"kinfolk" poems
Nothing is really mine except Krishna.
O my parents, I have searched the world
And found nothing worthy of love.
Hence I am a stranger amidst my kinfolk
And an exile from their company,
Since I seek the companionship of holy men;
There alone do I feel happy,
In the world I only weep.
I planted the creeper of love
And silently watered it with my tears;
Now it has grown and overspread my dwelling.
You offered me a cup of poison
Which I drank with joy.
Mira is absorbed in contemplation of Krishna,
She is with God and all is well!
*
O my King, my father, nothing delights me more
Than singing the praises of Krishna.
If thou art wrath,
then keep thy kingdom and thy palace,
For if God is angry, where can I dwell?
Thou didst send me a cup of poison and a black cobra,
Yet in all I saw only Krishna!
Mira is drunk with love, and is wedded to the Lord!
*
The heart of Mira is entangled
In the beauty of the feet of her Guru;
Nothing else causes her delight!
He enabled her to be happy in the drama of the world;
The Knowledge he gave her dried up
The ocean of being and becoming.
Mira says: My whole world is Shri Krishna;
Now that my gaze is turned inward, I see it clearly
14k
'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the hills
The kinfolk were drinkin' as they tend to their stills
The longjohns were hung by the chimney with care
No stockings were found, just underwear
The children were nestled so high in their bunks
Their quilts made of skins from rabbits and skunks
Granny with her false teeth and gun on her knee
Was waiting for Santa as she sat by the tree
From out of the barn there arose such a noise
We thought it was Grandpa drinkin' with the boys
But what to my wandering eye should appear
It was just cousin Cleatus in mama's brassiere
And then from the rooftop we heard it at last
Like the sound of thunder or a shot gun blast
We have Christmas dinner, it's finally here
Granny kidnapped Santa while we shot his deer
Venison all covered with onions for stew
And even old Santa enjoyed some too
His belly was full when he walked out the door
But he couldn't resist when we offered him more
Well that's the story of our Christmas here
Merry Christmas to all 'til the same time next year
© All Rights Reserved
Dec 8, 2010
Dec 8, 2010 at 7:17 AM UTC
Its in these waters, when I was merely a Parr
Or as you might refer to me as a fry,
This wise but young Brook Trout cruised the slow water with my kinfolk fry.
Moving to and fro hiding among the biome vegetation
The sunlight supported my living space and warmed my growth rings.
I dart in and out of the oxygenated seams which help me flourish.
Some days, I had to use stealth to outwit the pine marten and warblers,
I shadowed the cattail and watched them fill their bellies with those around me.
But I felt fate had a purpose for me to be something special.
And When the time was right, I'd propel myself above the water into the night air.
The large circle of orange light filled my eyes and the night sky was filled with luminary.
I imagined what it must be like to live outside this riffle domain.
This morning, through my refractory vision I spot some floating objects,
And through an inherited sensory recall I can see these are hatching green Drakes.
I immediately shoot to the surface and fill my stomach, then swim back to the undercut for cover.
As the years pass by and maturity abounds, I find my self settling in behind a large boulder
Right at the tail out of the back eddy, providing me with an ample food supply.
And it's here I prefer to live my life in the slow current, content and peaceful.
And one day as I swam into the current seam, I spotted what appeared to be,
A different looking bug with yellow belly, so I make my move.
He's not moving much so I decide to raise my head above the water line and sip.
As I grab the hopper I start to slide back behind the boulder,
When I feel a pinch, as if someone try's to pull me towards the surface
I fight with all my might but this force proves to be stronger than I.
It's now I realize a human reels me towards the shore line, and I'm fearful.
This one called a human, grabs my tail and places his hand on my under belly.
Pulling me from my home, he dislodges the hook from my mouth. I gasp for oxygen.
He looks me over from nose to tail, smiles and says how beautiful I am.
He looks me in the eye And says " This was a wonderful fight my friend, enjoy the rest of your life,
He places me back in water, gently reviving me and finally lets me swim away.
