"kith" poems
The other day while driving down
a winding country road,
I passed a house that took me back
to days so long ago.
The shaded porch, the hanging swing,
the oak trees standing guard,
The carefully tended flower beds,
the wide expanse of yard,
The big ol' wooden rocking chairs
where a soul could sit and drowse,
Made me recall so clearly,
time spent at Grandma's house.
Grandma's house was always open
to all who happened by.
Kith and kin or long-lost friend
were met with a welcome cry.
"Come, sit and eat, we'll set another place,
there's always room for one more".
And when you left you could look back and see her,
still waving from the open door.
Many years have passed, the family is scattered,
And that house is no longer home.
But whenever I should happen to pass,
the feeling still comes so strong.
That I should stop and visit a while
and a secret or two we'll share.
And then on its heels comes the knowledge,
that Grandma's no longer there.
All that's left are fond memories
that all of us grandkids have,
That we can recall so clearly,
time spent at Grandma's house.
Apr 22, 2011
Apr 22, 2011 at 12:25 PM UTC
Surrounded by kith and kin
' Success ' is well known.
Poor ' Failure ' is an orphan;
lives in seclusion, all alone.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 8:18 AM UTC
The day that I was christened--
It's a hundred years, and more!--
A hag came and listened
At the white church door,
A-hearing her that bore me
And all my kith and kin
Considerately, for me,
Renouncing sin.
While some gave me corals,
And some gave me gold,
And porringers, with morals
Agreeably scrolled,
The hag stood, buckled
In a dim gray cloak;
Stood there and chuckled,
Spat, and spoke:
"There's few enough in life'll
Be needing my help,
But I've got a trifle
For your fine young whelp.
I give her sadness,
And the gift of pain,
The new-moon madness,
And the love of rain."
And little good to lave me
In their holy silver bowl
After what she gave me--
Rest her soul!
8k
HAPPY DIWALI TO ALL
This Diwali, if your spirit is damp,
Look out for a small clamp;
And light a tiny oil lamp.
The lamp of faith, please do light.
It will certainly turn things happy n bright.
And that, will definitely be a wonderful sight.
This Diwali, get rid off the darkness within.
Open your heart n light a lamp there-in ;
Spreading its glow to kith and kin.
Armin Dutia Motashaw
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 1:14 AM UTC
Unreality: Thanksgiving Miami Style
It is 70 degrees, afternoon,
sunny Miami winter style.
Nike shorts, flip flops,
polo shirt white,
music, pandora, and
no place he
needs to be.
the collected works and
worries, left behind,
the boy, and he is taking
it to the limit,
wanting a day of no cares,
one more time.
yet, recollecting, writing
impertent, dissatisfied,
no reason, none that I can
irrationally explain.
previous night,
my eyes have
seen the
second-coming.
everybody smiles
happy, looking fit,
tight black dresses
the law of the land.
food flows like wine,
wine flows like water.
lose track of the numbers,
glasses of Cortese di Gavi,
cold and white refilled
in the Miami heat,
exactly, how old am I,
and where
my eyes should
not be staring,
bodies intended
to maim,
after they
**** you.
it is a long-short tale,
how it came to be,
that I am living thanksgiving
in the unreality of Miami style.
was supposed be at the
head of the table carving,
giving secret tastes to
numerous grandchildren,
multiple dogs,
defrosting after the
Macy's Day Parade.
my children, their
kith and kin.
that was supposed to be
my New York reality,
at the head of the table.
divorce, monkey wrench,
I am in a different state,
a different table, a
welcome bystander,
but her love,
my love,
has brought me,
to unseasonal places,
higher and higher,
where I am welcomed
as her man.
not a bad unreality,
but still someone has torn
off a piece of me,
a tasty combo of
sad and guilt,
that I ******* up,
which is why this
writing is my re-righting
the ship of perspective.
maybe I am dreaming
of what was never,
could have been,
should of been,
kidding myself, with an idyll,
the unreality of an idol,
though I vague recollect,
there were meals like that.
think this is my fourth trip here,
sort of, almost a tradition.
BobbyDylan, he reminds
what that woman,
done for me,
been doing to me.
