 AM UTC