I dare to turn and look back at him for a moment and as he continues to watch me,
I hear him say " I fish, knowing everyday on this stream is a gift."
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 3:59 PM UTC
'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the hills
The kinfolk were drinkin' as they tend to their stills
The longjohns were hung by the chimney with care
No stockings were found, just underwear
The children were nestled so high in their bunks
Their quilts made of skins from rabbits and skunks
Granny with her false teeth and gun on her knee
Was waiting for Santa as she sat by the tree
From out of the barn there arose such a noise
We thought it was Grandpa drinkin' with the boys
But what to my wandering eye should appear
It was just cousin Cleatus in mama's brassiere
And then from the rooftop we heard it at last
Like the sound of thunder or a shot gun blast
We have Christmas dinner, it's finally here
Granny kidnapped Santa while we shot his deer
Venison all covered with onions for stew
And even old Santa enjoyed some too
His belly was full when he walked out the door
But he couldn't resist when we offered him more
Well that's the story of our Christmas here
Merry Christmas to all 'til the same time next year
© All Rights Reserved
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 8:14 PM UTC
Life was amazing. Boats will fly causing mass transportation. Sometimes I think exclusively until I erupt through word Bothered, enlightened, and hungry watching gay cinema eating bananas but not ripe until next time I hate myself for liking weird cinema, Striking matches without touching myself when hearing groans from my basement which come apart from the throat. Knocks, bangs, and poottitangs among our findings in timely minute fashion. The weather will forever be surpising under a burnt out hookers muffintop. Mashed feces under but over kinfolk of a studious wellbeing transcendence, stupendous sacred.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
four ****** sisters born in the frozen woods;
emerging from the mind of their older sister,
who is also mother
of the universe;
as the fair sun sets & darkness
comes w/ winds
down from mountains; mother running mad [ ]
out to the field,
shouting kinfolk running from everywhere;
the oldest sister Philosophia wondering aloud
about her sister's things
|
scanning the sky w/ her magical eight-eyes; [ ],
Beautia, watching her slyly; sits
beside her w/ two heads, [ ] one in her arm;
it's no wonder [her lover] has [ ]
gone but
appears at her [ ] cracked window
where she ponders snakes & her faint starlit
father's statues of the
monumental men
of old as he imagined them to be;
brawny & vague; -
[that race of giants]
baby sister nature trots down
the mountainside bringing the music;
she-goats following | her dusty trail's
trail [from below the earth - as from above]
trailing their tails & running ahead; mother,
possessed long into the night; [shipbuilding,
sailing & navigating was not accomplished
by trial & error; some higher being had to instruct
[generations have to pass for
mankind to learn one thing] until electricity
men gunned each other down
in the streets & parks
| & used swords [ ]
| the garrulous collection of
hairy morons, | if only
to get them [since the Bomb humanity
hasn't learned a thing; now,
in a new era, [we have yet to learn]
wiping out the race
through **** starvation & ******
in the wide field [ ] of the wide plateau, [ ]
arms spread, | flat on her back where the
genius sky echoes
ring out from the barbarous throat of
the fourth sister
Fortuna, who has seen it all w/ the sun's eyes;
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 10:25 AM UTC
'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the hills
The kinfolk were drinkin' and tending their stills
The longjohns were hung by the chimney with care
No stockings were found, just underwear
The children were nestled so high in their bunks
Their quilts made of skins from rabbits and skunks
Granny with her false teeth and gun on her knee
Was waiting for Santa as she sat by the tree
From out of the barn there arose such a noise
We thought it was Grandpa drinkin' with the boys
But what to my wandering eye should appear
It was just cousin Cleatus in mama's brassiere
And then from the rooftop we heard it at last
Like the sound of thunder or a shot gun blast
We have Christmas dinner, it's finally here
Granny kidnapped Santa while we shot his deer
Venison all covered with onions for stew
And even old Santa enjoyed some too
His belly was full when he walked out the door
But he couldn't resist when we offered him more
Well that's the story of our Christmas here
Merry Christmas to all 'til the same time next year
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 11:09 AM UTC
T-The gift of life is oft stolen away
H-Horrid weaponry does the affray
E-Endlessly casualties will parlay
G-Gleaming soldiers eyes gone for rest
I-In unforgiving battles so harsh of test
F-Fighting at a land's utmost behest
T-Terrible the deadly toll is to attest
O-Over and over munitions have terminated
F-Flagrantly thieving any quietude generated
L-Loved sons of kinfolk seen to weep
I-Infinite this sadness ever so deep
F-From a beautiful benefit the cost steep
E-Extinguished by war's insane keep
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 10:16 PM UTC
Have you ever lost a staring contest
To a pen?
