Best Kinfolk Poems
Thanksgiving fast approaches
and the bustling has begun
in an enchanting house,
the House of Cinnamon.
With children home for holiday,
the voices that you hear
are sunny as the curtains hung
inside this home of cheer.
As words elatedly resound
through rooms and down the hall,
a glow of kinship grows to warm
each nook of every wall.
Two little ones on father’s knee
now listen to him read
while mother in the kitchen
mixes dough and starts to knead.
The daughters don their aprons,
glad to help their mother bake
while older sons outside leap into
heaps of leaves they rake.
And then the kitchen fills with song
as mother hums a tune.
Her daughters sing the lyrics
as the wee one licks a spoon.
Now the dough with sugar, nuts
and raisins all is rolled
and cut into as many pieces
as each pan will hold.
Inside the oven, butter-drizzled
rolls now ooze and swell,
and soon the habitat absorbs
a most delightful smell.
Outside in chill of autumn’s wind
the boys having fun
can smell sweet scent of cinnamon.
Into the house they run!
Now day has turned to evening.
From a chimney curls grey smoke
as round the hearth inside there sit
the first-arrived of kinfolk.
The children of the house are sleeping,
but when they awake,
they’ll greet the ones they’re thankful for.
Of love will all partake.
For in the House of Cinnamon
a way of life remains
untouched by what the world’s forgot.
Here harmony still reigns.
for The Enchanted House Poetry Contest of Nayda Ivette Negron
Categories:
kinfolk, celebration, family,
Form:
Rhyme
October, when the leaves intensify -
colored explosions: orange, yellow, red,
breezes to temper summer's heat draw nigh.
There's one last month of days with lightened sky
before our Daylight Saving goes to bed;
October, when the leaves intensify.
A campsite will my kinfolk occupy,
by hot bonfire we'll sing and break the bread,
breezes to temper summer's heat draw nigh.
So many sports events to satisfy
this fan: World Series appetites are fed,
October, when the leaves intensify.
The crisp night air, hot chocolate, pumpkin pie,
warm sweaters, gloves, and scarves become widespread,
Breezes to temper summer's heat draw nigh.
Sweet treats for trick-or-treaters who stop by,
the pirates, princesses, and walking dead.
October, when the leaves intensify;
Breezes to temper summer's heat draw nigh.
Written 12 July 2020
Categories:
kinfolk, baseball, october,
Form:
Villanelle
River’s Arising
By Michelle Waters
River’s arising. Danger’s on hand.
Gather up your kinfolk and get to high land.
The campgrounds are empty, RVs are all gone
Tourists packed up their bags and headed back home.
The storm clouds retreated for less than a day.
For on the horizon, they’re making headway.
Torrents of water and mud surge down from the ridges,
Wash out the gullys, and ravage the ditches.
The creeks are all swollen; their banks have been breached.
Winds tear through the trees, wild and unleashed.
Muck and debris cover roads and driveways.
Surplus of water sweeps cars off highways.
Weatherman's warnings- often unheeded
In times like these, good sense is needed.
Destruction continues, flood water advances.
The wise take refuge, the foolish take chances.
Those who live in the valleys will stay to repent.
Once the floodgates cut loose, there’ll be no defense.
River’s arising. Danger’s on hand.
Gather up your kinfolk and get to high land.
Categories:
kinfolk, environment, heartbreak, home, leaving,
Form:
Rhyme
I've roamed the halls of Poetry Soup for nearly nine years
and had lots of ups and downs, cried happy and sad tears
Some poets are super duper people that I call my 'friends'
There are some snoopers who have need to make amends
Soupers are a varied lot from different backgrounds in life
But never should there be reason for enmity, vitriol or strife
I've laughed at humorous scribblings of many bawdy limericks
Shook my head at rude comments that have caused conflicts
Those few are in the ranks of poets I call 'the party poopers'
And there are some who enjoy interfering ~ 'the bloopers'
They spread rumors that cause chaos in the soup kitchen
The site would be much better if they would stop b****in'
I cannot claim my innocence for I've battled a time or thrice
When bullies and trolls have said things that weren't very nice
I've been called a 'mean girl' but it's a name I take in stride
Bet money on it being said again and I'll say, "Let it Ride!"