*"I was in another lifetime
one of toil and blood,
when blackness was a virtue
and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness
a creature void of form.
"Come in" she said
"I'll give you shelter
from the storm".*
so she did,
a new reality born.
so semi-sad poem, but
happy thanks to give,
for this day,
new family
embracing, and I am
recollecting,
read somewhere,
you cannot be thankful
for having,
only for giving.
Thanksgiving
Not
Thanks-having
Thanks-receiving
New Reality: Thanksgiving Miami Style.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
Library - It is a world full of books
All are interested, whether they are engineers, peons or cooks
Books of all genre you will find
It never fails to attract one's mind
But please remember the Golden Rule
Please be silent; it isn't a sin
Never be violent or else you'll disgrace your kith and kin
You may even make the librarian your friend
And ***** will provide you with books of the latest trend
Harry Potter, The Godfather and The Da Vinci Code
Not that keen? Well you could always try The Princess and the Toad
Books are for everyone; age doesn't matter
Idiot box or reading? I'd rather choose the latter
Whether you want science or fiction
The Library is a world of addiction
Once you pick up a book you will get glued
You'll shout yourself hoarse if anyone dares to intrude
You'll be reading it in class, the toilet or the bus
And when the teacher confiscates it you'll create a big fuss
Oh, Miss please! Just one more page!
It's the ****** part between the pirate and the sage
We should thank Gutenberg for inventing the press and bestowing upon us this boon
Else we'd all still be stuck watching cartoon!
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
My mother she had children five and four are dead and gone;
While I, least worthy to survive, persist in living on.
She looks at me, I must confess, sometimes with spite and bitterness.
My mother is three-score and ten, while I am forty-three,
You don't know how it hurts me when we go somewhere to tea,
And people tell her on the sly we look like sisters, she and I.
It hurts to see her secret glee; but most, because it's true.
Sometimes I think she thinks that she looks younger of the two.
Oh as I gently take her arm, how I would love to do her harm!
For ever since I cam from school she put it in my head
I was a weakling and a fool, a "born old maid" she said.
"You'll always stay at home," sighed she, "and keep your Mother company."
Oh pity is a bitter brew; I've drunk it to the lees;
For there is little else to do but do my best to please:
My life has been so little worth I curse the hour she gave me birth.
I curse the hour she gave me breath, who never wished me wife;
My happiest day will be the death of her who gave me life;
I hate her for the life she gave: I hope to dance upon her grave.
She wearing roses in her hat; I wince to hear her say:
"Poor Alice this, poor Alice that," she drains my joy away.
It seems to brace her up that she can pity, pity, pity me.
You'll see us walking in the street, with careful step and slow;
And people often say: "How sweet!" as arm in arm we go.
Like chums we never are apart - yet oh the hatred in my heart!
My chest is weak, and I might be (O God!) the first to go.
For her what triumph that would be - she thinks of it, I know.
To outlive all her kith and kin - how she would glow beneath her skin!
She says she will not make her Will, until she takes to bed;
She little thinks if thoughts could **** to-morrow she'd be dead. . . .
"Please come to breakfast, Mother dear; Your coffee will be cold I fear."
4k
What counsel has the hooded moon
Put in thy heart, my shyly sweet,
Of Love in ancient plenilune,
Glory and stars beneath his feet -- -
A sage that is but kith and kin
With the comedian Capuchin?
Believe me rather that am wise
In disregard of the divine,
A glory kindles in those eyes
Trembles to starlight. Mine, O Mine!
No more be tears in moon or mist
For thee, sweet sentimentalist.
4k
One would be in less danger
From the wiles of a stranger
If one's own kin and kith
Were more fun to be with.
3.8k
In the 80's!
In the 80's they ran.
The petrified black diamonds.
From the mines of Africa.
Chased by near **** oppressors.
The white guys...supreme...?
No chance.
Tried to play apartheid games vicious of cruelty.
Smoking out the black guys.
Locking them in evil segregation.
Beaten and battered with no choice!
At the end the white *******
With the miserable voices.
Lost soul control.
When apartheid was destroyed.
11th February,
Released set free.
Nelson Mandela.
Father of dignity.
We need to remember under the skin.
That we are still kith and kin.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 4:47 PM UTC
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the hoard,
Of all their gifts from yesterday, they are already bored
But here they come a'shopping for they think that they need more
The hoard keeps marching on!
Geez, I'm glad I don't work retail
Geez, I'm glad I don't work retail
It would be like being in hell
I'm glad that I am home
It's boxing day at Wal-mart and the time is getting near
For people to come shopping with the ones they love so dear
By three o'clock they're fighting and their wishing for a beer
The hoard keeps marching on
(chourus)
The returns desk is not open and the crowd is getting mad
They're all returning presents that they got for mum and dad
They all are saying this year is the worst they've ever had
The hoard keeps marching on
(chorus)
The deals, they are exceptional, in fact they're really great
The things you bought for 90 bucks, today they sell for 8
If you find one that fits perfectly, you chalk it up to fate
The hoard keeps marching on.
(chorus)
I sit at home and laught about the people at the sales
And cringe and drink more alcohol when I think about their tales
Of how they fought the crowds off just to buy a box of nails
The hoard keeps marching on
(chorus)
It seems to me that Christmas now is on the twenty sixth
That the story about Jesus is no more than just a myth
My tongue is numb from drinking and I really need a kith
The hoard keeps marching on.
Glory, Glory Hallelujah
Glory, Glory Hallelujah
Glory, Glory Hallelujah
I'm glad that I stayed home!!
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 3:05 PM UTC
Charity starts at home don't we say?
Be kind to your kith and kin come what may.
A family's not only your safe haven
Tis pals your very own roots
Water these shoots with love devoid of hate
So they bear you sweeter fruits.
Maybe you'd say that's not so easy
but perhaps that's coz you just too busy
Or your clock just don't chime
for quality family time?
For if you can't make time for a letter or a hug
Then let my poem give your conscience a gentle tug.
And if this may sound like a very preachy homily
Deserves much more mention and affection the family
If you can make time for so many other things
some of them not even worthwhile
Try discover the happiness family brings
Just a tad modify that routine lifestyle.
My words in crystal clear clarity
sing compassion is likewise a charity
Charity need not be for strangers only
Find out who needs help in kindred and family
Ties of kinship severe not
Value the relations you've got
Your siblings, cousins from your family tree
and all else that you call family.
What supports and buttresses your family tree are your very own roots
And what keeps the tree living on are your beloved offshoots
Love and regard is quintessential to reaping sweeter fruits
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 1:09 PM UTC
A holy dip in a river, revere you may,
Or any philanthropic act may it be,
Only wisdom finds divine salvation,
From cynic cycles of birth and death,
Believe in boundless bliss beyond ….17
Relish respite in temple serene,
Cherish in the shadow of a tree,
Squat or lie on a flat ground,
Renounce worldly comforts,
Peace prevails in plenty.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond ….18
Dwell you may, in ecstasy,
Of fanfare and fortitude,
Attached to materialism,
But, to revel in the divine bliss is;
The only redemption of lingering life.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond ….19
Delve into the divine discourse of deliverance,
Sip the holy drops of sacred rivers,
Worship the lordship of Almighty
The Lord of Death dare not pinch you.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond …20
Pangs of birth, panic of death,
Over and over, again and again,
Make one and all sick and sullen.
Cultivate divine diary of deeds,
Enroll the ultimate bliss of eternity.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond …..21
He who cogitates cool inward,
Be content with what he has,
Contempt to what he has not,
May look like an innocent child,
Or an indecent mad cap outward.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond …..22
Question yourself –
Who are you and me?
And other kith and kin?
There lies delusion in delight,
Of experience and exposure,
Of trials and tribulations,
Ending up in ****** dreams.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond 23
Almighty is all pervasive,
In you and me and all around,
To be furious is to be foolish,
Drop ego; uphold equality& equanimity,
As the best way to sacred sanctum
Believe in boundless bliss beyond 24
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
The world understands nay struggle:
It is like speaking French in China,
Or Yoruba in Greece, or in Ghana
Arabic--it's a communication horrible!
But success, however awkward
It doth sound, has an audible voice,
Which is louder than the clangours
Of thunders that ring from heavenward.
The speech of poorness is scarcely
Heard in one's kith and kin's ears;
Whilst riches talk with dainty lips,
Whether foul tunes out they breathe.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
I espied the wisps,
whisper with their lips,
quivering their golden hips,
orbiting blooming tulips,
to provoke me, with their quips.
Taking out an old crock,
stalking behind a rock,
I trailed those glowing beetles,
whiffing the fragrance of myrtles,
skipped across the backyard,
to catch the fireflies, flitting haphazard,
Humming and buzzing, I could hear,
with luminous insects tickling my ear.
Losing my faith, I turned back home
followed by an unknown kith, adventuresome;
He sat on my finger, glimmering with radiance
wish he did linger, while I stood
hypnotised, under nature’s brilliance.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 4:44 AM UTC
There once was a man named Claude
Who married his cousin Maude
Their kith did heartily celebrate
As they wed within the family state
Of genetic accord were Maude and Claude
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
I am weary of lying within the chase
When the knights are meeting in market-place.
Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town
Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down.
But I would not go where the Squires ride,
I would only walk by my Lady’s side.
Alack! and alack! thou art overbold,
A Forester’s son may not eat off gold.
Will she love me the less that my Father is seen
Each Martinmas day in a doublet green?
Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie,
Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.
Ah, if she is working the arras bright
I might ravel the threads by the fire-light.
Perchance she is hunting of the deer,
How could you follow o’er hill and mere?
Ah, if she is riding with the court,
I might run beside her and wind the morte.
Perchance she is kneeling in St. Denys,
(On her soul may our Lady have gramercy!)
Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle,
I might swing the censer and ring the bell.
Come in, my son, for you look sae pale,
The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale.
But who are these knights in bright array?
Is it a pageant the rich folks play?
‘T is the King of England from over sea,
Who has come unto visit our fair countrie.
But why does the curfew toll sae low?
And why do the mourners walk a-row?
O ‘t is Hugh of Amiens my sister’s son
Who is lying stark, for his day is done.
Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear,
It is no strong man who lies on the bier.
O ‘t is old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall,
I knew she would die at the autumn fall.
Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair,
Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair.
O ‘t is none of our kith and none of our kin,
(Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin!)
But I hear the boy’s voice chaunting sweet,
‘Elle est morte, la Marguerite.’
Come in, my son, and lie on the bed,
And let the dead folk bury their dead.
O mother, you know I loved her true:
O mother, hath one grave room for two?
2.2k
Along an icy road she walked
Alone at night in the winter wind
Along an icy road she walked
Away from all her kith and kin.
Her memories she ran away from
A woman past the age called young
In her mind there was just one,
“Magician” the name upon her tongue.
It whispered into the wind where no one hears
Along an icy road near the end
“Magician” upon her heart stained with tears
Along a memory near a bend.
The name of love lost to time?
The name of enemies long ago?
Or just a word from her mind,
From a tale of both love and woe.
Along an icy road she lay
Last breath frozen on her cheek
Along an icy road in May
No more words will she speak.
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 8:42 PM UTC
If a tale need be tattled,
the snawky Snawk would arise.
With its snickley tongue of arsenic blue,
and loathsome gamboge eyes.
To the King of the stickley Snicklers,
the Snawk would spill his talk.
But scuttlebutt was all t'was,
for he was but a snawky Snawk.
Might you ask
who am I be?
I am a jawky Jawk
who talks incessantly
of the snawky Snawk,
with his snickley tongue,
and his breath of kyarn,
and Beelzebub dung.
You see I knows of him all too well
and well he knows of me.
Invidious brothers, one of the other,
same Mother both have we.
Now the snawky Snawk spins yarns
so dark and thick and odious.
One might find his fatuous canards
to be though flatulent, commodious.
But If ye be a gawky Gawk
of the snawky Snawk beware,
For his loathsome camboge eyes
can squinny a ribald stare.
To your knees his gaze will bring you,
you'll tell all the tales you know.
Then he'll tattle them to the Snickler King
and off to the headsman you will go.
That is, unless, you know the ballad
the Snawk is most offended by.
'bout the frowzy blowzy stable boy
with only just one eye.
He lost his eye in a snickering match
twixt The Snickley King and he.
But got the best of the old nabob,
for he could cachinnate you see.
He did cachinnate and aggravate,
till the old King did concede.
The stable boy was the better of the two,
his tongue cut like a snickersnee.
For the frowzy blowzy stable boy
was not able to tell a lie,
nor could he mince his words with honey,
of the truth he could not hide.
And if one day you find yourself
in the land of the quidnunc kith.
Shun the snickley Snicklers,
and their sniggering King forthwith.
But if ye meet up with the stable boy
though untidy he may be.
Dare not tattle of a soul,
he'll let fly his snickersnee.
And remember well, the ballad he sings,
of the King he did do down.
Drink in its waspy strain and keep it nigh,
lest the snawky Snawk cometh 'round.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
Enter Ravana
I
I Had
Hadn't I?
Told Rama,
As I Was Dying,
That I'll Rise Again,
In Face Of Corruption,
**** All The Moral Values,
Of Your Future Land,
Kith Would **** Kin,
Left Would Cheat,
So Right Suffers,
Legs So Thick,
That Bleed,
On,
And On,
As They Move,
Causing Much Pain,
And Suffering As Well,
Even As The People Move,
Along The Path Well Beaten,
Haven't I Passed My Own Test?
Yes I Definitely Have Passed It,
Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha!
I Just Fought For My Sister,
People Have No Respect,
They **** Their Sister,
I Cursed You Right!
For Your Reply,
Since ages I've,
Waited For A,
Befitting Solution,
To The Besotting,
Puzzle,
I Cursed,
For,
Your,
Nation!
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
expecting the ride of a lifetime
hype guy with the pimped out kith jeans
and the shoes that cost god knows what
but he pulls me off of him so he can
carefully unlace them, while i get drier
than a desert waiting for him
like, ***
show up in sweats and a hoodie so i can
steal it next time, man
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 5:57 PM UTC
Tiptoe timidly,
oh my tongue.
Speak not the words
That toe on your tip.
Swallow the surplus,
you swift little thing,
And mind that these slivers
Are given to slip.
Forget your fidgeting,
Fingers of mine.
Flee from the keystrokes
You’re fighting to flip.
Quiet your queries,
Your qualms, and questions.
Kith care not for clinging,
Nor for your quips.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 4:23 AM UTC
Kith and kin of Pheidippes
she knows nothing else
lays everything on the line
throws herself into the task
the task of protection.
To stop means of harm, or sorrow
the curse of the coward,
knowing only flight
never knowing love
never finding rest.
She has yet to learn
you cannot outrun the past
for the past is too strong.
Sometimes, dear runner,
you must be still.
Sometimes, dear runner,
you must stand your ground.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 6:08 PM UTC
Without doubt my middle finger points
To all those who discouraged me..
Even if you are my kith and kin..
If even once you treat me like a bin..
With proud I shall say..
You belong to the group of ..
All those who discouraged me..
Whenever you mocked in play..
On my dreams and say...
That I won't be able to do it..
Dear Sir, with pleasure go find your next victim..
Cause may be you ain't got what it takes..
Its discouragement which makes..
Me stronger by the day..
You can hit and hide..
But only I will decide ..Where you belong..!
And you are one of those ..Who discouraged me..!
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 7:51 AM UTC
The constellation of the celestial shrine
The author and finisher of our faith,
Dead set against the Old Serpent
As poor as a church mouse
Playing with the ghost of a chance,
Earning like Cain, the milk of a coconut;
Crying quarter entertaining (decollate) angels unawares,
Kith and Kin a church invisible, fast and loose
Perpetuating the false dawn of sombre dreams
Amid the tranquility of evil, whispering
Of time, the harmonious echo of silence
Soul enlightening at the gates of death devouring
Light, the omniscience of truth, as the
Devil loves holy water, a conjuror
Of the wages of sin.
ELEETE J MUIR
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 6:53 PM UTC