Its eyes stare and petrify
All my limbs
The only movement my body betrays
Is the panicked beating
Of my chest against the warm air
No hunt and no monster
Has ever brought me so close to my death
Fight, only another excuse
to guard myself, and hide within
the old, motherless womb
the steel framework of bones,
my ribs encase more than lungs
But this pen, allied with
The gruesome, horrifying, smiling
Faces of the kind kinfolk
Has chased me to the corner
Brought chains and locks to furnish me
Like a window frame or a stylized vase
The only teeth I fear
To sink deeply within me
And spill my blood
A display to the world
Silly- I am called a grown man,
Yet what I fear most
Is a small plastic cylinder
Resting on a yellow pad
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 4:19 PM UTC
Bank,
took away my tract-home-house, got divorced from my last cheatin’ spouse
Laid-of from my company job, all I get to eat is corn-on-the-cob
Get evicted cant pay no rent
Rains too **** much to pitch me a tent
Kinfolk don’t like the mess I’m in, so I became a bohemian . . .
Trailer Home Romeo, I’m a trailer ho-home romeo
Kinfolk don’t like the shape Im in, so I drink with trailer park beer drinkin men !
Pay Taxes that I owe? Hell No ! I’m a bohemian on the go a trailer ho-home romeo!
Bought me an old F-150 Ford, at least I ain’t got no **** landlord
I cash in cans I find on the ground, easy work get paid by the pound
Can’t buy me no tonic and Gin like the rich Good-Sam suburbians
I fix my own truck rent-a-wreck, told I don’t qualify for no welfare check
Afriad to go outside in the day for a jog, got bit last week by the neighbors dog
Can’t track me down, I’m always on the go, move down south if it starts to snow!
Move when I want don’t have to hesitate, hitch-up my truck and relocate
My left tire just fell-apart so I propped it up with a K-mart shopping cart
Got me a bottle of Jim Beam to pamper, might get drunk but I’m a happy Camper !
Kinfolk don’t like the mess I’m in, so I became a bohemian . . .
Trailer Home Romeo, I’m a trailer ho-home romeo
Kinfolk don’t like the shape I’m in, so I drink with trailer park beer drinkin men !
Pay Taxes that I owe?
... Hell No !
I’m a bohemian on the go a trailer ho-home romeo!
© David Wayne Clare In Perpetuity - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Clairvoyant Music / BMI
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
WHEN the sea is everywhere
from horizon to horizon ..
when the salt and blue
fill a circle of horizons ..
I swear again how I know
the sea is older than anything else
and the sea younger than anything else.
My first father was a landsman.
My tenth father was a sea-lover,
a gipsy sea-boy, a singer of chanties.
(Oh Blow the Man Down!)
The sea is always the same:
and yet the sea always changes.
The sea gives all,
and yet the sea keeps something back.
The sea takes without asking.
The sea is a worker, a thief and a loafer.
Why does the sea let go so slow?
Or never let go at all?
The sea always the same
day after day,
the sea always the same
night after night,
fog on fog and never a star,
wind on wind and running white sheets,
bird on bird always a sea-bird-
so the days get lost:
it is neither Saturday nor Monday,
it is any day or no day,
it is a year, ten years.
Fog on fog and never a star,
what is a man, a child, a woman,
to the green and grinding sea?
The ropes and boards squeak and groan.
On the land they know a child they have named Today.
On the sea they know three children they have named:
Yesterday, Today, To-morrow.