I've written for other poetry sites, but I remain in the Soup
and if you question why I've returned, well, here's the scoop...
There are fantastic men and women here that I have met
who are sincerely kindhearted. I owe them gratitude as a debt
I prefer to ignore those who cast aspersions with a snicker
But like most kinfolk, there will be times when we bicker
As a community of artists, we are writers of poetic verse
with a common interest shared across the entire universe
We should strive to be united with the same goal in mind
'Respect each other as Poetry Soupers and remain aligned'
Positive comments are encouraging. Ladle them and you'll see
That supporting Super Soupers will keep the site hassle free
Categories:
kinfolk, community, how i feel,
Form:
Rhyme
Anchored in the solid granite cliffs
On either side of the tree-lined gorge,
Above the C&O tracks and rickety shacks
Of farmers and miners and naked children
Playing in the dirt ‘neath the front porch,
Who stop to watch the coal train passing
Underneath the arching silver steel girders
Wondering wide-eyed how they built that bridge! --
Way up yonder like a humongous gray rainbow
With its promise of faraway places,
And pots of gold someday in recurring dreams,
Knowing it’s not likely they will escape
Just like none of their older kinfolk did
Even though they believed that bridge
Was the road to places somewhere, anywhere
Away from deep and narrow seams of coal,
And raw memories of their poverty-stained childhood.
FIRST PLACE WINNER
a Brian Strand Contest
Poetry Soup, January 14, 2022
Categories:
kinfolk, culture, hope, metaphor, perspective,
Form:
Free verse
My request to relay to your kinfolk
That made their journey inside Heaven's Gate
To keep a watch over one of my folk
Her parents have reserved her special date
She met all the medical needs guidelines
For the best research university
All the scientists studying her enzymes
Have expertise to do the surgery
Skilled technicians on this miracle case
All are trained to perform as a machine
All prayers are needed, for wishes of grace
Don't want any, wishes to be unseen
Spring is in the scheme for her release date
Grandpa, waits for the day I see my mate
Categories:
kinfolk, family, health, inspirational, love,
Form:
Free verse
He heard commotion, "Well Land O'Goshen!! Whatever could it be?
It stirred his notions, and came invading, to wake his fading dreams
As he raised his head, the dreaded clock had invaded peace instead
He dreaded rising, was compromising, while lying in his bed
The tick and tock, it would not stop, and sun had blocked his eyes
Shining in, there's, no denying, it was time for him to rise
He raised the shade, and saw a parade.. a throng was going by
Something wrong, long lines of folks, were joking till they cried
Laughing gawkers, down the block, were shocked, and also stunned
Poking fun, pointing fingers at his Uncle, on the run
Uncle Fred, underfed, lead the parade in red long-johns
In underwear, he had no cares...his Santa beard was long
And Auntie Fran, ran in panties, wearing bra and thong
On her head, a Santa Cap, a flapping gap, where clothes belonged!
Oh my heavens!! Such misbehavin', this day was starting wrong!
Upon the sidewalk, the jokes are starting. The folks are growing strong.
Snapping photos, shouting mottos, fame has found this pair
Clapping loudly, crowds are happy, toting cameras everywhere
Behind his uncle, (old with wrinkles), crews, were finding news
Auntie poses, picks a rose, then sticks her nose in view
TV news has quite a story, but not the gory kind
His relatives are night-time headlines, deadlines met on time
Who'd even dare, these dreadful folks to bare their hall of fame?
It is no joke, his drunk kinfolk have smeared his family name!!
