"kinsman" poems
1334
How soft this Prison is
How sweet these sullen bars
No Despot but the King of Down
Invented this repose
Of Fate if this is All
Has he no added Realm
A Dungeon but a Kinsman is
Incarceration—Home.
8.6k
380
There is a flower that Bees prefer—
And Butterflies—desire—
To gain the Purple Democrat
The Humming Bird—aspire—
And Whatsoever Insect pass—
A Honey bear away
Proportioned to his several dearth
And her—capacity—
Her face be rounder than the Moon
And ruddier than the Gown
Or Orchis in the Pasture—
Or Rhododendron—worn—
She doth not wait for June—
Before the World be Green—
Her sturdy little Countenance
Against the Wind—be seen—
Contending with the Grass—
Near Kinsman to Herself—
For Privilege of Sod and Sun—
Sweet Litigants for Life—
And when the Hills be full—
And newer fashions blow—
Doth not retract a single spice
For pang of jealousy—
Her Public—be the Noon—
Her Providence—the Sun—
Her Progress—by the Bee—proclaimed—
In sovereign—Swerveless Tune—
The Bravest—of the Host—
Surrendering—the last—
Nor even of Defeat—aware—
What cancelled by the Frost—
4k
What a name! what a joy! To have her called by Mrs yours,
What a beauty! to load over a a man,
Nayanoi is the name, brought up by a mother who is embedded to tradition,
It carries all fame and this is not a game but another ingredient to tame monstrous heart union.
There is indeed touching love after perennial failures,
Rejection over rejections builts emotion-shielded heart,
It kills dangerous emotions,it destroys
barbarians.
Such is life, don't you know,
Nayanoi demonstrated the saying,
Marrying a man not for money but love,
I have came to admire the Maa community,
They don't fake around they are what they are.
Unlike ******** who are really cheap indoors,
But fear displaying it in full glare of our cameras
Nayanoi won my heart, As a true African woman,
She is the wife of my kinsman.
Am not lusting for her, she deserve all the earthly praises,
A woman sired and raised perfectly,
She wears all the smiles in her face,
Knowing she is a beauty queen and not a braggart.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 11:23 AM UTC
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
~Edgar Allan Poe
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 11:31 AM UTC
But when we try to Seek what has been Sought
Of so many Globes those White Hats confound
And Paradox bears its own Hard-Deal, fought
That Tripe Sanity so many will count
A Useless Journey, I say; You Agree
Since Fifteen Thousand Miles we are apart
No Threatened Worries; And then you are Free
To Tally my Charges and Tear me Apart
As what your Kinsman calls the Chicken-Hawk,
A Heresy Grave I will sure Attack
As my Film's intent is never to Gawk
But revive the Toddler's Fresh Friendship back.
If so, then the Informant says he lies
That, by Discount, our Age by Time soon dies.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
312
Her—”last Poems”—
Poets—ended—
Silver—perished—with her Tongue—
Not on Record—bubbled other,
Flute—or Woman—
So divine—
Not unto its Summer—Morning
Robin—uttered Half the Tune—
Gushed too free for the Adoring—
From the Anglo-Florentine—
Late—the Praise—
’Tis dull—conferring
On the Head too High to Crown—
Diadem—or Ducal Showing—
Be its Grave—sufficient sign—
Nought—that We—No Poet’s Kinsman—
Suffocate—with easy woe—
What, and if, Ourself a Bridegroom—
Put Her down—in Italy?
1.6k
I have been walking
in a fairyland since my born
feeling high as always
wandering in a haven's garden
say you the fairy tale -
say you the way, you seeking peace
the pigeon flies on your sky
feel and touch its feather
the morning sun will be appear very soon
the red roses bloom in your garden
walking on soft dews,
feels you the haven
mild breeze twist with jasmine aroma
cool you and to be cooled your soul
and the last you see the truth
the starry sky,
again you will be fairy at night
where your highborn kinsman will be come
with him you will be danced within moonlit
in a fairyland -
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 7:56 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret,Kenya;[email protected])
Sembene Ouasmane the son of a fisherman
the son of wolof tribesmen the owners of Atlantic
you are a bad liar, my kinsman and foreman
why didn't you wait for me to grow up
you only belied to me for your to die earlier
i begged for your pipe for i also to **** it with passion
you told me to hold on until i grow up
only for you to accede to July death in 2007
i am tortured in this life without without you
agonized by daily chores without a glance at the fume of smokes
being blown from the magnificent ceramic pipe on your mouth,
i wanted you teach me what Maxim Gorky and Emile Zola taught you
i wanted to learn from you what you learned at the Moscow cinema school
was it cinematographic Marxism or filmographic socialism that you learned?