I made a song to a woman:-it ran:
I have wanted you.
I have called to you
on a day I counted a thousand years.
In the deep of a sea-blue noon
many women run in a man's head,
phantom women leaping from a man's forehead
.. to the railings ... into the sea ... to the
sea rim ...
.. a man's mother ... a man's wife ... other
women ...
I asked a sure-footed sailor how and he said:
I have known many women but there is only one sea.
I saw the North Star once
and our old friend, The Big Dipper,
only the sea between us:
"Take away the sea
and I lift The Dipper,
swing the handle of it,
drink from the brim of it."
I saw the North Star one night
and five new stars for me in the rigging ropes,
and seven old stars in the cross of the wireless
plunging by night,
plowing by night-
Five new cool stars, seven old warm stars.
I have been let down in a thousand graves by my kinfolk.
I have been left alone with the sea and the sea's wife, the wind, for my last friends
And my kinfolk never knew anything about it at all.
Salt from an old work of eating our graveclothes is here.
The sea-kin of my thousand graves,
The sea and the sea's wife, the wind,
They are all here to-night
between the circle of horizons,
between the cross of the wireless
and the seven old warm stars.
Out of a thousand sea-holes I came yesterday.
Out of a thousand sea-holes I come to-morrow.
I am kin of the changer.
I am a son of the sea
and the sea's wife, the wind.
1.8k
Light as a feather
We flow like the river,
Treading so softly
The grass never quivers,
Laughing and loving
And threading our fingers,
May friendship and beauty
Be all we let linger.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 10:46 PM UTC
they are connected
by a continual rye
these peoples dwelling
under the infinite sky
they've handed down
native culture
to generations
that live for nature
the eagle
the bison
the wolf
carry their spirit
across the nation's terrain
ever these animals
shall abide and sustain
the spruce
the prairie grass
the cactus
lasting with the growth
of a land's deed
long they've planted
the tribal man's breed
flourishing
in the mountains
and along rivers
of timeless tradition
indigenous
kinfolk preserving
their heritage
on a millennial expedition
tepees still built
to this very day
a peoples country
inherited of clay
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC
Inspired by the movie 'The Songcatcher' and Sheila Kay Adams
A singer sings the ancient songs
and the kinfolk sing along...
and the kinfolk sing along.
They sing old harmonies
passed generations down
from mother to daughter;
their unique mountain sound.
They sing of dying, of love, of the dead,
of long lost loves, of breaking bread.
And these songs harken back
to the lands whence they came
with little more
than their backs and their name.
There are songs for working hard during the day
and songs for thanking, and making your way.
Together they play the ancient songs
and the kinfolk sing along...
and the kin folk sing along.
Stories are told
when their ballads are sung,
and banjos played;
strings plucked or strummed.
They sing of the simple joys of life,
of good times and sad times and endless strife.
Lessons learned and stories golden,
songs of killing, of blood, and pain,
Heard endless times in front porch warmth
Connections strengthened, kinship claimed.
People bred strong as the mountain's roots
Sing their songs, their simple truths.
And all the kinfolk sing along
when the mountain sings the ancient songs...
when the mountain sings the ancient songs.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 6:13 PM UTC
Come and listen to my story about a con named Don
A poor Manhattaneer, barely kept his family out of pawn,
And then one day he was launderin’ some coin,
And up through the ground come some rubles and crude.
Oil that is, black gold, Russian tea.
Well the first thing you know ol’ Don’s a millionaire,
The kinfolk said "Don move away from there"
Said "Mother Russia is the place you ought to be"
So they loaded up the jet and they moved to DC.
D@#$%&bag Central, that is. Swampy pools, tea partyers.
Well now it's time to say good-bye to Don and all his kin.
And we would like to thank you folks fer kindly droppin’ ‘em.
You're all invited back next week to this locality
To hear a heapin’ helpin’ of their conspiracy.
Jail time that is. They’ll set a spell, take their shoes off.
They’re goin’ away now, y'hear?
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 2:35 AM UTC
Let jubilant bells ring out
proclaiming the joy of the season.