_____________________________________________________
Alliteration, Assonance or Consonance Couplet Alphabet Contest
Sponsored by: Sheri Fresonke Harper 12//16/13
Categories:
kinfolk, funny,
Form:
Couplet
Come and listen to my story 'bout a man named Ted
A poor fisherman, barely kept his family fed
Then one day he was fishing for some bass
When he slipped in his boat and fell on his ass
Then a big wave came, overturned his boat
Old Ted thought that was all she wrote
Well the next thing you know Ted almost drowned
The kinfolk thought he was heaven bound
They said "Ted you should leave the sea"
But old Ted just didn't agree
So he went out next day, just after dark
And that's when Old Ted was eaten by a shark!
The next morning the kinfolk gathered by the sea
They said "He shoulda moved with cousin Jed down in Beverly" (Hills)
~~
3 -6- 2014
Categories:
kinfolk, fish, fishing,
Form:
Rhyme
Night falls and the mirror moon illumes the
heavenly starry skies with gleaming ivory beams.
Shiny and mellow, a splendrous silver orb,
the delight of the night sky!
It is the evening of the 15th, and the cool air is fair,
filled with chirping crickets and reason for revelry.
Kinfolk gather to rejoice within the warmth of their hearth,
toasting with mulled wine ; munching moon cakes!
But today is also sacred and solemn, and offerings
must be made to Heaven and Earth. Thus, scented
sandalwood incense are lit ; apricots and pomelos are placed
upon lacquer plates before the plaques of divine gods,
and dear ancestors.
Away from laughter and lanterns, besides a quiet lake,
and under a lofty peak, sits a sagacious couple. She smiles
and plays the guqin, sending with each skillful stroke,
soft and serene sounds that grace the ethereal night's air.
As for him, he stands pleased under the pavilion, inhaling
the sweet scents of blooming peach blossoms, and admiring
the moon as it rose and the beauty of his wife before the
bright shimmer of moonlight.
Content, he recites a poem:
“The moon is luminous,
Heaven is harmonious,
Autumn has come,
And Summer is gone,
I toast my cassia wine,
To a harvest most fine!”
All rights released into Public Domain
Categories:
kinfolk, appreciation, autumn, beauty, mirror,
Form:
Free verse
>River Orwell and a Poppy field
By Stanley Russell Harris
(The mad Author)
I went out with the wife today.
We walked by the River Orwell I say.
Tide was out, but breeze was swell.
Ensured there was no stinking town smell.
Grasses looked so green and fresh.
Honey bees were buzzing on the clover bless.
Gathering pollen, for their queen.
Soon to be, in their hive seen.
Then we visited a poppy clad field.
Photos by the score, that field did yield.
Wife’s camera clicked away that day.
Must have been red hot I say.
The poppies were like those of Flanders red.
You know those growing for our dead.
For our brave men, who died there and bled.
Who should have returned home alive instead.
Now we bicker and do shout.
As GB from EU do want out.
Yet deep in that mud our kinfolk hide.
Red poppies now grow where they peacefully lie.
I hope our cries do not disturb them.
Our brave and gallant country men.
Who laid down their lives for you and me.
So we from chains could live free.
Was weird finding that field today.
Red poppies in the breeze did sway.
Reminded me of those days, of long ago,
when our brave men died in Flanders fields, so…
No more World Wars should we fight.
EU should now respect our rights.
As our ancestors won us the right,
to leave the EU free, if rules seem now not right.
Soon all countries in the EU will be free.
Of Brussels domination, just you see.
We might be the first country to break free.
But not the last, just wait and see.
If not, then I am sad to say
EU will sadly fade away.
Remember you read it here today.
And now I’ll put pen and pad away.
As I remember those brave men I say,
and those fields of red poppies today.
It is no coincidence that on the 1st of July 2016 we will be remembering the action of those gallant men who's lives were sacrificed in those blood stained fields of The Battle of the Somme. July 1st to November18th 1916.The same fields where those bright red poppies grow. You might see pictures of our poppies on my Facebook page if you so wish. Although not a war poet, I would like to dedicate this poem to those gallant forefathers or ours. Many of course who still lie peacefully in Flanders fields. Stanley (The mad Author) PS This will be in Poems Book 10.<
Categories:
kinfolk, conflict, death, dedication, freedom,
Form:
Billy Carter was a sluggard I hear
His kinfolk he did not always endear
He embarrassed his brother
And mortified his mother
He cared not one whit as he nursed his beer!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Categories:
kinfolk, funny,
Form:
Limerick
Joseph Louie McMar
No one ever called him that
Except his dear sweet momma
She wrote it on his hat
Kinfolk called him Joe Louie
They never touched his hat
They never talked about his teeth
They knew better than that
His sisters called him Josie
When they dressed him like a doll
They tied him to an chair with wheels
And pushed him down the hall
The catholics called him Joseph
That kept him for awhile
His sweetie called him Big Bad Joe
That would make him smile
Downtown he was known as Big Joe
At the bar he was Louie McMar
At the dock he was Big Joe Louie
Or B.J. Louie McMar
He was earnest when he traveled
Proud in every way
To McMunny, Athabasca
Or the good old USA
At Chicoutimi, Quebec
Jean Louie could mess with you
In the south part of Ontario
They only called him Lou
When he went back to visit
His cousin called him Big Mac
His old friends Hughie and Dewey
They just called him Jack
His sisters called him Jo-jo
His brother called him Junior
His mother called him Joey
His father could never speak
Whatever place he happened to be
In his mind, he was always a winner
Call me anything you want
But don’t call me late for dinner
by Joe Louis McMar
Categories:
kinfolk, hilarious, humor, mythology,
Form:
Ballad
A request to tell all of your kinfolk, that are inside Heavens Gate
To keep watch on one of my folk, for she has a special date
Their just east of South Dakota, though she's in a different state
For these Doctor's in Minnesota, want a team to secure her fate
Their are many special surgeons, who all do their job first rate
Prayers are needed, even sermons don't want any wishes to be late
Let your words of prayer guide them, for she is my special mate
The plan, in spring to send her home, I guess Grampa, will have to wait
Categories:
kinfolk, faith, family, inspirational, prayer,
Form:
Free verse
Way up in the mountains there’s a story that they tell.
About a man named Billy Jo and how one night he yelled.
He lived up in a little spot well-hidden in the hills.
A place where very few will go and many hide their stills.
They say he made a strong concoction by the moon at night.
To even taste his beverage you’d need a rare invite.
The recipe was passed along through many generations.
A secret kept by kinfolk and Billy’s close relations.
Precise amounts of sugar were added to the yeast.
And then a few days afterward he’d have a night-long feast.
They said he knew just what to do to make it safe to drink.
A spoonful set on fire, and a blue flame meant in-sync.
He called it his white lightning, at times his mountain dew.
The colorless libation was his very special brew.
Always made clandestinely when no one was around.
He guarded the proportions of his most adored compound.
Then one day they say that Billy made a real bad batch.
No one knows for sure but some will say the still got scratched.
The story is he took a sip and that he went insane.
They say the moonshine made him blind and went right to his brain.
All night they heard him screaming from his secret mountain place.
The people started searching, half the night, but found no trace.
But when they found poor Billy they all said that he was dead.
Poisoned, his white lightning turned his body into lead.
Categories:
kinfolk, body, crazy, drink, imagination,
Form:
Rhyme
Jes' a rollin' chinwag
in th' tongue o' sea scallywags
th' piratin' yarn tha' ne'er did birth
no' fanciful, nor folly
jes' stew'd up prob'ly
neithe' aimin' fer side-splittin' mirth
Tharrr be nary no Cap'n
me gums be a-flappin'
th' kinfolk in verse ter regale
'tis no genius at play
th' scribe o' yon day
be feath'rin' a no'sensical tale
Categories:
kinfolk, humorous,
Form:
Rhyme