i wanted to get you alive so that we can sing together the songs of Cedo and Xala,
why were your gods collecting the pieces of wood; was it humility and humanism?
I wanted to see the powerful words of human side of governance
coming from you sober gentle mouth onto African plateau
that is replete with commonaplace selfish power struggles,
i will build a monument in respect of your service to African literature
and your service to protection of humanity;both Arabic and African
your service to humanity as you forgave a French woman who stole your book
only to publish it under her name in a dint of ****** wham pam pams.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 10:09 AM UTC
A screen was there
as high as me
and as broad.
And there he was
in front of the screen,
lying in his rags.
His shirt must have been green,
when it used to cover his frailty.
His trousers were torn,
and hair wiry.
If it hadn’t been his placid sleep
and a black scar on his cheek,
he would be lost in generality.
But he was different.
He was a warrior,
who had just won over a city.
His armour impaired, body battered
to the extreme.
He must have been a kinsman
of the king.
As he wore the royal green
and carried a slender physique.
The dark stains on his lower
explained how he slaughtered the militaries
with his cavalry.
And yes, the scar.
The black scar outlined the final battles
with the mighty,
and long journey from the murky and dusty
land of atrocities.
Anyone with even a
slight fondness to fantasy
could ponder
into the warrior’s dreamless dreams
on the screen, that was
as high as me
and as broad.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
Gudron graced many a viking's visions,
like a Helen or a Guenevere.
But no ray of light could be shone
on her four disturbing dreams.
Until one day a wise kinsman called,
a dream interpreter, who told her
that she would outlast four husbands.
His foretelling came to pass.
But she never wed the man she loved.
He set sail. Gudron remained.
Iceland's first christian nun.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
1087
We miss a Kinsman more
When warranted to see
Than when withheld of Oceans
From possibility
A Furlong than a League
Inflicts a pricklier pain,
Till We, who smiled at Pyrenees—
Of Parishes, complain.
1.2k
Standing behind this shield wall,
On the battle ground.
Dusty and worn, wounded,
I wonder as I hold strong,
Next to my kinsman,
Will we win this battle?
Will I survive, using axe and muscle?
Slaughtering, killing, slowly advancing,
Taking my enemies' lives,
Is this worth the price of so many?
Is this honoring Odin?
One battleworn man, amongst many,
In this shieldwall, feeling
Time, heavy in the air, and mind wandering,
He considers the battles fought,
The rewards gained,
The kinsmen lost.................
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 6:37 PM UTC
Aged patina of ivory keys.
Chipped at the corners.
Black and white worn.
Still, as always,
able to coax beautiful notes
From willing keys.
To lighten the mood
or heighten suspense.
Notes tumbling one after another.
Each key, a single note.
When enchanted
able to suspend reality
in concert with its kinsman.
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 8:19 PM UTC
Mary's son is here and my, what a flutter!
Folk come from far and near, just to hear:
say some a Rabbi is he, others, the Christ;
quelling the ghosts, he turns water wine,
the dead walk back to life at his command.
Mary's son is here and my, what a flutter!
He's cast his glance wide, this humble
son of a carpenter, is too, a fisherman wise:
he pours forth his love, like none ever can,
to his disciples, he's a friend and kinsman.
Mary's son is here and my, what a flutter!
Where they see sin, he only sees the light,
and nothing can anger him but unholy
commerce in the temple right. Who'd have
thought, God's son, was thus in our sight?
Mary's son is here and my, what a flutter!
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 10:15 AM UTC
When love is all you need,
why not love me?