Banish all darkness with bold Christmas lights
that brighten the sky on a cold winter night.
Rejoice in the bells of the season!
With joy-filled hearts we zip up our coats
to savor the crisp morning air.
We take to our sleds for a vigorous ride
then draw snow angels in the meadow.
Our town is decked out its holiday best
where strangers and friends pass our way.
We stroll down the streets ‘til the stars appear
to dance in the jewel case sky.
The bold steeple bells peal so clear and loud.
Bright Christmas lights are gleaming.
Our kinfolk have gathered from far and near
To share in a holiday feast
and after the meal we all gather by the fire
To celebrate the blessings of family.
With grateful hearts raise our songs
and ring our bells this joyous day.
Rejoice, give thanks. Give thanks, rejoice!
Let jubilant bells ring out
proclaiming the joy of the season.
Banish all darkness with bold Christmas lights
that brighten the sky on a cold winter night.
Rejoice in the bells of the season!
© 2017 by Robert Charles Howard
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 6:08 PM UTC
No more to live in earthly mould,
Though siblings not bereft ?
Despair in me did clasp it's hold,
My spirit long since left.
No funeral pyre, no gaping clay,
Not one sad mourning tear,
No blood red rose, nor white bouquet,
Was flung upon my bier.
For me, no sudden tragic end,
But slowly perished inside,
A veil of sorrow to descend,
When close-blood kinfolk died.
Lymphoma slowly sapped my life,
Such ills did I abhor,
Then as lost love increased the strife,
I decayed a little more.
No one aware that I've passed on,
Appearing to all just fine,
I smile and laugh, 'til yarns are spun,
And die more every time.
Finally reduced to hollow shell,
This world, my mind it warps,
I wander in this lifeless hell,
An aimless moping corpse.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 1:24 PM UTC
The wrong side where my kinfolk dwell,
Takes no notice of the damaged family circle,
It’s what we know, who we are,
It’s our heart.
What is poor,
What is rich,
Uptown where the bluebloods grow,
The buildings straight & new,
Maps lead the way to,
Places we don’t want to go.
Who wants to be on their,
Wrong side of the tracks,
Not Me
Feb 2, 2011
Feb 2, 2011 at 3:35 AM UTC
Socially suicidal
I say the wrong things
At the wrong times
To the wrong people
In all the wrong places
Face it
My face is the last thing
You want to see
On a day is as beautiful as this
Miss me with the ********
I know you miss me
And the ********
The scent is foul
But its fouler
TO have no senses at all
Since
Youve been gone
Ive been alone
WIth nothing
But a room full of family, friends,
Kinfolk, next of kin
Bad ******* X's,
Potential girlfriends
All in the whirlwind
Of indecision
....since you've been missing
Empty crowds
Full of people
I love
Sure enough
But what's love
Without you!?
Nothing much
I'm Nothingmore
Too much
Is not enough
Not a thing
Unless
Everything
Was the one thing
I gave you
Nonetheless
The lesson
Is none of this
Had to happen
It just happens
To be called
Fate
Rather fatal
****
Cupid's hit
Was supposed to nick
Not split
Me in half
I lost one side of me
ANd you
Replaced it
To make we whole again
And now
I have this hole again
You used to hold me
Now you *** me
As if I didn't
USed to be a ****
But "used to"
Doesnt do much
For this present
Feeling of being used
Too much
****
You used me up
Now Im left amongst
The bitter *************
That would bite a ************
For they let
The taste
Of Love
Eat them alive again
Im amongst the dead
No hopes to be revived
DOn't want to be alive
The pain
Isn't worth
The ability to feel
I gained less
Than what Ive attained
Since
They day I met you
I've haven't been
Myself ever since!
****
I guess
The foul smell
Isnt worth
The Sense...
