"kos" poems
Kyk! Kan jy dit sien?! Dis wolke.
Dis waar! Dit is gemaak uit spoke.
Mamma roep ons, lyk soos kos vir wolwe.
En boetie sin lyk soos 'n klomp golwe.
Ek kyk op en sien 'n hartjie.
Dit is groter as my hele handjie.
Mamma se ek moet my kos eet.
Maar ek hou glad nie van die beet.
Ek kyk weer op en weet ek speel in die sand.
Wolke is vir my so, so interessant.
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
Original English version: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/skyrim-3/
Zu'u lost ont jul zulot fein naan vorey jul,
Midrak zoklot zurun Zu'u stood, veyn pogaan ran.
Nii lost Zu'u wo fund krii sahrot dovah, ahrk zind uben vokul jun,
Ko svaan snol ahrk geikaal mund, nust fund heind dii for ahrk mirodah!
Zu'u lost ahst wah do lein, ahrk nid vust knock zey tum!
Fah dii sos nust came, nuz ko niist siifur nust drowned,
Zu'u lost hailed *** ko dii nor ahrk zoor ko suleyksejun!
Sahrot Lahvirn neben lot lokoltei, voth zey ahst niist zurgah,
Morokei lost golt mu tread voknau, lok bex ahrk stin!
Zu'u nuft wah kos undoriik med you…
But ruz Zu'u rem ronaaz wah krahsek.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
Wat is
Soet sonder suur
Wat is
Lente sonder winter
Wat is
Lig sonder donker
Wat is
Wolk sonder droogte
Wat is
Kos sonder honger
Wat is
Slaap sonder moeg
Wat is
Lewe sonder dood
Wat is
Ek sonder jy
Wat is
Is sonder niks?
https://blominblou.weebly.com/blog/wat-is
Aug 12, 2020
Aug 12, 2020 at 3:03 AM UTC
Dis stasie was stil
en donker gelaat.
Die nag kwyn in lig
en die dag kry sy wraak.
Die spore le koud
verdwyn op die horison,
en ek wag vir 'n stoomtrein
wat nooit sal kom.
Karre jaag die lewe
in die stad duskant die spoor aan
en 'n sateliet voer ons inligting
vanuit sy ordinere wentelbaan,
maar ek verspeel my tyd
deur hier langs die spoor te staan.
My soeke vir liefde
was waar liefde ontbreek,
soos om te wag vir 'n stoomtrein
of om vir kos te smeek.
Ek soek nou vir liefde
op die verlate stasies
van die vandag se tyd
, maar al wat ek kry is 'n taxi
en die wereld lag my uit.
Ek wag vir my trein.
Ek wag vir jou.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
This poem is translate from http://hellopoetry.com/poem/warrior-of-tamriel-warrior-of-realitys-breath/
Zu'u faas nid nuz koraav pah,
Dii dovah meyz fod Zu'u for.
Zu'u imaar verin voknau dii hadrim,
Ol nust swirl tuum tiid.
Zu'u kriist firm ahrk faar,
Waving dii zahkrii ko ven.
Dii lein los nunon kein,
Ol Zu'u krif wah juh.
Nid uth vis gesaag zey fos wah dreh,
Zu'u los Kinbokein do Keizaal.
Dii bodein los do krilaan praan,
ol dii noot everyday,
los raal wah gor.
Hi krif fah fos hi korah,
Hi dir voth dignity.
Zin yoz ko hin sostrah,
Ol hi unt wah krif stin.
Stinun prenlon fod Kendov kriist veyl,
Rok uv rek fent kos,
saviik wah lein.
Tuum Lein do Taazokaan,
Zu'u los Lokolteiren Rahzun,
Ahrk Punah.
Naangein vis kos kendov voknau strife,
Orin tuum daar kein,
Hi vis kos ges.
Aav reid,
Unad hin zen.
Hi fent kos krongrahkei,
Ahrk fen deserve Kendov Dinok.
Jur thy dragonkin nu.
Nust fen saraan hin arosend.
Voknau hin dovah,
Fent meyz thy untak.
Kest riin tuum lok do Taazokaan,
Ol Dovahkiin meyz,
Wah Lein do Keizaal.
Fus Ro Dah !
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 8:06 AM UTC
Dis nou die tyd om te babbel
En my mond verby te praat
, want hulle sê mos
A drunk man's words is
A sober man's thoughts...
En wie weet dalk vind ek
Die antwoorde in ń diep gesprek met myself...
Sien ek is nie een van daardie
AA lappies wat skeinheilig
Sit en slukkies suip om
Geluk onder in die bottel
Op te spoor nie.