I am not your lover
Though I may be your only true friend
I am not your kinsman
Yet our flesh and blood mingle
I am not your hero
But I can be your worst of enemies
I am not your teacher
Though I can be worth listening to
I am not your God
Though I can be your idol
Who am I?
If love is all you need,
Why not love me?
I am you
Mar 30, 2019
Mar 30, 2019 at 6:37 PM UTC
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Edgar Allan Poe
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance
And madness, thou hast forged at last
A night-long Present of the Past
In which we went thro' summer France.
Hadst thou such credit with the soul?
Then bring an ****** trebly strong,
Drug down the blindfold sense of wrong
That so my pleasure may be whole;
While now we talk as once we talk'd
Of men and minds, the dust of change,
The days that grow to something strange,
In walking as of old we walk'd
Beside the river's wooded reach,
The fortress, and the mountain ridge,
The cataract flashing from the bridge,
The breaker breaking on the beach.
767
Oh sea, eternal sea.
sea of tempest gale .
what gloom of thee i now see?
sorrow of my lost dear hales .
what do i behold with thy gait .
tears and sinister hulk wherever i sail.
for uncountable dreads you nail .
sea tells me the memoirs of your past hails.
sea of great Normandy lost fortune .
sea of old Titanic sadness.
sinister hell for no one to tell the cruelness.
that i deem for long their lost tune .
i hear but their murmur in horrid abyss.
poor of my dream ,no more or a bliss.
sea of eternal time and awful gloom .
sea of Moses magic and Egyptian battalions hell room.
oh,what memoir do i behold of thee.
painful reminisce and arrogance toss of thee.
sea of Fuller's glory wickedly cast out not see.
with babe and apron washed ashore .
but where writ encamped into your deep bore .
sea;of you i behold boredom but no lore .
and Fuller i long make my dear lord .
sea of all histories :low and high and Saratoga .
sea of past glory memoir of where did Columbus go.
i hear all ,and Phoenicians past bloom .
but i fear cause your waves sweep like a broom .
oh, our town ,our farm all engulfed .
slayer is Catherine a daughter of sea .
our green pasture , and our bed of flower ripped .
for my kindred kinsman at Haiti that i cant see.
you court me with fantasy but i behold with horror.
for i dont want my last reminisce of love .
to be linked with thee,thee coldest terror .
all parting is good in likewise all leave .
but tomb stone i will appraise at my depart eve.
oh ,never rested slaughter of of eternal time.
at Jakarta i see you mark i red line .
your thirst can never be quenched .
in your horror all ,but is cheated .
you are the most sweet kiss .
but i behold with venomous kiss .
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
Aching, and angry and almost alive
Beaten, and battered and broken of bone
Callous, and cruel, and cruising off course
Deceived, and ****** and dealing with demons
Erected, and exploded, and eaten by erosion
Fractured, and fused, and falling to fast
Gaps, and gorgeous and glistening red gouges
Hellish, and harmful, and hurting my heart
Idiots, and idols, and invisible but insane
Justice and jolted and jade into jumping
Knights, and Kings, and killing of kinsman
Longing, and loathing, and living in lust
Media, and manipulation, and mind that's maddening
Nature, and night, and native in nothing
Opened, and ordered, obviously an orphan
Pungent, and putrid, and praying for perseverance
Quartered, and queued, and quietly is questioned
Rolling, and ready, and recently been released
Soulful, and sorry, and story of sorrow
Terrorist, and target, and
terrifying in truth
Unique, and united and using the universe
****** and victims, and validating the vice
Windows, and watching, weathering the winter
Xmas, and x-box, and
Xavier of X-Men
Yesterdays, and years, and yearning for youth
Zealous, and zones,
And zip of zero
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
On Tuesday, I had
the intention
to set the precedent
of doing the
the work for Class
promptly
And for that
I had
Tomorrow
But Tomorrow
turned
Into..
Up at Five AM
to climb
A Mountain (Kinsman a 4000 footer)
Then back at Three
to take
A Well earned Shower
Then out at Four
to see the group of
my Best Friends
For the first time (in quite some time)
And the last time
until Summer
Then back at One
To get some
Sleep
So, even though
Tomorrow turned
to Yesterday
And I didn’t
at all
do school work
So, this Morning
I hurriedly
write this
I can’t at all
Say it wasn’t
Worth it
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
I. Fasl al fasl
The Carvan has halted.