Feb 26, 2011
Feb 26, 2011 at 11:42 PM UTC
My depiction of fiction
fits the description
uplifted from my own benedictions
been a ****
been addicted
bend and lift
benefited
my back... only difference
Is I had somebody watching mine
To make up for what I lack and
what I thought I know
By the fact I've brought you thought provok-
ing moments
Hold it
Mold it
Don't let go it's
life in motion
Nice to know that
most components
Grow and hold it's
value
The struggle's golden
Hold up swollen fists
To no avail you
Never give up
Never live up to
other's expectations
Know your limits
Set the boundary
Allowing for a more peaceful, sound sleep
Cuz at the end of the day
We all lay
Our head upon that pillow
And when contentness sets in
Voids...we fill those
weep like willows
Weak but still chose
To instill those
Values in our kinfolk
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 5:53 PM UTC
As time passed, the story grew-
each year, a bit more grand-
That Nelson took that strongbox-
And hid it elsewhere on his land
Greed is one of the “seven sins”-
Everybody loses, and nobody wins-
But the “want” for gold is a mighty strong thirst-
So his kin set out for a “family search.”
At morning’s dawn, the kinfolk came-
To search for gold, fortune, and fame-
They came with shovels, spades, and hoes-
And some “TNT”, so the story goes.
With disregard for propriety,
they descended upon the property-
Without a map, without a plan-
They spread out to search his land.
Now, the rabbits and the coyotes,
and the gophers(one or two)-
Gathered on a little knoll,
To get a better view.
They knew what was bound to happen-
It was just a matter of time-
When the dew had disappeared,
And the morning sun had reached it’s prime.
To Be Continued
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 4:40 AM UTC
You have to drag yourself
Just to keep the dosh coming
To keep kinfolk from starving
Despite all these heavy lifting
You enter that poisonous atelier
Inside a cubicle, sit on your chair
Play staring games with computer screen
Drink a juice of coffee bean
That place, a modern day slavery ring
Where your ego is bruised and badly beaten
They own you 'cause they give you payslips
But even with that you know it ain't worth it
But that place isn't at fault
It's those who own the vault
They keep to them what's inside
They won't share, they hide
Under a mask of kindness
They advertise false incentives
But they won't give what you deserve
'Cause it belongs in their pockets
They won't listen to your pleads
Neither tend to your needs
Silently blackmail you instead
And then there goes your thread
Your thread, closer to inch
Your patience about to ditch
You know you'll burst sooner or later
They'll regret it all, when with them, you're finally over
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
Silk fabrics, spin words like a black widow.
Observing shapes on the crest through a cracked window.
Faded kinfolk percolate a vicious cycle.
Concede the title, passed from an image spiteful.
Hooded silhouettes cast a shadow in dystopia,
cityscape a gallow the skies hold a rope for ya.
Urban paradigm, tantamount to euthanasia.
Soured fruits bear the hallmarks of human nature.
Twisted labyrinth, apertures soak mundane fragments
innate patterns, ways learned through a stained malice.
Same chalice bequeathed, from a father deceased,
drowned in his sleep under smeared linen sheets.
In the belly of the beast, waves echoed familiar,
another soul torn in this concrete perimeter.
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 7:31 AM UTC
See Moe with a cup of joe,
***** hair, he's old.
There's his toes through his
socks, basically bone.
The rains made his
calling card runny.
He says he wouldn't have it if
he got his car running.
His excuses are pitiful,
he's sticking anticubitals,
Planning a funeral
But he'll wake up per usual
With a cop bop of the
Top of his head.
Wipe the sleep, find a corner
Shake his hand for some bread.
The coins don't fill up in
Des Moines though.
His kinfolk don't recognize
Him anymore-
Ain't that something?
Used to break bread
But took off running.
Didn't even look back when
They heard that he was bumming.
Moe can't get out of this hole.
Chasing charlie really took its toll.
Now he's the saddest thing on Euclid
And it's stupid.
Went and fought for freedom just
To come home and lose it.
The poor man, can't even afford
A storage can.
Old school hobo
Played war with his hands.
Now we don't even give a ****
Now he's asking around for a bullet
He can swallow.
This what happens when your soul goes hollow.
What fills him rage is he lied about his age.
Woulda been a different story if
This fib wasn't played
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 3:58 PM UTC