Ek rook skaamteloos en
Omhels die intense stank
Van 10 jaar se lewe wat ek
Mors en longkanker, want
Dit herrinner my an oupa se
Skoot en *** veilig ek was
In daardie asbak woonstel
Waar ek soos white-trash eers my brood moes inspekteer vir
Indringer kokkerotte wat ook
Maar net teen ons kompeteer het
Vir ń krummeltjie kos.
Ek babbel, want wat anders kan mens doen as vrees jou aangryp as die koue staal jou hande brand -
En nee ek praat nie van lemme en inspuitings nie,
Want lemme maak merke waarvan ek reeds te veel het wat nou oor my polse uitgesprei lê en my herrinner *** swak ek was, maar *** sterk ek was... en inspuitings los ek vir die dokters en susters en die bloeddiens
Wat my leeg wil tap om een of ander sad case se lewe te red met bloed van ń bloedjie wat self nog in die verdoemtenis rond dwaal.
Ek babbel, want dis social anxiety en scary stuff om in ń kring te sit en Russian roulette te speel met al 5 van die mense wat ander van jou verwag om te wees. Want wat gebeur as ek myself in hierdie hoerasie van persoonlikhede raakskiet. *** weet ek watter een is ek as elke een die sneller swaar trek en hoop en bid vir ń blank... *** weet ek.
Kliek...
Kliek...
Kliek...
Kliek...
Bang!!
En nou babbel ek maar weer
...
Want ek het so pas agtergekom ek weet ook nie juis *** dit voel om dood te wees nie.
Wie is ek...
*** sal ek weet
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
...
Ek weet.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
Knuppeldik gaan slaap die stad
na 'n feesmaal van smaak en kleur
vloei die reuke deur die strate
in 'n Brown se beweging van geur.
Alle trommels , trommeldik maar maak 'n lee geraas
en in die donker , agterstrate begin die ander nou te aas
Kom die honger hande uit die sakke
en krap met rook-geel vingernael
soek die skummel in die swartsak
vir 'n laaste dissipelsmaal.
Maar jy is skille , jy is doppe
jy is alles wat laat gril
nie genoeg vir koningstafels maar vir my
net genoeg om die knaagdiere te stil.
Onerfare soos ek is , vat my hongerbrein ook mis
watter mens kan so dan lewe? watter mens kan so dan eet?
van die lykswa en die straatveers
het hierdie boemelaar vergeet.
Ek is mens en nie 'n vark nie,
(al moet 'n mens ook eet).
En stil vergaan die boemelaar
wat kieskeur ook wou wees,
nog 'n straatkind se ou lykie
nog 'n honger kinder gees...
ek wat was het mos gesien
*** kos op tafels lyk,
en het sodanig hart verloor
op kosse kleur en ruik.
Met 'n bord vol knubbels le die lykie
voor hom , onaangeraak.
Al was kos ook wat kos was daar
het hy te lief vir die droom geraak.
Eerder kwyn en dood verslaan
as om die droom te ruineer.
Eerder dood van honger,
as om hierdie kos , as sulks te eer.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 10:37 AM UTC
APA KAU TAK DENGAR ??
Sebuah nyanyian gerakan melingking lurus tajam
ke arah penguasa yang menusuk hati rakyat.
Para pemuda dan mahasiswa yang berada
dalam pusaran arus kerusakan
Maka tiada lagi, kita harus melawan !
Disaat buku hanya berada dikantong saku berdebu
Disaat pena tak lagi mengeluarkan goresan tajamnya
Disaat megaphonemu tak lagi bersuara karena usang
Disaat tongsismu membunuh sikap kritis !
Mana raunganmu wahai Pemuda ?
Keluarlah dari barak kos dan sekretariatanmu Mahasiswa !
Apa kau tak dengar ??
Mana raunganmu wahai Pemuda ?
Keluarlah dari barak kos dan sekretariatanmu Mahasiswa !
Apa kau tak dengar ??
Sungguh ibumu tak kan rela melihat dapur rumahnya
yang tak lagi mengepul
Apa kau tak dengar ??
Sungguh bapakmu tak kan rela melihat kau
menderita karena miskin tenaga
Apa kau tak dengar ??
Sungguh jalan raya merindukan berbagai aksi aksimu
disetiap hentakan langkah kakimu
Apa kau tak dengar ??
Sungguh engkau adalah Generasi yang diharapkan
ummat Muhammad !
Wahai Mahasiswa.. Kau pembebas dunia
Wahai Mahasiswa.. Kau penerus negeri
Wahai Mahasiswa.. Dikepalmu Khilafah !
Wahai Mahasiswa.. Dikepalmu Khilafah !
Wahai Mahasiswa.. Dikepalmu Khilafah !
#RinduPergolakan
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 12:15 AM UTC
Let me tell you a true story of tragic love;
And you had better believe it, for there's no lie.
'Twas on the Isle of Kos that I met Helga one day,
Sitting in a taverna, sipping an ouzo.
I sat down and we soon exchanged a word or two,
Flirting and teasing 'til the sun sank in the sea.
I suggested a walk on the beach (subtle move)
Which is when I received a nice little surprise.
She stood up in all her glory and then I found
That she was well over a eighteen inches shorter than my humble self,
A genuine short-arse with a prosthetic leg to boot
Which promised me something rather special.
Nothing put out, we ended up in my bedroom
And I shoved my hot tongue right up her angelic ****
"Did you like that?" I enquired (a gent as always)
"It was repulsive," she replied with a slight sneer.
And when we woke up together the next bright morn
I found she had vomited on my bedside jeans,
Before leaving me alone on the encrusted sheets.
Unfortunately the jeans shrunk a bit when I washed the puke out
And their exquisite tightness on my private parts
Reminded me for several days of this amorous encounter.
Was her criticism of my oral skills her unusual Norwegian humour?
Perhaps she really meant to call me her Übermensch?
Maybe it was sarcasm and got lost in translation
So stimulated was she post-orgasmically.
One horrid thought still remains - she might have meant it
(after all, as Nietzsche once said so observantly
"in revenge and in love woman is more barbarous than man.").
And thus I am left with confused memories of that night:
Her face was that of blond angel but her tongue was sharp
And it really was a crying shame about her leg-stump
Which wept slightly.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
The old sea god is dead,
Torn open and ripped apart
For science, study.
Villagers maimed
Heads cracked open
Always asking
“Do you have eyes?”
Do we see the eyes?
If Kos is dead then why does she speak?
She speaks of sight,
And I see the eyes.
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 2:32 PM UTC
Hipnotiseer die liggies jou,
As die reuk van karnivaal kos jou in gekarameliseerde geluk toe vou ?
Vlieg jy ook tydelik op die grootste ferris wiel?
So vry soos ņ voël,
Vleg deur die liggies en sterre
Ontsnap weer jou kinder siel.
Deel in die tyd van jou lewe,
Saam jou vriende
(En dalk ń bietjie bier).
Welkom by die skou!
Ons is bly jy's ook hier.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
Last sunday, we go videoke.
Kaming unom, grabe'g panganta.
Naay nice ug tingog, naay okay ra,
naay wala gyud sa tono, naay nag sabay-sabay ra,
ug naay feeler gyud kaayo nga singer siya.
Niabot ang time, naka feel na mig uhaw.
Ni offer ang isa, isa ka bucket ambot ug unsa.
TOK TOK TOK ayay naa na ang gihulat,
tambal sa uhaw gipatong sa lamesa.
PAK! SMIRNOFF ANG GIDALA!
Kami nagpadayon ug kanta,
kachada sa pamati, sa ilimnong ma'lami.
Niabot ang last nga kanta,
Obladi, Oblada, tala na mamauli na ta.
Nihapit's balutan, mao na po'y gitirada.
Nanglingkod kadjot sa seawall,
nagpahangin gamay usa musakay.
Nipara mig cab kay hapit na alas dose,
sa rural basin mabiyaan mi.
Wa na gibyaan gyud, maygani naay super 5, pero tag 50 gyud.
Kami naabot sa tagsa-tagsang panimalay,
wow kalami sa akuang katulog bai.
Pagmata nako, nganong init kaayo ko?
Wa ko kasabot sa akuang gibati, gitugnaw ko pag ayo.
Yati, ngano man ni? Nag inom man unta kog vitamin C.
Pagka uran2 naa koy gi share sa fb,
nag react akuang miga kay sgalain pud daw iya ginhawa.
Taod-taod nag my day ang isa, gi dextrose kay gihilantan sab siya.
Nag text kos isa pa, kung ga daot pud siya.
"OO" mao na iyang reply,
*** why kami gyud upat dai?
Ang isa silingan ra namo, wala may gibati.
So, isa nalang kulang, akua gitawagan.
Wala mitubag, akuang manghod iyang gi chatan.
"Yes dai gihilantan pud siya", mao nay reply.
Wala nay lain, ang SMIRNOFF mao jud akuang pasanginlan!
Kaming lima baling yarok, sa smirnoff nga mabugnaw.
Ang isa wala nag mind kay nagsaad di gyud siya mo inom.
Mao toy amuang gidangatan, gipang ubo, sip'on ug gihilantan.
Grabe, unsay naa adtong smirnoff nila?
Ngano kaming lima ang naapektohan?
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 9:20 PM UTC
Die velde en berge le honderde myle ver, oop tot by die horison.
Al wat ek sien is gras, klippe en bome, en drome van n lewe so vry ver in die valley, groen van reen en geen besoedeling van die besige lewe so ewe of dit al is wat ons het…
Die vlaktes bring my gedagtes na n rustigheid.
Ek kan ver sien so asof ek my lewe kan sien, die rustigheid wat dit verdien.
Ek sien die klein dingetjies raak soos die veldblomme wat blom met n glimlag dag na dag, n lady bug op die tak, die springkaan op die blaar, die miere wat trots hulle kos by mekaar maak vir swaar dae.
Doudruppels vroeg oggend net so na die sonsopkoms…
Dan voel ek dankbaar, dankbaar vir n lewe wat gegee is sonder vrae
Danbaarheid vir n Skepper van mens en natuur. 2016/01/24
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 1:40 AM UTC
Yes! It's another "Barry Hodges" poem!
Let me tell you a true story of tragic love;
And you had better believe it, for there's no lie.
'Twas on the Isle of Kos that I met Helga one day,
Sitting in a taverna, sipping an ouzo.
I sat down and we soon exchanged a word or two,
Flirting and teasing 'til the sun sank in the sea.
I suggested a walk on the beach (subtle move)
Which is when I received a nice little surprise.
She stood up in all her glory and then I found
That she was well over a foot shorter than my humble self,
A genuine short-arse with a prosthetic leg to boot
Which promised me something rather special.
Nothing put out, we ended up in my bedroom
And I shoved my hot tongue right up her angelic ****
"Did you like that?" I enquired (a gent as always)
"It was repulsive," she replied with a slight sneer.
And when we woke up together the next bright morn
I found she had vomited on my bedside jeans,
Before leaving me alone on the encrusted sheets.
Unfortunately the jeans shrunk a bit when I washed the puke out
And their exquisite tightness on my private parts
Reminded me for several days of this amorous encounter.
Was her criticism of my oral skills her unusual Norwegian humour?
Perhaps she really meant to call me her Übermensch?
Maybe it was sarcasm and got lost in translation
So stimulated was she post-orgasmically.
One horrid thought still remains - she might have meant it
(after all, as Nietzsche once said so observantly
"in revenge and in love woman is more barbarous than man.").
And thus I am left with confused memories of that night:
Her face was that of blond angel but her tongue was sharp
And it really was a crying shame about her leg-stump.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 12:00 PM UTC
To her who knows who she is.
I realize If you Donetsk in this world you don’t get,
so I thought about it Turin those nights away.
My mind would Rome.
As in to walk Cologne down Rhodes
my feet haven't wandered Faro while.
It seems you have the Kiev my heart,
Zagreb a Piza it in the Palma your hand,
Nevada let go but to keep for all time.
I’d been longing for York kiss,
Hungary to have you Lyon next to me;
thinking how Nice it would be
for you to Guinea your arms,
And wrap them around my Jersey.
Reno that in the Split of distance,
we are hanging on to;
‘We Chelsea how it goes.’
I Bern a little Kos knowing
Havana wait for those crucial words means
I don’t get to Hanover a love
you’d never get Bordeaux having.
When Ireland and you Symi
you’ll see that I don’t Minsk my words.
You’ll sea I was never in the-Nile,
so Danube worry about that.
I want to Brighton your days
and Tokyo somewhere we could be
kings and Queens.
I hopes that where this Texas;
we’d be eventually
Edinburgh place to call home.
Gdansk and Lodz of love….
You know who
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 9:07 AM UTC
trek jou kos uit
die modder
druk jou wortels
donkerdiep
suig jou lewe
uit die lig
reik jou takke
tot die bloue niet
drink alles om jou in
en draai dit tot groei
rig jou gesig na die son
tot jy bot en bloei
dis hier waar jy staan
tot hier het jy gekom
hier is ‘n kans
‘n plek om te blom
Apr 13, 2022
Apr 13, 2022 at 12:27 PM UTC
ingin kuhancurkan diriku yang lalu
ingin kuhardik lulu yang kemarin
ingin kumaki kelakuanku dulu
berfoto di kamar kuning
memegang kue tar
diberi kaus kaki telur dan pisang
gelang merah dan tosca
masih kaku
tapi senang
lain dengan sekarang
rambutku tidak karuan
mataku seperti dihajar satpam
bagbigbug karena keadaan
malunya, di rumah cindy
aku nangis di rumah cindy
May 22, 2021
May 22, 2021 at 5:28 AM UTC
With a clamouring clash and a thickening thud,
She found herself among a pool of her own blood,
Stunned, bummed, churing and yearning.
Raging of insides are constantly burning,
She glanced around; seeing nobody to be found,
And wanting no one to see,
her bruised up face, And her washed out state,
faded further than transparency,
She had fallen hard, she knew it to be so,
But she'd rather it be her than any other bro,
She had done it before, and would do it again,
She welcomes the injury, she knows how to fend.
for herself, for another, for a child, or that brother.
for any other she would aid,
But no matter the amount, she would never pout,
and despises being paid,
She prefers the martyrdom, the giving of self,
the exposing of insides, and destruction of health,
She likes drawing herself together, feeling the drip,
Knowing it won't be so long before the next slip.
Pulling the pooling, the constant remorse,
knowing this path, remembering the course,
the sliding between fingers, the inability to grasp
the past, the present, the future! at last.
She's here, lil queer, maybe broken, strange token,
Of force, of course, she's mending, and bending.
stitching it up, knowing "sup?". nearly there, fighting bear,
of bear hands and grizzly fates, rolled back eyes and hazardous states,
teetering on the edge of her own destruction
poking the polars, running into corners and walls, rampaging so hard, there was nothing but falls
She was the kOS of her own rambunction.
you can't cup the water with open hands, and you can't travel to distant lands,
unless you make the right plan
she tries anyhow, to go with the flow, and to keep the teeter in toe,
but she can't even consistently tan.
This falling apart, the ripping at start, knows no way but down.
But she knows it so, the push and the pull, she's still on the ground.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 5:31 PM UTC
Jy moet daardie swart hond binne jou beveg
Voordat hy oorneem
Staan teen hom op en wys vir hom wie is baas
Maar hy kan so oordonderend blaf sê jy
Met tye maak hy jou eie stem stil
Hy lieg baie vir jou
Vertel jou dinge wat jy vrees
Hy speel op jou gevoelens
Hy ken jou swakhede
Hy byt waar dit die seerste maak
Maak stil daardie verdomde hond
Jy gee hom te veel kos
Hy teer op jou gedagtes
Hy's deel van jou
Jy wil ontsnap
Maar net waar jy gaan
Daar is hy ook
Soos 'n skaduwee wat volg
Jou enigste wapen is jou gedagtes
Di's al wat jy het om hom te oorwin
Verander jou gedagtes
Verander *** jy ****
Verander dit nou
26-Sept-2024
Sean Achilleos
Sep 26, 2024
Sep 26, 2024 at 5:23 AM UTC
Fresh home from therapy,
and resonate with zeal
**** air cerebral cogs a turn'n
analogous to rack and pinion wheel
hence attempt made to bare soul,
sans thru poetry re: veal
ling avidity, asper barreling neurological
daily kos loaded truck full
heading toward figurative
lifelong landfill deposits
on weekly ******
logical session I unseal
manipulating bothersome issues
controlled via bot size thumbwheel,
which grave undertaking i.e.
professional counseling allows,
enables, and provides opportunistic
gradual process at selfheal
ling oft times necessitates
reviewing silent Virgina reel
comprising the story
of earlier life piecemeal
akin to a slapdash montage
chronicling existential ordeal,
now referencing adenoids
(removal first mention within
poetic endeavor, when young boy)
loosely linkedin with nasopharyngeal
pseudo oral palate
highway tucking each meal
across miniature bridgework,
ma late mum meekly
acceded to doctors orders,
said operation sub
sequently deemed unnecessary
affecting negligible decreasing nasality
predicated on split (bifid
or bifurcated uvula), viz laryngeal
utterances finds me speculating
speculating now, whether taking kneel
ling pose possibly coo dove
wrought divine intercession
giving me super powers ideal
for fighting off being bullied
gloating this instant imagining
bringing beastie boys to heel
actual reality visit my kid self,
a most convenient scapegoat
socially withdraw puny size lad
internalizing hateful barbs glom
ming up significant emotional gearwheel
inferiority complex predominating
supplemented with cumulative
anger, a potent feel
ling exacerbating anxiety prone disposition
courtesy chromosomal
(pop'n mom genes) art of the deal.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 7:50 PM UTC