The grunting of camels.
The sand shines of moonlight.
And I remember you.
The bonfire is lit.
My kinsman have all gathered.
And yet lonely, I remember you.
I was the lonely moon,
And you the mirthful rain.
Your voice to my heart was so soothing,
And my life full of despair and pain.
II. Àl fasl min dhikraa
When I see the dancing fire,
I remember your radiant eyes.
When I drink the wine,
I remember your intoxicating words.
When I visit the perfume chamber,
I sense your presence around.
When I pick up the pen,
I remember the letters you wrote to me.
When I gaze around at the eternal sand,
I feel the emptiness of my life.
III. Àl fasl min aldaewa
I searched for you,
Through every oasis I passed.
Through every city I went to.
Through the olive groves.
I called for you,
Like man so insane.
Like the miser losing a diamond.
Like the parrot calling its mate.
Like a thirsty man crying for water.
IV. Àl fasl min alsala
Where should I go,
Whom should I pray to.
The night seems worthless,
And worthless are the days.
Tell me where should I go,
Name an abode so worthy.
For me it shall be heaven,
A chance to see you; my true salvation.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 5:34 AM UTC
There wasn’t a lot of the Castle left,
A couple of Towers, and Keep,
Most of the walls had fallen in
To a courtyard, full of sheep.
It stood up high on a Scottish hill
Now all enclosed by a farm,
But once there was always blue-blood there,
Brought in by its Highland charm.
It ruled all over the countryside
That it mastered, looking down,
Bolstered by the power of a Laird
With a royal court and a clown,
The Laird was a noble, Ralph McClair,
And his wife, a Lady Ann,
A beauty brought from the Western Isles
But from quite a different clan.
The clown was a kinsman, Rod McBain
Who’d been held from a local feud,
At court he’d been made to entertain
For the peace that his kinsmen sued.
They never ceased to humiliate
McBain for his royal blood,
And dressed him in bells and motley there,
Simply because they could.
From what one knows, as the story goes
When McClair rode far and wide,
Taxing the poorest peasants there
For the sake of his royal pride,
It came one day he returned, they say,
To discover his Lady Ann,
In flagrante delicto in
The arms of a naked man.
The man just happened to be McBain
Who was seized, and his features spoiled,
They ripped the flesh from his back and dropped
Him into a cask of oil,
The oil was heated to boiling point
Till his screams rang out, and loud,
While she was naked, paraded there
In front of the courtyard crowd.
His screams and cries and the lady’s sighs
Ate into the castle walls,
And that they say is the only way
To explain the stonework falls,
A fungus grew in the mortar there
And destroyed the Castle McClair,
And as I say, if you go today
You will see the result right there.
For up on that distant Scottish height
You will see the remains of love,
Especially when the Northern Lights
Light up the sky from above,
For stones still fall from the Towers and Keep,
At night, and in winter rain,
And crash down into the courtyard, but
Sounding like screams of pain.
David Lewis Paget
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 10:28 PM UTC
I sit and await the highborn kinsman,
As I look below, I see only sorrow,
To purge myself from mourning cries,
To self obstruct I do abide,
The destruction of my skin shows my way to the end,
Dark shadows cast their way behind me,
Sadness seeps into my soul as I prepare my own sepulchre,
The demons among us sense my presence
Preparing the horrendous journey brought by the Angel of Death,
The demons,
the demons a motley they hide within us
Blood is shed
Battle scars last forever
But they still wont leave me alone,
The demons are at a war,
And the war is inside my head
They're calling me
Beckoning
I'm wanted on the battlefield
Prepare for bloodshed,
I am on the battle field,
It is strange,
There are many people here,
But I am the only one fighting,
Then the demons attack,
I feel their blades slashing me,
Everywhere,
But I keep going,
All I can think about is when these demons are gone,
Then I realize,
I can end it all,
But I keep going,
Slashing,
Bleeding.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Edgar Allan Poe
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC